'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!