CHAPTER II. ALURED FRERE TAKES THE SHILLING. "For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor But glory is the sodger's prize, BURNS. It was the winter of '54-the most cheerless period of that dread season when Crimean affairs were at their worst. Gloom hung over every English home. Vacant chairs that must remain empty for evermore stood by many an English hearth that Christmas-tide. Terrible tales of carnage, of famine, of pestilence, of woes unutterable, came from that faroff land where, upon the thirsty soil, English blood was poured out like water. Many an English mother spent nights in agonized prayer for the safety of her dearest child; wives wailed for absent husbands who were standing in the forefront of danger; all alike shared the common suspense, dreading from hour to hour the possible tidings of grief and sorrow. Nature, as if in deference to the agony of the nations, draped herself in her wintry pall. The dull leaden sky was hung with mournful weeds, and as evening closed in, the bitter snow-blast howled piteous dirges across the desert places, or sighed melancholy requiems amongst the branches of the bare leafless trees. It was barely five o'clock in the evening; but the lights were burning brightly, and the members of Major Frere's family were seated round the fire in the drawing-room of Scaggleton Castle. Ten years have passed since the events recorded in the first chapter, and Scaggleton is now in other hands. Mr. Norreys succeeding most unexpectedly to the family honours left, nothing loth, a place grown thoroughly hateful since his daughter's disappearance. Major Frere had bought the Castle, because it promised to house his large family comfortably. Moreover, Coxmouth College was close at hand, where his sons were at school. Scaggleton was little changed. It had assumed, perhaps, a more habitable look, thanks to the mistress it now owned. Mrs. Frere, a shrewd woman of the world, who had shared with her husband the ups and downs of a long military service, was able to make a better show than poor thriftless Norreys. But although more snug within than of old, without the scene was as wild as ever. It seemed this night a light-house, an Eddystone, a mansion cradled among the howling winds, beaten by the crashing breakers of an angry sea. There were four persons present the owner of Scaggleton, Robert Frere, a retired officer; his wife, a graceful stately woman, past her first youth; and their two daughters, Dorothy and Lilian. All were dressed in the deepest mourning. But without this it was easy to perceive, from the hushed, subdued air of the whole party, that they were in the presence of, or had lately passed through, some crushing grief. The mother sat idly gazing into the deep mysterious glow of the burning coals; the major pretended to read, but he got up every moment to poke the fire nervously, or draw back the heavy curtains to look out on the dark forbidding night; the girls were at work, and spoke their little nothings almost in whispers. Dorothy, now the eldest of the family, was a beauty, with a sober, quiet face; long lashes veiled her meek eyes, and the rich masses of hair were kept close to the soft cheek in unpretending plaits. Lilian's was a different style of loveliness. Impetuous life mantled beneath the clear olive skin, sending in a second crimson flashes to her face. They were a handsome family, one and all. For the fiftieth time Major Frere fidgets with the fire-irons, taking up poker and tongs in turn, and throwing them down with a bang upon the grate. For the fiftieth time he undoes the fastening of the shutters, and looks out. "How late he is!" at last comes out, almost with a growl. "The coach is hardly due at Scaggleton yet, father," remarks Dorothy, pointing to the clock. "I daresay he will walk. It's barely ten miles," Lilian says. "I'm sure I hope he won't. He's not half strong, and if the cold were to get into his chest Why, mother, Alured is as strong as a horse!" is Dorothy's answer. Mother and her dear boys!" Lilian cried, forgetting for the instant the sorrow that weighed them down. The words were not past her lips before she could have bitten her tongue through and through for her thoughtlessness. "Oh! forgive me, mother-I-" then the impulsive child's eyes filled with tears, and there was a dead silence. Boys! There was no longer a plural for the word in that house. The tale might be read in those black weeds that clothed them all. Death in the guise of a Russian bullet had met Robert Frere, the eldest son, at Inkerman. The sad news was but a week or two old. Alured Frere, the only surviving son, was expected that night from school, from Coxmouth College, where Robert, who was now had also received his education. The time slipped by gradually. At length an uproar in the hall announced the arrival the light-hearted schoolboy. In a second VOL. I. C |