Miss Cheyne of Essilmont, Volume 1 (of 3)

CHAPTER VI.

'THE OLD, OLD STORY.'

On this afternoon Alison felt, with pleasant confidence, that she was 'looking her best,' dressed to perfection, and had been equal to the occasion. She wore a closely-fitting costume of lustreless black silk, edged everywhere with rare old white lace that had been her mother's; her hair appeared more golden than brown in the sunshine, while seeming to retain the latter in its silky coils.

Round her slender neck was a collarette of soft, filmy white lace, and in it was a Provence rose, which Lord Cadbury had not been slow to detect as one from his own bouquet, and gathered some hope therefrom, as Bevil Goring did from her wearing his rosebud.

As she stood in the deep bay of one of the old windows, with the full flood of the ruddy afternoon sun streaming upon her, she made a charming picture, and there Goring joined her, while the rest were all engaged in general conversation. He was already feeling that to be near her was happiness, and that to see her, even across a table, was a thousand degrees better than not seeing her at all.

And she—brief though their acquaintance was—had become conscious of a quicker beating of her pulse, an undefinable sense of pleasure pervading her whole form, a mantling of colour in her cheek when he approached or spoke to her. Little had as yet passed between them; but the tell-tale eyes had told much.

'What a wonderful vista of old beech-trees!' said Goring, referring to the view from the windows.

'And the distant village spire closes it so prettily,' she replied; 'but you cannot see it properly from this point—but from that little terrace.'

'May we step out?'

'Oh, yes.'

She tried to open the window, a French one, which opened to the floor within and to a couple of stone steps without.

'Allow me,' murmured Goring, and as he drew back the latch his fingers closed for a moment over hers.

They were only friends—he was only a visitor—why should she not show him the view, or anything else that interested him? She took a Shetland shawl from a chair close by, threw it over her head, and, gathering the soft folds under her pretty chin in a hand that was white as a rosebud, passed out with him upon the little terrace hat overlooked her garden.

'And so that is Chilcote Church?'

'Yes, Captain Goring—an old edifice—old, they say, as the time of Edward the Elder. It is covered with ivy, and is a capital subject to sketch.'

'And is this building here, with the eaves, your stable?'

'Oh, no—we have no stables; but it is the scene of my peculiar care,' replied Alison, laughing.

'Indeed!'

'My hen-house.'

And, with all his growing admiration of her, the fashionable young officer almost laughed when his charming companion showed him her hen-houses—her beautiful Hamburgs, Dorkings, and their chutches of Cochin-China chickens.

'Do you like bees?' she asked.

'No—they sting, you know; but I don't object to the honey.'

So she showed him her hives, as if Goring had never seen such things before; and so on by the duck-pond, and round the old-fashioned house, with its heavy eaves, dormer windows, and masses of ivy, and he could only think what a picturesque background it made to the central figure of his lovely companion, who, sooth to say, in the pleasure of his society, forgot all about her other guests; or, if she did think, she knew that Mrs. Trelawney could amuse them all.

To Bevil Goring Alison was quite unlike any other girl he had met, she seemed so highly bred, and yet withal so natural. There seemed to be an originality about her that piqued his fancy, while her freshness of heart was charming; and she often showed a depth of thought and consideration—born perhaps of her family troubles and surroundings—that surprised and interested him. More than all did her grace and beauty bewilder him; and after this, amid the routine of duty at Aldershot, and during many a dusty day of drill in the Long Valley, he could only think of her image, her soft laughter, and the sweet, varying expression of her grey-blue eyes.

'With what pathos Mrs. Trelawney sang!' said Goring, as after their little promenade they drew near the French window again.

'Yes; one might have thought she was singing that queer song of herself. There seemed somehow a kind of wail in it, as if it came from the heart. But we must go in now.'

'One moment yet,' said he, pausing and almost touching her hand; 'I am so happy to be alone with you that I grudge every opportunity you give to others.'

'It is very good of you to say so,' replied Alison to this rather confused remark, as their eyes met with a mutual glance neither could mistake nor ever forget; 'but the evening has become very chilly.'

And with this commonplace remark, while her heart was beating wildly with new, delicious, and hitherto unknown emotions that made her cheek glow and then grow very pale, Alison entered the room as Bevil Goring opened and reclosed the French window.

From that moment she knew that Bevil loved her; his eyes had told her so, and young as she was, Alison was able to read his confession in them.

Now Sir Ranald had missed the pair from the drawing-room during the few minutes they had been absent, and drew his own conclusions therefrom, but not so Lord Cadbury, who had as yet no jealousy; nor could he dream that any commoner or poorer person could enter into a competition with him for anything, assured as he was, in an absurd degree, of the overwhelming influence of his own rank and his own money, which hitherto had always procured him whatever he had a fancy for.

When Mrs. Trelawney's carriage was announced by Archie, and that lady was being shawled previous to her departure, she made Alison grow pale with annoyance by whispering as she kissed her—

'I hope, darling, you have not been making a fool of yourself?'

'How?'

'Young as you are, you are certainly old enough to know what officers are!'

'I do not understand you, Laura—what are they?'

'The greatest flirts in the world.'

'Have you found them so?'

'I have had more experience of them than I ever care to have again,' said she, bitterly. 'Good-bye, Captain Dalton,' she exclaimed, presenting her hand to the tall, dark officer who had been regarding her attentively.

'Rather let us say au revoir,' said he bowing. 'I have with me at the camp a necklace of Champac beads which I brought from India, and I have just promised them to your daughter; if you will permit me to send—or to call——'

'We shall be so happy to see you—but you are too kind, and are you not depriving some other little, or fairer friend——'

'No, Mrs. Trelawney; I have scarcely a lady friend in the world now,' said he, laughing, though his speech seemed a grave one.

A few minutes after and the little party had separated; Lord Cadbury remained behind, to the intense annoyance of Goring, who, with his two companions, went back to the camp at a canter to be in time for mess; and while Sir Ranald—Cadbury's senior by some fifteen years—dozed and slept after dinner in his easy chair, Alison, till she was weary and well-nigh desperate, had to undergo the prolonged visit, the society, and the unconcealed tenderness, or would-be love-making, of her odious old admirer.

When Alison retired that night, Bevil's rosebud was carefully placed in a flower glass upon her toilette table, while Cadbury's Provence rose was left to repose in the coal-scuttle; and Bevil Goring, in his hut in the infantry lines—a hut in which he chummed with Jerry Wilmot—lay awake far into the hours of the morning, till the cannon announcing dawn boomed from Gun Hill over the sleeping camp, thinking again and again of the little promenade round the old house at Chilcote, the eyes that had looked so sweetly into his; of the little he had hinted—still more of the vast amount he had left unsaid, and marvelling when again he should see Alison Cheyne.

The fact is that Bevil Goring was very much in love—certainly more than he had ever been in his life before, and frankly confessed to himself that he had been 'hit at last, and hit very hard indeed.'

Thus it may be imagined how much he felt stung when next day at breakfast, while the trio were talking of the day before, Dalton said, quite unwittingly—

'Mrs. Trelawney assured me that it is almost completely arranged that Miss Cheyne is to become the wife of Lord Cadbury, who can make a princely settlement upon her; while her father is, we all know, so poor.'

'What selfishness—what sacrilege!' exclaimed Jerry, slashing the top off an egg, 'to sacrifice her to that old duffer!'

'For her father's sake I have little doubt the girl will comply—she seems of a most affectionate nature.'

Bevil Goring sat silent; but these remarks sank deeply into his heart.

'Does Mrs. Trelawney approve of these arrangements?' asked Jerry, after a pause.

'I cannot say—but I should rather think not.'

'To me she seems to have been singularly unhappy in her short married life.'

'What makes you think so?'

'I scarcely know—but feel certain that I am right.'

'Now wouldn't you like very much to console her, Jerry?'

'You are the last man, Tony, in whom I would confide concerning the fair widow,' said Jerry, angrily; 'but there goes the bugle for parade, and, by Jove, our fellows are falling in!'

'When her hair is grey—if it ever becomes grey—and all her youth is gone, that woman will still be beautiful,' exclaimed Dalton, with enthusiasm.

Mrs. Trelawney was wont to drive over every other day when the weather was fine and take Alison—she knew the lonely life the girl led—away with her to afternoon tea, to lawn tennis at the Vicarage or elsewhere, or drive by Farnborough and Aldershot Camp. And, with reference to future points in our story, we may add that this sprightly lady resided at Chilcote Grange, a pretty modern villa about a mile distant from the mansion of Sir Ranald, whither she had recently come after a long sojourn abroad, or in the Channel Islands, as some said, for no one knew precisely about her antecedents.

Notwithstanding all her real, or pretended, aversion to matrimony, and love of that freedom which the demise of 'the late lamented Trelawney' seemed to have given her, the handsome widow, by more than one mutual invitation to her 'afternoon teas,' &c., unknown to Sir Ranald and Lord Cadbury, gave Bevil Goring an opportunity of meeting Alison Cheyne which he might not have otherwise enjoyed.

Alison had read of love and thought of it (as what young girl does not?), and Bevil Goring seemed to her the beau-ideal of all she had pictured in her imagination a lover or a husband ought to be. True it is, this idea might be born of his undoubted fancy for herself, and the impulsive nature of Alison forbade her to love or do anything else by halves.

Already she thought of him and spoke of him to herself as 'Bevil,' and then paused and blushed at the conviction that she did so. But then was not the name a quaint and strange one?

Dalton had called at Chilcote Grange and left his card; the widow was from home, and, as he did not leave the gift he had promised her little daughter, she smiled, as she well knew that he meant to call again.

'Laura,' said Alison, as she saw the card, 'I am certain that Captain Dalton admires you—Nay, loves you, from what Bevil, I mean Captain Goring, tells me. He talks of you incessantly.'

'Yet he has only seen me once or twice.'

'Quite enough to achieve that end.'

'How, child?'

'You are so very beautiful,' said Alison, patting the widow's cheek playfully.

'How strange that you should say so!'

'Why strange?'

'I mean that one woman should so much admire another. Had you been a man it might be natural enough, and understandable too.'

'But why not a woman?' persisted Alison.

'Women are often too petty—too jealous generally of each other; but you are a dear pet, Alison, and admire those whom you love. As for Dalton, he has seen so little of me—here at least.'

'What! has he met you elsewhere?' asked Alison, quickly.

'No; I have not said so,' replied Mrs. Trelawney, colouring deeply for a moment.

'But your words seemed to imply this, Laura.'

'They implied nothing—I scarcely know what I said; but as for praising me, Alison,' said Mrs. Trelawney, to turn the conversation apparently, 'you can well afford to do so; but if I were to be denuded of my borrowed plumes, my gay dresses, and general make-up, I might cut a sorry figure perhaps, while you in the bloom of your girlhood—'

'Require all that bloom, Laura; if my good looks, and the impression they may make, depended on all the finery poor papa can give me, I should cut but a sorry figure too.'

Then both laughed as they turned to the mirror above the mantelpiece, that reflected two faces, which, though different in style, contour, and colour, were both lovely indeed, and the owners thereof felt that they were so.

From thenceforward no solicitation could prevail upon Alison Cheyne to ride one of Lord Cadbury's horses again, passionately as she loved equestrian exercise; and her persistent refusal greatly puzzled the amorous peer, and annoyed Sir Ranald.

Two longings grew strong in the girl's heart—one to be rich and independent of all monetary considerations, as her family once was; the other, that her father would moderate his ambition to their present circumstances, and cease repining; but pride made him revolt against them, as not being the inevitable, while she had—as he thought—a well-gilded coronet lying at her feet.

As to any secret fancies Alison might have, or her 'chance-medley' friend Captain Goring either, he barely gave them a minute's consideration, as being too preposterous, if indeed he considered them at all.

Goring had no one to consult or regard—father, nor mother, nor brother; he was alone in the world now, and the entire master of his own means, if somewhat slender, and he longed now indeed for some one to love, and love him in return.

He brooded over the past, and it was a strange coincidence that he should have worn for so long a time, in that far away land of the sun, Ellon's ring with her hair and her likeness in it, all unknown to himself; and of that circumstance he was never weary pondering, and drawing therefrom much romantic and lover-like comfort.

It seemed to establish a link—a tie—between them!

But Bevil remembered what he had seen of Cadbury at Chilcote; this latter's presents incidentally referred to; his proffered mounts, and, more than all, the observations of Mrs. Trelawney and others; hence his tongue was tied and his heart seemed to die within him. What had he compared with Cadbury to offer worthy the consideration of a man like Sir Ranald Cheyne?

He had not been slow to divine, to detect, the footing on which the former stood with the latter—a proud, impoverished, and embittered man, and a lover's active imagination, full of fears and doubts and jealousies, did the rest.

He actually avoided Chilcote, for he knew that any intercourse there would be restricted and restrained.

'To meet her again and again is only playing with fire,' he thought. 'For her own sake and mine it is a perilous game.'

But the moth would go to the candle, and while avoiding Chilcote he often rode over to the Grange, where, however, he never had yet an opportunity of seeing Alison quite alone, for, if no one else was present, she had always little Netty Trelawney hovering about her or hanging on to her skirts.

When he did fail, as sometimes happened, to see Alison, he was almost glad and yet sorry, for her pale and thoughtful face haunted him and filled his heart with a great longing to comfort her, for somehow he thought she wanted comfort, and to tell her of his love, though the matter should end there, and she tell him to go—go—and never address her again, as he too surely feared that the story of his love was one she dared not, must not, listen to.

One day—he never forgot it—he was leaving the Grange, walking slowly, with the bridle of his horse over his arm, when he came suddenly upon her of whom his thoughts were full, about to enter the gate from the roadway.

'Alison!'

The name, all softly uttered, and with infinite tenderness, seemed to escape him unconsciously as he lifted his hat.

'Captain Goring,' said Alison, looking up, her pleasure blending with alarm in her face, 'you must not call me thus. What would people think?'

'Pardon me,' said he, as he took her hand, while colouring nearly as deep as herself. To resist improving the unexpected opportunity, however, was impossible, so after a little pause, he said—

'It seems an age since I saw you last.'

'Don't exaggerate, Captain Goring. We met at Laura's only four days ago.'

'Four centuries they have seemed to me. I suppose you walk often in these beautiful woods of Chilcote?'

'Oh, yes, in summer especially; but the leaves are nearly gone now.'

'And in autumn—where?'

'In the woods too; but in the broad walk that leads towards the church.'

'The walk with the stately old beeches?'

'Yes.'

It was the vista she had shown him from the little terrace.

'And when do you generally go there?' he asked, in lower voice, while his hand closed over hers.

'A little before noon,' she replied, in a whispered voice.

'To-morrow, then,' said he, seeking for the eyes that now avoided his, and with a heart beating lightly he galloped along the road towards the camp.

Next day Alison sought her usual walk with a strange palpitation in her bosom, as if something was about to happen; and she had a timid fear of being seen—of being watched like one who was about to commit a crime—a great error perhaps; and yet for the life of her she could not fail to keep the appointment, for such her poor little heart told her it was.

The day was wonderfully bright and beautiful for the season; streaming through the giant beeches the rays of the sunshine quivered on the green grass and brown fern; there was a hum of insect life still, and the twitter of sparrows, while an occasional rabbit shot to and fro.

The time passed slowly, till Alison thought she could hear the beating of her heart; for it seemed as if she and the rabbits, the sparrows and the insects, were to have all the glade to themselves; when suddenly she heard the gallop of a horse, and in another moment Bevil Goring had sprung from his saddle and taken her hand.

'My darling, my darling, I knew you would come,' he exclaimed, with tenderness in his tone and passion in his eyes, 'may I call you Alison now?'

She did not reply audibly, but the quick rose-leaf tint—one of her greatest beauties—swept over her soft cheek and delicate neck, rising even to her little ears while he repeated—

'May I call you Alison now—my own Alison—when I tell you that I love you?'

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, the eyes, and lips again and again; and, then suddenly drawing a little way from him, she covered her face with her white hands and began to sob heavily.

'You love me, don't you?' he asked, imploringly.

'Yes, Bevil,' she replied, in a broken voice; and he, transported to hear his Christian name for the first time on her lips, pressed her to his breast, while she submitted unresistingly, but added, 'I must come here no more now—no more!'

'Why, my love?'

'It is wrong to papa.'

'Surely you will see me again, darling—surely you will not accept my love and give me up at the same moment? I shall speak to Sir Ranald, if you will permit me.'

'Useless—useless; you would but precipitate my fate.'

'Your fate—what is that?'

'I don't know—I don't know,' moaned the girl, in sore bewilderment, while the thin aristocratic face of her father, with his keen, blue, inquiring eyes, gold pince-nez and all, seemed to rise before her.

'I am not rich I know, Alison darling.'

'And I have been used to the want of riches nearly all my life, and now—now—I must go.'

'Already! You will be here to-morrow?'

'Oh, no; not to-morrow.'

'When?'

'I cannot, dare not say.'

'You are cruel to me, Alison,' he exclaimed, and with one long, clinging kiss they separated—she to run down the wooded pathway like a hunted hare, and he to ride slowly off in the opposite direction.

He came to that trysting-place the next day, however, and the next too, but no Alison was there, and he could only surmise wildly, and perhaps wide of the truth, what detained her.

Had she been watched? Had their meetings been overseen, overheard?

He knew not precisely how it was with Alison, whom he regarded with a species of adoration, but deep in his heart sank the delightful consciousness that his love pleased her, and that when they did meet again it should have some firmer basis than that brief and stolen meeting had given it. He now understood much of the shyness and timidity her manner had of late exhibited. He hoped now that he also understood the half veiled light that had filled her grey-blue eyes at his approach, and the sweet roseate flush that crossed her cheek, to leave it paler than before.

She would soon learn to love him fully and confidently, and he would be content to wait for the coming joy of a regular engagement. But how about Sir Ranald Cheyne's views; how about Cadbury's too probable offers; how about 'the Fate' which, with a broken voice, she said the knowledge of his love for her would but anticipate?

CHAPTER VII.

JERRY AND THE WIDOW.

Alison's tears, agitation, and fears, together with her admission that he was far from indifferent to her—the memory of their mutual kisses, and all that had passed so briefly, sank deeply into the heart of Bevil Goring, who thought the secret terms on which they now were, if they were to meet again, as he could not doubt, were ridiculous to himself and derogatory to her.

His natural impulses of honour led him to think he should at once address Sir Ranald on the subject; but the girl's dread of his doing so made him pause. He thought he would consult Dalton or Wilmot on the subject; but the former was on duty, and the latter was full of his own affairs; for Jerry, in fact, had made up his mind to propose—to Mrs. Trelawney!

Jerry made a more than usually careful toilette that forenoon, and was more than ever irreproachable in the matters of boots, gloves, studs, and collar, even to the waxen flower at his button-hole—all with the aid of his soldier valet, Larry O'Farrel, whom he had just found deep in the columns of the Aldershot Military Gazette.

'Any news, O'Farrel?' asked Jerry, as he rasped his thick hair with a pair of ivory-handled brushes to adjust the parting of his back hair.

'Only that the Sultan of Turkey is dead, sir.'

'The deuce he is—died of want of breath, I suppose?'

'Yes, sir; strangled or something of that kind, sir.'

'Well, O'Farrel, would you like to be Sultan of Turkey? The berth would suit you, for, like the Bradies,

"You'd make a most iligant Turk,
Being fond of tobacco and ladies."'

'Shouldn't mind, sir, if the pay and allowances was good.'

'Well,' said Jerry, who was in excellent spirits with himself and the world at large, 'send in your application in proper form through me as the captain of your company, and in time I have not the slightest doubt you will be O'Farrel the First.'

Jerry said all this so gravely and impressively that, though used to his jokes, not a smile spread over the face of Larry, who raised his right hand in salute while standing erect as a pike.

He had heard about the Champac necklace and the proposed second visit of Tony Dalton, so he resolved to anticipate his brother officer, to 'turn his flank,' if possible, for Jerry was never more in love in his life, or thought himself so.

He had been dazzled by the notice the brilliant widow had taken of himself ever since the last Divisional Steeple Chase meeting, at which he first met her, and had lost 'no end' of gloves to her in bets on the 'Infantry Hunt;' her coquettish familiarity, the rapidity with which she adopted him as it were, and slid into making him do errands for her, calling him by his Christian name or the abbreviation thereof, 'Jerry' (which sounded so sweetly on her charming scarlet lips), her œillades and tricks with her fan when she tapped his arm or cheek therewith, were all things to think pleasantly of, and served to encourage him.

'Hang it all,' thought Jerry; 'why shouldn't I open the trenches and make my innings now?'

So he got into his mail-phaeton, and drove leisurely through the North Camp. Dalton was on guard that day, and saw Jerry, of whose mission he had not then the least idea, fortunately, as his own mind was full of Mrs. Trelawney; he gave Jerry a cigar from his case, exchanged a word or two, and saw him turn away into Aldershot—intent on his own destruction, as some of the mess might have said.

'I am awfully spooney,' thought Jerry, as he tooled along the level highway, flicking his high-stepper's ears with the lash of his whip. 'She is certainly a lovely woman, and would make a creditable wife to me, and be quite a feature at all the garrison balls and cricket matches; but what the deuce will the mess think of Netty—of me having a daughter nearly half as old as myself! There's the rub! She is a pretty little thing just now, but will be awfully in the way ten years hence, when all my aim in life may be to marry her to some coal or iron man, or any fellow that will have her.'

And Jerry was laughing softly to himself at this idea as he drew up at the door of Chilcote Grange, and threw the reins to his tiny top-booted tiger.

Mrs. Trelawney was 'at home,' and in a few minutes Jerry found himself face to face with her, in all her bloom and radiance, seated on a sofa in her charming little drawing-room, the appurtenances of which were all in excellent taste, so far as couches, pretty chairs, fragile tables, curtains, lace, and statuettes could make it, and pretty landscapes hung on the walls with blue ribbons in lieu of cords; and then Mrs. Trelawney's tightly-fighting costume of dark blue, which showed the exquisite outline of her bust and shoulders, was perfect, from the ruche of soft tulle round her delicate neck to the dainty slippers which encased her handsome feet.

The brightness of her smile encouraged Jerry, who, after a few well-turned expressions of pleasure at seeing her looking so well, lost no time in 'opening the trenches,' for he was, though a young fellow, a remarkably cool hand.

The widow's bright hazel eyes dilated with surprise for a moment, and then their white lids and long silky lashes drooped, as if to veil the amusement that sparkled in them, as she withdrew her hand, of which Jerry had possessed himself, and said—

'Oh, Mr. Wilmot, are you in earnest?'

'Could I dare to be anything else in addressing you thus? Earnest—can you ask me!—always when with you, and you know how much I love you. Will you marry me?'

'My dear Jerry, don't be foolish! You are but a boy compared with me, in my experience as a woman of the world especially. It is too absurd!'

'If you are older than me at all, it can only be by a year or two,' said Jerry, who thought it was not such a difficult matter to propose as he had first deemed it; 'and so, dearest Laura——'

'You must not address me thus.'

'But don't you call me Jerry?'

'There is a difference, and I may never do so again.'

'Don't say so; besides you cannot help me thinking of you as "Laura"?'

'Thought is free, but speech is not.'

'You will ever be Laura in my thoughts and in my heart, whatever you may be on my lips.'

Jerry said this with so much emotion that Mrs. Trelawney ceased to laugh at him, and gave her hand, saying,

'Jerry, let us be friends; be assured we can be nothing more, and, indeed, nothing better.'

Jerry retained her soft hand lovingly, and, taking heart of grace therefrom, said,

'I shall speak of this matter again, Laura. I see that I quite deserve your refusal.'

'Why?'

'Because I spoke too soon—too abruptly.'

'Believe me, dear Jerry, my answer is a final one. I could never bestow on you the love a wife should feel for her husband.'

'That would come in time—after marriage, Laura.'

'No, it cannot be; leave me and forget me.'

'That is impossible. I shall never, while life lasts, forget you.'

Mrs. Trelawney felt an inclination to laugh again. She controlled her lips, but her half-closed eyes were sparkling with a smile.

'I am unworthy the regard I have won. Thrust me from your thoughts, Jerry, and forget me, I pray you, forget me,' said she, emphatically, as she again withdrew her hand.

'I have been a fool!' exclaimed Jerry, bitterly, as he twisted his dark moustache and betrayed considerable emotion, at least for him.

'Oh, no,' said Mrs. Trelawney, patting his shoulder with her fan. 'You are no worse than other men. You could not help it, if I was silly enough to be—shall I say it?—amused, perhaps pleased, by all your tender speeches, though I could not believe in them.'

Jerry stared at her in doubt whether to be indignant or not, but again her beauty and espieglerie of manner triumphed.

'Oh, Laura, once again,' he was resuming, when she interrupted him—

'I know all you would say, but please not to renew this subject, or I shall lose all faith in you, Captain Wilmot.'

'Say "Jerry,"' he urged.

'Well, then, Jerry, I like you very much,' she said, coquettishly, and with an infinite sweetness of tone; 'but I shall be sorry if your persistence makes me view you differently.'

'If you like me so very much, why cannot you marry me? You would like me ever so much more afterwards.'

'It is impossible,' said Mrs. Trelawney, smiling openly now.

'Why are you so hard-hearted?'

'I am not hard-hearted. I am indifferent, that is all—what I have been made by others.'

'What others?'

'That is my secret. But, here come visitors,' said she, rising and presenting her hand. 'And let us part, Jerry, as I hope we shall meet again—good friends.'

In a few minutes Jerry was tooling back to the camp again.

'Her manner is deuced mysterious,' thought he, in great perplexity. 'What can she mean? She spoke of herself as "unworthy," too. Has she a husband somewhere, after all? Oh, the devil! That can't be.'

'Where have you been, Jerry?' asked Dalton, who was again loitering in front of the guard-hut at the camp gate, with a cigar between his lips, and saw his friend coming slowly along, with the reins dropped on his horse's neck.

'I have been at Chilcote Grange,' said Jerry, almost sulkily.

'The deuce you have,' said Dalton, with surprise.

'There is nothing new in that.'

'Calling, were you?'

'Yes, and proposing to the widow la belle Trelawney.'

'Nonsense!' exclaimed Dalton.

'A fact though.'

'And with what success?' asked Dalton, his colour changing perceptibly.

'None at all, old fellow; bowled out; thrown over—I may trust to your silence, I know—fairly laughed at me, and won't have me at any price, by Jove.'

'Proposed, and was refused,' said Dalton, as if speaking to himself.

'Proposed right off the reel, whatever that may mean, and was refused. But I don't mean to break my heart over it,' added Jerry, twirling and untwirling the long lash of his whip.

'And what do you mean to do?'

'Make love to some one else—get tight at the mess to-night—tight as a drum. So you may go in and win at a canter, if you choose.'

'Thanks, Jerry; but I don't mean to propose to the widow,' said Dalton, laughing. 'She has some history of her own, I think.'

'So do I,' said Jerry, angrily; 'and it is bad form for women to have histories or mysteries either.'

'Sour grapes, Jerry,' said Dalton, still laughing.

'I thought you were hit a little in that quarter yourself, Tony; but I am much mistaken if there is not more in her life than you know, or any of us is ever likely to know.'

Dalton, though secretly pleased that Jerry had not met with success, was also secretly provoked at what he deemed the young fellow's over-confidence. He had felt himself—he knew not why—curiously affected when in the presence of Laura Trelawney; there was a subtle influence in her voice and smile that wakened old memories and strangely bewildered him; and especially when she sang, these stole over him and seemed to take tangible form.

'And now, I suppose,' said Jerry, as he manipulated a cigar, 'I must just do as she probably did when the "late lamented" took himself off.'

'What is that?'

'"Drop some natural tears and wipe them soon," as Milton has it.'

'I'll give you another quotation, Jerry—what does Abou Adhem say?'

'Don't know—never heard of the fellow.'

'"Your lost love is neither the beginning nor ending of life. Several things remain to you. She is false, and you are the victim. Very good. Nature is not going into bankruptcy; the sun will rise and set just the same; corn will grow, birds sing, and the rain fall just as before. My experience is, that it's a toss up that you are not the better without her, and she not better without you."'

'Likely enough, Tony; but, as "Cœlebs in search of a wife," I need not go there any more,' half grumbled Jerry, as he whipped up his high-stepper and bowled away through the long street of huts to his quarters; while to Dalton's graver mind there seemed to be something intensely comical in the equanimity with which he took his repulse.

CHAPTER VIII.

'FOR EVER AND FOR EVER.'

Of a very different nature in its depth and passion was a love-scene which was taking place not very far distant from the Grange at about the same time.

Alison Cheyne, we have said, had ceased to take her walk beside the beeches, though her heart yearned for it, and she knew well who was too probably loitering and watching there; so Bevil Goring, at all risks, wrote her a passionate and imploring letter to meet him once again at the same place and hour, with an alternation of days in case of engagements or interruption; and this missive came to her when Alison, who loved him with all her woman's heart, was wondering hourly how she could get through day after day without him.

'At last! at last!' was the exclamation of each as the tryst was kept, and they met again.

Their hearts were beating fast, and in unison, but in silence, and, if the meeting was a secret and a stealthy one, it was all the more thrilling to both. They were silent for a time, we say, but the silence was not without its eloquence, if the paradox may be used. There was the mystic communion of souls—the touch of hand that closed on hand, of lip that clung to lip—lips that knew not how to utter all that hovered there unsaid.

'You got my letter, darling?' said Bevil, after a time.

'I could not have been here else; but, for heaven's sake, do not write to me again,' said Alison, imploringly.

'Why?'

'For fear of papa; my correspondents are so few, his suspicions might be excited.'

'How hard is this!—surely we might write to each other occasionally,' urged Bevil, caressing her.

'No, my dearest; I dislike the idea of a correspondence that is clandestine, however romantic it may be; and if papa discovered it he would deem it so dishonourable in me—so dishonourable to himself.'

'But you will meet me?'

'I shall try, Bevil—I shall try; oh, I cannot help coming to meet you now.'

'Allow me, darling, till I can place another there!' exclaimed Bevil, as he slipped a ring on her engagement finger.

'Oh, Bevil,'—but whatever she was about to say he stopped in a very effectual manner.

'You will wear this for my sake,' he whispered.

'I will, darling.'

'Say always.'

'Always, Bevil—for ever and for ever—and—and,' she added, smiling shyly through her tears that mingled love, joy, and something of terror caused to well up in her beautiful eyes, 'you will take this from me (I brought it on purpose), poor Ellon's ring—the ring you wore so long without knowing whose face and hair were hidden in it.'

'It was an omen of what was to come, love Alison—an omen that we were to meet, and that you should be mine—mine only!' he replied, embracing her with ardour.

They had now become a little more composed and a little more coherent.

'I have expectations, of course—every fellow has,' said Bevil Goring, as they wandered on slowly hand in hand; 'but mine are perhaps too remote to suit the views, and may be opposed to the ambition, of Sir Ranald; yet I love you so dearly, so desperately, darling, that if you will wait for me only a year—I ask no more—I shall hope to claim you publicly or set you free. A captain with only a hundred or two besides his pay could scarcely hope to wed your father's daughter, Alison. Let our engagement be a secret one, as you dread an open one. It is not honourable in me to tie you thus, but what can I do? Separation now would be a kind of death to me; and oh, Alison, I love you so!'

'And I you, Bevil;' then she added, in a broken voice, 'We have had great sorrow, great trouble, we Cheynes, and they have made papa what he is; but I can remember when things were very different, when we were not so poor as we are now, and when he—poor old darling!—had much more of life and spirit in him.'

And so, while replying to Bevil's downward glances of love and tenderness, she pressed closely to his side, with her fingers interlaced upon his arm, in the assured confidence of their mutual relations to each other, as they sauntered towards a more sequestered part of the coppice.

Let the dark future hold what it might of severance, tears, and futile longings, for that fleeting time Bevil was hers and she was his—his own!

And so they parted an engaged pair, he not at all foreseeing, and she only fearing, the gathering cloud that overhung them both. Her elderly admirer was in London then. Parliament was sitting, and she, freed from his visits, abandoned herself to the full enjoyment of the present.

She now wore a new ring, a handsome diamond hoop with a guard, upon the third finger of her left hand; but this was unnoticed by Sir Ranald, though it did not escape the sharper eyes of Mrs. Trelawney, who more than once caught her young friend toying with the trinket—turning it to and fro round her slender finger, while regarding it with a sweet, loving, and dreamy expression of face which told its own tale.

But, if Mrs. Trelawney was reticent on the subject of her suspicion, Alison was still more so, and locked her secret in her own breast.

With all the joy of the new position, however, there was more than one element in it from which her sensitive nature shrank.

First, a secret understanding had been established between her and a gentleman friend—as yet deemed only a visitor at Chilcote—unknown to her father and to others. Second, it had not been discovered as yet, but might not always remain so, and thus eventually cause an esclandre; and to her it seemed that to make and keep successive appointments—sweet and delicious though they were—that must be kept secret was in itself something wrong and unlady-like; but she was the victim circumstances had made her.

At times it seemed very 'bad form,' as the phrase went—a want perhaps of self-respect; and yet Bevil Goring was so tender, so loving, so unlike, she thought, every other man in the world that she must risk it all, he was so dear to her.

And then she would dream of the happiness it would be if he were openly accepted by Sir Ranald as her fiancé—the joy of seeing him freely come and freely go a welcome guest at Chilcote, the future member of her own family, the future prop of her father's declining years, taking the place of Ranald and of Ellon; but would such ever—ever be?

On the other hand, Bevil Goring, who was not without a moderate show of proper pride, was not without some similar thoughts, and rather resented the position in which they were placed, giving their solemn engagement the aspect of a rustic flirtation with its furtive meetings; and, after all he had seen of the world, he thought it absurd for him and perilous for the girl he loved so tenderly.

He called at studied or stated intervals at Chilcote, but for Sir Ranald ostensibly; and when in the presence of the latter he and Alison had to act a part and talk the merest commonplaces, with the memory in their hearts and on their lips of passionate and burning kisses exchanged but an hour perhaps before.

They seemed thus to lead two lives—one to the world and another to themselves; but a time was rapidly approaching when a rough end would be put to all their little secrets.

'Captain Goring seems to send you bouquets and music pretty often, I think?' said Sir Ranald, rather suspiciously, one day.

'Yes, papa,' said she, feeling herself grow pale under the glance he gave through his inevitable pince-nez; 'our garden yields so little in the way of flowers, at this season especially. I can't afford, you know, to buy much music, cheap as it is, and—and——'

'There you go! reminding me of our poverty again,' said he, in a snappish tone; 'but flowers and music have both meanings—at least, they had in my time,' he added, turning away and thinking, 'I cannot permit her, for a mere girl's fancy—if a fancy she has—to throw away Cadbury Court and thirty thousand a year—egad, no!'

Of the City man's coronet he thought little—the Cheynes of Essilmont required no coronets to enhance their old heraldic glories; but the City man's bank-book and acquired acres were a very different matter for consideration now!

CHAPTER IX.

A REPRIEVE FOR A TIME.

'We dine with Cadbury at the Court to-morrow—no party, just ourselves—sharp six—an early dinner,' said Sir Ranald to Alison, just as she returned from a meeting with Bevil Goring at the beeches.

'Very well, papa,' replied the girl, though she felt herself shiver with anticipation of the annoyance to which she might be subjected; 'has he returned so soon?'

'He—who?'

'Lord Cadbury.'

'Yes; Parliament has been suddenly prorogued.'

In her heart she was sorry to hear it. 'The carriage will come for us punctually,' he added, regarding her earnestly, as he thought regretfully—when did he ever cease to do so?—of his own family carriage, with its hammercloth and heraldic insignia, and his dismay when Lady Cheyne—Alison's ailing mother—was first compelled to walk afoot or take a common cab.

And old Archie Auchindoir groaned at the recollection thereof too, when he came to announce, with a snort, that 'the Cawdburry machine was at the porch.'

Alison sighed as she entered it; an invitation to dinner was a small affair, but she felt as if the links of a chain were beginning to close around her while the easily-hung carriage rolled on between the hedgerows in the starlight.

'If his lordship makes any proposition to you to-night, I trust that for my sake, if not for your own, you will not, at least, insult him,' said Sir Ranald, breaking the silence suddenly.

'Papa—insult him!' exclaimed Alison, in a breathless voice, knowing but too well that the term 'proposition' meant a proposal, and her heart seemed to die within her as she pressed to her lips, in the dark, Bevil's engagement ring.

'For your sake and mine consider well and favourably his lordship's views,' said her father again.

She remained silent, fearing that the note her father had received must have contained something more than the mere invitation to dinner.

'I shall lose the half of my life, Alison, when I lose you, but I must make up my mind for it one of these days.'

Still she made no response, for her heart was away in a most unromantic-looking hut in the infantry lines at Aldershot, where, in fancy, she saw a handsome young fellow, his dark hair cropped close, his skin almost olive in tint, and smooth as a girl's, dark eyes and straight black eyebrows with thick lashes, a heavy moustache, and altogether with a dark manly beauty about him that would have become the costume of Titian or Velasquez, like the cavalier brothers in the portraits at Chilcote.

Through the large square entrance-hall of Cadbury Court, which was panelled with oak, and hung round above the panelling with the old family portraits of former proprietors, and had tall jars of curiously painted china standing in the deep old window bays, with a great lantern of stained glass shining overhead, they were ushered into the magnificent drawing-room, where Lord Cadbury, in evening costume, hobbled from an easy chair to receive them with no small empressement, for, though his age of ardour was past, he had not survived that of covetousness; and among other things now coveted was Alison, whom vanity prompted him to seek that he might exhibit her to society as a conquest.

Alison's drapery seemed to have a soft sweep in it; she held her fair head high; a scornful curl hovered on her lip, and yet she seemed a fragile thing to have so haughty a spirit.

She wore again—for, poor girl, her wardrobe was most limited—the lustreless silk with its rare old lace, and, though harassed, she looked charming in her pale beauty, while almost destitute of ornaments, save a few silver bangles on her slender wrists, for the family jewels—especially the Essilmont diamonds—were all things of the past, and had long since found their way to shop windows in Bond Street; but she wore at her neck a little circular brooch of snow-white pearls from the Ythan, near Ellon.

The grandeur and luxury which surrounded the parvenu lord at times irritated Sir Ranald curiously, though from sheer desperation and selfishness he longed for the hour when his daughter should share them; thus he was sometimes prompted to say sharp—almost sneering—things to his prospective son-in-law.

'My old and infernal foe—(pardon me, Miss Cheyne)—is with me again,' said Cadbury, as he hobbled back to his seat.

'Who—what?' asked Sir Ranald.

'The gout—they say it comes with ease and money.'

'With years too, Cadbury—one can't have everything as they would wish it,' replied Sir Ranald, with a gush of ill-humour; 'all men, we are told, "are on the road which begins with the cradle and ends with the grave; and, in some instances, the world would be better were the distance between the two shorter."'

'Pon my soul, Cheyne, you are unpleasant,' replied the peer, not precisely knowing what to make of this aphorism; 'but there goes the gong for dinner,' and, drawing Alison's hand over his arm, he led the way to the dining-room; 'and so you have quite declined all my offers of a mount, Miss Cheyne?' said he, in a voice of would-be reproachful tenderness, 'though I have put my entire stables at your disposal.'

'Yes—a thousand thanks.'

'Your taste has changed; or are you weary of the spins round Twesildon Hill and Aldershot way! Some of them are pretty stiff, I believe.'

Alison coloured at the, perhaps chance, reference to Aldershot, but seated herself on her host's right hand, and made no reply.

The slow elaboration of the dinner, with its many entrées and courses, though it was perfect from the maraschino to the coffee; the two tall solemn servants in resplendant liveries (like theatrical properties) in attendance upon them, and the silent butler in the background, all oppressed Alison.

'Fine old place this of yours, Cadbury—dates from Charles II., I believe,' said Sir Ranald, looking approvingly round the stately dining-room, and then glancing at his silent daughter's face; 'it exhibits all the chastened grandeur that only comes by long inheritance, and was not built in a day like the palace of Aladdin.'

'It matters little when built,' replied Cadbury, bluntly, who felt a taunt in the remark, and knew precisely how Sir Ranald viewed his recent title. 'It comes to me out of Cornhill and Threadneedle Street; and I believe that Miss Cheyne will agree with me that it is better to have industrious than expensive forefathers—hewers of wood and drawers of water, though some may deem them. Bosh! Sir Ranald—all men come from Adam,' added Cadbury, who, though a peer, was somewhat of a Radical in his proclivities.

'In these points you and I differ,' said Sir Ranald, stiffly, as he sipped his glass of dry Moselle.

'In this age of the world, a fellow with a pedigree is exactly like a potato,' said Lord Cadbury, laughing.

'How do you mean?'

'That the best part of the plant is underground.'

Sir Ranald coloured with annoyance up to his pale temples, and said—

'I am astonished that you should indulge in such bad form as proverbs; and, as for pedigrees, I never knew any man undervalue them if he ever had one—real or pretended——'

Alison, fearing the conversation was taking an unpleasant turn, looked at her father imploringly, and said, with her brightest smile,

'You know, papa, that in this work-a-day age, merit is better than birth.'

'And what is the best test of merit?' asked their host.

'Success,' said Alison.

'Precisely.'

'Not always,' said Sir Ranald; 'sometimes a defeat may be as glorious as a victory. Was it not said of the clans at Culloden that in great attempts it is glorious even to fail?'

And now, as dinner proceeded, Alison, surprised by the peevish pride of her father, after his warnings in the carriage—notwithstanding the fears with which these warnings had inspired her—with all a woman's tact, exerted herself to turn the conversation to other subjects, and addressed herself so much to her old host that he gathered hope and courage, and his face beamed with smiles; though his supposed love for Alison was not much more than a strong fancy crossed, which enhanced her value and gave a piquancy to his pursuit of her—a fancy that ere long was to be curiously combined with irritation and revenge.

Over the sideboard, which was loaded with massive plate, hung a great portrait of Sir Timothy Titcomb, the City Knight and first peer, in all his bravery of robe and chain, and aldermanic obeseness of habit; and Alison, as she looked at it, thought of some of the stately portraits at Chilcote of the Cheynes of other days, and of the manly beauty of the two Cavalier brothers who fell in battle for the king—pale, proud, and scornful, with their lovelocks and plumed beavers, and the moment dessert was over, she stole away to the solitude of the drawing-room.

She had felt rather lonely during the protracted meal. There was no other lady present. 'Why?' she asked herself; did not ladies affect the society of the wealthy and titled bachelor? It almost seemed so.

During the meal and dessert, Alison, though her sweet face wore forced smiles, had a bitter and humiliating sense of how her father, when his peevishness subsided under the influence of good wines, changed in manner, and, with all his inborn and inordinate pride of race and utter contempt for parvenus and nouveaux riches, seemed to make himself subservient to Lord Cadbury, assenting in the end to his views on everything.

She seated herself at the piano, but did not play, lest, though she had begun a melody of Schumann's, the 'Nachtstück,' Lord Cadbury might deem the sound a hint that she wished him by her side, and, giving way to thought, she sank into reverie.

As she looked on the splendour and luxury with which she was then surrounded, it was impossible for the young and impulsive girl not to think how pleasant it would be to see no more of duns, and debts, and genteel poverty; to be the mistress of Cadbury Court; to own such a glorious double drawing-room wherein to receive her visitors; to wear wonderful toilettes; to be always surrounded by so many curious and beautiful pictures, cabinets, and statuettes; to have an assured position beyond her own—the position that money alone can give; to be the mistress of these magnificent park lands, preserves, and pastures; the hot-houses and stable-court; the terraces, with their peacocks and rosaries, all whilom part of the heritage of a proud old race that, like the Cheynes of Essilmont, had come down in the world; to shine in society, and have always a full purse to buy whatever she fancied; but to have all these with Lord Cadbury—not Bevil Goring, as her husband!

No—no! she shivered, and thrust aside the thoughts a momentary emotion of selfishness was suggesting, as treason to him whose ring was on her finger, and exclaimed, as she pressed it to her lips:

'Oh, that but a tithe of these things were my poor Bevil's!'

She had been too deeply sunk in thought to hear the opening and closing of the drawing-room door, when Lord Cadbury entered alone, having left Sir Ranald dropping into his after-dinner doze in the smoking-room.

There was a listless droop—an unconscious pathos in the attitude of the girl that struck even Lord Cadbury, and though a kind of child, as he deemed her, she was a stately one—a stately girl, indeed, when she chose.

The proposal he had come to make was hovering on his lips; but a consciousness of his years on one hand, and the girl's youth on the other, rendered him suddenly diffident.

'It is coming now, I suppose—coming at last—this odious, absurd, and insulting proposal! Of course papa and he have arranged all that over their wine and nuts!' thought Alison, with annoyance and anger at her host, and no small dread of her father, who, finding her silent during the first courses of dinner, had rallied her on her abstraction.

Whatever he had come to say, something in the expression of her half-averted face crushed all the hope that wine had raised in Cadbury's heart, and, seating himself by her side, he could only make some little apology for leaving her so long alone, and regret that he had not time to invite some other lady friend.

He then drew a little nearer her, and, noting that she had a couple of tea rosebuds in her collarette, said insinuatingly—

'I saw that your papa is wearing one of your favourite flowers at his button-hole—may I have one also?'

'You are not papa,' she replied, curtly, to her half-century Romeo; 'such little decorations seem suitable only for young folks,' she added, 'but I shall give you a bud with pleasure.'

And quickly her little hands put a rosebud into the peer's lapel, but in a mechanical and task-work manner, while there was an expression on her lips—and full, delicate, and emotional lips they were—and in her small, pale face, with its decided little chin, that prevented him from greatly appreciating the gift as a younger man would have done; so the attempt even at flirtation fell flat.

'Papa does so love tea-roses; we used to have such lovely ones at Essilmont,' said Alison.

'Your poor papa!' said Cadbury, softly, 'when you marry, how lonely he will be!'

Alison shrank back uneasily, as she thought of Bevil Goring, and replied—

'I don't mean ever to marry.'

'Indeed! why so cruel to some one in particular? and why in any sense?'

'I could never leave dear old papa in our—our changed circumstances; we are so much to each other.'

'But, in marrying, you need not lose him.'

'I don't think he would care to share me with another.'

'How absurd, Miss Cheyne!'

'I mean to devote myself to him always. He is the only old man I shall ever care for; the only old man worth giving up my life to. Well,' added Alison, mentally, 'that is pretty pointed surely; if he does not take that hint, he will never take any.'

'But your papa cannot live for ever,' said Cadbury, not unwilling to inflict a thrust in return.

'How cruel of you to remind me of that!' exclaimed the girl, her fine eyes suffusing for a moment. 'I know that he is some years older than yourself; but I hope he may live to the age of Old Parr!'

References to his years, even when he drew them on himself, always stung her elderly adorer, who felt his own inborn coarseness too, as compared with her serene air of distinction; for Alison Cheyne, even when provoked to say that which for her was a sharp thing, always looked pur sang from her bright brown hair to her tiny feet.

The absence of even one lady to meet her had surprised the girl; but she knew not, and neither did Sir Ranald, owing to the isolated life he led at Chilcote, that, though fair ones from London were not unfrequent visitors at Cadbury Court, they were of a style that the ladies of the county declined to meet on any terms, which may give our readers a new insight to the general character of this hereditary legislator.

Quiet though his tone and bearing, in his past life the man had been—nay, was still—secretly a coarse libertine and a roué, who indulged in all the vicious propensities which his ample wealth enabled him to do.

Alison Cheyne was his last fancy, and he was determined, by fair means or foul, by marriage or trepan, that his she should be. Her father's poverty and pride, his age and growing infirmities, could all be utilised to this end, and nothing now gave him doubts of easy success but his own years, his grey hairs, and perhaps—her love for another.

'You do not wear many rings, Miss Cheyne; but such a hand as yours requires no ornament.'

He took her little white hand in his as he spoke—it was her left one—and regarded it admiringly; and Alison, though trembling for what might now ensue, did not withdraw it. She thought, was not the man quite old enough to be her father?

'I believe greatly in pretty hands,' said he, caressing and patting with his right hand the little white one that lay in his left.

'So does papa. It is a hobby of his that they indicate race or culture,' replied Alison, smiling now.

Certainly the short, thick digits of Lord Cadbury showed neither, and, poor man, he thought so, for he winced at the girl's reply, it was so like one of Sir Ranald's remarks; and the gentle Alison blushed that she had made it. To do so was altogether unlike herself, but she was irritated by the whole situation.

'That is a charming ring!' said her host, touching Bevil Goring's gift—the gift she prized beyond her own life.

She drew her hand away now.

'I have in that casket a diamond hoop with opals alternately—one of remarkable size and value—and if you would permit me to offer it——'

'Oh, no, never—thanks!' she exclaimed, growing quite pale.

'Why?' he asked, with annoyance and surprise.

'Opals are unlucky.'

'Unlucky? This is some Scotch superstition, I suppose?'

'It is Oriental, I believe. Moreover, I have no wish for more rings, and never accept gifts of that kind,' she added, with some hauteur of manner.

'I think I startled you by my entrance,' said he, trying to recapture her hand again; but she kept them both resolutely folded before her.

'I was in a reverie, certainly.'

'And, posed as you were, made a most fairy-like picture,' said he, with his head on one side, his long white moustache almost touching her, and more decided tenderness in his tone than he had ever before adopted.

'A fairy—would I were one!' said Alison, a little impatiently, with a flash in her dark blue eyes, for she was in great dread of what might follow now.