Chapter 11.

Otago Witness, Issue 1148, 29 November 1873, Page 25

Chapter 11.

That evening, Ellen Stacey looks round in vain at the dinner-table for the man whom she loves. After the ladies hava retired, she inquires of her aunt what has become of him.

"He has behaved badly," answers Lady Rochington ; indeed, Sir Charles might have cashiered him, but as it is, out of regard for his extreme youth, he is simply sent back to his regiment at Luckra, and Sir Charles has appointed Major Rawlings to his post. "

So he has left without one message, one word of farewell? The heart of Ellen Stacey swells within her. Is she angry \ She does not know* Yes, she is very angry. And yet— she cannot believe bins untrue. Perhaps he will write just one short lett^ ijotite common-place, quite undemonstrative, but just one letter as a souvenir-.

He never does write a syllable. He never even does send her a message. Then her face grows paler, so pale at last, that worldly old Lady Rockington prescribes cosmetics for external, tonics for internal application, but she steadily refuses both. She; has to endure the pertinacious attentions of half-a-dozen, suitors, among whom she readily perceives that M'Duncan is the man selected for her by her uncle and aunt. To all she is polite, cold, and perhaps a trifle sarcastic. She has already given her heart and even the suspicion of her lover's faithlessness, cannot revoke that gift. As for these other men, they may be of sterling worth, but not to her.

At last Lady Rockington becomes indignant at her niece's refusal of the various prizes, in the matrimonial lottery. In a quiet underhand sort of way she j>uts pressure on the poor girl, by making her home so uncomfortable that an escape through the church door would appear the better alternative.

Then, at a proper moment, at a hint from Lady Rockington, Mr. M'Duncan proposes. Ellen's great blue eyes meet his; m pain, but her lips form a cold "You may ask Sir Charles," and the infatuated man believes himself happy.

The marriage is fixed for that day month. Short and sharp is the process of wooing in India. Edward Capel hears of the engagement, but he makes no sign. Indeed, just then he has another matter to occupy his thoughts. The mutiny has broken oxit. The native regiment in which young Capel is cornet remains loyal, but there is an ugly feeling of suspicion, in the mess-room as-

to the future, for Asiatics may be friends to-day, foes to-morrow. Soon, like wild-fire, the intelligence of massacres and horrors comes from all quarters. Foozakahad is burnt to the ground, and Sir Charles with his family and suite are fugitives, guarded but insufficiently, and endeavouring by forced marches to reach the fort of Luckra.

With them follows Mr. M 'Duncan, attentive, not to say tiresome. Ellen is beginning to detest the man. He is bo obtrusive, so wearying, so unlike the brave young heart she cannot dismiss altogether from her memory. And yet somehow she shudders to think that she must in all likelihood meet him at Luckra — that she will meet him as the affianced of another. Better perhaps to fall by the sword of the cruel natives than that should happen. At last the towering fortress of Luckra comes in view. In hot haste their carriages dash within its protecting walls, and as they rest in the dark, dismal quarters allotted to them, they learn that the enemy is coming up in force, and that a battle is expected before the walls at daybreak. "What of the — -th Cavalry?" asks EUen.

"They have mutinied at last, and killed all the officers except two, who escaped." " Tell me— tell me who they are— their names."

"Let me think," responds the lady in a half indifferent tone. "Major Prescott — I saw him just now — and a Cornet Bomebody."

" Capel r "Yes, that waa the name. Major Prescott and this Mr. Capel are forming a troop of Volunteer cavalry to aid the — th Europeans, who, with Captain Denver's troop of horse artillery, are our sole defenders."

Ellen shudders. So, after all, Edward Capel is to face death for her. Could she only see him ! But, no. She cannot look him in the face and say, "I am false." So she lies down, and overfatigue gives her sleep, from which she is only awakened by the thunder of cannon in the distance.

In a trice she is on the walls of the fort with the other ladies, and at her side in a moment is Mr. M'Duncan. At him she looks with scorn.

"I thought," she says, "Mr. M'Duncan, you were a good rider 1" " I am," he answers, flushing foolishly. " Why are you not with Major Prescott r "My place, dearest, is by your side." With a gesture of ineffable contempt, ishe answers —

" Leave me, if you please ; I should prefer to witness what the men are daring for us defenceless women."

Abashed and confounded he retires ; and she, turning to an anxious mother, whose husband is in the melee, begs the loan of a telescope.

To the south of the Luckra fort stretches a vast sandy plain. The whole of the horizon in this direction is dark with the lines of the enemy, who are supposed to be some fifteen thousand strong. They have, providentially, no guns, but they number more than ten to one as compared with the resolute force which has advanced to meet them.

Tiirough the clouds of smoke the movements of the troops are discernible. Evidently Captain Denver's guns are playing hotly upon the native ranks, and the whole efforts of the rebels are directed towards their capture. The European regiment are resisting repeated charges bravely enough, but they are surrounded, and, had the mutineers only adequate ammunition, would be cut to pieces. As it is, their hands are so full that they cannot help Captain Denver, who is in imminent peril. At this crisis the volunteer cavalry advance to the charge, with all the fury of Prince Rupert's Cavaliers. They are not soldiers, but they are the bravest of tlie brave, magnificent horsemen, and splendidly horsed. Their charge is miraculous ; they drive back the hordes of Indians with terrific slaughter, and aa they fall back, Captain Denver again opens fire on the retreating masses with telling precision. Alas ! this success has cost them clear, for Major Prescott has fallen, and the command of the brave troop of gentlemen now devolves or Edward Capel, as being the only cavalry officer. To their relief, however, the enemy draw off. The Europeans are too distressed to follow in pursuit. Nor is Captain Denver inclined to move his guns, which are well placed for the defence ©f the fort. Of course, the volunteer cavalry remain to protect the artillery, which is indeed their one hope. After the respite of about an hour, the mutineers appear to have rallied and reformed, for again they advance, and this time en masse. With accuracy and effect the guns are served upon them, so that ere they can reach within shot of Captain Deliver they have suffered severely. Nevertheless, with the true instincts of

fatalists, the rebels press forward, firing slowly but surely, till at last one cruel shot stretches poor Denver on the plain, and a wild cry goes up that the guns are lost.

Not so. With parched lips and eager eyes, the smoke having partially cleared away, Ellen Stacey beholds the charge of the volunteers. In front of them, waving high aloft his sabre, rides the form of a young man — a form she knows too well. it is a moment of breathless suspense. The Europeans are all but broken by the fierce onslaught of the native regiments. Captain Denver's guns are served by a sergeant. The battle is apparently lost. Yet, patience — the English gentlemen have yet to throw in their weight. At a hand-gallop they advance, led by a man whose martial ardour has infected each one of them. They are coming down upon the rebels, who even now can recognise the firm compressed features of men whom they have been accustomed to obey and respect. There is a cry among them them as of fear, but with it a discharge of musketry, and the arm of the young officer in command falls helpless by his side. Ellen perceives this, and shrieks forth in a voice of agony, so that the women around can but learn how dear to her is that young brave now in peril. Onward, however, he rides undismayed. He is swordless, yet he leads the way into the mass of mutineers, who j are fleeing right and left, till at length he falls, and, as the enemy are seen in full retreat, he is borne wounded to the rear.

An old man has been standing on the ramparts of the Luckra fort, by the side of Ellen Stacey.

He has good eyesight for his years, and by the aid of a strong glass has witnessed all. With a sigh he turns to her, dashing away a tear. " Ellen," he says, " I have done wrong."

"You have, uncle," she sobs; "you have, indeed. My brave Edward !"

"What," asks he, sharjily, "have you chassSed M'Duncan 1 Hey ?"

" Uncle, I can never marry a coward. I can never marry — Oh, perhaps he is dead !"

With emotion Sir Charles presses her hand.

" God grant," he murmurs, " that Edward Capel's life may be spared for you and for me."

"Really, Sir Charles," grumbles Lady Rockington, " I think it is quite wrong of you to permit Ellen to nurse Mr Capel. Even in our present circumstances the convenances of good society ought to be observed. It is not proper."

" My good wife," replies the lieutenantgovernor, " you married me for my money, and I don't see any reason why Capel should not marry my niece for her money."

" Her money, Sir Charles !"

" Yes, my dear. You will have your pension at my death, which will be ample for you. It is my intention, therefore, to make over my savings to my niece, on her marriage." " My gracious, Sir Charles !"

"My dear," answers he, "you should never omit the convenances of polite society, even under present circumstances, which I am glad to say will improve, for Greathed is going down the country, and as'capel is well enough to be moved, we shall accept his escort, and I trust the young people will be married from our house in Surrey. As far as I'm concerned, I've had quite enough of India."

Mr James Smith, cattle dealer, Pittengardner, Fordoun, was lately (the Elgin Courant states) negotiating with the factor on the estate of Uric for a tenancy of the farm of Glithno, and the sheep farm of Monboys, on that estate. The rent asked by the factor was £550, but Mr Smith would not consent to give more than £500, which the factor refused to accept Having thus failed with the factor to get the rent down to £500, Mr Smith called on the landlord hiniself, and argued the case with liiin. still offering tlie £500. At last the laird said, " Well, Mr Smith, will you toss for the £50 ? " "Yes, I will," seplied Mr Smith. Up went the florin, flying to the ceiling of the room, Mr Smith choosing heads, and when the florin lighted on the mantelpiece there shone forth the well-known profile of the Qaeen, proclaiming Mr Smith the winner.

The Graphic remarks : — "The Civil Service is being gradually deteriorated till a place there will soon be no better than an ordinary clerkship. And there are hundreds of lads in London, more or less gently born and daintily bred, glad to get their twelve or fifteen [shillings a week as clerks, while a gardener in the suburbs is paid at least 4s 6d a day. What are they to do ? They haven't got the bone and muscle to emigrate. If they go into the army what will become of them when the years of service are over, unless indeed our merchants change tbeir plans, and, instead of looking out for boys at nominal salaries, take men, pay them well, and give a preference to those who have ' served.' Something must be done, or those who can't dig will have to put up with what the unjust steward was ashamadto i take to."

The old Plantaganets brought us chains, the Tudors frowns ami scars ; The Stuarts brought us lives of shame, the Hanoverians wars ; But this brave man, with his strong arm, brought freedom to our lives ; The best of princes England had was the Farmer of St. Ives. * ***** ** Walk proudly past these hedges, for this is holy c;round; Amidst these lowly villages were England's bravest found ; With praying hearts and truthful, they left their homes and wives. And ranged, for freedom's cause, around the Farmer of St. Ivcs.

• • * H » # ♦ He wrapped the purple round him, he sat in chair of state, And think ye was not this man king ? The whole world named him great ! The wary fox of Italy, and Bourbon's sensual slave. And the old bluff Dutchman, owned the power of England's bold and brave. He was the true defender of freedom and of faith, When through the Vaudois valleys brave martyrs died the death ; He threw his banner o'er their homes, and wrapt it in their lives. And the Alpine summits sang the praise of the Farmer of St. Jvea. ♦ ***»♦«•» He died ! the •rood old monarch died ! Then to the Jand returned The cruel, crowned reptile thing, that men and angels spurned ; He seized the bones as reptiles seize upon the buried dead, And a fiend's malice wreaked upon that venerable head. And England, while from age to age fresh freedom she achieved, Forgot the hand which wrote the page in which her heart, believed ; From age to age earth held his dust, alifelik&other lives ; Lo, you ! at length he breathes again, this Farmer of St. Ives. His name shall burn— no meteor, no comet hurrying byIt shall return to light our world to future liberty. Let tyrants dare to trample hearts and liberties and lives ; One name shall bid them tremble yet -the Farmer of St. Ivcs. Unfurl that drooping banner! So ! let it float again; Ye winds, receive it in your clasp! waft it, thou surging main ! His watchword, "God is with us!" see ye it still survives ; The pulse of England beats like his— the Farmer of St. Ives. Raise up, raise up the pillar! some grand old granite stone. To the prince without a sceptre, to the king without a throne ; To the brave old English hero, who broke our feudal Kyves, To the leader of the "good old cause," the Farmer of St. Ivcs.