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.

'And what would you do if you were one in reality?' said he, passing a hand caressingly round her soft arm.

'Do? As Robin Goodfellow, "the knavish sprite," did.'

'How?'

'By one wave of my wand I should punish you for disturbing me.'

'In what way?' He had interlaced his pudgy fingers on her arm now.

'By garnishing you, as he did, with Bottom's ears,' she replied, with something between a laugh and an angry sigh, 'though I should decline to take the part of either Titania or Peasblossom.'

Cadbury released her arm and drew back; he knew not precisely what she meant, but tugged his white moustache and thought--

'What the deuce does she mean by Bottom's ears?'

It sounded like a rebuff, anyway, and as such he accepted it--or rather resented it.

'Do compliments displease you?' said he, becoming insinuating again; 'they are but a form of kindness.'

'I take them from you as I would from papa; they pass thus, although a younger man might offend.'

Cadbury, whose head was stooped towards her, erected it, lest her glance might be falling on the little bald patch which he was so terribly conscious of being apparent now, and he shivered with annoyance, and felt wrathful at the girl he was so desirous of pleasing.

'Will you sing for me?' said he, after a pause, 'I am so fond of music.'

'What shall I sing?' asked Alison, seating herself at the piano, and glad to change the tenor of a conversation in which she felt herself ungracious.

'One of your Scottish--one of your national songs.'

'"Auld Robin Gray?"' she asked, mischievously.

'No, anything but _that_. I am sick of it.'

She thought for a moment, and then dashed into another, of which one verse will suffice, and which was quite as objectionable to his lordship, though he did not understand it all.

'There's auld Robin Morris that dwells in yonder glen,
He's the king o' a' guid fellows and choice o' auld men,
He has gold in his coffers, he has oxen and kine,
And one bonnie lassie--his darling and mine.'

'It is a man's song,' said Alison, when she had concluded the five verses, and continued to idle over the keys.

'And I suppose auld Robin Morris might be twin brother to the other Robin,' said Cadbury, with ill-concealed annoyance, as he conceived there was more in the song than his ear detected.

'It only tells the old story, my lord--the hopeless love of a handsome young fellow for a rich and lovely girl--an old man's pride and avarice standing in the way--' said Alison, with a soft smile playing about her lips, and thankful that her father's entrance put an end to a most obnoxious _tête-à-tête_.

A few minutes later and Lord Cadbury's carriage was conveying them home, but even then Alison's annoyances did not cease.

'Did Cadbury say anything particular to you, Alison dear, when I was having a nap to-night?' asked Sir Ranald, suddenly breaking a silence that was rather oppressive.

'No, papa.'

'No! Nothing?'

'Nothing of consequence.'

'Did he not propose?'

'Papa, how can you think of such a thing? He is a veritable Grandfather Whitehead.'

'Think of happiness,' said her father, sharply.

'Has wealth aught to do with that?'

'A good deal--if not all. Think of living in a house like that we have just left! Think of presentation days, collar days, at Buckingham Palace, the Park, the Row, the Four-in-Hand Club by the Serpentine--luncheons at Muswell Hill, and so forth!'

Alison was silent, but full of sad and bitter thoughts.

Around her--or within her reach--she knew were gaieties in which she could have no part--the opera, the Row, the Queen's drawing-room, to which, notwithstanding her real social position, she could no more have access (without the aid of a most trustful milliner), than the daughter of a clown. But she did not repine, as her father did, that she should be debarred from all these sights and circles, so she replied,

'Papa, as I have often said, one can live without these accessories and surroundings. I have before urged you to quit even Chilcote, and let us go home--home to Essilmont--or what remains of it,' she added, in a broken voice, as she thought of Bevil Goring, and how a new light, bright as summer sunshine, had fallen on her life at Chilcote now.

'Home!' exclaimed her father, bitterly, 'home to the crumbling mansion amid the bleak braes where the Ythan flows, to be a source of local marvel and pity in our impoverished state. No--no! better our obscurity in Hampshire; who cares about us here, or thinks about us at all, unless it's Cadbury, who--who----'

'What, papa?' asked the girl, passionately.

'Would gladly make you his wife, my darling, and render my old age easy, with some of the luxuries we possessed in other times.'

Alison shuddered at the suggestion, and again pressed her engagement ring to her lips, as if its presence were a charm, an amulet, a protection to her.

'It is his dearest hope that you may yet journey together through life,' urged Sir Ranald.

Alison thought that a good part of the peer's journey had been performed already.

But no more passed. They had reached home, and, slipping his last crown piece into the palm of the servant who opened the carriage door and threw down the steps, Sir Ranald led his daughter into their home, which looked strangely small and gloomy after the mansion they had just quitted.

Alison felt that she had achieved a species of escape or reprieve, but it was only for a time. She felt certain that from first to last the dinner had been a concerted scheme, and that somehow, thanks perhaps to her own _brusquerie_, her elderly adorer, natheless his rank and wealth, had lost courage for the time.