CHAPTER II.
Sixteen years had sped by, leaving their footprints behind them. Sir Ralph Travers was no more, and his son Hugh reigned in his stead at Combe. Lady Travers still lived, and with her, almost as a daughter, the little Cecily we last saw beneath the copper-beech tree, but now grown into a graceful young woman of one-and-twenty. The kindness of the aunt had brought its reward in the devotion of the niece, whose loving care and attention was the more appreciated now that the mainstay of the house was often away at his duties. Hugh was an officer in the army, and, like his father before him, had sided with his king, and more recently with that unfortunate monarch's son. But at this moment the affairs of royalty were not prospering. The fatal fight at Worcester had taken place the previous day, and already rumours had reached Combe as to the result. A packman had arrived at the village, and had told how, on his journey that morning, he had seen parties of Cromwell's Ironsides searching the country for remnants of the royal troops. The news had quickly been carried to the Abbey, increasing the already terrible anxiety of the two ladies. They were well aware that Hugh was in the battle, for he had sent them word, by one of his troopers, only a few days previously as to his whereabouts. But what was his fate? Was he a prisoner? Was he a fugitive? Was he killed? Lady Travers, as she sat alone in her chamber asking herself these questions, felt that definite news, even if it were the worst, would be better than the fearful uncertainty that was crushing her. Cecily had been with her, doing her best to appear cheerful and minimise the perils of the situation, though the part she played was that of a would-be deceiver as far as her own convictions went. She knew Hugh would be no lag-behind where danger threatened. He was not one to hang back when his right arm was needed, and she felt that if he had escaped a soldier's fate it was only through the intervention of Providence, and not from any regard for his own safety. She had striven to put a bold face on the matter, but the terrible anxieties of the mother had communicated themselves to her, and as dusk was falling on that September evening she found it impossible to remain longer without breaking down, and on some trivial plea had quitted the room. Passing down the broad oaken staircase she crossed the hall, and wrapping herself in her cloak, which she had that morning left on one of the chairs, she drew the hood over her head and went out into the garden. She felt she could breathe more freely there, and relax the strain on her countenance, since there was none to watch her. But her anxiety was not relieved by one tittle; the crushing weight pressed no less heavily on her here beneath the shy stars that were just beginning to peep than in her lady aunt's chamber. Her heart and her thoughts were with her soldier cousin, and once and again she paused in her walk to listen, as she fancied she caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the clatter of steel in the village below. But all seemed at peace. The wind had sunk with the sun, and hardly a leaf stirred. The sounds that met her ears were only the uncouth voices of the herdsmen and labourers discussing the news of the day in front of the tavern door. Her steps had led her some short distance from the Abbey among the clumps of evergreens that formed a screen on its eastern front. It was darker there, and the loneliness and gloom suited her state of mind. She wandered on with bent head, lost in thought, until the cracking of a dry twig recalled her to herself. She looked up, and fancied she could see the boughs of a laurel on her right move. The next moment she heard her own name whispered—
"Cecily!"
She started back frightened, and would have turned and fled, but the next words reassured her.
"'Tis I—Hugh—make no sound!"
"Hugh? And you are in danger! I know it—we have heard all"; and the girl stepped forward and thrust her hand among the branches, when it was seized and held.
"Yes, they are after me—hunting me down as though I were some red deer. They will soon be here. It was my last chance or I would not have come, bringing peril to my mother and you."
"No, no; 'tis your home. It was right you should come; we may help you—you must hide; but where? I know of no spot in the house which would not be instantly discovered."
"The house will not do. I must not be seen by a soul but you. No one must know I am near the place. Hark!"—and far away in the distance could be heard the clatter of galloping horses and the rattle of steel.
"Oh, Hugh, they are coming! What can we do—what can we do?"