'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?