"A letter from papa--our dear papa!" exclaimed Sybil, glad to cause some diversion from the gathering gloom, as she caught the missive from the hand of the village postman, who appeared outside the open window. "I wonder if he has heard of my appointment," surmised Denzil, his thoughts reverting to their old channel. "It is sealed and edged with black!" exclaimed Sybil; "and--how singular--it bears the Penzance postmark!" "How is this, mamma--I thought papa was in London?" asked Denzil. Mrs. Devereaux trembled violently, as she tore open the letter, and muttering an excuse hastily left the room with it. "What's up," said the ex-cadet, as he applied himself to the sherry decanter; "by Jove, Sybil, this is a strange way of receiving papa's letter. Who is dead, I wonder--I hope there is nothing wrong with him, anyway!" "Oh, can he have met with an accident?" "Scarcely, as the letter is written by himself; but to be at Penzance when we all thought he was in town--very odd, isn't it?" CHAPTER VI. RICHARD'S MYSTERY. To explain much that the reader may have begun to suspect or misjudge, we must now go back a few years, into the private life of Richard Trevelyan. When stationed with his regiment in Montreal he had made, at some public assembly, the acquaintance of Constance Devereaux, then a girl fresh from school. He was fascinated by her rare beauty, and a certain _espieglerie_ of manner, which the thoughts and cares of future years eventually crushed out of her; and she, on her part, was dazzled by the attentions of a handsome and wealthy young officer; for Richard being his uncle's favourite nephew and heir, received from him a handsome yearly allowance, in addition to that which he inherited from his father. Unfortunately Constance Devereaux, with all her beauty and accomplishments, was the daughter of one who would have been deemed of very humble caste indeed, if judged by the standard applied to such matters at Rhoscadzhel. The girl loved him passionately and blindly, and little foreseeing all such a step would cost her in the end, she consented to a private marriage; so they were united in secret by Père Latour, the catholic curé of the chapel of St. Mary, near Montreal; an acolyte of the chapel and Richard's servant, a soldier named Derrick Braddon, being the only witnesses. The marriage was duly registered in the books of the little church, and an attested copy was lodged with the curé who performed the ceremony; but as the regiment was ordered soon after to another colony, it was left in his hands for the time.