Chapter III: Ellon's Ring

For a man of acknowledged and undoubtedly good family, Sir Ranald had rather eccentric ideas of ancestry and the value thereof. He did not certainly, like the Duke d'Aremberg or Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromartie, claim kindred with the antediluvians, nor even carry his genealogy back to the dim days of Gadifer, King of Scotland, of whom it is recorded in that most veracious record _Le Grand Chronique de Bretagne_, that with Perceforest, King of Brittany, he sailed in company from the mouth of the Ganges, and was wrecked on the coast of Armorica; after which they were subsequently and severally raised to the thrones of Britain and Caledonia by their mutual friend Alexander le Gentil, in the time of Julius Cæsar; but he could solidly trace his descent from that Ranald Cheyne of Essilmont, Cairnhill, Craig and Inverugie, who was one of the barons that signed the _Litera Communitatis Scotiœ_ to Edward I. of England, about the marriage of their queen, the little Maid of Norway.

Thus he had among his ancestors men who figured greatly in the troubles and wars of the olden time, who fenced with steel the throne of Robert I., who were ambassadors to England and France for David II. and the early James's, who shed their blood at Flodden Field and Pinkie Cleugh, at Sark and Ancrum Moor, and whose swords were ever ready when their country was in peril; and so, when he thought of these things, his proud spirit was apt to chafe, and at such times especially he was inclined to view with some contempt his friend Cadbury as a mushroom, being only a peer of yesterday, the second of his race, and for whom not even the ingenuity of the united College of Heralds could 'fudge' out a pedigree; but, for all that, the ample wealth of the latter was not without its due and solid weight in his estimation.

Like more than one old northern family, the Cheynes of Essilmont were supposed--nay, were confidently alleged--to have a mysterious warning of death or approaching woe, such as the spectre drummer whose beat at Cortachy announces when fate is nigh the 'bonnie House of Airlie,' like the bell of Coull that tolls of itself when a Dorward dies, the hairy-handed Meg Moulach of the Grants, the headless horseman of Maclean, or the solitary swan that floats on a certain lake at times fatal to another race; and so the Cheynes of Essilmont were supposed to be haunted by a spectral black hound, in the appearance of which Sir Ranald strove to disbelieve in spite of himself, though its solemn baying had been heard when Ellon died in India and his mother in London; and as for old Archy Auchindoir, the family factotum, he believed in it as he did in his own existence.

'Original sin,' _i.e._, the accumulated debts of a generation or two past, with his own mad extravagance in youth, had so completely impaired Sir Ranald's exchequer that, on a few hundreds per annum, the wreck of all his fortune, he was compelled, though not content, to live, 'vegetate' he deemed it, quietly in an old house in Hampshire; and times there were when in the great weariness of his heart--especially after the death of his two sons--he often thought, could he but see Alison provided for as he wished, he had no other desire than to be laid where many of his ancestors lay, a right which none could deny him, in the ancient chapel of Essilmont, where often he had with envy regarded the stiff and prostrate mailed effigies on their altar tombs, lying there with sword and shield, their faces expressive of stern serenity, and their hands folded in eternal prayer.

Chilcote, his present abode, was buried deep in woods that must have been a portion of the New Forest or the relics thereof, and had been built somewhere about the time of Queen Anne. Thus a great amount of solid oak formed a portion of its structure; and in the principal rooms the mantel-pieces ascended in carved work nearly to the ceilings, while the jambs were of massive stone, with caryatides, like the god Terminus, wreathed to the waist in leaves, supporting the entablatures.

The walls were divided into compartments by moulded panelling, painted with imaginary landscapes and ruins; the armorial bearings of the Chilcotes of other days; and beneath the surbase (or chairbelt, as it used to be called) were smaller panels, all painted with fruit and flowers.

The windows were deeply embayed, with cushioned seats. One of these was, in the summer evenings, the favourite niche in which Alison was wont to perch herself with one of Mudie's latest novels.

The furniture was all old, faded, 'shabby,' Alison truly deemed it; but in tone it seemed much in unison with the rooms, on the walls of which her father had hung a few family pictures, the pride of his heart, gentlemen in ruffs and cloaks, dames in stomachers and capuchins, and two there were in whom he loved to trace a fancied resemblance to his dead sons, Ranald and Ellon, for they were brothers, and bore the same names--Ranald Cheyne, who fell at the head of the Scots Life Guards at Worcester, and Ellon Cheyne, who had died previously at the storming of Newcastle; both men portrayed in the gorgeous costume of their time, and both looked to the life, 'blue-blooded Scottish cavaliers, pale, smooth-skinned, with moustache and love lock, haughty and imperious,' and each with an expression of face that seemed to say they would have thought as little of spitting a crop-eared roundhead as a lark, with their long Toledoes.

On the day after the hunt Lord Cadbury's groom, Gaskins, came riding to Chilcote with a magnificent bouquet from the conservatories for Alison, and his master's anxious inquiries as to how she had enjoyed the sport of the previous day, and a hope that she had not suffered from fatigue; and Alison, as she buried her pretty pink nostrils among the cool and fragrant roses, smiled covertly and mischievously as she heard from Gaskins how his master had 'got such a precious spill by funking at a bull-finch, when the hounds were thrown off, that he would be confined to the house for some days.'

Thus for a time she would be free from the annoyance of his presence.

Archie, the white-haired man-of-all-work, gave Mr. Gaskins a tankard of beer after he had leaped into his saddle, where he took what Archie called a 'standing drink, like the coo o' Forfar.' Lord Cadbury's powdered servants, in elaborate liveries, were always a source of supreme contempt (mingled, perhaps, with envy) to Sir Ranald's staunch henchman, and now he felt inclined to sneer if he could at the well-appointed groom, in his dark grey surtout, waistbelt, cockade, and top-boots.

'Braw leathers, thae o' yours,' said he, regarding the latter with some interest.

'Yaas,' drawled Gaskins. 'I flatter myself that few gents appear with better boot tops than Cadbury and myself. I clean them with a preparation--quite a conserve, Mr. Hackendore, peculiarly my own.'

'And what may that be?' asked Archie.

'Champagne and apricot jam,' replied Gaskins, twirling his moustache and eyeing the old man with intense superciliousness.

'Set ye up, indeed, wi' your buits and belts!' snapped Archie. 'Ye think yoursel' made for the siller; but a bawbee cat may look at a king.'

'I don't understand the sense of your remark,' drawled Gaskins, shortening his reins.

'Like enough--like enough; mony complain o' want o' siller, but few complain o' want o' sense; and a gowk at Yule will ne'er be bricht at Beltane.'

'What the devil is he talking about?' thought the bewildered groom, as he put spurs to his horse and trotted away.

'Wi' a' his bravery,' said Archie, with a grimace, 'he's a loon that will loup the dyke where it's laighest.'

Alison divided the bouquet into portions for various vases to ornament her drawing-room, and on the following day, after a more than usually careful toilette, while her father was occupied in worry and perplexity over letters and accounts, seated herself in the deep bay of a window that overlooked the avenue, her heart beating quicker as the noon wore on.

She had a novel in her hand, but we doubt if she knew even the title of it. Pleasure, doubt, and anxiety were mingling in the girl's mind--pleasure, as she thought, 'I shall see him again for a time, however brief!'--doubt of what might ensue if she saw him under the keen watchful eyes of her father, who could detect every expression of her face, and a great anxiety lest she might be requested to avoid all intimacy, even acquaintanceship, with Bevil Goring in future; but little could she foresee the turn matters were to take, or the events of the next few days.

Luncheon was long past, and the afternoon was drawing on, when Goring rode down the avenue and gave the bridle of his horse to Archie Auchindoir, who, with a considerable appearance of being flustered, had--on the approach of a visitor--hurried from the garden, where he had been at work, to don an old black claw-hammer coat, the reversion of Sir Ranald's wardrobe.

He ran the bridle rein deftly through an iron ring in the ivy-covered porch, and preceded the young officer, whose card he placed on a silver tray with as much formality as if the little mansion of Chilcote had been a residence like Buckingham Palace.

Sir Ranald bade him welcome with finished courtesy and old-fashioned grace, while Alison, her cheek mantling with ill-concealed pleasure--for what young girl but feels her pulses quicken in the presence of a handsome and welcome admirer--continued to keep her back to the windows; thus, during the usual exchange of commonplaces and inquiries, Sir Ranald, who watched both, failed to detect anything in the manner of either that could lead to the inference that they had more interest in each other than ordinary acquaintances, and began to feel rather grateful to the young officer who had come to do them a kindness.

'So glad to see you again, Captain Goring, and to thank you for your care of Miss Cheyne when with the hounds,' he said, motioning their visitor to a seat. 'The cavalier to whom I entrusted her, Lord Cadbury, seems to have come to grief at his first fence,' added the old gentleman, laughing over the mishap of his friend, to whom Goring would rather that no reference had been made.

'I promised to call, Sir Ranald, and inquire for Miss Cheyne, after our pretty rough run, especially by Burnham Beeches, where the pack hunted their game pretty hard,' said Goring, 'and also to beg her acceptance of a relic of your son Ellon, of the Hussars, of which I became possessed by the merest chance in India.'

'A thousand thanks. Most kind of you, Captain Goring,' said Sir Ranald, his usually pale cheek reddening for a moment.

'I learned incidentally from Miss Cheyne, as we rode towards Chilcote, that the poor lad who was killed at Lahore was her younger brother, and that the ring I possess had been his. It is here,' he added, opening a tiny morocco box, in which he had placed the ring.

It was a richly chased trinket, having two clam-shells of gold, with a diamond in the centre of each.

'Ellon's ring it is, indeed,' exclaimed Sir Ranald, in a changed voice, while the moisture clouded the glasses of his _pince-nez_.

'My farewell gift to him on the morning he marched from Maidstone--you remember, papa,' exclaimed Alison, with tears in her voice.

'I am not likely to forget, God help me, that both my boys are gone, and now I have----'

'Only me, papa.'

'It is a source of supreme satisfaction that I am the means of restoring this to his family,' Goring added, judiciously, as he was on the point of saying 'sister,' and he placed it in her hand; but that hand seemed so slim and white and beautiful that he was tempted to do more, for he slipped the ring rather playfully and rather nervously on one of her fingers, saying, 'It is a world too wide.'

'Of course,' said Sir Ranald, 'it is a man's ring.

'But, see!' exclaimed Alison, as she pressed a spring, of the existence of which Goring had been until that moment ignorant, and the two clamshells unclosing showed a minutely and beautifully coloured little photo, no larger than a shilling, of her own charming face.

'Good heavens!' said Goring, with genuine surprise and pleasure, 'I was all unaware of this secret, though I have worn the ring for two years and more.'

'And all that time you have been wearing _my_ ring, _my_ hair, _my_ likeness,' muttered Alison, in a low voice, while Sir Ranald was ringing the bell.

'Delicious fatality,' thought Goring, as he looked on the sweet flushed face that was upturned to his, and their eyes met in a mutual glance that expressed more than their lips dared tell already, and which neither ever forgot. Luckily at that moment the baronet, on hospitable thoughts intent, was ordering Archie to bring wine, mentioning a rare brand from the small store which yet remained of the wreck of better days--a store kept for visitors alone.

'My brothers died within a month of each other in India, Captain Goring,' said Alison. 'Poor mamma never got over the double shock, and--and--we have never been at Essilmont since.'

'Could not your presence, your existence, console her?' asked Goring.

'No; her soul was centred in her boys.'

'I shall never forget your kindness, Captain Goring, in bringing us this little relic of Ellon,' said Sir Ranald; 'and now after your ride from the camp try a glass of this white _Clos Vougeot_. But perhaps you would prefer red. We have both, I think, Archie?'

Though the last bottle of the red sparkling Burgundy had long since vanished, Archie vowed there was a binful, and fortunately for his veracity Goring announced a decided preference for the white; and while Alison played dreamily with her brother's ring, and thought again and again how strange it was that her hair and her likeness should have been worn with it for so long in far and distant lands by Bevil Goring, the conversation turned to general subjects between the latter and her father, who came secretly to the conclusion that he 'was a very fine young fellow.'

He had seen the last on earth of Ellon, had stood by his grave, had seen the smoke of the death volleys curling over it, and seen it covered up; thus Alison thought he was more to her than any mere stranger could ever be, and already, in her heart, she had begun to deem him more indeed.

And after he had taken his departure, when she offered the ring to Sir Ranald, to her joy, he begged her to retain it, and, much to her surprise, answered that he meant to have a little dinner party.

'You quite take my heart away, papa--a dinner party!' exclaimed Alison.

'Yes, we shall have this young fellow Goring (he asked me to dine at his mess, you know), and his brother officers Dalton and Wilmot, Cadbury of course, and you can have Mrs. Trelawney, who is always charming company, to keep you in countenance--a nice little party.'

'Oh, papa,' exclaimed Alison, in genuine dismay, 'think of our poor _ménage_.'

'Tut--consult Mrs. Prune on the subject.'

'I thought you wished to have a rest from dinner parties.'

'I have been at so many, that some return----'

'Yes--but--but, papa----'

'What next, child?'

'Our last quarter's bills were so large,' urged Alison.

'Large for our exchequer, I have no doubt.'

'Let us call it luncheon, papa, and I think I shall arrange it nicely,' she pleaded, her heart quickening at the chance of meeting Bevil (she already thought of him as 'Bevil') again. So that was decided on, and the invitation notes were quickly despatched.

Alison had watched from a window the shadow of their visitor, as that of man and horse lengthened out on the sunlighted road, until shadow and form passed away; but Goring, as he rode homeward, was little aware that he had not seen the _last_ of Ellon Cheyne's ring.