Chapter VIII: A Birthday Gift

'Twa heads are better than ane, though they are but sheep's anes,' remarked Archie Auchindoir, with a smirk on his wrinkled face, to old Mrs. Prune, as he gave her a lesson in the art of cooking mutton to imitate venison, with minced onions and ham, parsley and port wine, to please the fastidious palate of his ailing master Sir Ranald, who dearly doted on many things he could not procure now, and of course longed for venison. So these two old servitors were again to their joy installed with the little household once more at Chilcote.

And most welcome again to Alison was old silver-haired Archie, with his genuine ancient Scottish fidelity 'to the auld family'--a species of fidelity as beautiful and unselfish as it is rare now-a-days.

Mr. Solomon Slagg had failed to let Chilcote; the ruse under which Sir Ranald and Cadbury had lured Alison to accompany them in a sudden departure from England in the _Firefly_ had failed, so there was no reason why they should not return; thus Sir Ranald and his daughter had returned accordingly.

Daisy Prune's mother had soon restocked the hen-house, and her old occupations came pleasantly back to Alison. At present she was full of one thing and another; home was home again; her plants, her greenhouse, her flowers occasioned many a deep consultation with the factotum of the establishment, old Archie, anent slips, bulbs, and seedlings, for her love of flowers amid all her cares and anxieties had never deserted her.

So father and daughter were back again to homelier fare than that of the Hôtel St. Antoine, for their dessert after dinner, if served upon the scanty remains of ancient plate, often consisted of only two bald dishes of oranges and a few little biscuits.

In her singleness and simplicity of heart, Alison rejoiced to be again amid her familiar surroundings, as she was destitute of her father's spirit of futile repining and regrets for the unattainable; thus every bit of furniture looked an old friend, more particularly those relics of Essilmont, the family portraits, some of which--especially those of two handsome cavalier brothers who fell in battle for King Charles--seemed to the girl's fancy to relax their haughty features, and smile a welcome home to her--the last of the Cheynes--as she nestled with one of Mudie's last novels in her favourite window-seat and strove to read, while her thoughts wandered to Bevil Goring, wherever he might be, and she pined for him, but in vain.

Lord Cadbury was in town just then. Her father had not seen fit to enlighten her as to the circumstance of Goring having followed them to Antwerp, a fact which would have enhanced his interest in the eyes of Alison. Of the Cadbury episode, and the meeting which never came off at the Lunette St. Laurent, he knew nothing; but he was old-fashioned enough and high-spirited enough to have revolted at such cowardice, if he had been aware of it.

Alison speculated deeply. If Bevil Goring was in England, how was it that he made no effort to trace her? Could it be that stung by her father's imperious manner, and hopeless of ever being rich enough to please him, he had relinquished her and her love, and perhaps given himself up to the adoration of another? She had heard and read of such things, and these surmises saddened and agitated her.

Laura had left Chilcote Grange, none knew for where, thus Alison could not learn from her any knowledge of Goring's movements, or whether he was at the camp, or in Africa. She was, in her isolation, without the means of knowing if he were in the land of the living.

So she was back again to Chilcote and monotony, but a monotony that was not without an infusion of hope that she might ere long hear something of her lover; for Chilcote and its vicinity were full of associations connected with him, particularly their trysting-place, the old beeches that were leafless still, and looked so lonely when she lingered there, and watched the brown rabbits scudding among the last year's ferns; back again to old Mrs. Prune's frugal repasts, and watching for letters that never came, or those that were not wanted--letters in blue envelopes, at the sight of which Sir Ranald shivered. He hated all letters; of what use were they to anyone--all he wanted was his morning paper.

Severely ailing now, the old man had become more querulous than ever, and more than ever was Alison sweet in temper, gentle and patient with him, for she had more than an intuition that she would not have him long with her, and when he passed away what was to become of her _then_?

And she would look up beseechingly at the portraits of the two brothers--the Ranald and Ellon of other times--as if seeking succour or counsel from them.

'I wish I had been born, papa, when these two kinsmen lived, and when the world was younger,' she said one day.

'A strange thought for a young girl,' he replied; 'if you had been born then you would have lived in stormy times, and, instead of living now, be lying in St. Mary's Kirk at Ellon. But why this wish?'

'Because I think people were truer and more single-hearted then than they are now--more simple, honest, and less inclined to make shams of themselves for appearance sake.'

'Hum,' said Sir Ranald, after a pause, during which he had been eyeing her suspiciously through his gold _pince-nez_; 'have you met anyone during your protracted walk this afternoon?'

'Whom have I to meet in this lonely place, papa?' she asked, with a little pang of annoyance in her breast.

'No one you think worth your attention now, perhaps; but you were most anxious to return here, anyway.'

Alison did not reply, but a sigh escaped her. She had indeed on that afternoon wandered pretty far on the road that led to the distant camp at Aldershot, in the slight hope of meeting him of whom her thoughts were full, and to whom--in ignorance of where he was--she feared to write announcing that she was again at Chilcote.

Winter had come and gone while she was at Antwerp; the snowdrops had faded from white to yellow and passed away. The loose petals of the late crocuses, golden and purple, had also disappeared under the increasing heat of the sunshine; the garden was fragrant with wall-flower and scented jonquils, and as the days began to lengthen the pale primroses came to spot the turf under the old beech-trees, and within the green whorls of leaves. Ere long the hedge-banks were gay with them among the litter of dead foliage, and Alison thought of the days when she was wont to linger and make posies of them as she went to school.

The sum that was to have been settled on Alison in case Bevil fell in the intended duel with Lord Cadbury had not taken any tangible form, as the duel never came off, in the first place, and, in the second, Messrs. Taype, Shawrpe, & Scrawly at that precise time had been unable to discover the actual whereabouts of the young lady; so she was in ignorance of his kind consideration and lover-like generosity, while they waited for fresh instructions.

But, aware that to one so impecunious as Sir Ranald Cheyne money could never come amiss, Bevil Goring contrived, through the Scottish legal agents of the former, to transmit to his bankers for the use of Alison a sum anonymously, or in such a fashion that they could never discover, save from himself, from whom or whence it came.

And the news thereof arrived one morning when the holders of some overdue accounts had been more than usually clamorous for settlement, and Alison had begun to feel once again some of the old emotions of shame and desperation in her heart as in the past, and her eyes were full of unshed tears.

'What a world it is!' groaned Sir Ranald.

'True, papa; yet it is but little we require or wish for.'

'We can neither have what we require or may wish for, unless--unless----'

'What, papa?'

'We have money,' said he, gloomily.

'True. Oh, that weary money!' sighed the girl. 'However, we have still five pounds in the bank, and in my purse are a sovereign and some silver.'

'My poor, obstinate pet! How easily all this might be amended! A dun, of course,' he added, as the postman's rat-tat was heard at the door, and Archie brought in a letter. 'Ah! I thought so,' muttered the poor baronet, as he saw that the envelope was a blue one. 'Throw it in the fire; they are all alike.'

However, with a snort of impatience, he opened the missive, and as he read it Alison, who was watching his thin face with affectionate anxiety, saw an expression of blank wonder, of utter amazement, steal over it. He started, and, as if he could not believe his eyes, wiped his _pince-nez_ with his handkerchief and read the letter again, while Alison, whose birthday it was, and who sighed a little because there was no one to remember it, stole to his side and peeped over his shoulder. It was from the secretary of Sir Ranald's bank, to announce that, by some friend unknown, £1,000 had been paid in the name of Miss Alison Cheyne for her use and behoof, and as a _birthday_ gift.

Surprise profound and great joy were the first emotions of father and daughter, and the latter thought of all the little debts it would clear and the comforts it would procure for the former; but neither had the slightest suspicion of the real donor, for Goring was supposed to have little more than his pay, and both were inclined to accredit Lord Cadbury with it; thus for a time a perilous emotion of deep gratitude began really to fill the affectionate heart of Alison--we say perilous, for it enhanced the prospects of the peer, and might eventually blight those of Goring, if aught occurred to make Alison question his truth or loyalty to herself, and yet her heart shrank with shame at taking a money gift from her rejected lover.

A birthday gift, she thought; Lord Cadbury did not know her birthday. Bevil did; but of course this princely and certainly opportune present could never come from poor Bevil, who was thankful to add to his income by slaving as a musketry instructor.

Beyond Cadbury conjecture was endless.

'Can it be from Captain Llanyard?' she suggested.

'Absurd!' said her father, almost angrily.

Tom Llanyard, she knew with all a pretty girl's sharp intuition, had admired her greatly and secretly during the brief voyage in the _Firefly_, and Tom, we are glad to record, had, singular to say, in one day realised a handsome fortune.

Alison knew of that circumstance, and she knew too that Cadbury was too innately vulgar not to be ostentatious with his wealth and disinclined to hide his candle under a bushel.

Tom Llanyard, with the _Firefly_, when taking her to Cowes by Lord Cadbury's orders, had been blown by a foul wind, and in a heavy gale thereof, down the Channel till he was off the coast of Devonshire, where he fell in with a large derelict Indiaman, which had been abandoned by her captain and crew during the gale, and of which he took possession.

He brought her into Dartmouth safely, and she proved to be laden with teakwood, rum, and a cargo valued generally at nearly £100,000, consequently the salvage alone proved a handsome fortune to worthy Tom Llanyard, who immediately resigned 'the honour' of commanding Lord Cadbury's yacht.

The proud spirit of Alison revolted, on consideration, at the idea of accepting or using this money; but her father only asked her how they were to 'rub on' without it, now it had come?

But whence came it? Was it sent in charity, or was it the conscience money of some false friend, who in the spendthrift past time had wronged her father on the turf or elsewhere?

To soothe her, he was not disinclined to adopt this view of the matter; but to suit his own views he again fell back upon the conviction that the donor could be no other than Lord Cadbury, to return it to whom would be an insult, and whom it would be but proper to thank in some fashion.

Thus, great was the surprise of the peer to receive one day at his club a rather effusive letter from Alison, dictated by Sir Ranald to thank him for the birthday gift--as they could not doubt--a gift that nothing but her father's failing health, and the many necessities that it involved, compelled her to accept. Her little hands trembled as she closed this--to her--obnoxious epistle; while her eyes were dim with tears, and her heart wrung with shame and pride, all the more so as she painfully recalled the episode of Mr. Slagg and the acceptances.

Cadbury was puzzled sorely; he knew not what to think, and tugged away at his long white moustache, while thinking 'who the devil can have sent this money--a thousand pounds too!'

He was not sorry that they should think the gift came from him.

'Hang it all!' he muttered, 'have I not spent ever so much more on and about her--Slagg's devilish bills too--and all for nothing!'

So he wrote a very artful answer, expressing his surprise that he should be thanked for such a trifle, thus fully permitting her to infer that the gift was a kindness of his own; and more than ever did Alison feel a humiliation, in which her father--selfish with all his pride--had no share, especially when sipping some very choice dry cliquot 'veuve,' a case of which he had ordered on the head of it, and thought that for a little time at least he had bidden good-bye to _mouton à la Russe_, cold beef, and apple-dumpling--ugh!

At his club and elsewhere in London, Cadbury had a nervous fear of the Antwerp affair, and the cause of his sudden departure from that city, oozing out. It might find its way from the _Rag_, of which he doubted not Goring was a member, but Cadbury forgot that the former was too much of a gentleman to tell any anecdote that would involve the name of a lady--more than all, that of Alison Cheyne.

But no one can tell how stories get about in these days, and thus, when there was any low-voiced talk or laughter in a corner of the club-room, he grew hot and cold with the terrible suspicion that he was the subject of both. His hatred of Goring grew deeper, and he resolved that he would work him some fatal mischief, if he could.

Through Sir Jasper Dehorsey and Mr. Tom Hawksleigh, a rumour certainly was spread abroad that he had been on the Continent 'with such a stunning girl;' and old Cad (as he was often called) was rather inclined to adopt the soft impeachment, and the idea that 'he was a dog--a gay spark yet--and all that sort of thing, don't you know.'

But when Dehorsey spoke of the affair, he little knew the rank, position, or character of the girl he referred to, and the risks she had run through the brutal selfishness and mischievous spirit of himself and Hawksleigh, when by falsehoods, and in her confusion, they had lured her to the Café au Progrès.

At Chilcote, Archie Auchindoir speedily became master of the news concerning the birthday gift.

'A thousand pounds, my certie, is there as much money in a' the warld!' he exclaimed. 'Troth, Sir Ranald, he that hath routh o' butter may put it on baith sides o' his bannock.'

'I don't know,' said Sir Ranald, peevishly, to Alison, 'why I brought that fellow back again. A Caleb Balderstone is an anachronism in nineteenth century society.'

'He is so good and faithful, papa--dear old Archie.'

'Yes; but, like all such faithful old fellows, he is a shocking tyrant--is too much _au fait_ at all one's private affairs, and deems himself quite a family institution--as much a Cheyne as ourselves.'

But Alison had not the heart to resent Archie's gladness that the gift--whoever it came from--'would keep the wolf from the door,' as she thought it might keep the black hound too!

Archie had a profound dislike of Lord Cadbury, and once he ventured to say to Alison,

'Wi' a' his wealth, I'd as soon see you in your coffin as the Leddy o' Cadbury Court; but anent this,' he asked, abruptly, in a low voice, 'where is Captain Goring?'

Alison coloured, but said, in a low, cooing voice,

'Could YOU find out for me, Archie, like an old dear, as you are?'

'I will--I'll ask at the Camp, if I tramp every yard o' the way and back again.'

'Oh, thank you so much, Archie.'

'I would like to see you married to him, missie,' said the old man, patting her shoulder.

'Ah, we are too poor yet, Archie,' said Alison, but the next remark, while it made her laugh, brought a hot blush to her cheek.

'Owre puir! Hoot, fye! Think o' a Cheyne o' Essilmont saying that--Essilmont where mony a time a hundred o' your name and mair have had their horses in stall--ilk man boden in effeir o' war?' exclaimed Archie, his old grey eyes flashing as he spoke. 'No--it is feeding little mouths ye think o'; but, odds sake, Miss Alison, they'd bring mair gowd in their yellow curls than they'd ever tak' frae ye in bannocks and shoon. God never sends a little mouth into this world without food for it; and, if it is a certain care, it is a sure joy.'

So Archie soon discovered that Bevil Goring was not at Aldershot, and, to Alison's joy, that he had not gone to Africa; that the spring drills had not yet commenced, that the battalion was returning home, and that Captain Goring was in London, where, she concluded, he must be idling in ignorance of her movements, and that she was again at Chilcote.

The year of their mutual promise was already passing away. But what did that matter? Never would they love each other the less!

How she longed once again to see Laura Dalton, whose new name and strange story had reached her through the vicar, and amazed her greatly, for she had a sorrowful sense of isolation and helplessness, and this darkened more around her, while heavy illness once more fell upon Sir Ranald, and again the terror came over her that his life would slowly ebb away.

The scathing bitterness of his tongue when he spoke of Goring often made her heart wince, but could provoke no response from her lips, though they often quivered with indignation at his querulous spite. Though Alison was a woman in energy of purpose and power of endeavour, in many ways she was still like the veriest child--especially in so far as a spirit of reasonable obedience to Sir Ranald went; and after all, as a writer has it, even in these our days 'such monsters as parents indefinitely relentless will sometimes outrage dramatic proprieties;' so Alison pondered much upon her future, but failed to see a clue to it.

In her present small world she had but one little pleasure--her letters from her namesake, Sister Lisette, the Beguine, full of prayerful wishes, loving expressions, and pretty messages, and often containing little religious pictures, with gracefully worded mementoes in Latin and French.

And thus the days stole away at Chilcote.