With all the joy of the new position, however, there was more than one element in it from which her sensitive nature shrank.
First, a secret understanding had been established between her and a gentleman friend—as yet deemed only a visitor at Chilcote—unknown to her father and to others. Second, it had not been discovered as yet, but might not always remain so, and thus eventually cause an esclandre; and to her it seemed that to make and keep successive appointments—sweet and delicious though they were—that must be kept secret was in itself something wrong and unlady-like; but she was the victim circumstances had made her.
At times it seemed very 'bad form,' as the phrase went—a want perhaps of self-respect; and yet Bevil Goring was so tender, so loving, so unlike, she thought, every other man in the world that she must risk it all, he was so dear to her.
And then she would dream of the happiness it would be if he were openly accepted by Sir Ranald as her fiancé—the joy of seeing him freely come and freely go a welcome guest at Chilcote, the future member of her own family, the future prop of her father's declining years, taking the place of Ranald and of Ellon; but would such ever—ever be?
On the other hand, Bevil Goring, who was not without a moderate show of proper pride, was not without some similar thoughts, and rather resented the position in which they were placed, giving their solemn engagement the aspect of a rustic flirtation with its furtive meetings; and, after all he had seen of the world, he thought it absurd for him and perilous for the girl he loved so tenderly.
He called at studied or stated intervals at Chilcote, but for Sir Ranald ostensibly; and when in the presence of the latter he and Alison had to act a part and talk the merest commonplaces, with the memory in their hearts and on their lips of passionate and burning kisses exchanged but an hour perhaps before.
They seemed thus to lead two lives—one to the world and another to themselves; but a time was rapidly approaching when a rough end would be put to all their little secrets.
'Captain Goring seems to send you bouquets and music pretty often, I think?' said Sir Ranald, rather suspiciously, one day.
'Yes, papa,' said she, feeling herself grow pale under the glance he gave through his inevitable pince-nez; 'our garden yields so little in the way of flowers, at this season especially. I can't afford, you know, to buy much music, cheap as it is, and—and——'
'There you go! reminding me of our poverty again,' said he, in a snappish tone; 'but flowers and music have both meanings—at least, they had in my time,' he added, turning away and thinking, 'I cannot permit her, for a mere girl's fancy—if a fancy she has—to throw away Cadbury Court and thirty thousand a year—egad, no!'