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.