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diff --git a/11882-h/11882-h.htm b/11882-h/11882-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c320740 --- /dev/null +++ b/11882-h/11882-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16849 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Colonel Quaritch, V.C., by H. Rider Haggard</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11882 ***</div> + +<h1>Colonel Quaritch, V.C</h1> + +<h3>A Tale of Country Life</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by H. Rider Haggard</h2> + +<h4>First Published 1888.</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. HAROLD QUARITCH MEDITATES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. THE COLONEL MEETS THE SQUIRE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. THE END OF THE TALE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. THE SQUIRE EXPLAINS THE POSITION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. LAWYER QUEST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. EDWARD COSSEY, ESQUIRE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. MR. QUEST’S WIFE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW OF RUIN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. THE TENNIS PARTY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. IDA’S BARGAIN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. GEORGE PROPHESIES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. ABOUT ART</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. THE TIGER SHOWS HER CLAWS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. THE HAPPY DAYS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. THE HOUSE WITH THE RED PILLARS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. THE TIGRESS IN HER DEN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. “WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. IN PAWN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. “GOOD-BYE TO YOU, EDWARD”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. THE COLONEL GOES OUT SHOOTING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. THE END OF THE MATCH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. THE BLOW FALLS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. “GOOD-BYE, MY DEAR, GOOD-BYE!”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. THE SQUIRE GIVES HIS CONSENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. BELLE PAYS A VISIT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. MR. QUEST HAS HIS INNINGS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. HOW GEORGE TREATED JOHNNIE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. EDWARD COSSEY MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. HAROLD TAKES THE NEWS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. IDA RECANTS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. GEORGE PROPHESIES AGAIN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SQUIRE SPEAKS HIS MIND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. GEORGE’S DIPLOMATIC ERRAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI. HOW THE GAME ENDED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII. SISTER AGNES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XXXVIII. COLONEL QUARITCH EXPRESSES HIS VIEWS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER XXXIX. THE COLONEL GOES TO SLEEP</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER XL. BUT NOT TO BED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap41">CHAPTER XLI. HOW THE NIGHT WENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap42">CHAPTER XLII. IDA GOES TO MEET HER FATE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap43">CHAPTER XLIII. GEORGE IS SEEN TO LAUGH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap44">CHAPTER XLIV. CHRISTMAS CHIMES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap45">CONCLUSION</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +I DEDICATE<br /> +THIS TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE<br /> +TO<br /> +MY FRIEND AND FELLOW-SPORTSMAN,<br /> +CHARLES J. LONGMAN +</p> + +<hr /> + +<h3>PREPARER’S NOTE</h3> + +<p> +This text was prepared from an 1889 edition published by Longmans, Green and +Co., printed by Kelly and Co., Gate Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, W.C.; +and Middle Mill, Kingston-on-Thames. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.</h2> + +<h3>A TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE</h3> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /> +HAROLD QUARITCH MEDITATES</h2> + +<p> +There are things and there are faces which, when felt or seen for the first +time, stamp themselves upon the mind like a sun image on a sensitized plate and +there remain unalterably fixed. To take the instance of a face—we may +never see it again, or it may become the companion of our life, but there the +picture is just as we <i>first</i> knew it, the same smile or frown, the same +look, unvarying and unvariable, reminding us in the midst of change of the +indestructible nature of every experience, act, and aspect of our days. For +that which has been, is, since the past knows no corruption, but lives +eternally in its frozen and completed self. +</p> + +<p> +These are somewhat large thoughts to be born of a small matter, but they rose +up spontaneously in the mind of a soldierly-looking man who, on the particular +evening when this history opens, was leaning over a gate in an Eastern county +lane, staring vacantly at a field of ripe corn. +</p> + +<p> +He was a peculiar and rather battered looking individual, apparently over forty +years of age, and yet bearing upon him that unmistakable stamp of dignity and +self-respect which, if it does not exclusively belong to, is still one of the +distinguishing attributes of the English gentleman. In face he was ugly, no +other word can express it. Here were not the long mustachios, the almond eyes, +the aristocratic air of the Colonel of fiction—for our dreamer was a +Colonel. These were—alas! that the truth should be so +plain—represented by somewhat scrubby sandy-coloured whiskers, small but +kindly blue eyes, a low broad forehead, with a deep line running across it from +side to side, something like that to be seen upon the busts of Julius Caesar, +and a long thin nose. One good feature, however, he did possess, a mouth of +such sweetness and beauty that set, as it was, above a very square and +manly-looking chin, it had the air of being ludicrously out of place. +“Umph,” said his old aunt, Mrs. Massey (who had just died and left +him what she possessed), on the occasion of her first introduction to him +five-and-thirty years before, “Umph! Nature meant to make a pretty girl +of you, and changed her mind after she had finished the mouth. Well, never +mind, better be a plain man than a pretty woman. There, go along, boy! I like +your ugly face.” +</p> + +<p> +Nor was the old lady peculiar in this respect, for plain as the countenance of +Colonel Harold Quaritch undoubtedly was, people found something very taking +about it, when once they became accustomed to its rugged air and stern +regulated expression. What that something was it would be hard to define, but +perhaps the nearest approach to the truth would be to describe it as a light of +purity which, notwithstanding the popular idea to the contrary, is quite as +often to be found upon the faces of men as upon those of women. Any person of +discernment looking on Colonel Quaritch must have felt that he was in the +presence of a good man—not a prig or a milksop, but a man who had +attained by virtue of thought and struggle that had left their marks upon him, +a man whom it would not be well to tamper with, one to be respected by all, and +feared of evildoers. Men felt this, and he was popular among those who knew him +in his service, though not in any hail-fellow-well-met kind of way. But among +women he was not popular. As a rule they both feared and disliked him. His +presence jarred upon the frivolity of the lighter members of their sex, who +dimly realised that his nature was antagonistic, and the more solid ones could +not understand him. Perhaps this was the reason why Colonel Quaritch had never +married, had never even had a love affair since he was five-and-twenty. +</p> + +<p> +And yet it was of a woman that he was thinking as he leant over the gate, and +looked at the field of yellowing corn, undulating like a golden sea beneath the +pressure of the wind. +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Quaritch had twice before been at Honham, once ten, and once four years +ago. Now he was come to abide there for good. His old aunt, Mrs. Massey, had +owned a place in the village—a very small place—called Honham +Cottage, or Molehill, and on those two occasions he visited her. Mrs. Massey +was dead and buried. She had left him the property, and with some reluctance, +he had given up his profession, in which he saw no further prospects, and come +to live upon it. This was his first evening in the place, for he had arrived by +the last train on the previous night. All day he had been busy trying to get +the house a little straight, and now, thoroughly tired, he was refreshing +himself by leaning over a gate. It is, though a great many people will not +believe it, one of the most delightful and certainly one of the cheapest +refreshments in the world. +</p> + +<p> +And then it was, as he leant over the gate, that the image of a woman’s +face rose before his mind as it had continually risen during the last five +years. Five years had gone since he saw it, and those five years he spent in +India and Egypt, that is with the exception of six months which he passed in +hospital—the upshot of an Arab spear thrust in the thigh. +</p> + +<p> +It had risen before him in all sorts of places and at all sorts of times; in +his sleep, in his waking moments, at mess, out shooting, and even once in the +hot rush of battle. He remembered it well—it was at El Teb. It happened +that stern necessity forced him to shoot a man with his pistol. The bullet cut +through his enemy, and with a few convulsions he died. He watched him die, he +could not help doing so, there was some fascination in following the act of his +own hand to its dreadful conclusion, and indeed conclusion and commencement +were very near together. The terror of the sight, the terror of what in defence +of his own life he was forced to do, revolted him even in the heat of the +fight, and even then, over that ghastly and distorted face, another face spread +itself like a mask, blotting it out from view—that woman’s face. +And now again it re-arose, inspiring him with the rather recondite reflections +as to the immutability of things and impressions with which this domestic +record opens. +</p> + +<p> +Five years is a good stretch in a man’s journey through the world. Many +things happen to us in that time. If a thoughtful person were to set to work to +record all the impressions which impinge upon his mind during that period, he +would fill a library with volumes, the mere tale of its events would furnish a +shelf. And yet how small they are to look back upon. It seemed but the other +day that he was leaning over this very gate, and had turned to see a young girl +dressed in black, who, with a spray of honeysuckle thrust in her girdle, and +carrying a stick in her hand, was walking leisurely down the lane. +</p> + +<p> +There was something about the girl’s air that had struck him while she +was yet a long way off—a dignity, a grace, and a set of the shoulders. +Then as she came nearer he saw the soft dark eyes and the waving brown hair +that contrasted so strangely and effectively with the pale and striking +features. It was not a beautiful face, for the mouth was too large, and the +nose was not as straight as it might have been, but there was a power about the +broad brow, and a force and solid nobility stamped upon the features which had +impressed him strangely. Just as she came opposite to where he was standing, a +gust of wind, for there was a stiff breeze, blew the lady’s hat off, +taking it over the hedge, and he, as in duty bound, scrambled into the field +and fetched it for her, and she had thanked him with a quick smile and a +lighting up of the brown eyes, and then passed on with a bow. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, with a little bow she had passed on, and he watched her walking down the +long level drift, till her image melted into the stormy sunset light, and was +gone. When he returned to the cottage he had described her to his old aunt, and +asked who she might be, to learn that she was Ida de la Molle (which sounded +like a name out of a novel), the only daughter of the old squire who lived at +Honham Castle. Next day he had left for India, and saw Miss de la Molle no +more. +</p> + +<p> +And now he wondered what had become of her. Probably she was married; so +striking a person would be almost sure to attract the notice of men. And after +all what could it matter to him? He was not a marrying man, and women as a +class had little attraction for him; indeed he disliked them. It has been said +that he had never married, and never even had a love affair since he was +five-and-twenty. But though he was not married, he once—before he was +five-and-twenty—very nearly took that step. It was twenty years ago now, +and nobody quite knew the history, for in twenty years many things are +fortunately forgotten. But there was a history, and a scandal, and the marriage +was broken off almost on the day it should have taken place. And after that it +leaked out in the neighbourhood that the young lady, who by the way was a +considerable heiress, had gone off her head, presumably with grief, and been +confined in an asylum, where she was believed still to remain. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps it was the thought of this one woman’s face, the woman he had +once seen walking down the drift, her figure limned out against the stormy sky, +that led him to think of the other face, the face hidden in the madhouse. At +any rate, with a sigh, or rather a groan, he swung himself round from the gate +and began to walk homeward at a brisk pace. +</p> + +<p> +The drift that he was following is known as the mile drift, and had in ancient +times formed the approach to the gates of Honham Castle, the seat of the +ancient and honourable family of de la Molle (sometimes written +“Delamol” in history and old writings). Honham Castle was now +nothing but a ruin, with a manor house built out of the wreck on one side of +its square, and the broad way that led to it from the high road which ran from +Boisingham,[*] the local country town, was a drift or grass lane. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +[*] Said to have been so named after the Boissey family, whose heiress a de la +Molle married in the fourteenth century. As, however, the town of Boisingham is +mentioned by one of the old chroniclers, this does not seem very probable. No +doubt the family took their name from the town or hamlet, not the town from the +family. +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Quaritch followed this drift till he came to the high road, and then +turned. A few minutes’ walk brought him to a drive opening out of the +main road on the left as he faced towards Boisingham. This drive, which was +some three hundred yards long, led up a rather sharp slope to his own place, +Honham Cottage, or Molehill, as the villagers called it, a title calculated to +give a keen impression of a neat spick and span red brick villa with a slate +roof. In fact, however, it was nothing of the sort, being a building of the +fifteenth century, as a glance at its massive flint walls was sufficient to +show. In ancient times there had been a large Abbey at Boisingham, two miles +away, which, the records tell, suffered terribly from an outbreak of the plague +in the fifteenth century. After this the monks obtained ten acres of land, +known as Molehill, by grant from the de la Molle of the day, and so named +either on account of their resemblance to a molehill (of which more presently) +or after the family. On this elevated spot, which was supposed to be peculiarly +healthy, they built the little house now called Honham Cottage, whereto to fly +when next the plague should visit them. +</p> + +<p> +And as they built it, so, with some slight additions, it had remained to this +day, for in those ages men did not skimp their flint, and oak, and mortar. It +was a beautiful little spot, situated upon the flat top of a swelling hill, +which comprised the ten acres of grazing ground originally granted, and was, +strange to say, still the most magnificently-timbered piece of ground in the +country side. For on the ten acres of grass land there stood over fifty great +oaks, some of them pollards of the most enormous antiquity, and others which +had, no doubt, originally grown very close together, fine upstanding trees with +a wonderful length and girth of bole. This place, Colonel Quaritch’s +aunt, old Mrs. Massey, had bought nearly thirty years before when she became a +widow, and now, together with a modest income of two hundred a year, it had +passed to him under her will. +</p> + +<p> +Shaking himself clear of his sad thoughts, Harold Quaritch turned round at his +own front door to contemplate the scene. The long, single-storied house stood, +it has been said, at the top of the rising land, and to the south and west and +east commanded as beautiful a view as is to be seen in the county. There, a +mile or so away to the south, situated in the midst of grassy grazing grounds, +and flanked on either side by still perfect towers, frowned the massive gateway +of the old Norman castle. Then, to the west, almost at the foot of Molehill, +the ground broke away in a deep bank clothed with timber, which led the eye +down by slow descents into the beautiful valley of the Ell. Here the silver +river wound its gentle way through lush and poplar-bordered marshes, where the +cattle stand knee-deep in flowers; past quaint wooden mill-houses, through +Boisingham Old Common, windy looking even now, and brightened here and there +with a dash of golden gorse, till it was lost beneath the picturesque cluster +of red-tiled roofs that marked the ancient town. Look which way he would, the +view was lovely, and equal to any to be found in the Eastern counties, where +the scenery is fine enough in its own way, whatever people may choose to say to +the contrary, whose imaginations are so weak that they require a mountain and a +torrent to excite them into activity. +</p> + +<p> +Behind the house to the north there was no view, and for a good reason, for +here in the very middle of the back garden rose a mound of large size and +curious shape, which completely shut out the landscape. What this mound, which +may perhaps have covered half an acre of ground, was, nobody had any idea. Some +learned folk write it down a Saxon tumulus, a presumption to which its ancient +name, “Dead Man’s Mount,” seemed to give colour. Other folk, +however, yet more learned, declared it to be an ancient British dwelling, and +pointed triumphantly to a hollow at the top, wherein the ancient Britishers +were supposed to have moved, lived, and had their being—which must, urged +the opposing party, have been a very damp one. Thereon the late Mrs. Massey, +who was a British dwellingite, proceeded to show with much triumph <i>how</i> +they had lived in the hole by building a huge mushroom-shaped roof over it, and +thereby turning it into a summer-house, which, owing to unexpected difficulties +in the construction of the roof, cost a great deal of money. But as the roof +was slated, and as it was found necessary to pave the hollow with tiles and cut +surface drains in it, the result did not clearly prove its use as a dwelling +place before the Roman conquest. Nor did it make a very good summer house. +Indeed it now served as a store place for the gardener’s tools and for +rubbish generally. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /> +THE COLONEL MEETS THE SQUIRE</h2> + +<p> +As Colonel Quaritch was contemplating these various views and reflecting that +on the whole he had done well to come and live at Honham Cottage, he was +suddenly startled by a loud voice saluting him from about twenty yards distance +with such peculiar vigour that he fairly jumped. +</p> + +<p> +“Colonel Quaritch, I believe,” said, or rather shouted, the voice +from somewhere down the drive. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered the Colonel mildly, “here I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I thought it was you. Always tell a military man, you know. Excuse +me, but I am resting for a minute, this last pull is an uncommonly stiff one. I +always used to tell my dear old friend, Mrs. Massey, that she ought to have the +hill cut away a bit just here. Well, here goes for it,” and after a few +heavy steps his visitor emerged from the shadow of the trees into the sunset +light which was playing on the terrace before the house. +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Quaritch glanced up curiously to see who the owner of the great voice +might be, and his eyes lit upon as fine a specimen of humanity as he had seen +for a long while. The man was old, as his white hair showed, seventy perhaps, +but that was the only sign of decay about him. He was a splendid man, broad and +thick and strong, with a keen, quick eye, and a face sharply chiselled, and +clean shaved, of the stamp which in novels is generally known as aristocratic, +a face, in fact, that showed both birth and breeding. Indeed, as clothed in +loose tweed garments and a gigantic pair of top boots, his visitor stood +leaning on his long stick and resting himself after facing the hill, Harold +Quaritch thought that he had never seen a more perfect specimen of the typical +English country gentleman—as the English country gentleman used to be. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, sir, how do you do—my name is de la Molle. My man +George, who knows everybody’s business except his own, told me that you +had arrived here, so I thought I would walk round and do myself the honour of +making your acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very kind of you,” said the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. If you only knew how uncommonly dull it is down in these +parts you would not say that. The place isn’t what it used to be when I +was a boy. There are plenty of rich people about, but they are not the same +stamp of people. It isn’t what it used to be in more ways than +one,” and the old Squire gave something like a sigh, and thoughtfully +removed his white hat, out of which a dinner napkin and two +pocket-handkerchiefs fell to the ground, in a fashion that reminded Colonel +Quaritch of the climax of a conjuring trick. +</p> + +<p> +“You have dropped some—some linen,” he said, stooping down to +pick the mysterious articles up. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, thank you,” answered his visitor, “I find the sun a +little hot at this time of the year. There is nothing like a few handkerchiefs +or a towel to keep it off,” and he rolled the mass of napery into a ball, +and cramming it back into the crown, replaced the hat on his head in such a +fashion that about eight inches of white napkin hung down behind. “You +must have felt it in Egypt,” he went on —“the sun I mean. +It’s a bad climate, that Egypt, as I have good reason to know,” and +he pointed again to his white hat, which Harold Quaritch now observed for the +first time was encircled by a broad black band. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I see,” he said, “I suppose that you have had a +loss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, a very heavy loss.” +</p> + +<p> +Now Colonel Quaritch had never heard that Mr. de la Molle had more than one +child, Ida de la Molle, the young lady whose face remained so strongly fixed in +his memory, although he had scarcely spoken to her on that one occasion five +long years ago. Could it be possible that she had died in Egypt? The idea sent +a tremor of fear through him, though of course there was no real reason why it +should. Deaths are so common. +</p> + +<p> +“Not—not Miss de la Molle?” he said nervously, adding, +“I had the pleasure of seeing her once, a good many years ago, when I was +stopping here for a few days with my aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, not Ida, she is alive and well, thank God. Her brother James. He +went all through that wretched war which we owe to Mr. Gladstone, as I say, +though I don’t know what your politics are, and then caught a fever, or +as I think got touched by the sun, and died on his way home. Poor boy! He was a +fine fellow, Colonel Quaritch, and my only son, but very reckless. Only a month +or so before he died, I wrote to him to be careful always to put a towel in his +helmet, and he answered, in that flippant sort of way he had, that he was not +going to turn himself into a dirty clothes bag, and that he rather liked the +heat than otherwise. Well, he’s gone, poor fellow, in the service of his +country, like many of his ancestors before him, and there’s an end of +him.” +</p> + +<p> +And again the old man sighed, heavily this time. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Colonel Quaritch,” he went on, shaking off his oppression +with a curious rapidity that was characteristic of him, “what do you say +to coming up to the Castle for your dinner? You must be in a mess here, and I +expect that old Mrs. Jobson, whom my man George tells me you have got to look +after you, will be glad enough to be rid of you for to-night. What do you +say?—take the place as you find it, you know. I believe that there is a +leg of mutton for dinner if there is nothing else, because instead of minding +his own business I saw George going off to Boisingham to fetch it this morning. +At least, that is what he said he was going for; just an excuse to gossip and +idle, I fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, really,” said the Colonel, “you are very kind; but I +don’t think that my dress clothes are unpacked yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dress clothes! Oh, never mind your dress clothes. Ida will excuse you, I +daresay. Besides, you have no time to dress. By Jove, it’s nearly seven +o’clock; we must be off if you are coming.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel hesitated. He had intended to dine at home, and being a +methodical-minded man did not like altering his plans. Also, he was, like most +military men, very punctilious about his dress and personal appearance, and +objected to going out to dinner in a shooting coat. But all this +notwithstanding, a feeling that he did not quite understand, and which it would +have puzzled even an American novelist to analyse—something between +restlessness and curiosity, with a dash of magnetic attraction thrown +in—got the better of his scruples, and he accepted. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, thank you,” he said, “if you are sure that Miss de la +Molle will not mind, I will come. Just allow me to tell Mrs. Jobson.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” halloaed the Squire after him, +“I’ll meet you at the back of the house. We had better go through +the fields.” +</p> + +<p> +By the time that the Colonel, having informed his housekeeper that he should +not want any dinner, and hastily brushed his not too luxuriant locks, had +reached the garden which lay behind the house, the Squire was nowhere to be +seen. Presently, however, a loud halloa from the top of the tumulus-like hill +announced his whereabouts. +</p> + +<p> +Wondering what the old gentleman could be doing there, Harold Quaritch walked +up the steps that led to the summit of the mound, and found him standing at the +entrance to the mushroom-shaped summer-house, contemplating the view. +</p> + +<p> +“There, Colonel,” he said, “there’s a perfect view for +you. Talk about Scotland and the Alps! Give me a view of the valley of Ell from +the top of Dead Man’s Mount on an autumn evening, and I never want to see +anything finer. I have always loved it from a boy, and always shall so long as +I live—look at those oaks, too. There are no such trees in the county +that I know of. The old lady, your aunt, was wonderfully fond of them. I +hope—” he went on in a tone of anxiety—“I hope that you +don’t mean to cut any of them down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no,” said the Colonel, “I should never think of such a +thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right. Never cut down a good tree if you can help it. +I’m sorry to say, however,” he added after a pause, “that I +have been forced to cut down a good many myself. Queer place this, isn’t +it?” he continued, dropping the subject of the trees, which was evidently +a painful one to him. “Dead Man’s Mount is what the people about +here call it, and that is what they called it at the time of the Conquest, as I +can prove to you from ancient writings. I always believed that it was a +tumulus, but of late years a lot of these clever people have been taking their +oath that it is an ancient British dwelling, as though Ancient Britons, or any +one else for that matter, could live in a kind of drainhole. But they got on +the soft side of your old aunt—who, by the way, begging your pardon, was +a wonderfully obstinate old lady when once she hammered an idea into her +head—and so she set to work and built this slate mushroom over the place, +and one way and another it cost her two hundred and fifty pounds. Dear me! I +shall never forget her face when she saw the bill,” and the old gentleman +burst out into a Titanic laugh, such as Harold Quaritch had not heard for many +a long day. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “it is a queer spot. I think that I must +have a dig at it one day.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove,” said the Squire, “I never thought of that. It +would be worth doing. Hulloa, it is twenty minutes past seven, and we dine at +half past. I shall catch it from Ida. Come on, Colonel Quaritch; you +don’t know what it is to have a daughter—a daughter when one is +late for dinner is a serious thing for any man,” and he started off down +the hill in a hurry. +</p> + +<p> +Very soon, however, he seemed to forget the terrors in store, and strolled +along, stopping now and again to admire some particular oak or view; chatting +all the while in a discursive manner, which, though somewhat aimless, was by no +means without its charm. He made a capital companion for a silent man like +Harold Quaritch who liked to hear other people talk. +</p> + +<p> +In this way they went down the slope, and crossing a couple of wheat fields +came to a succession of broad meadows, somewhat sparsely timbered. Through +these the footpath ran right up to the grim gateway of the ancient Castle, +which now loomed before them, outlined in red lines of fire against the ruddy +background of the sunset sky. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, it’s a fine old place, Colonel, isn’t it?” said +the Squire, catching the exclamation of admiration that broke from his +companion’s lips, as a sudden turn brought them into line with the Norman +ruin. “History—that’s what it is; history in stone and +mortar; this is historic ground, every inch of it. Those old de la Molles, my +ancestors, and the Boisseys before them, were great folk in their day, and they +kept up their position well. I will take you to see their tombs in the church +yonder on Sunday. I always hoped to be buried beside them, but I can’t +manage it now, because of the Act. However, I mean to get as near to them as I +can. I have a fancy for the companionship of those old Barons, though I expect +that they were a roughish lot in their lifetimes. Look how squarely those +towers stand out against the sky. They always remind me of the men who built +them—sturdy, overbearing fellows, setting their shoulders against the sea +of circumstance and caring neither for man nor devil till the priests got hold +of them at the last. Well, God rest them, they helped to make England, whatever +their faults. Queer place to choose for a castle, though, wasn’t it? +right out in an open plain.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that they trusted to their moat and walls, and the hagger at +the bottom of the dry ditch,” said the Colonel. “You see there is +no eminence from which they could be commanded, and their archers could sweep +all the plain from the battlements.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes, of course they could. It is easy to see that you are a soldier. +They were no fools, those old crusaders. My word, we must be getting on. They +are hauling down the Union Jack on the west tower. I always have it hauled down +at sunset,” and he began walking briskly again. +</p> + +<p> +In another three minutes they had crossed a narrow by-road, and were passing up +the ancient drive that led to the Castle gates. It was not much of a drive, but +there were still some half-dozen of old pollard oaks that had no doubt stood +there before the Norman Boissey, from whose family, centuries ago, the de la +Molles had obtained the property by marriage with the heiress, had got his +charter and cut the first sod of his moat. +</p> + +<p> +Right before them was the gateway of the Castle, flanked by two great towers, +and these, with the exception of some ruins were, as a matter of fact, all that +remained of the ancient building, which had been effectually demolished in the +time of Cromwell. The space within, where the keep had once stood, was now laid +out as a flower garden, while the house, which was of an unpretentious nature, +and built in the Jacobean style, occupied the south side of the square, and was +placed with its back to the moat. +</p> + +<p> +“You see I have practically rebuilt those two towers,” said the +Squire, pausing underneath the Norman archway. “If I had not done +it,” he added apologetically, “they would have been in ruins by +now, but it cost a pretty penny, I can tell you. Nobody knows what stuff that +old flint masonry is to deal with, till he tries it. Well, they will stand now +for many a long day. And here we are”—and he pushed open a porch +door and then passed up some steps and through a passage into an oak-panelled +vestibule, which was hung with tapestry originally taken, no doubt, from the +old Castle, and decorated with coats of armour, spear heads, and ancient +swords. +</p> + +<p> +And here it was that Harold Quaritch once more beheld the face which had +haunted his memory for so many months. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /> +THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE</h2> + +<p> +“Is that you, father?” said a voice, a very sweet voice, but one of +which the tones betrayed the irritation natural to a healthy woman who has been +kept waiting for her dinner. The voice came from the recesses of the dusky room +in which the evening gloom had gathered deeply, and looking in its direction, +Harold Quaritch could see the outline of a tall form sitting in an old oak +chair with its hands crossed. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that you, father? Really it is too bad to be so late for +dinner—especially after you blew up that wretched Emma last night because +she was five minutes after time. I have been waiting so long that I have almost +been asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry, my dear, very,” said the old gentleman +apologetically, “but—hullo! I’ve knocked my head—here, +Mary, bring me a light!” +</p> + +<p> +“Here is a light,” said the voice, and at the same moment there was +a sound of a match being struck. +</p> + +<p> +In another moment the candle was burning, and the owner of the voice had +turned, holding it in such a fashion that its rays surrounded her like an +aureole—showing Harold Quaritch that face of which the memory had never +left him. There were the same powerful broad brow, the same nobility of look, +the same brown eyes and soft waving hair. But the girlhood had gone out of +them, the face was now the face of a woman who knew what life meant, and had +not found it too easy. It had lost some of its dreaminess, he thought, though +it had gained in intellectual force. As for the figure, it was much more +admirable than the face, which was strictly speaking not a beautiful one. The +figure, however, was undoubtedly beautiful, indeed, it is doubtful if many +women could show a finer. Ida de la Molle was a large, strong woman, and there +was about her a swing and a lissom grace which is very rare, and as attractive +as it is rare. She was now nearly six-and-twenty years of age, and not having +begun to wither in accordance with the fate which overtakes all unmarried women +after thirty, was at her very best. Harold Quaritch, glancing at her +well-poised head, her perfect neck and arms (for she was in evening dress) and +her gracious form, thought to himself that he had never seen a nobler-looking +woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my dear father,” she went on as she watched the candle burn +up, “you made such a fuss this morning about the dinner being punctually +at half-past seven, and now it is eight o’clock and you are not dressed. +It is enough to ruin any cook,” and she broke off for the first time, +seeing that her father was not alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear, yes,” said the old gentleman, “I dare say I +did. It is human to err, my dear, especially about dinner on a fine evening. +Besides, I have made amends and brought you a visitor, our new neighbour, +Colonel Quaritch. Colonel Quaritch, let me introduce you to my daughter, Miss +de la Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that we have met before,” said Harold, in a somewhat +nervous fashion, as he stretched out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Ida, taking it, “I remember. It was in the +long drift, five years ago, on a windy afternoon, when my hat blew over the +hedge and you went to fetch it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have a good memory, Miss de la Molle,” said he, feeling not a +little pleased that she should have recollected the incident. +</p> + +<p> +“Evidently not better than your own, Colonel Quaritch,” was the +ready answer. “Besides, one sees so few strangers here that one naturally +remembers them. It is a place where nothing happens—time passes, that is +all.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the old Squire, who had been making a prodigious fuss with his hat +and stick, which he managed to send clattering down the flight of stone steps, +departed to get ready, saying in a kind of roar as he went that Ida was to +order in the dinner, as he would be down in a minute. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly she rang the bell, and told the maid to bring in the soup in five +minutes and to lay another place. Then turning to Harold she began to apologise +to him. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what sort of dinner you will get, Colonel +Quaritch,” she said; “it is so provoking of my father; he never +gives one the least warning when he is going to ask any one to dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all—not at all,” he answered hurriedly. “It is +I who ought to apologise, coming down on you +like—like——” +</p> + +<p> +“A wolf on the fold,” suggested Ida. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, exactly,” he went on earnestly, looking at his coat, +“but not in purple and gold.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she went on laughing, “you will get very little to +eat for your pains, and I know that soldiers always like good dinners.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that, Miss de la Molle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, because of poor James and his friends whom he used to bring here. By +the way, Colonel Quaritch,” she went on with a sudden softening of the +voice, “you have been in Egypt, I know, because I have so often seen your +name in the papers; did you ever meet my brother there?” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew him slightly,” he answered. “Only very slightly. I +did not know that he was your brother, or indeed that you had a brother. He was +a dashing officer.” +</p> + +<p> +What he did not say, however, was that he also knew him to have been one of the +wildest and most extravagant young men in an extravagant regiment, and as such +had to some extent shunned his society on the few occasions that he had been +thrown in with him. Perhaps Ida, with a woman’s quickness, divined from +his tone that there was something behind his remark—at any rate she did +not ask him for particulars of their slight acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +“He was my only brother,” she continued; “there never were +but we two, and of course his loss was a great blow to me. My father cannot get +over it at all, although——” and she broke off suddenly, and +rested her head upon her hand. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the Squire was heard advancing down the stairs, shouting to the +servants as he came. +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand pardons, my dear, a thousand pardons,” he said as he +entered the room, “but, well, if you will forgive particulars, I was +quite unable to discover the whereabouts of a certain necessary portion of the +male attire. Now, Colonel Quaritch, will you take my daughter? Stop, you +don’t know the way—perhaps I had better show you with the +candle.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly he advanced out of the vestibule, and turning to the left, led the +way down a long passage till he reached the dining-room. This apartment was +like the vestibule, oak-panelled, but the walls were decorated with family and +other portraits, including a very curious painting of the Castle itself, as it +was before its destruction in the time of Cromwell. This painting was executed +on a massive slab of oak, and conceived in a most quaint and formal style, +being relieved in the foreground with stags at gaze and woodeny horses, that +must, according to any rule of proportion, have been about half as large as the +gateway towers. Evidently, also, it was of an older date than the present +house, which is Jacobean, having probably been removed to its present position +from the ruins of the Castle. Such as it was, however, it gave a very good idea +of what the ancient seat of the Boisseys and de la Molles had been like before +the Roundheads had made an end of its glory. The dining-room itself was +commodious, though not large. It was lighted by three narrow windows which +looked out upon the moat, and bore a considerable air of solid comfort. The +table, made of black oak, of extraordinary solidity and weight, was matched by +a sideboard of the same material and apparently of the same date, both pieces +of furniture being, as Mr. de la Molle informed his guests, relics of the +Castle. +</p> + +<p> +On this sideboard were placed several pieces of old and massive plate, each of +which was rudely engraved with three falcons <i>or</i>, the arms of the de la +Molle family. One piece, indeed, a very ancient salver, bore those of the +Boisseys—a ragged oak, in an escutcheon of pretence—showing thereby +that it dated from that de la Molle who in the time of Henry the Seventh had +obtained the property by marriage with the Boissey heiress. +</p> + +<p> +Conversation having turned that way, as the dinner, which was a simple one, +went on, the old Squire had this piece of plate brought to Harold Quaritch for +him to examine. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very curious,” he said; “have you much of this, Mr. de +la Molle?” +</p> + +<p> +“No indeed,” he said; “I wish I had. It all vanished in the +time of Charles the First.” +</p> + +<p> +“Melted down, I suppose,” said the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +“No, that is the odd part of it. I don’t think it was. It was +hidden somewhere—I don’t know where, or perhaps it was turned into +money and the money hidden. But I will tell you the story if you like as soon +as we have done dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, when the servants had removed the cloth, and after the old fashion +placed the wine upon the naked wood, the Squire began his tale, of which the +following is the substance. +</p> + +<p> +“In the time of James I. the de la Molle family was at the height of its +prosperity, that is, so far as money goes. For several generations previous the +representatives of the family had withdrawn themselves from any active +participation in public affairs, and living here at small expense upon their +lands, which were at that time very large, had amassed a quantity of wealth +that, for the age, might fairly be called enormous. Thus, Sir Stephen de la +Molle, the grandfather of the Sir James who lived in the time of James I., left +to his son, also named Stephen, a sum of no less than twenty-three thousand +pounds in gold. This Stephen was a great miser, and tradition says that he +trebled the sum in his lifetime. Anyhow, he died rich as Croesus, and +abominated alike by his tenants and by the country side, as might be expected +when a gentleman of his race and fame degraded himself, as this Sir Stephen +undoubtedly did, to the practice of usury. +</p> + +<p> +“With the next heir, Sir James, however, the old spirit of the de la +Molles seems to have revived, although it is sufficiently clear that he was by +no means a spendthrift, but on the contrary, a careful man, though one who +maintained his station and refused to soil his fingers with such base dealing +as it had pleased his uncle to do. Going to court, he became, perhaps on +account of his wealth, a considerable favourite with James I., to whom he was +greatly attached and from whom he bought a baronetcy. Indeed, the best proof of +his devotion is, that he on two occasions lent large sums of money to the King +which were never repaid. On the accession of Charles I., however, Sir James +left court under circumstances which were never quite cleared up. It is said +that smarting under some slight which was put upon him, he made a somewhat +brusque demand for the money that he had lent to James. Thereon the King, with +sarcastic wit, congratulated him on the fact that the spirit of his uncle, Sir +Stephen de la Molle, whose name was still a byword in the land, evidently +survived in the family. Sir James turned white with anger, bowed, and without a +word left the court, nor did he ever return thither. +</p> + +<p> +“Years passed, and the civil war was at its height. Sir James had as yet +steadily refused to take any share in it. He had never forgiven the insult put +upon him by the King, for like most of his race, of whom it was said that they +never forgave an injury and never forgot a kindness, he was a pertinacious man. +Therefore he would not lift a finger in the King’s cause. But still less +would he help the Roundheads, whom he hated with a singular hatred. So time +went, till at last, when he was sore pressed, Charles, knowing his great wealth +and influence, brought himself to write a letter to this Sir James, appealing +to him for support, and especially for money. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I hear,’ said the King in his letter, ‘that Sir James +de la Molle, who was aforetyme well affected to our person and more especially +to the late King, our sainted father, doth stand idle, watching the growing of +this bloody struggle and lifting no hand. Such was not the way of the race from +which he sprang, which, unless history doth greatly lie, hath in the past been +ever found at the side of their kings striking for the right. It is told to me +also, that Sir James de la Molle doth thus place himself aside blowing neither +hot nor cold, because of some sharp words which we spake in heedless jest many +a year that’s gone. We know not if this be true, doubting if a +man’s memory be so long, but if so it be, then hereby do we crave his +pardon, and no more can we do. And now is our estate one of grievous peril, and +sorely do we need the aid of God and man. Therefore, if the heart of our +subject Sir James de la Molle be not rebellious against us, as we cannot +readily credit it to be, we do implore his present aid in men and money, of +which last it is said he hath large store, this letter being proof of our +urgent need.’ +</p> + +<p> +“These were, as nearly as I can remember, the very words of the letter, +which was written with the King’s own hand, and show pretty clearly how +hardly he was pressed. It is said that when he read it, Sir James, forgetting +his grievance, was much affected, and, taking paper, wrote hastily as follows, +which indeed he certainly did, for I have seen the letter in the Museum. +‘My liege,—Of the past I will not speak. It is past. But since it +hath graciously pleased your Majesty to ask mine aid against the rebels who +would overthrow your throne, rest assured that all I have is at your +Majesty’s command, till such time as your enemies are discomfited. It +hath pleased Providence to so prosper my fortunes that I have stored away in a +safe place, till these times be past, a very great sum in gold, whereof I will +at once place ten thousand pieces at the disposal of your Majesty, so soon as a +safe means can be provided of conveying the same, seeing that I had sooner die +than that these great moneys should fall into the hands of rebels to the +furtherance of a wicked cause.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then the letter went on to say that the writer would at once buckle to +and raise a troop of horse among his tenantry, and that if other satisfactory +arrangements could not be made for the conveyance of the moneys, he would bring +them in person to the King. +</p> + +<p> +“And now comes the climax of the story. The messenger was captured and +Sir James’s incautious letter taken from his boot, as a result of which +within ten days’ time he found himself closely besieged by five hundred +Roundheads under the command of one Colonel Playfair. The Castle was but +ill-provisioned for a siege, and in the end Sir James was driven by sheer +starvation to surrender. No sooner had he obtained an entry, than Colonel +Playfair sent for his prisoner, and to his astonishment produced to Sir +James’s face his own letter to the King. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Now, Sir James,’ he said, ‘we have the hive, and I +must ask you to lead us to the honey. Where be those great moneys whereof you +talk herein? Fain would I be fingering these ten thousand pieces of gold, the +which you have so snugly stored away.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ay,’ answered old Sir James, ‘you have the hive, but +the secret of the honey you have not, nor shall you have it. The ten thousand +pieces in gold is where it is, and with it is much more. Find it if you may, +Colonel, and take it if you can.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I shall find it by to-morrow’s light, Sir James, or +otherwise—or otherwise you die.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I must die—all men do, Colonel, but if I die, the secret +dies with me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘This shall we see,’ answered the Colonel grimly, and old +Sir James was marched off to a cell, and there closely confined on bread and +water. But he did not die the next day, nor the next, nor for a week, indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“Every day he was brought up before the Colonel, and under the threat of +immediate death questioned as to where the treasure was, not being suffered +meanwhile to communicate by word or sign with any one, save the officers of the +rebels. Every day he refused, till at last his inquisitor’s patience gave +out, and he was told frankly that if he did not communicate the secret he would +be shot at the following dawn. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Sir James laughed, and said that shoot him they might, but that he +consigned his soul to the Devil if he would enrich them with his treasures, and +then asked that his Bible might be brought to him that he might read therein +and prepare himself for death. +</p> + +<p> +“They gave him the Bible and left him. Next morning at the dawn, a file +of Roundheads marched him into the courtyard of the Castle and here he found +Colonel Playfair and his officers waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Now, Sir James, for your last word,’ said the Roundhead. +‘Will you reveal where the treasure lies, or will you choose to +die?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I will not reveal,’ answered the old man. ‘Murder me +if ye will. The deed is worthy of Holy Presbyters. I have spoken and my mind is +fixed.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Bethink you,’ said the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I have thought,’ he answered, ‘and I am ready. Slay +me and seek the treasure. But one thing I ask. My young son is not here. In +France hath he been these three years, and nought knows he of where I have hid +this gold. Send to him this Bible when I am dead. Nay, search it from page to +page. There is nought therein save what I have writ here upon this last sheet. +It is all I have left to give.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘The book shall be searched,’ answered the Colonel, +‘and if nought is found therein it shall be sent. And now, in the name of +God, I adjure you, Sir James, let not the love of lucre stand between you and +your life. Here I make you one last offer. Discover but to us the ten thousand +pounds whereof you speak in this writing,’ and he held up the letter to +the King, ‘and you shall go free—refuse and you die.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I refuse,’ he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Musqueteers, make ready,’ shouted the Colonel, and the file +of men stepped forward. +</p> + +<p> +“But at that moment there came up so furious a squall of wind, and with +it such dense and cutting rain, that for a while the execution was delayed. +Presently it passed, the wild light of the November morning swept out from the +sky, and revealed the doomed man kneeling in prayer upon the sodden turf, the +water running from his white hair and beard. +</p> + +<p> +“They called to him to stand up, but he would not, and continued praying. +So they shot him on his knees.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Colonel Quaritch, “at any rate he died like a +gallant gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the servant came in. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” asked the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +“George is here, please, sir,” said the girl, “and says that +he would like to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound him,” growled the old gentleman; “he is always here +after something or other. I suppose it is about the Moat Farm. He was going to +see Janter to-day. Will you excuse me, Quaritch? My daughter will tell you the +end of the story if you care to hear any more. I will join you in the +drawing-room.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /> +THE END OF THE TALE</h2> + +<p> +As soon as her father had gone, Ida rose and suggested that if Colonel Quaritch +had done his wine they should go into the drawing-room, which they accordingly +did. This room was much more modern than either the vestibule or the +dining-room, and had an air and flavour of nineteenth century young lady about +it. There were the little tables, the draperies, the photograph frames, and all +the hundred and one knick-knacks and odds and ends by means of which a lady of +taste makes a chamber lovely in the eyes of brutal man. It was a very pleasant +place to look upon, this drawing-room at Honham Castle, with its irregular +recesses, its somewhat faded colours illuminated by the soft light of a shaded +lamp, and its general air of feminine dominion. Harold Quaritch was a man who +had seen much of the world, but who had not seen very much of drawing-rooms, +or, indeed, of ladies at large. They had not come in his way, or if they did +come in his way he had avoided them. Therefore, perhaps, he was the more +susceptible to such influences when he was brought within their reach. Or +perchance it was Ida’s gracious presence which threw a charm upon the +place that added to its natural attractiveness, as the china bowls of lavender +and rose leaves added perfume to the air. Anyhow, it struck him that he had +rarely before seen a room which conveyed to his mind such strong suggestions of +refinement and gentle rest. +</p> + +<p> +“What a charming room,” he said, as he entered it. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you think so,” answered Ida; “because it is my own +territory, and I arrange it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “it is easy to see that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, would you like to hear the end of the story about Sir James and +his treasure?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly; it interests me very much.” +</p> + +<p> +“It positively <i>fascinates</i> me,” said Ida with emphasis. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, and I will tell you. After they had shot old Sir James they took +the Bible off him, but whether or no Colonel Playfair ever sent it to the son +in France, is not clear. +</p> + +<p> +“The story is all known historically, and it is certain that, as my +father said, he asked that his Bible might be sent, but nothing more. This son, +Sir Edward, never lived to return to England. After his father’s murder, +the estates were seized by the Parliamentary party, and the old Castle, with +the exception of the gate towers, razed to the ground, partly for military +purposes and partly in the long and determined attempt that was made to +discover old Sir James’s treasure, which might, it was thought, have been +concealed in some secret chamber in the walls. But it was all of no use, and +Colonel Playfair found that in letting his temper get the better of him and +shooting Sir James, he had done away with the only chance of finding it that he +was ever likely to have, for to all appearance the secret had died with its +owner. There was a great deal of noise about it at the time, and the Colonel +was degraded from his rank in reward for what he had done. It was presumed that +old Sir James must have had accomplices in the hiding of so great a mass of +gold, and every means was taken, by way of threats and promises of +reward—which at last grew to half of the total amount that should be +discovered—to induce these to come forward if they existed, but without +result. And so the matter went on, till after a few years the quest died away +and was forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +“Meanwhile the son, Sir Edward, who was the second and last baronet, led +a wandering life abroad, fearing or not caring to return to England now that +all his property had been seized. When he was two-and-twenty years of age, +however, he contracted an imprudent marriage with his cousin, a lady of the +name of Ida Dofferleigh, a girl of good blood and great beauty, but without +means. Indeed, she was the sister of Geoffrey Dofferleigh, who was a first +cousin and companion in exile of Sir Edward’s, and as you will presently +see, my lineal ancestor. Well, within a year of this marriage, poor Ida, my +namesake, died with her baby of fever, chiefly brought on, they say, by want +and anxiety of mind, and the shock seems to have turned her husband’s +brain. At any rate, within three or four months of her death, he committed +suicide. But before he did so, he formally executed a rather elaborate will, by +which he left all his estates in England, ‘now unjustly withheld from me +contrary to the law and natural right by the rebel pretender Cromwell, together +with the treasure hidden thereon or elsewhere by my late murdered father, Sir +James de la Molle,’ to John Geoffrey Dofferleigh, his cousin, and the +brother of his late wife, and his heirs for ever, on condition only of his +assuming the name and arms of the de la Molle family, the direct line of which +became extinct with himself. Of course, this will, when it was executed, was to +all appearance so much waste paper, but within three years from that date +Charles II. was King of England. +</p> + +<p> +“Thereon Geoffrey Dofferleigh produced the document, and on assuming the +name and arms of de la Molle actually succeeded in obtaining the remains of the +Castle and a considerable portion of the landed property, though the baronetcy +became extinct. His son it was who built this present house, and he is our +direct ancestor, for though my father talks of them as though they +were—it is a little weakness of his—the old de la Molles are not +our direct male ancestors.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Harold, “and did Dofferleigh find the +treasure?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ah, no, nor anybody else; the treasure has vanished. He hunted for +it a great deal, and he did find those pieces of plate which you saw to-night, +hidden away somewhere, I don’t know where, but there was nothing else +with them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps the whole thing was nonsense,” said Harold reflectively. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” answered Ida shaking her head, “I am sure it was not, I +am sure the treasure is hidden away somewhere to this day. Listen, Colonel +Quaritch—you have not heard quite all the story yet—<i>I</i> found +something.” +</p> + +<p> +“You, what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute and I will show you,” and going to a cabinet in the +corner, she unlocked it, and took out a despatch box, which she also unlocked. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” she said, “I found this. It is the Bible that Sir +James begged might be sent to his son, just before they shot him, you +remember,” and she handed him a small brown book. He took it and examined +it carefully. It was bound in leather, and on the cover was written in large +letters, “Sir James de la Molle. Honham Castle, 1611.” Nor was this +all. The first sheets of the Bible, which was one of the earliest copies of the +authorised version, were torn out, and the top corner was also gone, having to +all appearance been shot off by a bullet, a presumption that a dark stain of +blood upon the cover and edges brought near to certainty. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor gentleman,” said Harold, “he must have had it in his +pocket when he was shot. Where did you find it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ida, “in fact I have no doubt of +it. I found it when I was a child in an ancient oak chest in the basement of +the western tower, quite hidden up in dusty rubbish and bits of old iron. But +look at the end and you will see what he wrote in it to his son, Edward. Here, +I will show you,” and leaning over him she turned to the last page of the +book. Between the bottom of the page and the conclusion of the final chapter of +Revelations there had been a small blank space now densely covered with crabbed +writing in faded ink, which she read aloud. It ran as follows: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“<i>Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly done to +death by rebel murderers, for nought happeneth but according to God’s +will. And now farewell, Edward, till we shall meet in heaven. My monies have I +hid and on account thereof I die unto this world, knowing that not one piece +shall Cromwell touch. To whom God shall appoint, shall all my treasure be, for +nought can I communicate.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said Ida triumphantly, “what do you think of that, +Colonel Quaritch? The Bible, I think, was never sent to his son, but here it +is, and in that writing, as I solemnly believe,” and she laid her white +finger upon the faded characters, “lies the key to wherever it is that +the money is hidden, only I fear I shall never make it out. For years I have +puzzled over it, thinking that it might be some form of acrostic, but I can +make nothing of it. I have tried it all ways. I have translated it into French, +and had it translated into Latin, but still I can find out +nothing—nothing. But some day somebody will hit upon it—at least I +hope so.” +</p> + +<p> +Harold shook his head. “I am afraid,” he said, “that what has +remained undiscovered for so long will remain so till the end of the chapter. +Perhaps old Sir James was hoaxing his enemies!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Ida, “for if he was, what became of all the money? +He was known to be one of the richest men of his day, and that he was rich we +can see from his letter to the King. There was nothing found after his death, +except his lands, of course. Oh, it will be found someday, twenty centuries +hence, probably, much too late to be of any good to us,” and she sighed +deeply, while a pained and wearied expression spread itself over her handsome +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Harold in a doubtful voice, “there may be +something in it. May I take a copy of that writing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said Ida laughing, “and if you find the treasure +we will go shares. Stop, I will dictate it to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Just as this process was finished and Harold was shutting up his pocket-book, +in which he put the fair copy he had executed on a half-sheet of note paper, +the old Squire came into the room again. Looking at his face, his visitor saw +that the interview with “George” had evidently been anything but +satisfactory, for it bore an expression of exceedingly low spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, father, what is the matter?” asked his daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing,” he answered in melancholy tones. +“George has been here, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and I wish he would keep away,” she said with a little stamp +of her foot, “for he always brings some bad news or other.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the times, my dear, it is the times; it isn’t George. I +really don’t know what has come to the country.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” said Ida with a deepening expression of anxiety. +“Something wrong with the Moat Farm?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; Janter has thrown it up after all, and I am sure I don’t know +where I am to find another tenant.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see what the pleasures of landed property are, Colonel +Quaritch,” said Ida, turning towards him with a smile which did not +convey a great sense of cheerfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “I know. Thank goodness I have only the ten +acres that my dear old aunt left to me. And now,” he added, “I +think that I must be saying good-night. It is half-past ten, and I expect that +old Mrs. Jobson is sitting up for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida looked up in remonstrance, and opened her lips to speak, and then for some +reason that did not appear changed her mind and held out her hand. +“Good-night, Colonel Quaritch,” she said; “I am so pleased +that we are going to have you as a neighbour. By-the-way, I have a few people +coming to play lawn tennis here to-morrow afternoon, will you come too?” +</p> + +<p> +“What,” broke in the Squire, in a voice of irritation, “more +lawn tennis parties, Ida? I think that you might have spared me for +once—with all this business on my hands, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, father,” said his daughter, with some acerbity. +“How can a few people playing lawn tennis hurt you? It is quite useless +to shut oneself up and be miserable over things that one cannot help.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman collapsed with an air of pious resignation, and meekly asked +who was coming. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nobody in particular. Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries—Mr. Jeffries is +our clergyman, you know, Colonel Quaritch—and Dr. Bass and the two Miss +Smiths, one of whom he is supposed to be in love with, and Mr. and Mrs. Quest, +and Mr. Edward Cossey, and a few more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Edward Cossey,” said the Squire, jumping off his chair; +“really, Ida, you know I detest that young man, that I consider him an +abominable young man; and I think you might have shown more consideration to me +than to have asked him here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I could not help it, father,” she answered coolly. “He was +with Mrs. Quest when I asked her, so I had to ask him too. Besides, I rather +like Mr. Cossey, he is always so polite, and I don’t see why you should +take such a violent prejudice against him. Anyhow, he is coming, and there is +an end of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cossey, Cossey,” said Harold, throwing himself into the breach, +“I used to know that name.” It seemed to Ida that he winced a +little as he said it. “Is he one of the great banking family?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Ida, “he is one of the sons. They say he will +have half a million of money or more when his father, who is very infirm, dies. +He is looking after the branch banks of his house in this part of the world, at +least nominally. I fancy that Mr. Quest really manages them; certainly he +manages the Boisingham branch.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said the Squire, “if they are coming, I suppose +they are coming. At any rate, I can go out. If you are going home, Quaritch, I +will walk with you. I want a little air.” +</p> + +<p> +“Colonel Quaritch, you have not said if you will come to my party +to-morrow, yet,” said Ida, as he stretched out his hand to say good-bye. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you, Miss de la Molle; yes, I think I can come, though I play +tennis atrociously.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, we all do that. Well, good-night. I am so very pleased that you have +come to live at Molehill; it will be so nice for my father to have a +companion,” she added as an afterthought. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the Colonel grimly, “we are almost of an +age—good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida watched the door close and then leant her arm on the mantelpiece, and +reflected that she liked Colonel Quaritch very much, so much that even his not +very beautiful physiognomy did not repel her, indeed rather attracted her than +otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know,” she said to herself, “I think that is the sort +of man I should like to marry. Nonsense,” she added, with an impatient +shrug, “nonsense, you are nearly six-and-twenty, altogether too old for +that sort of thing. And now there is this new trouble about the Moat Farm. My +poor old father! Well, it is a hard world, and I think that sleep is about the +best thing in it.” +</p> + +<p> +And with a sigh she lighted her candle to go to bed, then changed her mind and +sat down to await her father’s return. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /> +THE SQUIRE EXPLAINS THE POSITION</h2> + +<p> +“I don’t know what is coming to this country, I really don’t; +and that’s a fact,” said the Squire to his companion, after they +had walked some paces in silence. “Here is the farm, the Moat Farm. It +fetched twenty-five shillings an acre when I was a young man, and eight years +ago it used to fetch thirty-five. Now I have reduced it and reduced it to +fifteen, just in order to keep the tenant. And what is the end of it? +Janter—he’s the tenant—gave notice last Michaelmas; but that +stupid owl, George, said it was all nothing, and that he would continue at +fifteen shillings when the time came. And now to-night he comes to me with a +face as long as a yard-arm, and says that Janter won’t keep it at any +price, and that he does not know where he is to find another tenant, not he. +It’s quite heartbreaking, that’s what it is. Three hundred acres of +good, sound, food-producing land, and no tenant for it at fifteen shillings an +acre. What am I to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you take it in hand and farm it yourself?” asked +Harold. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I take it in hand? I have one farm of a hundred and fifty acres +in hand as it is. Do you know what it would cost to take over that farm?” +and he stopped in his walk and struck his stick into the ground. “Ten +pounds an acre, every farthing of it—and say a thousand for the +covenants—about four thousand pounds in all. Now where am I to get four +thousand pounds to speculate with in that way, for it is a speculation, and one +which I am too old to look after myself, even if I had the knowledge. Well, +there you are, and now I’ll say good-night, sir. It’s getting +chilly, and I have felt my chest for the last year or two. By-the-way, I +suppose I shall see you to-morrow at this tennis party of Ida’s. +It’s all very well for Ida to go in for her tennis parties, but how can I +think of such things with all this worry on my hands? Well, good-night, Colonel +Quaritch, good-night,” and he turned and walked away through the +moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +Harold Quaritch watched him go and then stalked off home, reflecting, not +without sadness, upon the drama which was opening up before him, that most +common of dramas in these days of depression,—the break up of an ancient +family through causes beyond control. It required far less acumen and knowledge +of the world than he possessed to make it clear to him that the old race of de +la Molle was doomed. This story of farms thrown up and money not forthcoming +pointed its own moral, and a sad one it was. Even Ida’s almost childish +excitement about the legend of the buried treasure showed him how present to +her mind must be the necessity of money; and he fell to thinking how pleasant +it would be to be able to play the part of the Fairy Prince and step in with +untold wealth between her and the ruin which threatened her family. How well +that grand-looking open-minded Squire would become a great station, fitted as +he was by nature, descent, and tradition, to play the solid part of an English +country gentleman of the good old-fashioned kind. It was pitiful to think of a +man of his stamp forced by the vile exigencies of a narrow purse to scheme and +fight against the advancing tide of destitution. And Ida, too,—Ida, who +was equipped with every attribute that can make wealth and power what they +should be—a frame to show off her worth and state. Well, it was the way +of the world, and he could not mend it; but it was with a bitter sense of the +unfitness of things that with some little difficulty—for he was not yet +fully accustomed to its twists and turns—he found his way past the +swelling heap of Dead Man’s Mount and round the house to his own front +door. +</p> + +<p> +He entered the house, and having told Mrs. Jobson that she could go to bed, sat +down to smoke and think. Harold Quaritch, like many solitary men, was a great +smoker, and never did he feel the need for the consolation of tobacco more than +on this night. A few months ago, when he had retired from the army, he found +himself in a great dilemma. There he was, a hale, active man of +three-and-forty, of busy habits, and regular mind, suddenly thrown upon the +world without occupation. What was he to do with himself? While he was asking +this question and waiting blankly for an answer which did not come, his aunt, +old Mrs. Massey, departed this life, leaving him heir to what she possessed, +which might be three hundred a year in all. This, added to his pension and the +little that he owned independently, put him beyond the necessity of seeking +further employment. So he had made up his mind to come to reside at Molehill, +and live the quiet, somewhat aimless, life of a small country gentleman. His +reading, for he was a great reader, especially of scientific works, would, he +thought, keep him employed. Moreover, he was a thorough sportsman, and an +ardent, though owing to the smallness of his means, necessarily not a very +extensive, collector of curiosities, and more particularly of coins. +</p> + +<p> +At first, after he had come to his decision, a feeling of infinite rest and +satisfaction had taken possession of him. The struggle of life was over for +him. No longer would he be obliged to think, and contrive, and toil; henceforth +his days would slope gently down towards the inevitable end. Trouble lay in the +past, now rest and rest alone awaited him, rest that would gradually grow +deeper and deeper as the swift years rolled by, till it was swallowed up in +that almighty Peace to which, being a simple and religious man, he had looked +forward from childhood as the end and object of his life. +</p> + +<p> +Foolish man and vain imagining! Here, while we draw breath, there is no rest. +We must go on continually, on from strength to strength, or weakness to +weakness; we must always be troubled about this or that, and must ever have +this desire or that to regret. It is an inevitable law within whose attraction +all must fall; yes, even the purest souls, cradled in their hope of heaven; and +the most swinish, wallowing in the mud of their gratified desires. +</p> + +<p> +And so our hero had already begun to find out. Here, before he had been +forty-eight hours in Honham, a fresh cause of troubles had arisen. He had seen +Ida de la Molle again, and after an interval of between five and six years had +found her face yet more charming than it was before. In short he had fallen in +love with it, and being a sensible man he did not conceal this fact from +himself. Indeed the truth was that he had been in love with her for all these +years, though he had never looked at the matter in that light. At the least the +pile had been gathered and laid, and did but require a touch of the match to +burn up merrily enough. And now this was supplied, and at the first glance of +Ida’s eyes the magic flame began to hiss and crackle, and he knew that +nothing short of a convulsion or a deluge would put it out. +</p> + +<p> +Men of the stamp of Harold Quaritch generally pass through three stages with +reference to the other sex. They begin in their youth by making a goddess of +one of them, and finding out their mistake. Then for many years they look upon +woman as the essence and incarnation of evil and a thing no more to be trusted +than a jaguar. Ultimately, however, this folly wears itself out, probably in +proportion as the old affection fades and dies away, and is replaced by +contempt and regret that so much should have been wasted on that which was of +so little worth. Then it is that the danger comes, for then a man puts forth +his second venture, puts it forth with fear and trembling, and with no great +hope of seeing a golden Argosy sailing into port. And if it sinks or is driven +back by adverse winds and frowning skies, there is an end of his legitimate +dealings with such frail merchandise. +</p> + +<p> +And now he, Harold Quaritch, was about to put forth this second venture, not of +his own desire or free will indeed, but because his reason and judgment were +over-mastered. In short, he had fallen in love with Ida de la Molle when he +first saw her five years ago, and was now in the process of discovering the +fact. There he sat in his chair in the old half-furnished room, which he +proposed to turn into his dining-room, and groaned in spirit over this +portentous discovery. What had become of his fair prospect of quiet years +sloping gently downwards, and warm with the sweet drowsy light of afternoon? +How was it that he had not known those things that belonged to his peace? And +probably it would end in nothing. Was it likely that such a splendid young +woman as Ida would care for a superannuated army officer, with nothing to +recommend him beyond five or six hundred a year and a Victoria Cross, which he +never wore. Probably if she married at all she would try to marry someone who +would assist to retrieve the fallen fortunes of her family, which it was +absolutely beyond his power to do. Altogether the outlook did not please him, +as he sat there far into the watches of the night, and pulled at his empty +pipe. So little did it please him, indeed, that when at last he rose to find +his way to bed up the old oak staircase, the only imposing thing in Molehill, +he had almost made up his mind to give up the idea of living at Honham at all. +He would sell the place and emigrate to Vancouver’s Island or New +Zealand, and thus place an impassable barrier between himself and that sweet, +strong face, which seemed to have acquired a touch of sternness since last he +looked upon it five years ago. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, wise resolutions of the quiet night, whither do you go in the garish light +of day? To heaven, perhaps, with the mist wreaths and the dew drops. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +When the Squire got back to the castle, he found his daughter still sitting in +the drawing room. +</p> + +<p> +“What, not gone to bed, Ida?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, father, I was going, and then I thought that I would wait to hear +what all this is about Janter and the Moat Farm. It is best to get it +over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, my dear—yes, but there is not much to tell you. Janter +has thrown up the farm after all, and George says that there is not another +tenant to be had for love or money. He tried one man, who said that he would +not have it at five shillings an acre, as prices are.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is bad enough in all conscience,” said Ida, pushing at the +fireirons with her foot. “What is to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is to be done?” answered her father irritably. “How can +I tell you what is to be done? I suppose I must take the place in hand, that is +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but that costs money, does it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course it does, it costs about four thousand pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Ida, looking up, “and where is all that sum to +come from? We have not got four thousand pounds in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come from? Why I suppose that I must borrow it on the security of the +land.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would it not be better to let the place go out of cultivation, rather +than risk so much money?” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Go out of cultivation! Nonsense, Ida, how can you talk like that? Why +that strong land would be ruined for a generation to come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it would, but surely it would be better that the land should be +ruined than that we should be. Father, dear,” she said appealingly, +laying one hand upon his shoulder, “do be frank with me, and tell me what +our position really is. I see you wearing yourself out about business from day +to day, and I know that there is never any money for anything, scarcely enough +to keep the house going; and yet you will not tell me what we really +owe—and I think I have a right to know.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire turned impatiently. “Girls have no head for these +things,” he said, “so what is the use of talking about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“But I am not a girl; I am a woman of six-and-twenty; and putting other +things aside, I am almost as much interested in your affairs as you are +yourself,” she said with determination. “I cannot bear this sort of +thing any longer. I see that abominable man, Mr. Quest, continually hovering +about here like a bird of ill-omen, and I cannot bear it; and I tell you what +it is, father, if you don’t tell me the whole truth at once I shall +cry,” and she looked as though she meant it. +</p> + +<p> +Now the old Squire was no more impervious to a woman’s tears than any +other man, and of all Ida’s moods, and they were many, he most greatly +feared that rare one which took the form of tears. Besides, he loved his only +daughter more dearly than anything in the world except one thing, Honham +Castle, and could not bear to give her pain. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he said, “of course if you wish to know about +these things you have a right to. I have desired to spare you trouble, that is +all; but as you are so very imperious, the best thing that I can do is to let +you have your own way. Still, as it is rather late, if you have no objection I +think that I had better put if off till to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, father. By to-morrow you will have changed your mind. Let us +have it now. I want to know how much we really owe, and what we have got to +live on.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman hummed and hawed a little, and after various indications of +impatience at last began: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as you know, our family has for some generations depended upon the +land. Your dear mother brought a small fortune with her, five or six thousand +pounds, but that, with the sanction of her trustees, was expended upon +improvements to the farms and in paying off a small mortgage. Well, for many +years the land brought in about two thousand a year, but somehow we always +found it difficult to keep within that income. For instance, it was necessary +to repair the gateway, and you have no idea of the expense in which those +repairs landed me. Then your poor brother James cost a lot of money, and always +would have the shooting kept up in such an extravagant way. Then he went into +the army, and heaven only knows what he spent there. Your brother was very +extravagant, my dear, and well, perhaps I was foolish; I never could say him +no. And that was not all of it, for when the poor boy died he left fifteen +hundred pounds of debt behind him, and I had to find the money, if it was only +for the honour of the family. Of course you know that we cut the entail when he +came of age. Well, and then these dreadful times have come upon the top of it +all, and upon my word, at the present moment I don’t know which way to +turn,” and he paused and drummed his fingers uneasily upon a book. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father, but you have not told me yet what it is that we owe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is difficult to answer that all in a minute. Perhaps +twenty-five thousand on mortgage, and a few floating debts.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is the place worth?” +</p> + +<p> +“It used to be worth between fifty and sixty thousand pounds. It is +impossible to say what it would fetch now. Land is practically a drug in the +market. But things will come round, my dear. It is only a question of holding +on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then if you borrow a fresh sum in order to take up this farm, you will +owe about thirty thousand pounds, and if you give five per cent., as I suppose +you do, you will have to pay fifteen hundred a year in interest. Now, father, +you said that in the good times the land brought in two thousand a year, so, of +course, it can’t bring in so much now. Therefore, by the time that you +have paid the interest, there will be nothing, or less than nothing, left for +us to live on.” +</p> + +<p> +Her father winced at this cruel and convincing logic. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” he said, “it is not so bad as that. You jump to +conclusions, but really, if you do not mind, I am very tired, and should like +to go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father, what is the use of trying to shirk the thing just because it is +disagreeable?” she asked earnestly. “Do you suppose that it is more +pleasant to me to talk about it than it is for you? I know that you are not to +blame about it. I know that dear James was very thoughtless and extravagant, +and that the times are crushing. But to go on like this is only to go to ruin. +It would be better for us to live in a cottage on a couple of hundred a year +than to try to keep our heads above water here, which we cannot do. Sooner or +later these people, Quest, or whoever they are, will want their money back, and +then, if they cannot have it, they will sell the place over our heads. I +believe that man Quest wants to get it himself—that is what I believe +—and set up as a country gentleman. Father, I know it is a dreadful thing +to say, but we ought to leave Honham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave Honham!” said the old gentleman, jumping up in his +agitation; “what nonsense you talk, Ida. How can I leave Honham? It would +kill me at my age. How can I do it? And, besides, who is to look after the +farms and all the business? No, no, we must hang on and trust to Providence. +Things may come round, something may happen, one can never tell in this +world.” +</p> + +<p> +“If we do not leave Honham, then Honham will leave us,” answered +his daughter, with conviction. “I do not believe in chances. Chances +always go the wrong way—against those who are looking for them. We shall +be absolutely ruined, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right, my dear,” said +the old Squire wearily. “I only hope that my time may come first. I have +lived here all my life, seventy years and more, and I know that I could not +live anywhere else. But God’s will be done. And now, my dear, go to +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +She leant down and kissed him, and as she did so saw that his eyes were filled +with tears. Not trusting herself to speak, for she felt for him too deeply to +do so, she turned away and went, leaving the old man sitting there with his +grey head bowed upon his breast. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /> +LAWYER QUEST</h2> + +<p> +The day following that of the conversation just described was one of those +glorious autumn mornings which sometimes come as a faint compensation for the +utter vileness and bitter disappointment of the season that in this country we +dignify by the name of summer. Notwithstanding his vigils and melancholy of the +night before, the Squire was up early, and Ida, who between one thing and +another had not had the best of nights, heard his loud cheery voice shouting +about the place for “George.” +</p> + +<p> +Looking out of her bedroom window, she soon perceived that functionary himself, +a long, lean, powerful-looking man with a melancholy face and a twinkle in his +little grey eyes, hanging about the front steps. Presently her father emerged +in a brilliant but ancient dressing gown, his white locks waving on the breeze. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, George, where are you, George?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here I be, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes; then why didn’t you say so? I have been shouting myself +hoarse for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yis, Squire,” replied the imperturbable George, “I hev been +a-standing here for the last ten minutes, and I heard you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You heard me, then why the dickens didn’t you answer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I didn’t think as you wanted me, sir. I saw that you +hadn’t finished your letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, you ought to. You know very well that my chest is weak, and +yet I have to go hallooing all over the place after you. Now look here, have +you got that fat pony of yours in the yard?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yis, Squire, the pony is here, and if so be as it is fat it bean’t +for the want of movement.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then, take this letter,” and he handed him an epistle +sealed with a tremendous seal, “take this letter to Mr. Quest at +Boisingham, and wait for an answer. And look here, mind you are about the place +at eleven o’clock, for I expect Mr. Quest to see me about the Moat +Farm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yis, Squire.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that you have heard nothing more from Janter, have you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Squire, nawthing. He means to git the place at his own price or +chuck it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is his price?” +</p> + +<p> +“Five shillings an acre. You see, sir, it’s this way. That army +gent, Major Boston, as is agent for all the College lands down the valley, he +be a poor weak fule, and when all these tinants come to him and say that they +must either hev the land at five shillings an acre or go, he gits scared, he +du, and down goes the rent of some of the best meadow land in the country from +thirty-five shillings to five. Of course it don’t signify to him not a +halfpenny, the College must pay him his salary all the same, and he don’t +know no more about farming, nor land, nor northing, than my old mare yinder. +Well, and what comes of it? Of course every tinant on the place hears that +those College lands be going for five shillings an acre, and they prick up +their ears and say they must have their land at the same figger, and it’s +all owing to that Boston varmint, who ought to be kicked through every holl on +the place and then drowned to dead in a dyke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you’re right there, George, that silly man is a public enemy, +and ought to be treated as such, but the times are very bad, with corn down to +twenty-nine, very bad.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not a-saying that they ain’t bad, Squire,” said +his retainer, his long face lighting up; “they are bad, cruel bad, bad +for iverybody. And I’m not denying that they is bad for the tinants, but +if they is bad for the tinants they is wus for the landlord. It all comes on +his shoulders in the long run. If men find they can get land at five shillings +an acre that’s worth twenty, why it isn’t in human natur to pay +twenty, and if they find that the landlord must go as they drive him, of course +they’ll lay on the whip. Why, bless you, sir, when a tinant comes and +says that he is very sorry but he finds he can’t pay his rent, in nine +cases out of ten, you’d find that the bank was paid, the tradesmen were +paid, the doctor’s paid, iverybody’s paid before he thinks about +his rent. Let the landlord suffer, because he can’t help hisself; but +Lord bless us, if a hundred pounds were overdue to the bank it would have the +innards out of him in no time, and he knows it. Now as for that varmint, +Janter, to tell me that he can’t pay fifteen shillings an acre for the +Moat Farm, is nonsense. I only wish I had the capital to take it at the price, +that I du.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, George,” said the Squire, “I think that if it can be +managed I shall borrow the money and take the farm on hand. I am not going to +let Janter have it at five shillings an acre.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, sir, that’s the best way. Bad as times be, it will go hard if +I can’t make the interest and the rent out of it too. Besides, Squire, if +you give way about this here farm, all the others will come down on you. +I’m not saying a word agin your tinants, but where there’s money to +be made you can’t trust not no man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said the Squire, “perhaps you are right and +perhaps you ain’t. Right or wrong, you always talk like Solomon in all +his glory. Anyway, be off with that note and let me have the answer as soon as +you get back. Mind you don’t go loafing and jawing about down in +Boisingham, because I want my answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“So he means to borrow the money if he can get it,” said Ida to +herself as she sat, an invisible auditor, doing her hair by the open window. +“George can do more with him in five minutes than I can do in a week, and +I know that he hates Janter. I believe Janter threw up the farm because of his +quarrelling with George. Well, I suppose we must take our chance.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile George had mounted his cart and departed upon the road to Boisingham, +urging his fat pony along as though he meant to be there in twenty minutes. But +so soon as he was well out of reach of the Squire’s shouts and sight of +the Castle gates, he deliberately turned up a bye lane and jogged along for a +mile or more to a farm, where he had a long confabulation with a man about +thatching some ricks. Thence he quietly made his way to his own little place, +where he proceeded to comfortably get his breakfast, remarking to his wife that +he was of opinion that there was no hurry about the Squire’s letter, as +the “lawyers” wasn’t in the habit of coming to office at +eight in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +Breakfast over, the philosophic George got into his cart, the fat pony having +been tied up outside, and leisurely drove into the picturesque old town which +lay at the head of the valley. All along the main street he met many +acquaintances, and with each he found it necessary to stop and have a talk, +indeed with two he had a modest half-pint. At length, however, his labour +o’er, he arrived at Mr. Quest’s office, that, as all the Boisingham +world knows, was just opposite the church, of which Mr. Quest was one of the +churchwardens, and which but two years before was beautifully restored, mainly +owing to his efforts and generous contributions. Driving up to the small and +quiet-looking doorway of a very unpretentious building, George descended and +knocked. Thereon a clerk opened the door, and in answer to his inquiries +informed him that he believed Mr. Quest had just come over to the office. +</p> + +<p> +In another minute he was shown into an inner room of the ordinary country +lawyer’s office stamp, and there at the table sat Mr. Quest himself. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest was a man of about forty years of age, rather under than over, with a +pale ascetic cast of face, and a quiet and pleasant, though somewhat reserved, +manner. His features were in no way remarkable, with the exception of his eyes, +which seemed to have been set in his head owing to some curious error of +nature. For whereas his general tone was dark, his hair in particular being jet +black, these eyes were grey, and jarred extraordinarily upon their companion +features. For the rest, he was a man of some presence, and with the manners of +a gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, George,” he said, “what is it that brings you to +Boisingham? A letter from the Squire. Thank you. Take a seat, will you, while I +look through it? Umph, wants me to come and see him at eleven o’clock. I +am very sorry, but I can’t manage that anyway. Ah, I see, about the Moat +Farm. Janter told me that he was going to throw it up, and I advised him to do +nothing of the sort, but he is a dissatisfied sort of a fellow, Janter is, and +Major Boston has upset the whole country side by his very ill-advised action +about the College lands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Janter is a warmint and Major Boston, begging his pardon for the +language, is an ass, sir. Anyway there it is, Janter has thrown up, and where I +am to find a tinant between now and Michaelmas I don’t know; in fact, +with the College lands going at five shillings an acre there ain’t no +chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what does the Squire propose to do—take the land in +hand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, that’s it; and that’s what he wants to see you +about.” +</p> + +<p> +“More money, I suppose,” said Mr. Quest. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yis, sir. You see there will be covenants to meet, and then the +farm is three hundred acres, and to stock it proper as it should be means nine +pounds an acre quite, on this here heavy land.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, I know, a matter of four thousand more or less, but where is +it to come from, that’s the question? Cossey’s do not like land +now, any more than other banks do. However, I’ll see my principal about +it. But, George, I can’t possibly get up to the Castle at eleven. I have +got a churchwardens’ meeting at a quarter to, about that west pinnacle, +you know. It is in a most dangerous condition, and by-the-way, before you go I +should like to have your opinion, as a practical man, as to the best way to +deal with it. To rebuild it would cost a hundred and twenty pounds, and that is +more than we see our way to at present, though I can promise fifty if they can +scape up the rest. But about the Squire. I think that the best thing I can do +will be to come up to the Castle to lunch, and then I can talk over matters +with him. Stay, I will just write him a note. By-the-way, you would like a +glass of wine, wouldn’t you, George? Nonsense man, here it is in the +cupboard, a glass of wine is a good friend to have handy sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +George, who like most men of his stamp could put away his share of liquor and +feel thankful for it, drank his glass of wine while Mr. Quest was engaged in +writing the note, wondering meanwhile what made the lawyer so civil to him. For +George did not like Mr. Quest. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that he +hated him. But this was a feeling which he never allowed to appear; he was too +much afraid of the man for that, and in his queer way too much devoted to the +old Squire’s interests to run the risk of imperilling them by the +exhibition of any aversion to Mr. Quest. He knew more of his master’s +affairs than anybody living, unless, perhaps, it was Mr. Quest himself, and was +aware that the lawyer held the old gentleman in a bondage that could not be +broken. Now, George was a man with faults. He was somewhat sly, and, perhaps +within certain lines, at times capable of giving the word honesty a liberal +interpretation. But amongst many others he had one conspicuous virtue: he loved +the old Squire as a Highlandman loves his chief, and would almost, if not +quite, have died to serve him. His billet was no easy one, for Mr. de la +Molle’s temper was none of the best at times, and when things went wrong, +as they pretty frequently did, he was exceedingly apt to visit his wrath on the +head of the devoted George, saying things to him which he should not have said. +But his retainer took it all in the day’s work, and never bore malice, +continuing in his own cadging pigheaded sort of way to labour early and late to +prop up his master’s broken fortunes. “Lord, sir,” as he once +said to Harold Quaritch when the Colonel condoled with him after a violent and +unjust onslaught made by the Squire in his presence, “Lord, sir, that +ain’t nawthing, that ain’t. I don’t pay no manner of heed to +that. Folk du say how as I wor made for he, like a safety walve for a traction +engine.” +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, had it not been for George’s contrivings and procrastinations, +Honham Castle and its owner would have parted company long before. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /> +EDWARD COSSEY, ESQUIRE</h2> + +<p> +After George had drunk his glass of wine and given his opinion as to the best +way to deal with the dangerous pinnacle on the Boisingham Church, he took the +note, untied the fat pony, and ambled off to Honham, leaving the lawyer alone. +As soon as he was gone, Mr. Quest threw himself back in his chair—an old +oak one, by-the-way, for he had a very pretty taste in old oak and a positive +mania for collecting it—and plunged into a brown study. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he leant forward, unlocked the top drawer of his writing table, and +extracted from it a letter addressed to himself which he had received that very +morning. It was from the principals of the great banking firm of Cossey and +Son, and dated from their head office in Mincing lane. This letter ran as +follows: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“Private and confidential. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dear Sir,—<br /> +“We have considered your report as to the extensive mortgages which we +hold upon the Honham Castle estates, and have allowed due weight to your +arguments as to the advisability of allowing Mr. de la Molle time to give +things a chance of righting. But we must tell you that we can see no prospect +of any such solution of the matter, at any rate for some years to come. All the +information that we are able to gather points to a further decrease in the +value of the land rather than to a recovery. The interest on the mortgages in +question is moreover a year in arrear, probably owing to the non-receipt of +rents by Mr. de la Molle. Under these circumstances, much as it grieves us to +take action against Mr. de la Molle, with whose family we have had dealings for +five generations, we can see no alternative to foreclosure, and hereby instruct +you to take the necessary preliminary steps to bring it about in the usual +manner. We are, presuming that Mr. de la Molle is not in a position to pay off +the mortgages, quite aware of the risks of a forced sale, and shall not be +astonished if, in the present unprecedented condition of the land market, such +a sale should result in a loss, although the sum recoverable does not amount to +half the valuation of the estates, which was undertaken at our instance about +twenty years ago on the occasion of the first advance. The only alternative, +however, would be for us to enter into possession of the property or to buy it +in. But this would be a course totally inconsistent with the usual practice of +the bank, and what is more, our confidence in the stability of landed property +is so utterly shattered by our recent experiences, that we cannot burden +ourselves by such a course, preferring to run the risk of an immediate loss. +This, however, we hope that the historical character of the property and its +great natural advantages as a residential estate will avert, or at the least +minimise.<br /> + “Be so good as to advise us by an early post of the steps you take in +pursuance of these instructions. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“We are, dear sir,<br /> +“Your obedient servants,<br /> +“Cossey & Son. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“W. Quest, Esq. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“P.S.—We have thought it better to address you direct in this +matter, but of course you will communicate the contents of this letter to Mr. +Edward Cossey, and, subject to our instructions, which are final, act in +consultation with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Quest to himself, as he folded up the sheet of +paper, “that is about as straight as it can be put. And this is the time +that the old gentleman chooses to ask for another four thousand. He may ask, +but the answer will be more than he bargains for.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose from the chair and began to walk up and down the room in evident +perplexity. “If only,” he said, “I had twenty-five thousand, +I would take up the mortgages myself and foreclose at my leisure. It would be a +good investment at that figure, even as things are, and besides, I should like +to have that place. Twenty-five thousand, only twenty-five thousand, and now +when I want it I have not got it. And I should have had it if it had not been +for that tiger, that devil Edith. She has had more than that out of me in the +last ten years, and still she is threatening and crying for more, more, more. +Tiger; yes, that is the name for her, her own name, too. She would coin +one’s vitals into money if she could. All Belle’s fortune she has +had, or nearly all, and now she wants another five hundred, and she will have +it too. +</p> + +<p> +“Here we are,” and he drew a letter from his pocket written in a +bold, but somewhat uneducated, woman’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Bill,” it ran, “I’ve been unlucky again and +dropped a pot. Shall want 500 pounds by the 1st October. No shuffling, mind; +money down; but I think that you know me too well to play any more larx. When +can you tear yourself away, and come and give your E—— a look? +Bring some tin when you come, and we will have times.—Thine, The +Tiger.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Tiger, yes, the Tiger,” he gasped, his face working with +passion and his grey eyes glinting as he tore the epistle to fragments, threw +them down and stamped on them. “Well, be careful that I don’t one +day cut your claws and paint your stripes. By heaven, if ever a man felt like +murder, I do now. Five hundred more, and I haven’t five thousand clear in +the world. Truly we pay for the follies of our youth! It makes me mad to think +of those fools Cossey and Son forcing that place into the market just now. +There’s a fortune in it at the price. In another year or two I might have +recovered myself—that devil of a woman might be dead—and I have +several irons in the fire, some of which are sure to turn up trumps. Surely +there must be a way out of it somehow. There’s a way out of everything +except Death if only one thinks enough, but the thing is to find it,” and +he stopped in his walk opposite to the window that looked upon the street, and +put his hand to his head. +</p> + +<p> +As he did so he caught sight of the figure of a tall gentleman strolling idly +towards the office door. For a moment he stared at him blankly, as a man does +when he is trying to catch the vague clue to a new idea. Then, as the figure +passed out of his view, he brought his fist down heavily upon the sill. +</p> + +<p> +“Edward Cossey, by George!” he said aloud. “There’s the +way out of it, if only I can work him, and unless I have made a strange +mistake, I think I know the road.” +</p> + +<p> +A couple of minutes afterwards a tall, shapely young man, of about twenty-four +or five years of age, came strolling into the office where Mr. Quest was +sitting, to all appearance hard at work at his correspondence. He was dark in +complexion and decidedly distinguished-looking in feature, with large dark +eyes, dark moustachios, and a pale, somewhat Spanish-looking skin. Young as the +face was, it had, if observed closely, a somewhat worn and worried air, such as +one would scarcely expect to see upon the countenance of a gentleman born to +such brilliant fortunes, and so well fitted by nature to do them justice, as +was Mr. Edward Cossey. For it is not every young man with dark eyes and a good +figure who is destined to be the future head of one of the most wealthy private +banks in England, and to inherit in due course a sum of money in hard cash +variously estimated at from half a million to a million sterling. This, +however, was the prospect in life that opened out before Mr. Edward Cossey, who +was now supposed by his old and eminently business-like father to be in process +of acquiring a sound knowledge of the provincial affairs of the house by +attending to the working of their branch establishments in the Eastern +counties. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Quest?” said Edward Cossey, nodding somewhat coldly +to the lawyer and sitting down. “Any business?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes, Mr. Cossey,” answered the lawyer, rising respectfully, +“there is some business, some very serious business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Edward indifferently, “what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is this, the house has ordered a foreclosure on the Honham +Castle estates—at least it comes to that——” +</p> + +<p> +On hearing this intelligence Edward Cossey’s whole demeanour underwent +the most startling transformation—his languor vanished, his eye +brightened, and his form became instinct with active life and beauty. +</p> + +<p> +“What the deuce,” he said, and then paused. “I won’t +have it,” he went on, jumping up, “I won’t have it. I am not +particularly fond of old de la Molle, perhaps because he is not particularly +fond of me,” he added rather drolly, “but it would be an infernal +shame to break up that family and sell the house over them. Why they would be +ruined! And then there’s Ida—Miss de la Molle, I mean—what +would become of her? And the old place too. After being in the family for all +these centuries I suppose that it would be sold to some confounded +counter-skipper or some retired thief of a lawyer. It must be prevented at any +price—do you hear, Quest?” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer winced a little at his chief’s contemptuous allusion, and then +remarked with a smile, “I had no idea that you were so sentimental, Mr. +Cossey, or that you took such a lively interest in Miss de la Molle,” and +he glanced up to observe the effect of his shot. +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey coloured. “I did not mean that I took any particular +interest in Miss de la Molle,” he said, “I was referring to the +family.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, quite so, though I’m sure I don’t know why you +shouldn’t. Miss de la Molle is one of the most charming women that I ever +met, I think the most charming except my own wife Belle,” and he again +looked up suddenly at Edward Cossey who, for his part, coloured for the second +time. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me,” went on the lawyer, “that a man in your +position has a most splendid opportunity of playing knight errant to the lovely +damsel in distress. Here is the lady with her aged father about to be sold up +and turned out of the estates which have belonged to her family for +generations—why don’t you do the generous and graceful thing, like +the hero in a novel, and take up the mortgages?” +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey did not reject this suggestion with the contempt that might have +been expected; on the contrary he appeared to be turning the matter over in his +mind, for he drummed a little tune with his knuckles and stared out of the +window. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the sum?” he said presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Five-and-twenty thousand, and he wants four more, say thirty +thousand.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where am I going to find thirty thousand pounds to take up a bundle +of mortgages which will probably never pay a farthing of interest? Why, I have +not got three thousand that I can come at. Besides,” he added, +recollecting himself, “why should I interfere?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think,” answered Mr. Quest, ignoring the latter part of +the question, “that with your prospects you would find it difficult to +get thirty thousand pounds. I know several who would consider it an honour to +lend the money to a Cossey, if only for the sake of the introduction—that +is, of course, provided the security was of a legal nature.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see the letter,” said Edward. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest handed him the document conveying the commands of Cossey and Son, and +he read it through twice. +</p> + +<p> +“The old man means business,” he said, as he returned it; +“that letter was written by him, and when he has once made up his mind it +is useless to try and stir him. Did you say that you were going to see the +Squire to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I did not say so, but as a matter of fact I am. His man, +George—a shrewd fellow, by the way, for one of these bumpkins—came +with a letter asking me to go up to the Castle, so I shall get round there to +lunch. It is about this fresh loan that the old gentleman wishes to negotiate. +Of course I shall be obliged to tell him that instead of giving a fresh loan we +have orders to serve a notice on him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t do that just yet,” said Edward with decision. +“Write to the house and say that their instructions shall be attended to. +There is no hurry about the notice, though I don’t see how I am to help +in the matter. Indeed there is no call upon me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Mr. Cossey. And now, by the way, are you going to the Castle +this afternoon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I believe so. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I want to get up there to luncheon, and I am in a fix. Mrs. Quest +will want the trap to go there this afternoon. Can you lend me your dogcart to +drive up in? and then perhaps you would not mind if she gave you a lift this +afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” answered Edward, “that is if it suits Mrs. +Quest. Perhaps she may object to carting me about the country.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not observed any such reluctance on her part,” said the +lawyer dryly, “but we can easily settle the question. I must go home and +get some plans before I attend the vestry meeting about that pinnacle. Will you +step across with me and we can ask her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes,” he answered. “I have nothing particular to +do.” +</p> + +<p> +And accordingly, so soon as Mr. Quest had made some small arrangements and +given particular directions to his clerks as to his whereabouts for the day, +they set off together for the lawyer’s private house. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /> +MR. QUEST’S WIFE</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Quest lived in one of those ugly but comfortably-built old red brick houses +which abound in almost every country town, and which give us the clearest +possible idea of the want of taste and love of material comfort that +characterised the age in which they were built. This house looked out on to the +market place, and had a charming old walled garden at the back, famous for its +nectarines, which, together with the lawn tennis court, was, as Mrs. Quest +would say, almost enough to console her for living in a town. The front door, +however, was only separated by a little flight of steps from the pavement upon +which the house abutted. +</p> + +<p> +Entering a large, cool-looking hall, Mr. Quest paused and asked a servant who +was passing there where her mistress was. +</p> + +<p> +“In the drawing-room, sir,” said the girl; and, followed by Edward +Cossey, he walked down a long panelled passage till he reached a door on the +left. This he opened quickly and passed through into a charming, modern-looking +room, handsomely and even luxuriously furnished, and lighted by French windows +opening on to the walled garden. +</p> + +<p> +A little lady dressed in some black material was standing at one of these +windows, her arms crossed behind her back, and absently gazing out of it. At +the sound of the opening door she turned swiftly, her whole delicate and lovely +face lighting up like a flower in a ray of sunshine, the lips slightly parted, +and a deep and happy light shining in her violet eyes. Then, all in an instant, +it was instructive to observe <i>how</i> instantaneously, her glance fell upon +her husband (for the lady was Mrs. Quest) and her entire expression changed to +one of cold aversion, the light fading out of her face as it does from a +November sky, and leaving it cold and hard. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest, who was a man who saw everything, saw this also, and smiled +bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be alarmed, Belle,” he said in a low voice; “I +have brought Mr. Cossey with me.” +</p> + +<p> +She flushed up to the eyes, a great wave of colour, and her breast heaved; but +before she could answer, Edward Cossey, who had stopped behind to wipe some mud +off his shoes, entered the room, and politely offered his hand to Mrs. Quest, +who took it coldly enough. +</p> + +<p> +“You are an early visitor, Mr. Cossey,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said her husband, “but the fault is mine. I have +brought Mr. Cossey over to ask if you can give him a lift up to the Castle this +afternoon. I have to go there to lunch, and have borrowed his dogcart.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, with pleasure. But why can’t the dogcart come back for Mr. +Cossey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see,” put in Edward, “there is a little +difficulty; my groom is ill. But there is really no reason why you should be +bothered. I have no doubt that a man can be found to bring it back.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no,” she said, with a shrug, “it will be all right; only +you had better lunch here, that’s all, because I want to start early, and +go to an old woman’s at the other end of Honham about some fuchsia +cuttings.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be very happy,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well then, that is settled,” said Mr. Quest, “and now I +must get my plans and be off to the vestry meeting. I’m late as it is. +With your permission, Mr. Cossey, I will order the dogcart as I pass your +rooms.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said Edward, and in another moment the lawyer was +gone. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Quest watched the door close and then sat down in a low armchair, and +resting her head upon the back, looked up with a steady, enquiring gaze, full +into Edward Cossey’s face. +</p> + +<p> +And he too looked at her and thought what a beautiful woman she was, in her own +way. She was very small, rounded in her figure almost to stoutness, and +possessed the tiniest and most beautiful hands and feet. But her greatest charm +lay in the face, which was almost infantile in its shape, and delicate as a +moss rose. She was exquisitely fair in colouring—indeed, the darkest +things about her were her violet eyes, which in some lights looked almost black +by contrast with her white forehead and waving auburn hair. +</p> + +<p> +Presently she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Has my husband gone?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so. Why do you ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because from what I know of his habits I should think it very likely +that he is listening behind the door,” and she laughed faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to have a good opinion of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have exactly the opinion of him which he deserves,” she said +bitterly; “and my opinion of him is that he is one of the wickedest men +in England.” +</p> + +<p> +“If he is behind the door he will enjoy that,” said Edward Cossey. +“Well, if he is all this, why did you marry him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did I marry him?” she answered with passion, “because I +was forced into it, bullied into it, starved into it. What would you do if you +were a defenceless, motherless girl of eighteen, with a drunken father who beat +you—yes, beat you with a stick—apologised in the most gentlemanlike +way next morning and then went and got drunk again? And what would you do if +that father were in the hands of a man like my husband, body and soul in his +hands, and if between them pressure was brought to bear, and brought to bear, +until at last—there, what is the good of going on it with—you can +guess the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and what did he marry you for—your pretty face?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; he said so; it may have had something to do with it. +I think it was my ten thousand pounds, for once I had a whole ten thousand +pounds of my own, my poor mother left it me, and it was tied up so that my +father could not touch it. Well, of course, when I married, my husband would +not have any settlements, and so he took it, every farthing.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did he do with it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Spent it upon some other woman in London—most of it. I found him +out; he gave her thousands of pounds at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I should not have thought that he was so generous,” he said +with a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +She paused a moment and covered her face with her hand, and then went on: +“If you only knew, Edward, if you had the faintest idea what my life was +till a year and a half ago, when I first saw you, you would pity me and +understand why I am bad, and passionate, and jealous, and everything that I +ought not to be. I never had any happiness as a girl —how could I in such +a home as ours?—and then almost before I was a woman I was handed over to +that man. Oh, how I hated him, and what I endured!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it can’t have been very pleasant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pleasant—but there, we have done with each other now—we +don’t even speak much except in public, that’s my price for holding +my tongue about the lady in London and one or two other little things—so +what is the use of talking of it? It was a horrible nightmare, but it has gone. +And then,” she went on, fixing her beautiful eyes upon his face, +“then I saw you, Edward, and for the first time in my life I learnt what +love was, and I think that no woman ever loved like that before. Other women +have had something to care for in their lives, I never had anything till I saw +you. It may be wicked, but it’s true.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned slightly away and said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet, dear,” she went on in a low voice, “I think it has +been one of the hardest things of all—my love for you. For, +Edward,” and she rose and took his hand and looked into his face with her +soft full eyes full of tears, “I should have liked to be a blessing to +you, and not a curse, and—and—a cause of sin. Oh, Edward, I should +have made you such a good wife, no man could have had a better, and I would +have helped you too, for I am not such a fool as I seem, and now I shall do +nothing but bring trouble upon you; I know I shall. And it was my fault too, at +least most of it; don’t ever think that I deceive myself, for I +don’t; I led you on, I know I did, I meant to—there! Think me as +shameless as you like, I meant to from the first. And no good can come of it, I +know that, although I would not have it undone. No good can ever come of what +is wrong. I may be very wicked, but I know that——” and she +began to cry outright. +</p> + +<p> +This was too much for Edward Cossey, who, as any man must, had been much +touched by this unexpected outburst. “Look here, Belle,” he blurted +out on the impulse of the moment, “I am sick and tired of all this sort +of thing. For more than a year my life has been nothing but a living lie, and I +can’t stand it, and that’s a fact. I tell you what it is: I think +we had better just take the train to Paris and go off at once, or else give it +all up. It is impossible to go on living in this atmosphere of continual +falsehood.” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped crying. “Do you really care for me enough for that, +Edward?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” he said, somewhat impatiently, “you can see I do +or I should not make the offer. Say the word and I’ll do it.” +</p> + +<p> +She thought for a moment, and then looked up again. “No,” she said, +“no, Edward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” he asked. “Are you afraid?” +</p> + +<p> +“Afraid!” she answered with a gesture of contempt, “what have +I to be afraid of? Do you suppose such women as I am have any care for +consequences? We have got beyond that—that is, for ourselves. But we can +still feel a little for others. It would ruin you to do such a thing, socially +and in every other way. You know you have often said that your father would cut +you out of his will if you compromised yourself and him like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, he would. I am sure of it. He would never forgive the scandal; +he has a hatred of that sort of thing. But I could get a few thousands ready +money, and we could change our names and go off to a colony or +something.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very good of you to say so,” she said humbly. “I +don’t deserve it, and I will not take advantage of you. You will be sorry +that you made the offer by to-morrow. Ah, yes, I know it is only because I +cried. No, we must go on as we are until the end comes, and then you can +discard me; for all the blame will follow me, and I shall deserve it, too. I am +older than you, you know, and a woman; and my husband will make some money out +of you, and then it will all be forgotten, and I shall have had my day and go +my own way to oblivion, like thousands of other unfortunate women before me, +and it will be all the same a hundred years hence, don’t you see? But, +Edward, remember one thing. Don’t play me any tricks, for I am not of the +sort to bear it. Have patience and wait for the end; these things cannot last +very long, and I shall never be a burden on you. Don’t desert me or make +me jealous, for I cannot bear it, I cannot, indeed, and I do not know what I +might do—make a scandal or kill myself or you, I’m sure I +can’t say what. You nearly sent me wild the other day when you were +carrying on with Miss de la Molle—ah, yes, I saw it all—I have +suspected you for a long time, and sometimes I think that you are really in +love with her. And now, sir, I tell you what it is, we have had enough of this +melancholy talk to last me for a month. Why did you come here at all this +morning, just when I wanted to get you out of my head for an hour or two and +think about my garden? I suppose it was a trick of Mr. Quest’s bringing +you here. He has got some fresh scheme on, I am sure of it from his face. Well, +it can’t be helped, and, since you are here, Mr. Edward Cossey, tell me +how you like my new dress,” and she posed herself and courtesied before +him. “Black, you see, to match my sins and show off my complexion. +Doesn’t it fit well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Charmingly,” he said, laughing in spite of himself, for he felt in +no laughing mood, “and now I tell you what it is, Belle, I am not going +to stop here all the morning, and lunch, and that sort of thing. It does not +look well, to say the least of it. The probability is that half the old women +in Boisingham have got their eyes fixed on the hall door to see how long I +stay. I shall go down to the office and come back at half-past two.” +</p> + +<p> +“A very nice excuse to get rid of me,” she said, “but I +daresay you are right, and I want to see about the garden. There, good-bye, and +mind you are not late, for I want to have a nice drive round to the Castle. Not +that there is much need to warn you to be in time when you are going to see +Miss de la Molle, is there? Good-bye, good-bye.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /> +THE SHADOW OF RUIN</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Quest walked to his vestry meeting with a smile upon his thin, +gentlemanly-looking face, and rage and bitterness in his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“I caught her that time,” he said to himself; “she can do a +good deal in the way of deceit, but she can’t keep the blood out of her +cheeks when she hears that fellow’s name. But she is a clever woman, +Belle is —how well she managed that little business of the luncheon, and +how well she fought her case when once she got me in a cleft stick about Edith +and that money of hers, and made good terms too. Ah! that’s the worst of +it, she has the whip hand of me there; if I could ruin her she could ruin me, +and it’s no use cutting off one’s nose to spite your face. Well! my +fine lady,” he went on with an ominous flash of his grey eyes, “I +shall be even with you yet. Give you enough rope and you will hang yourself. +You love this fellow, I know that, and it will go hard if I can’t make +him break your heart for you. Bah! you don’t know the sort of stuff men +are made of. If only I did not happen to be in love with you myself I should +not care. If——Ah! here I am at the church.” +</p> + +<p> +The human animal is a very complicated machine, and can conduct the working of +an extraordinary number of different interests and sets of ideas, almost, if +not entirely, simultaneously. For instance, Mr. Quest—seated at the right +hand of the rector in the vestry room of the beautiful old Boisingham Church, +and engaged in an animated and even warm discussion with the senior curate on +the details of fourteenth century Church work, in which he clearly took a +lively interest and understood far better than did the curate—would have +been exceedingly difficult to identify with the scheming, vindictive creature +whom we have just followed up the church path. But after all, that is the way +of human nature, although it may not be the way of those who try to draw it and +who love to paint the villain black as the Evil One and the virtuous heroine so +radiant that we begin to fancy we can hear the whispering of her wings. Few +people are altogether good or altogether bad; indeed it is probable that the +vast majority are neither good nor bad—they have not the strength to be +the one or the other. Here and there, however, we do meet a spirit with +sufficient will and originality to press the scale down this way or that, +though even then the opposing force, be it good or evil, is constantly striving +to bring the balance equal. Even the most wicked men have their redeeming +points and righteous instincts, nor are their thoughts continually fixed upon +iniquity. Mr. Quest, for instance, one of the evil geniuses of this history, +was, where his plots and passions were not immediately concerned, a man of +eminently generous and refined tendencies. Many were the good turns, +contradictory as it may seem, that he had done to his poorer neighbours; he had +even been known to forego his bills of costs, which is about the highest and +rarest exhibition of earthly virtue that can be expected from a lawyer. He was +moreover eminently a cultured man, a reader of the classics, in translations if +not in the originals, a man with a fine taste in fiction and poetry, and a +really sound and ripe archaeological knowledge, especially where sacred +buildings were concerned. All his instincts, also, were towards respectability. +His most burning ambition was to secure a high position in the county in which +he lived, and to be classed among the resident gentry. He hated his +lawyer’s work, and longed to accumulate sufficient means to be able to +give it the good-bye and to indulge himself in an existence of luxurious and +learned leisure. Such as he was he had made himself, for he was the son of a +poor and inferior country dentist, and had begun life with a good education, it +is true, which he chiefly owed to his own exertions, but with nothing else. Had +his nature been a temperate nature with a balance of good to its credit to draw +upon instead of a balance of evil, he was a man who might have gone very far +indeed, for in addition to his natural ability he had a great power of work. +But unfortunately this was not the case; his instincts on the whole were evil +instincts, and his passions—whether of hate, or love, or greed, when they +seized him did so with extraordinary violence, rendering him for the time being +utterly callous to the rights or feelings of others, provided that he attained +his end. In short, had he been born to a good position and a large fortune, it +is quite possible, providing always that his strong passions had not at some +period of his life led him irremediably astray, that he would have lived +virtuous and respected, and died in good odour, leaving behind him a happy +memory. But fate had placed him in antagonism with the world, and yet had +endowed him with a gnawing desire to be of the world, as it appeared most +desirable to him; and then, to complete his ruin circumstances had thrown him +into temptations from which inexperience and the headlong strength of his +passions gave him no opportunity to escape. +</p> + +<p> +It may at first appear strange that a man so calculating and whose desires +seemed to be fixed upon such a material end as the acquirement by artifice or +even fraud of the wealth which he coveted, should also nourish in his heart so +bitter a hatred and so keen a thirst for revenge upon a woman as Mr. Quest +undoubtedly did towards his beautiful wife. It would have seemed more probable +that he would have left heroics alone and attempted to turn his wife’s +folly into a means of wealth and self-advancement: and this would no doubt have +been so had Mrs. Quest’s estimate of his motives in marrying her been an +entirely correct one. She had told Edward Cossey, it will be remembered, that +her husband had married her for her money—the ten thousand pounds of +which he stood so badly in need. Now this was the truth to a certain extent, +and a certain extent only. He had wanted the ten thousand pounds, in fact at +the moment money was necessary to him. But, and this his wife had never known +or realised, he had been, and still was, also in love with her. Possibly the +ten thousand pounds would have proved a sufficient inducement to him without +the love, but the love was none the less there. Their relations, however, had +never been happy ones. She had detested him from the first, and had not spared +to say so. No man with any refinement—and whatever he lacked Mr. Quest +had refinement—could bear to be thus continually repulsed by a woman, and +so it came to pass that their intercourse had always been of the most strained +nature. Then when she at last had obtained the clue to the secret of his life, +under threat of exposure she drove her bargain, of which the terms were +complete separation in all but outward form, and virtual freedom of action for +herself. This, considering the position, she was perhaps justified in doing, +but her husband never forgave her for it. More than that, he determined, if by +any means it were possible, to turn the passion which, although she did not +know it, he was perfectly aware she bore towards his business superior, Edward +Cossey, to a refined instrument of vengeance against her, with what success it +will be one of the purposes of this history to show. +</p> + +<p> +Such, put as briefly as possible, were the outlines of the character and aims +of this remarkable and contradictory man. +</p> + +<p> +Within an hour and a half of leaving his own house, “The Oaks,” as +it was called, although the trees from which it had been so named had long +since vanished from the garden, Mr. Quest was bowling swiftly along behind +Edward Cossey’s powerful bay horse towards the towering gateway of Honham +Castle. When he was within three hundred yards an idea struck him; he pulled +the horse up sharply, for he was alone in the dogcart, and paused to admire the +view. +</p> + +<p> +“What a beautiful place!” he reflected to himself with enthusiasm, +“and how grandly those old towers stand out against the sky. The Squire +has restored them very well, too, there is no doubt about it; I could not have +done it better myself. I wonder if that place will ever be mine. Things look +black now, but they may come round, and I think I am beginning to see my +way.” +</p> + +<p> +And then he started the horse on again, reflecting on the unpleasant nature of +the business before him. Personally he both liked and respected the old Squire, +and he certainly pitied him, though he would no more have dreamed of allowing +his liking and pity to interfere with the prosecution of his schemes, than an +ardent sportsman would dream of not shooting pheasants because he had happened +to take a friendly interest in their nurture. He had also a certain +gentlemanlike distaste to being the bearer of crushing bad news, for Mr. Quest +disliked scenes, possibly because he had such an intimate personal acquaintance +with them. Whilst he was still wondering how he might best deal with the +matter, he passed over the moat and through the ancient gateway which he +admired so fervently, and found himself in front of the hall door. Here he +pulled up, looking about for somebody to take his horse, when suddenly the +Squire himself emerged upon him with a rush. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, Quest, is that you?” he shouted, as though his visitor had +been fifty yards off instead of five. “I have been looking out for you. +Here, William! William!” (crescendo), “William!” +(fortissimo), “where on earth is the boy? I expect that idle fellow, +George, has been sending him on some of his errands instead of attending to +them himself. Whenever he is wanted to take a horse he is nowhere to be found, +and then it is 'Please, sir, Mr. George,’ that’s what he calls him, +‘Please, sir, Mr. George sent me up to the Moat Farm or somewhere to see +how many eggs the hens laid last week,’ or something of the sort. +That’s a very nice horse you have got there, by the way, very nice +indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not my horse, Mr. de la Molle,” said the lawyer, with a +faint smile, “it is Mr. Edward Cossey’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it’s Mr. Edward Cossey’s, is it?” answered the old +gentleman with a sudden change of voice. “Ah, Mr. Edward Cossey’s? +Well, it’s a very good horse anyhow, and I suppose that Mr. Cossey can +afford to buy good horses.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then a faint cry of “Coming, sir, coming,” was heard, and a +long hobble-de-hoy kind of youth, whose business it was to look after the not +extensive Castle stables, emerged in a great heat from round the corner of the +house. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, where on earth have you been?” began the Squire, in a +stentorian tone. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, sir, Mr. George——” +</p> + +<p> +“There, what did I tell you?” broke in the Squire. “Have I +not told you time after time that you are to mind your own business, and leave +‘Mr. George’ to mind his? Now take that horse round to the stables, +and see that it is properly fed. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Quest, come in. We have a quarter of an hour before luncheon, and +can get our business over,” and he led the way through the passage into +the tapestried and panelled vestibule, where he took his stand before the empty +fireplace. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest followed him, stopping, ostensibly to admire a particularly fine suit +of armour which hung upon the wall, but really to gain another moment for +reflection. +</p> + +<p> +“A beautiful suit of the early Stuart period, Mr. de la Molle,” he +said; “I never saw a better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, that belonged to old Sir James, the one whom the Roundheads +shot.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! the Sir James who hid the treasure?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I was telling that story to our new neighbour, Colonel Quaritch, +last night—a very nice fellow, by the way; you should go and call upon +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder what he did with it,” said Mr. Quest. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so do I, and so will many another, I dare say. I wish that I could +find it, I’m sure. It’s wanted badly enough now-a-days. But that +reminds me, Quest. You will have gathered my difficulty from my note and what +George told you. You see this man Janter—thanks to that confounded +fellow, Major Boston, and his action about those College Lands—has thrown +up the Moat Farm, and George tells me that there is not another tenant to be +had for love or money. In fact, you know what it is, one can’t get +tenants now-a-days, they simply are not to be had. Well, under these +circumstances, there is, of course, only one thing to be done that I know of, +and that is to take the farm in hand and farm it myself. It is quite impossible +to let the place fall out of cultivation—and that is what would happen +otherwise, for if I were to lay it down in grass it would cost a considerable +sum, and be seven or eight years before I got any return.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire paused and Mr. Quest said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he went on, “that being so, the next thing to do is +to obtain the necessary cash to pay Janter his valuation and stock the +place—about four thousand would do it, or perhaps,” he added, with +an access of generous confidence, “we had better say five. There are +about fifty acres of those low-lying meadows which want to be thoroughly bush +drained—bushes are quite as good as pipes for that stiff land, if they +put in the right sort of stuff, and it don’t cost half so much—but +still it can’t be done for nothing, and then there is a new wagon shed +wanted, and some odds and ends; yes, we had better say five thousand.” +</p> + +<p> +Still Mr. Quest made no answer, so once more the Squire went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see, under these circumstances—not being able to lay +hands upon the necessary capital from my private resources, of course I have +made up my mind to apply to Cossey and Son for the loan. Indeed, considering +how long and intimate has been the connection between their house and the de la +Molle family, I think it right and proper to do so; indeed, I should consider +it very wrong of me if I neglected to give them the opportunity of the +investment”—here a faint smile flickered for an instant on Mr. +Quest’s face and then went out—“of course they will, as a +matter of business, require security, and very properly so, but as this estate +is unentailed, there will fortunately be very little difficulty about that. You +can draw up the necessary deeds, and I think that under the circumstances the +right thing to do would be to charge the Moat Farm specifically with the +amount. Things are bad enough, no doubt, but I can hardly suppose it possible +under any conceivable circumstances that the farm would not be good for five +thousand pounds. However, they might perhaps prefer to have a general clause as +well, and if it is so, although I consider it quite unnecessary, I shall raise +no objection to that course.” +</p> + +<p> +Then at last Mr. Quest broke his somewhat ominous silence. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry to say, Mr. de la Molle,” he said gently, +“that I can hold out no prospect of Cossey and Son being induced, under +any circumstances, to advance another pound upon the security of the Honham +Castle estates. Their opinion of the value of landed property as security has +received so severe a shock, that they are not at all comfortable as to the +safety of the amount already invested.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. de la Molle started when he heard this most unexpected bit of news, for +which he was totally unprepared. He had always found it possible to borrow +money, and it had never occurred to him that a time might perhaps come in this +country, when the land, which he held in almost superstitious veneration, would +be so valueless a form of property that lenders would refuse it as security. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” he said, recovering himself, “the total encumbrances +on the property do not amount to more than twenty-five thousand pounds, and +when I succeeded to my father, forty years ago, it was valued at fifty, and the +Castle and premises have been thoroughly repaired since then at a cost of five +thousand, and most of the farm buildings too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very possibly, de la Molle, but to be honest, I very much doubt if +Honham Castle and the lands round it would now fetch twenty-five thousand +pounds on a forced sale. Competition and Radical agitation have brought estates +down more than people realise, and land in Australia and New Zealand is now +worth almost as much per acre as cultivated lands in England. Perhaps as a +residential property and on account of its historical interest it might fetch +more, but I doubt it. In short, Mr. de la Molle, so anxious are Cossey and Son +in the matter, that I regret to have to tell you that so far from being willing +to make a further advance, the firm have formally instructed me to serve the +usual six months’ notice on you, calling in the money already advanced on +mortgage, together with the interest, which I must remind you is nearly a year +overdue, and this step I propose to take to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman staggered for a moment, and caught at the mantelpiece, for +the blow was a heavy one, and as unexpected as it was heavy. But he recovered +himself in an instant, for it was one of the peculiarities of his character +that his spirits always seemed to rise to the occasion in the face of urgent +adversity—in short, he possessed an extraordinary share of moral courage. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” he said indignantly, “indeed, it is a pity that you +did not tell me that at once, Mr. Quest; it would have saved me from putting +myself in a false position by proposing a business arrangement which is not +acceptable. As regards the interest, I admit that it is as you say, and I very +much regret it. That stupid fellow George is always so dreadfully behindhand +with his accounts that I can never get anything settled.” (He did not +state, and indeed did not know, that the reason that the unfortunate George was +behindhand was that there were no accounts to make up, or rather that they were +all on the wrong side of the ledger). “I will have that matter seen to at +once. Of course, business people are quite right to consider their due, and I +do not blame Messrs. Cossey in the matter, not in the least. Still, I must say +that, considering the long and intimate relationship that has for nearly two +centuries existed between their house and my family, they +might—well—have shown a little more consideration.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr. Quest, “I daresay that the step strikes you +as a harsh one. To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. de la Molle, it struck me +as a very harsh one; but, of course, I am only a servant, and bound to carry +out my instructions. I sympathise with you very much—very much +indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t do that,” said the old gentleman. “Of +course, other arrangements must be made; and, much as it will pain me to +terminate my connection with Messrs. Cossey, they shall be made.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think,” went on the lawyer, without any notice of his +interruption, “that you misunderstand the matter a little. Cossey and Son +are only a trading corporation, whose object is to make money by lending it, or +otherwise—at all hazards to make money. The kind of feeling that you +allude to, and that might induce them, in consideration of long intimacy and +close connection in the past, to forego the opportunity of so doing and even to +run a risk of loss, is a thing which belongs to former generations. But the +present is a strictly commercial age, and we are the most commercial of the +trading nations. Cossey and Son move with the times, that is all, and they +would rather sell up a dozen families who had dealt with them for two centuries +than lose five hundred pounds, provided, of course, that they could do so +without scandal and loss of public respect, which, where a banking house is +concerned, also means a loss of custom. I am a great lover of the past myself, +and believe that our ancestors’ ways of doing business were, on the +whole, better and more charitable than ours, but I have to make my living and +take the world as I find it, Mr. de la Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, Quest; quite so,” answered the Squire quietly. “I +had no idea that you looked at these matters in such a light. Certainly the +world has changed a good deal since I was a young man, and I do not think it +has changed much for the better. But you will want your luncheon; it is hungry +work talking about foreclosures.” Mr. Quest had not used this unpleasant +word, but the Squire had seen his drift. “Come into the next room,” +and he led the way to the drawing-room, where Ida was sitting reading the +<i>Times</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Ida,” he said, with an affectation of heartiness which did not, +however, deceive his daughter, who knew how to read every change of her dear +father’s face, “here is Mr. Quest. Take him in to luncheon, my +love. I will come presently. I want to finish a note.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he returned to the vestibule and sat down in his favourite old oak chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Ruined,” he said to himself. “I can never get the money as +things are, and there will be a foreclosure. Well, I am an old man and I hope +that I shall not live to see it. But there is Ida. Poor Ida! I cannot bear to +think of it, and the old place too, after all these generations—after all +these generations!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /> +THE TENNIS PARTY</h2> + +<p> +Ida shook hands coldly enough with the lawyer, for whom she cherished a dislike +not unmixed with fear. Many women are by nature gifted with an extraordinary +power of intuition which fully makes up for their deficiency in reasoning +force. They do not conclude from the premisses of their observation, they +<i>know</i> that this man is to be feared and that trusted. In fact, they share +with the rest of breathing creation that self-protective instinct of +instantaneous and almost automatic judgment, given to guard it from the dangers +with which it is continually threatened at the hands of man’s +over-mastering strength and ordered intelligence. Ida was one of these. She +knew nothing to Mr. Quest’s disadvantage, indeed she always heard him +spoken of with great respect, and curiously enough she liked his wife. But she +could not bear the man, feeling in her heart that he was not only to be avoided +on account of his own hidden qualities, but that he was moreover an active +personal enemy. +</p> + +<p> +They went into the dining-room, where the luncheon was set, and while Ida +allowed Mr. Quest to cut her some cold boiled beef, an operation in which he +did not seem to be very much at home, she came to a rapid conclusion in her own +mind. She had seen clearly enough from her father’s face that his +interview with the lawyer had been of a most serious character, but she knew +that the chances were that she would never be able to get its upshot out of +him, for the old gentleman had a curious habit of keeping such unpleasant +matters to himself until he was absolutely forced by circumstances to reveal +them. She also knew that her father’s affairs were in a most critical +condition, for this she had extracted from him on the previous night, and that +if any remedy was to be attempted it must be attempted at once, and on some +heroic scale. Therefore, she made up her mind to ask her <i>bete noire</i>, Mr. +Quest, what the truth might be. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Quest,” she said, with some trepidation, as he at last +triumphantly handed her the beef, “I hope you will forgive me for asking +you a plain question, and that, if you can, you will favour me with a plain +answer. I know my father’s affairs are very much involved, and that he is +now anxious to borrow some more money; but I do not know quite how matters +stand, and I want to learn the exact truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad to hear you speak so, Miss de la Molle,” answered +the lawyer, “because I was trying to make up my mind to broach the +subject, which is a painful one to me. Frankly, then—forgive me for +saying it, your father is absolutely ruined. The interest on the mortgages is a +year in arrear, his largest farm has just been thrown upon his hands, and, to +complete the tale, the mortgagees are going to call in their money or +foreclose.” +</p> + +<p> +At this statement, which was almost brutal in its brief comprehensiveness, Ida +turned pale as death, as well she might, and dropped her fork with a clatter +upon the plate. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not realise that things were quite so bad,” she murmured. +“Then I suppose that the place will be taken from us, and we +shall—shall have to go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, certainly, unless money can be found to take up the mortgages, of +which I see no chance. The place will be sold for what it will fetch, and that +now-a-days will be no great sum.” +</p> + +<p> +“When will that be?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“In about six or nine months’ time.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida’s lips trembled, and the sight of the food upon her plate became +nauseous to her. A vision arose before her mind’s eye of herself and her +old father departing hand in hand from the Castle gates, behind and about which +gleamed the hard wild lights of a March sunset, to seek a place to hide +themselves. The vivid horror of the phantasy almost overcame her. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there no way of escape?” she asked hoarsely. “To lose +this place would kill my father. He loves it better than anything in the world; +his whole life is wrapped up in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can quite understand that, Miss de la Molle; it is a most charming old +place, especially to anybody interested in the past. But unfortunately +mortgagees are no respecters of feelings. To them land is so much property and +nothing more.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know all that,” she said impatiently, “you do not answer +my question;” and she leaned towards him, resting her hand upon the +table. “Is there no way out of it?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest drank a little claret before he answered. “Yes,” he said, +“I think that there is, if only you will take it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What way?” she asked eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, though as I said just now, the mortgagees of an estate as a body +are merely a business corporation, and look at things from a business point of +view only, you must remember that they are composed of individuals, and that +individuals can be influenced if they can be got at. For instance, Cossey and +Son are an abstraction and harshly disposed in their abstract capacity, but Mr. +Edward Cossey is an individual, and I should say, so far as this particular +matter is concerned, a benevolently disposed individual. Now Mr. Edward Cossey +is not himself at the present moment actually one of the firm of Cossey and +Son, but he is the heir of the head of the house, and of course has authority, +and, what is better still, the command of money.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” said Ida. “You mean that my father should try +to win over Mr. Edward Cossey. Unfortunately, to be frank, he dislikes him, and +my father is not a man to keep his dislikes to himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“People generally do dislike those to whom they are crushingly indebted; +your father dislikes Mr. Cossey because his name is Cossey, and for no other +reason. But that is not quite what I meant—I do not think that the Squire +is the right person to undertake a negotiation of the sort. He is a little too +outspoken and incautious. No, Miss de la Molle, if it is to be done at all +<i>you</i> must do it. You must put the whole case before him at +once—this very afternoon, there is no time for delay; you need not enter +into details, he knows all about them—only ask him to avert this +catastrophe. He can do so if he likes, how he does it is his own affair.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mr. Quest,” said Ida, “how can I ask such a favour of +any man? I shall be putting myself in a dreadfully false position.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not pretend, Miss de la Molle, that it is a pleasant task for any +young lady to undertake. I quite understand your shrinking from it. But +sometimes one has to do unpleasant things and make compromises with one’s +self-respect. It is a question whether or no your family shall be utterly +ruined and destroyed. There is, as I honestly believe, no prospect whatever of +your father being able to get the money to pay off Cossey and Son, and if he +did, it would not help him, because he could not pay the interest on it. Under +these circumstances you have to choose between putting yourself in an equivocal +position and letting events take their course. It would be useless for anybody +else to undertake the task, and of course I cannot guarantee that even you will +succeed, but I will not mince matters—as you doubtless know, any man +would find it hard to refuse a favour asked by such a suppliant. And now you +must make up your own mind. I have shown you a path that may lead your family +from a position of the most imminent peril. If you are the woman I take you +for, you will not shrink from following it.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida made no reply, and in another moment the Squire came in to take a couple of +glasses of sherry and a biscuit. But Mr. Quest, furtively watching her face, +said to himself that she had taken the bait and that she would do it. Shortly +after this a diversion occurred, for the clergyman, Mr. Jeffries, a pleasant +little man, with a round and shining face and a most unclerical eyeglass, came +up to consult the Squire upon some matter of parish business, and was shown +into the dining-room. Ida took advantage of his appearance to effect a retreat +to her own room, and there for the present we may leave her to her meditations. +</p> + +<p> +No more business was discussed by the Squire that afternoon. Indeed it +interested Mr. Quest, who was above all things a student of character, to +observe how wonderfully the old gentleman threw off his trouble. To listen to +him energetically arguing with the Rev. Mr. Jeffries as to whether or no it +would be proper, as had hitherto been the custom, to devote the proceeds of the +harvest festival collection (1 pound 18s. 3d. and a brass button) to the county +hospital, or whether it should be applied to the repair of the woodwork in the +vestry, was under the circumstances most instructive. The Rev. Mr. Jeffries, +who suffered severely from the condition of the vestry, at last gained his +point by triumphantly showing that no patient from Honham had been admitted to +the hospital for fifteen months, and that therefore the hospital had no claim +on this particular year, whereas the draught in the vestry was enough to cut +any clergyman in two. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, “I will consent for +this year, and this year only. I have been churchwarden of this parish for +between forty and fifty years, and we have always given the harvest festival +collection to the hospital, and although under these exceptional circumstances +it may possibly be desirable to diverge from that custom, I cannot and will not +consent to such a thing in a permanent way. So I shall write to the secretary +and explain the matter, and tell him that next year and in the future generally +the collection will be devoted to its original purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Great heavens!” ejaculated Mr. Quest to himself. “And the +man must know that in all human probability the place will be sold over his +head before he is a year older. I wonder if he puts it on or if he deceives +himself. I suppose he has lived here so long that he cannot realise a condition +of things under which he will cease to live here and the place will belong to +somebody else. Or perhaps he is only brazening it out.” And then he +strolled away to the back of the house and had a look at the condition of the +outhouses, reflecting that some of them would be sadly expensive to repair for +whoever came into possession here. After that he crossed the moat and walked +through the somewhat extensive plantations at the back of the house, wondering +if it would not be possible to get enough timber out of them, if one went to +work judiciously, to pay for putting the place in order. Presently he came to a +hedgerow where a row of very fine timber oaks had stood, of which the Squire +had been notoriously fond, and of which he had himself taken particular and +admiring notice in the course of the previous winter. The trees were gone. In +the hedge where they had grown were a series of gaps like those in an old +woman’s jaw, and the ground was still littered with remains of bark and +branches and of faggots that had been made up from the brushwood. +</p> + +<p> +“Cut down this spring fell,” was Mr. Quest’s ejaculation. +“Poor old gentleman, he must have been pinched before he consented to +part with those oaks.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he turned and went back to the house, just in time to see Ida’s +guests arriving for the lawn tennis party. Ida herself was standing on the lawn +behind the house, which, bordered as it was by the moat and at the further end +by a row of ruined arches, was one of the most picturesque in the country and a +very effective setting to any young lady. As the people came they were shown +through the house on to the lawn, and here she was receiving them. She was +dressed in a plain, tight-fitting gown of blue flannel, which showed off her +perfect figure to great advantage, and a broad-brimmed hat, that shaded her +fine and dignified face. Mr. Quest sat down on a bench beneath the shade of an +arbutus, watching her closely, and indeed, if the study of a perfect English +lady of the noblest sort has any charms, he was not without his reward. There +are some women—most of us know one or two—who are born to hold a +great position and to sail across the world like a swan through meaner fowl. It +would be very hard to say to what their peculiar charm and dignity is owing. It +is not to beauty only, for though they have presence, many of these women are +not beautiful, while some are even plain. Nor does it spring from native grace +and tact alone; though these things must be present. Rather perhaps it is the +reflection of a cultivated intellect acting upon a naturally pure and elevated +temperament, which makes these ladies conspicuous and fashions them in such +kind that all men, putting aside the mere charm of beauty and the natural +softening of judgment in the atmosphere of sex, must recognise in them an equal +mind, and a presence more noble than their own. +</p> + +<p> +Such a woman was Ida de la Molle, and if any one doubted it, it was sufficient +to compare her in her simplicity to the various human items by whom she was +surrounded. They were a typical county society gathering, such as needs no +description, and would not greatly interest if described; neither very good nor +very bad, very handsome nor very plain, but moving religiously within the lines +of custom and on the ground of commonplace. +</p> + +<p> +It is no wonder, then, that a woman like Ida de la Molle was <i>facile +princeps</i> among such company, or that Harold Quaritch, who was somewhat +poetically inclined for a man of his age, at any rate where the lady in +question was concerned, should in his heart have compared her to a queen. Even +Belle Quest, lovely as she undoubtedly was in her own way, paled and looked +shopgirlish in face of that gentle dignity, a fact of which she was evidently +aware, for although the two women were friendly, nothing would induce the +latter to stand long near Ida in public. She would tell Edward Cossey that it +made her look like a wax doll beside a live child. +</p> + +<p> +While Mr. Quest was still watching Ida with complete satisfaction, for she +appealed to the artistic side of his nature, Colonel Quaritch arrived upon the +scene, looking, Mr. Quest thought, particularly plain with his solid form, his +long thin nose, light whiskers, and square massive chin. Also he looked +particularly imposing in contrast to the youths and maidens and domesticated +clergymen. There was a gravity, almost a solemnity, about his bronzed +countenance and deliberate ordered conversation, which did not, however, +favourably impress the aforesaid youths and maidens, if a judgment might be +formed from such samples of conversational criticism as Mr. Quest heard going +on on the further side of his arbutus. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /> +IDA’S BARGAIN</h2> + +<p> +When Ida saw the Colonel coming, she put on her sweetest smile and took his +outstretched hand. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Colonel Quaritch?” she said. “It is very good +of you to come, especially as you don’t play tennis much—by the +way, I hope you have been studying that cypher, for I am sure it is a +cypher.” +</p> + +<p> +“I studied it for half-an-hour before I went to bed last night, Miss de +la Molle, and for the life of me I could not make anything out of it, and +what’s more, I don’t think that there is anything to make +out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” she answered with a sigh, “I wish there was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll have another try at it. What will you give me if I find +it out?” he said with a smile which lighted up his rugged face most +pleasantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything you like to ask and that I can give,” she answered in a +tone of earnestness which struck him as peculiar, for of course he did not know +the news that she had just heard from Mr. Quest. +</p> + +<p> +Then for the first time for many years, Harold Quaritch delivered himself of a +speech that might have been capable of a tender and hidden meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid,” he said, bowing, “that if I came to claim the +reward, I should ask for more even than you would be inclined to give.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida blushed a little. “We can consider that when you do come, Colonel +Quaritch—excuse me, but here are Mrs. Quest and Mr. Cossey, and I must go +and say how do you do.” +</p> + +<p> +Harold Quaritch looked round, feeling unreasonably irritated at this +interruption to his little advances, and for the first time saw Edward Cossey. +He was coming along in the wake of Mrs. Quest, looking very handsome and rather +languid, when their eyes met, and to speak the truth, the Colonel’s first +impression was not a complimentary one. Edward Cossey was in some ways not a +bad fellow, but like a great many young men who are born with silver spoons in +their mouths, he had many airs and graces, one of which was the affectation of +treating older and better men with an assumption of off-handedness and even of +superiority that was rather obnoxious. Thus while Ida was greeting Mr. Quest, +he was engaged in taking in the Colonel in a way which irritated that gentleman +considerably. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Ida turned and introduced Colonel Quaritch, first to Mrs. Quest and +then to Mr. Cossey. Harold bowed to each, and then strolled off to meet the +Squire, whom he noted advancing with his usual array of protective towels +hanging out of his hat, and for a while saw neither of them any more. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Mr. Quest had emerged from the shelter of his arbutus, and going from +one person to another, said some pleasant and appropriate word to each, till at +last he reached the spot where his wife and Edward Cossey were standing. +Nodding affectionately at the former, he asked her if she was not going to play +tennis, and then drew Cossey aside. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Quest,” said the latter, “have you told the old +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I told him.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did he take it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, talked it off and said that of course other arrangements must be +made. I spoke to Miss de la Molle too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Edward, in a changed tone, “and how did she +take it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” answered the lawyer, putting on an air of deep concern (and +as a matter of fact he really did feel sorry for her), “I think it was +the most painful professional experience that I ever had. The poor woman was +utterly crushed. She said that it would kill her father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor girl!” said Mr. Cossey, in a voice that showed his sympathy +to be of a very active order, “and how pluckily she is carrying it off +too—look at her,” and he pointed to where Ida was standing, a lawn +tennis bat in her hand and laughingly arranging a “set” of married +<i>versus</i> single. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she is a spirited girl,” answered Mr. Quest, “and what +a splendid woman she looks, doesn’t she? I never saw anybody who was so +perfect a lady—there is nobody to touch her round here, unless,” he +added meditatively, “perhaps it is Belle.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are different types of beauty,” answered Edward Cossey, +flinching. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but equally striking in their separate ways. Well, it can’t +be helped, but I feel sorry for that poor woman, and the old gentleman +too—ah, there he is.” +</p> + +<p> +As he was speaking the Squire, who was walking past with Colonel Quaritch, with +the object of showing him the view from the end of the moat, suddenly came face +to face with Edward Cossey. He at once stepped forward to greet him, but to his +surprise was met by a cold and most stately bow from Mr. de la Molle, who +passed on without vouchsafing a single word. +</p> + +<p> +“Old idiot!” ejaculated Mr. Quest to himself, “he will put +Cossey’s back up and spoil the game.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Edward aloud and colouring almost to his eyes. +“That old gentleman knows how to be insolent.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not mind him, Mr. Cossey,” answered Quest hastily. +“The poor old boy has a very good idea of himself—he is dreadfully +injured because Cossey and Son are calling in the mortgages after the family +has dealt with them for so many generations; and he thinks that you have +something to do with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well if he does he might as well be civil. It does not particularly +incline a fellow to go aside to pull him out of the ditch, just to be cut in +that fashion—I have half a mind to order my trap and go.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, don’t do that—you must make allowances, you must +indeed—look, here is Miss de la Molle coming to ask you to play +tennis.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Ida arrived and took off Edward Cossey with her, not a little to +the relief of Mr. Quest, who began to fear that the whole scheme was spoiled by +the Squire’s unfortunate magnificence of manner. +</p> + +<p> +Edward played his game, having Ida herself as his partner. It cannot be said +that the set was a pleasant one for the latter, who, poor woman, was doing her +utmost to bring up her courage to the point necessary to the carrying out of +the appeal <i>ad misericordiam</i>, which she had decided to make as soon as +the game was over. However, chance put an opportunity in her way, for Edward +Cossey, who had a curious weakness for flowers, asked her if she would show him +her chrysanthemums, of which she was very proud. She consented readily enough. +They crossed the lawn, and passing through some shrubbery reached the +greenhouse, which was placed at the end of the Castle itself. Here for some +minutes they looked at the flowers, just now bursting into bloom. Ida, who felt +exceedingly nervous, was all the while wondering how on earth she could broach +so delicate a subject, when fortunately Mr. Cossey himself gave her the +necessary opening. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t imagine, Miss de la Molle,” he said, “what I +have done to offend your father—he almost cut me just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure that he saw you, Mr. Cossey; he is very absent-minded +sometimes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, he saw me, but when I offered to shake hands with him he only +bowed in rather a crushing way and passed on.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida broke off a Scarlet Turk from its stem, and nervously began to pick the +bloom to pieces. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is, Mr. Cossey—the fact is, my father, and indeed I also, +are in great trouble just now, about money matters you know, and my father is +very apt to be prejudiced,—in short, I rather believe that he thinks you +may have something to do with his difficulties—but perhaps you know all +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know something, Miss de la Molle,” said he gravely, “and I +hope and trust you do not believe that I have anything to do with the action +which Cossey and Son have thought fit to take.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she said hastily. “I never thought anything of the +sort—but I know that you have influence—and, well, to be plain, Mr. +Cossey, I implore of you to use it. Perhaps you will understand that this is +very humiliating for me to be obliged to ask this, though you can never guess +<i>how</i> humiliating. Believe me, Mr. Cossey, I would never ask it for +myself, but it is for my father—he loves this place better than his life; +it would be much better he should die than that he should be obliged to leave +it; and if this money is called in, that is what must happen, because the place +will be sold over us. I believe he would go mad, I do indeed,” and she +stopped speaking and stood before him, the fragment of the flower in her hand, +her breast heaving with emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you suggest should be done, Miss de la Molle?” said Edward +Cossey gently. +</p> + +<p> +“I suggest that—that—if you will be so kind, you should +persuade Cossey and Son to forego their intention of calling in the +money.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite impossible,” he answered. “My father ordered the +step himself, and he is a hard man. It is impossible to turn him if he thinks +he will lose money by turning. You see he is a banker, and has been handling +money all his life, till it has become a sort of god to him. Really I do +believe that he would rather beggar every friend he has than lose five thousand +pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then there is no more to be said. The place must go, that’s +all,” replied Ida, turning away her head and affecting to busy herself in +removing some dried leaves from a chrysanthemum plant. Edward, watching her +however, saw her shoulders shake and a big tear fall like a raindrop on the +pavement, and the sight, strongly attracted as he was and had for some time +been towards the young lady, was altogether too much for him. In an instant, +moved by an overwhelming impulse, and something not unlike a gust of passion, +he came to one of those determinations which so often change the whole course +and tenour of men’s lives. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss de la Molle,” he said rapidly, “there may be a way +found out of it.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up enquiringly, and there were the tear stains on her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody might take up the mortgages and pay off Cossey and Son.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you find anyone who will?” she asked eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not as an investment. I understand that thirty thousand pounds are +required, and I tell you frankly that as times are I do not for one moment +believe the place to be worth that amount. It is all very well for your father +to talk about land recovering itself, but at present, at any rate, nobody can +see the faintest chance of anything of the sort. The probabilities are, on the +contrary, that as the American competition increases, land will gradually sink +to something like a prairie value.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then how can money be got if nobody will advance it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not say that nobody will advance it; I said that nobody would +advance it as an investment—a friend might advance it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where is such a friend to be found? He must be a very disinterested +friend who would advance thirty thousand pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody in this world is quite disinterested, Miss de la Molle; or at any +rate very few are. What would you give to such a friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would give anything and everything over which I have control in this +world, to save my father from seeing Honham sold over his head,” she +answered simply. +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey laughed a little. “That is a large order,” he said. +“Miss de la Molle, <i>I</i> am disposed to try and find the money to take +up these mortgages. I have not got it, and I shall have to borrow it, and what +is more, I shall have to keep the fact that I have borrowed it a secret from my +father.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very good of you,” said Ida faintly, “I don’t +know what to say.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment he made no reply, and looking at him, Ida saw that his hand was +trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss de la Molle,” he said, “there is another matter of +which I wish to speak to you. Men are sometimes put into strange positions, +partly through their own fault, partly by force of circumstances, and when in +those positions, are forced down paths that they would not follow. Supposing, +Miss de la Molle, that mine were some such position, and supposing that owing +to that position I could not say to you words which I should wish to +say——” +</p> + +<p> +Ida began to understand now and once more turned aside. +</p> + +<p> +“Supposing, however, that at some future time the difficulties of that +position of which I have spoken were to fade away, and I were then to speak +those words, can you, supposing all this—tell me how they would be +received?” +</p> + +<p> +Ida paused, and thought. She was a strong-natured and clear-headed woman, and +she fully understood the position. On her answer would depend whether or no the +thirty thousand pounds were forthcoming, and therefore, whether or no Honham +Castle would pass from her father and her race. +</p> + +<p> +“I said just now, Mr. Cossey,” she answered coldly, “that I +would give anything and everything over which I have control in the world, to +save my father from seeing Honham sold over his head. I do not wish to retract +those words, and I think that in them you will find an answer to your +question.” +</p> + +<p> +He coloured. “You put the matter in a very business-like way,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“It is best put so, Mr. Cossey,” she answered with a faint shade of +bitterness in her tone; “it preserves me from feeling under an +obligation—will you see my father about these mortgages?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to-morrow. And now I will say good-bye to you,” and he took +her hand, and with some little hesitation kissed it. She made no resistance and +showed no emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, “we have been here some time; Mrs. Quest +will wonder what has become of you.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a random arrow, but it went straight home, and for the third time that +day Edward Cossey reddened to the roots of his hair. Without answering a word +he bowed and went. +</p> + +<p> +When Ida saw this, she was sorry she had made the remark, for she had no wish +to appear to Mr. Cossey (the conquest of whom gave her neither pride nor +pleasure) in the light of a spiteful, or worst still, of a jealous woman. She +had indeed heard some talk about him and Mrs. Quest, but not being of a +scandal-loving disposition it had not interested her, and she had almost +forgotten it. Now however she learned that there was something in it. +</p> + +<p> +“So that is the difficult position of which he talks,” she said to +herself; “he wants to marry me as soon as he can get Mrs. Quest off his +hands. And I have consented to that, always provided that Mrs. Quest can be +disposed of, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of thirty thousand +pounds. And I do not like the man. It was not nice of him to make that bargain, +though I brought it on myself. I wonder if my father will ever know what I have +done for him, and if he will appreciate it when he does. Well, it is not a bad +price—thirty thousand pounds—a good figure for any woman in the +present state of the market.” And with a hard and bitter laugh, and a +prescience of sorrow to come lying at the heart, she threw down the remains of +the Scarlet Turk and turned away. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /> +GEORGE PROPHESIES</h2> + +<p> +Ida, for obvious reasons, said nothing to her father of her interview with +Edward Cossey, and thus it came to pass that on the morning following the lawn +tennis party, there was a very serious consultation between the faithful George +and his master. It appeared to Ida, who was lying awake in her room, to +commence somewhere about daybreak, and it certainly continued with short +intervals for refreshment till eleven o’clock in the forenoon. First the +Squire explained the whole question to George at great length, and with a most +extraordinary multiplicity of detail, for he began at his first loan from the +house of Cossey and Son, which he had contracted a great many years before. All +this while George sat with a very long face, and tried to look as though he +were following the thread of the argument, which was not possible, for his +master had long ago lost it himself, and was mixing up the loan of 1863 with +the loan of 1874, and the money raised in the severance of the entail with +both, in a way which would have driven anybody except George, who was used to +this sort of thing, perfectly mad. However he sat it through, and when at last +the account was finished, remarked that things “sartainly did look +queer.” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon the Squire called him a stupid owl, and having by means of some test +questions discovered that he knew very little of the details which had just +been explained to him at such portentous length, in spite of the protest of the +wretched George, who urged that they “didn’t seem to be gitting no +forrader somehow,” he began and went through every word of it again. +</p> + +<p> +This brought them to breakfast time, and after breakfast, George’s +accounts were thoroughly gone into, with the result that confusion was soon +worse confounded, for either George could not keep accounts or the Squire could +not follow them. Ida, sitting in the drawing-room, could occasionally hear her +father’s ejaculatory outbursts after this kind: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you stupid donkey, you’ve added it up all wrong, it’s +nine hundred and fifty, not three hundred and fifty;” followed by a +“No, no, Squire, you be a-looking on the wrong side—them there is +the dibits,” and so on till both parties were fairly played out, and the +only thing that remained clear was that the balance was considerably on the +wrong side. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Squire at last, “there you are, you see. It +appears to me that I am absolutely ruined, and upon my word I believe that it +is a great deal owing to your stupidity. You have muddled and muddled and +muddled till at last you have muddled us out of house and home.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Squire, don’t say that—don’t you say that. It +ain’t none of my doing, for I’ve been a good sarvant to you if I +haven’t had much book larning. It’s that there dratted borrowing, +that’s what it is, and the interest and all the rest on it, and though I +says it as didn’t ought, poor Mr. James, God rest him and his free-handed +ways. Don’t you say it’s me, Squire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” answered his master, “it doesn’t much +matter whose fault it is, the result is the same, George; I’m ruined, and +I suppose that the place will be sold if anybody can be found to buy it. The de +la Molles have been here between four and five centuries, and they got it by +marriage with the Boisseys, who got it from the Norman kings, and now it will +go to the hammer and be bought by a picture dealer, or a manufacturer of +brandy, or someone of that sort. Well, everything has its end and God’s +will be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Squire, don’t you talk like that,” answered George +with emotion. “I can’t bear to hear you talk like that. And +what’s more it ain’t so.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by that?” asked the old gentleman sharply. +“It <i>is</i> so, there’s no getting over it unless you can find +thirty thousand pounds or thereabouts, to take up these mortgages with. Nothing +short of a miracle can save it. That’s always your way. ‘Oh, +something will turn up, something will turn up.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Thin there’ll be a miricle,” said George, bringing down a +fist like a leg of mutton with a thud upon the table, “it ain’t no +use of your talking to me, Squire. I knaw it, I tell you I knaw it. +There’ll never be no other than a de la Molle up at the Castle while +we’re alive, no, nor while our childer is alive either. If the +money’s to be found, why drat it, it will be found. Don’t you think +that God Almighty is going to put none of them there counter jumpers into +Honham Castle, where gentlefolk hev lived all these ginerations, because He +ain’t. There, and that’s the truth, because I knaw it and so help +me God—and if I’m wrong it’s a master one.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire, who was striding up and down the room in his irritation, stopped +suddenly in his walk, and looked at his retainer with a sharp and searching +gaze upon his noble features. Notwithstanding his prejudices, his simplicity, +and his occasional absurdities, he was in his own way an able man, and an +excellent judge of human nature. Even his prejudices were as a rule founded +upon some solid ground, only it was as a general rule impossible to get at it. +Also he had a share of that marvellous instinct which, when it exists, +registers the mental altitude of the minds of others with the accuracy of an +aneroid. He could tell when a man’s words rang true and when they rang +false, and what is more when the conviction of the true, and the falsity of the +false, rested upon a substantial basis of fact or error. Of course the instinct +was a vague, and from its nature an undefinable one, but it existed, and in the +present instance arose in strength. He looked at the ugly melancholy +countenance of the faithful George with that keen glance of his, and observed +that for the moment it was almost beautiful—beautiful in the light of +conviction which shone upon it. He looked, and it was borne in upon him that +what George said was true, and that George knew it was true, although he did +not know where the light of truth came from, and as he looked half the load +fell from his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, George, are you turning prophet in addition to your other +occupations?” he said cheerfully, and as he did so Edward Cossey’s +splendid bay horse pulled up at the door and the bell rang. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he added as soon as he saw who his visitor was, +“unless I am much mistaken, we shall soon know how much truth there is in +your prophecies, for here comes Mr. Cossey himself.” +</p> + +<p> +Before George could sufficiently recover from his recent agitation to make any +reply, Edward Cossey, looking particularly handsome and rather overpowering, +was shown into the room. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire shook hands with him this time, though coldly enough, and George +touched his forelock and said, “Sarvant, sir,” in the approved +fashion. Thereon his master told him that he might retire, though he was to be +sure not to go out of hearing, as he should want him again presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, sir,” answered George, “I’ll just step up +to the Poplars. I told a man to be round there to-day, as I want to see if I +can come to an understanding with him about this year’s fell in the big +wood.” +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said the Squire with an expression of infinite disgust, +“there, that’s just like your way, your horrid cadging way; the +idea of telling a man to be ‘round about the Poplars’ sometime or +other to-day, because you wanted to speak to him about a fell. Why didn’t +you write him a letter like an ordinary Christian and make an offer, instead of +dodging him round a farm for half a day like a wild Indian? Besides, the +Poplars is half a mile off, if it’s a yard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, sir,” said George as he retired, “that ain’t the +way that folks in these parts like to do business, that ain’t. Letter +writing is all very well for Londoners and other furriners, but it don’t +do here. Besides, sir, I shall hear you well enough up there. Sarvant, +sir!” this to Edward Cossey, and he was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Edward burst out laughing, and the Squire looked after his retainer with a +comical air. +</p> + +<p> +“No wonder that the place has got into a mess with such a fellow as that +to manage it,” he said aloud. “The idea of hunting a man round the +Poplars Farm like—like an Indian squaw! He’s a regular cadger, +that’s what he is, and that’s all he’s fit for. However, +it’s his way of doing business and I shan’t alter him. Well, Mr. +Cossey,” he went on, “this is a very sad state of affairs, at any +rate so far as I am concerned. I presume of course that you know of the steps +which have been taken by Cossey and Son to force a foreclosure, for that is +what it amounts to, though I have not as yet received the formal notice; +indeed, I suppose that those steps have been taken under your advice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. de la Molle, I know all about it, and here is the notice +calling in the loans,” and he placed a folded paper on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the Squire, “I see. As I remarked to your manager, +Mr. Quest, yesterday, I think that considering the nature of the relationship +which has existed for so many generations between our family and the business +firm of which you are a member, considering too the peculiar circumstances in +which the owners of land find themselves at this moment, and the ruinous +loss—to put questions of sentiment aside—that must be inflicted by +such sale upon the owner of property, more consideration might have been shown. +However, it is useless to try to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, or +to get blood from a stone, so I suppose that I must make the best of a bad +job—and,” with a most polite bow—“I really do not know +that I have anything more to say to you, Mr. Cossey. I will forward the notice +to my lawyers; indeed I think that it might have been sent to them in the first +instance.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey had all this while been sitting on an old oak chair, his eyes +fixed upon the ground, and slowly swinging his hat between his legs. Suddenly +he looked up and to the Squire’s surprise said quietly: +</p> + +<p> +“I quite agree with you. I don’t think that you can say anything +too bad about the behaviour of my people. A Shoreditch Jew could not have done +worse. And look here, Mr. de la Molle, to come to the point and prevent +misunderstanding, I may as well say at once that with your permission, I am +anxious to take up these mortgages myself, for two reasons; I regard them as a +desirable investment even in the present condition of land, and also I wish to +save Cossey and Son from the discredit of the step which they meditate.” +</p> + +<p> +For the second time that morning the Squire looked up with the sharp and +searching gaze he occasionally assumed, and for the second time his instinct, +for he was too heady a man to reason overmuch, came into play and warned him +that in making this offer Edward Cossey had other motives than those which he +had brought forward. He paused to consider what they might be. Was he anxious +to get the estate for himself? Was he put forward by somebody else? Quest, +perhaps; or was it something to do with Ida? The first alternative seemed the +most probable to him. But whatever the lender’s object, the result to him +was the same, it gave him a respite. For Mr. de la Molle well knew that he had +no more chance of raising the money from an ordinary source, than he had of +altering the condition of agriculture. +</p> + +<p> +“Hum,” he said, “this is an important matter, a most +important matter. I presume, Mr. Cossey, that before making this definite offer +you have consulted a legal adviser.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, I have done all that and am quite satisfied with the security +—an advance of thirty thousand charged on all the Honham Castle estates +at four per cent. The question now is if you are prepared to consent to the +transfer. In that case all the old charges on the property will be paid off, +and Mr. Quest, who will act for me in the matter, will prepare a single deed +charging the estate for the round total.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah yes, the plan seems a satisfactory one, but of course in so important +a matter I should prefer to consult my legal adviser before giving a final +answer, indeed I think that it would be better if the whole affair were carried +out in a proper and formal way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, surely, Mr. de la Molle,” said the younger man with some +irritation, for the old gentleman’s somewhat magnificent manner rather +annoyed him, which under the circumstances was not unnatural. “Surely you +do not want to consult a legal adviser to make up your mind as to whether or no +you will allow a foreclosure. I offer you the money at four per cent. Cannot +you let me have an answer now, yes or no?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like being hurried. I can’t bear to be +hurried,” said the Squire pettishly. “These important matters +require consideration, a great deal of consideration. Still,” he added, +observing signs of increasing irritation upon Edward Cossey’s face, and +not having the slightest intention of throwing away the opportunity, though he +would dearly have liked to prolong the negotiations for a week or two, if it +was only to enjoy the illusory satisfaction of dabbling with such a large sum +of money. “Still, as you are so pressing about it, I really, speaking off +hand, can see no objection to your taking up the mortgages on the terms you +mention.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Mr. de la Molle. Now I have on my part one condition and one +only to attach to this offer of mine, which is that my name is not mentioned in +connection with it. I do not wish Cossey and Son to know that I have taken up +this investment on my own account. In fact, so necessary to me is it that my +name should not be mentioned, that if it does transpire before the affair is +completed I shall withdraw my offer, and if it transpires afterwards I shall +call the money in. The loan will be advanced by a client of Mr. Quest’s. +Is that understood between us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hum,” said the Squire, “I don’t quite like this +secrecy about these matters of business, but still if you make a point of it, +why of course I cannot object.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Then I presume that you will write officially to Cossey and +Son stating that the money will be forthcoming to meet their various charges +and the overdue interest. And now I think that we have had about enough of this +business for once, so with your permission I will pay my respects to Miss de la +Molle before I go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me,” said the Squire, pressing his hand to his head, +“you do hurry me so dreadfully—I really don’t know where I +am. Miss de la Molle is out; I saw her go out sketching myself. Sit down and we +will talk this business over a little more.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you, Mr. de la Molle, I have to talk about money every day of +my life and I soon have enough of the subject. Quest will arrange all the +details. Good-bye, don’t bother to ring, I will find my horse.” And +with a shake of the hand he was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the old gentleman to himself when his visitor had +departed, “he asked for Ida, so I suppose that is what he is after. But +it is a queer sort of way to begin courting, and if she finds it out I should +think that it would go against him. Ida is not the sort of woman to be won by a +money consideration. Well, she can very well look after herself, that’s +certain. Anyway it has been a good morning’s work, but somehow I +don’t like that young man any the better for it. I have +it—there’s something wanting. He is not quite a gentleman. Well, I +must find that fellow George,” and he rushed to the front door and roared +for “George,” till the whole place echoed and the pheasants crowed +in the woods. +</p> + +<p> +After a while there came faint answering yells of “Coming, Squire, +coming,” and in due course George’s long form became visible, +striding swiftly up the garden. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” said his master, who was in high good humour, “did +you find your man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well no, Squire—that is, I had a rare hunt after him, and I had +just happened of him up a tree when you began to halloa so loud, that he went +nigh to falling out of it, so I had to tell him to come back next week, or the +week after.” +</p> + +<p> +“You happened of him up a tree. Why what the deuce was the man doing up a +tree—measuring it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Squire, I don’t rightly know what he wor after, but he is a +curious kind of a chap, and he said he had a fancy to wait there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens! no wonder the place is going to ruin, when you deal with +men who have a fancy to transact their business up a tree. Well, never mind +that, I have settled the matter about the mortgages. Of course somebody, a +client of Mr. Quest’s, has been found without the least difficulty to +take them up at four per cent. and advance the other five thousand too, so that +there be no more anxiety about that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well that’s a good job at any rate,” answered George with a +sigh of relief. +</p> + +<p> +“A good job? Of course it’s a good job, but it is no more than I +expected. It wasn’t likely that such an eligible investment, as they say +in the advertisements, would be allowed to go begging for long. But +that’s just the way with you; the moment there’s a hitch you come +with your long face and your uneducated sort of way, and swear that we are all +ruined and that the country is breaking up, and that there’s nothing +before us but the workhouse, and nobody knows what.” +</p> + +<p> +George reflected that the Squire had forgotten that not an hour before he +himself had been vowing that they were ruined, while he, George, had stoutly +sworn that something would turn up to help them. But his back was accustomed to +those vicarious burdens, nor to tell the truth did they go nigh to the breaking +of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s a good job anyway, and I thank God Almighty for +it,” said he, “and more especial since there’ll be the money +to take over the Moat Farm and give that varmint Janter the boot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give him <i>what?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, kick him out, sir, for good and all, begging your pardon, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I see. I do wish that you would respect the Queen’s English a +little more, George, and the name of the Creator too. By the way the parson was +speaking to me again yesterday about your continued absence from church. It +really is disgraceful; you are a most confirmed Sabbath-breaker. And now you +mustn’t waste my time here any longer. Go and look after your affairs. +Stop a minute, would you like a glass of port?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, thank you, sir,” said George reflectively, “we hev had +a lot of talk and I don’t mind if I do, and as for that there parson, +begging his pardon, I wish he would mind his own affairs and leave me to mind +mine.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /> +ABOUT ART</h2> + +<p> +Edward Cossey drove from the Castle in a far from happy frame of mind. To begin +with, the Squire and his condescending way of doing business irritated him very +much, so much that once or twice in the course of the conversation he was +within an ace of breaking the whole thing off, and only restrained himself with +difficulty from doing so. As it was, notwithstanding all the sacrifices and +money risks which he was undergoing to take up these mortgages, and they were +very considerable even to a man of his great prospects, he felt that he had +been placed in the position of a person who receives a favour rather than of a +person who grants one. Moreover there was an assumption of superiority about +the old man, a visible recognition of the gulf which used to be fixed between +the gentleman of family and the man of business who has grown rich by trading +in money and money’s worth, which was the more galling because it was +founded on actual fact, and Edward Cossey knew it. All his foibles and oddities +notwithstanding, it would have been impossible for any person of discernment to +entertain a comparison between the half-ruined Squire and the young banker, who +would shortly be worth between half a million and a million sterling. The +former was a representative, though a somewhat erratic one, of all that is best +in the old type of Englishmen of gentle blood, which is now so rapidly +vanishing, and of the class to which to a large extent this country owes her +greatness. His very eccentricities were wandering lights that showed +unsuspected heights and depths in his character—love of country and his +country’s honour, respect for the religion of his fathers, loyalty of +mind and valour for the right. Had he lived in other times, like some of the +old Boisseys and de la Molles, who were at Honham before him, he would probably +have died in the Crusades or at Cressy, or perhaps more uselessly, for his King +at Marston Moor, or like that last but one of the true de la Molles, kneeling +in the courtyard of his Castle and defying his enemies to wring his secret from +him. Now few such opportunities are left to men of his stamp, and they are, +perhaps as a consequence, dying out of an age which is unsuited to them, and +indeed to most strong growths of individual character. It would be much easier +to deal with a gentleman like the Squire of this history if we could only reach +down one of those suits of armour from the walls of his vestibule, and put it +on his back, and take that long two-handled sword which last flashed on Flodden +Field from its resting-place beneath the clock, and at the end see him die as a +loyal knight should do in the forefront of his retainers, with the old war cry +of “<i>a Delamol—a Delamol</i>” upon his lips. As it is, he +is an aristocratic anachronism, an entity unfitted to deal with the elements of +our advanced and in some ways emasculated age. His body should have been where +his heart was—in the past. What chance have such as he against the Quests +of this polite era of political economy and penny papers? +</p> + +<p> +No wonder that Edward Cossey felt his inferiority to this symbol and type of +the things that no more are, yes even in the shadow of his thirty thousand +pounds. For here we have a different breed. Goldsmiths two centuries ago, then +bankers from generation to generation, money bees seeking for wealth and +counting it and hiving it from decade to decade, till at last gold became to +them what honour is to the nobler stock—the pervading principle, and the +clink of the guinea and the rustling of the bank note stirred their blood as +the clank of armed men and the sound of the flapping banner with its three +golden hawks flaming in the sun, was wont to set the hearts of the race of +Boissey, of Dofferleigh and of de la Molle, beating to that tune to which +England marched on to win the world. +</p> + +<p> +It is a foolish and vain thing to scoff at business and those who do it in the +market places, and to shout out the old war cries of our fathers, in the face +of a generation which sings the song of capital, or groans in heavy labour +beneath the banners of their copyrighted trade marks; and besides, who would +buy our books (also copyrighted except in America) if we did? Let us rather +rise up and clothe ourselves, and put a tall hat upon our heads and do homage +to the new Democracy. +</p> + +<p> +And yet in the depths of our hearts and the quiet of our chambers let us +sometimes cry to the old days, and the old men, and the old ways of thought, +let us cry “<i>Ave atque vale</i>,—Hail and farewell.” Our +fathers’ armour hangs above the door, their portraits decorate the wall, +and their fierce and half-tamed hearts moulder beneath the stones of yonder +church. Hail and farewell to you, our fathers! Perchance a man might have had +worse company than he met with at your boards, and even have found it not more +hard to die beneath your sword-cuts than to be gently cozened to the grave by +duly qualified practitioners at two guineas a visit. +</p> + +<p> +And the upshot of all this is that the Squire was not altogether wrong when he +declared in the silence of <i>his</i> chamber that Edward Cossey was not quite +a gentleman. He showed it when he allowed himself to be guided by the arts of +Mr. Quest into the adoption of the idea of obtaining a lien upon Ida, to be +enforced if convenient. He showed it again, and what is more he committed a +huge mistake, when tempted thereto by the opportunity of the moment, he made a +conditional bargain with the said Ida, whereby she was placed in pledge for a +sum of thirty thousand pounds, well knowing that her honour would be equal to +the test, and that if convenient to him she would be ready to pay the debt. He +made a huge mistake, for had he been quite a gentleman, he would have known +that he could not have adopted a worse road to the affections of a lady. Had he +been content to advance the money and then by-and-bye, though even that would +not have been gentlemanlike, have gently let transpire what he had done at +great personal expense and inconvenience, her imagination might have been +touched and her gratitude would certainly have been excited. But the idea of +bargaining, the idea of purchase, which after what had passed could never be +put aside, would of necessity be fatal to any hope of tender feeling. Shylock +might get his bond, but of his own act he had debarred himself from the +possibility of ever getting more. +</p> + +<p> +Now Edward Cossey was not lacking in that afterglow of refinement which is left +by a course of public school and university education. No education can make a +gentleman of a man who is not a gentleman at heart, for whether his station in +life be that of a ploughboy or an Earl, the gentleman, like the poet, is born +and not made. But it can and does if he be of an observant nature, give him a +certain insight into the habits of thought and probable course of action of the +members of that class to which he outwardly, and by repute, belongs. Such an +insight Edward Cossey possessed, and at the present moment its possession was +troubling him very much. His trading instincts, the desire bred in him to get +something for his money, had led him to make the bargain, but now that it was +done his better judgment rose up against it. For the truth may as well be told +at once, although he would as yet scarcely acknowledge it to himself, Edward +Cossey was already violently enamoured of Ida. He was by nature a passionate +man, and as it chanced she had proved the magnet with power to draw his +passion. But as the reader is aware, there existed another complication in his +life for which he was not perhaps entirely responsible. When still quite a +youth in mind, he had suddenly found himself the object of the love of a +beautiful and enthralling woman, and had after a more or less severe struggle +yielded to the temptation, as, out of a book, many young men would have done. +Now to be the object of the violent affection of such a woman as Belle Quest is +no doubt very flattering and even charming for a while. But if that affection +is not returned in kind, if in short the gentleman does not love the lady quite +as warmly as she loves him, then in course of time the charm is apt to vanish +and even the flattery to cease to give pleasure. Also, when as in the present +case the connection is wrong in itself and universally condemned by society, +the affection which can still triumph and endure on both sides must be of a +very strong and lasting order. Even an unprincipled man dislikes the acting of +one long lie such as an intimacy of the sort necessarily involves, and if the +man happens to be rather weak than unprincipled, the dislike is apt to turn to +loathing, some portion of which will certainly be reflected on to the partner +of his ill-doing. +</p> + +<p> +These are general principles, but the case of Edward Cossey offered no +exception to them, indeed it illustrated them well. He had never been in love +with Mrs. Quest; to begin with she had shown herself too much in love with him +to necessitate any display of emotion on his part. Her violent and unreasoning +passion wearied and alarmed him, he never knew what she would do next and was +kept in a continual condition of anxiety and irritation as to what the morrow +might bring forth. Too sure of her unaltering attachment to have any pretext +for jealousy, he found it exceedingly irksome to be obliged to avoid giving +cause for it on his side, which, however, he dreaded doing lest he should +thereby bring about some overwhelming catastrophe. Mrs. Quest was, as he well +knew, not a woman who would pause to consider consequences if once her +passionate jealousy were really aroused. It was even doubtful if the certainty +of her own ruin would check her. Her love was everything to her, it was her +life, the thing she lived for, and rather than tamely lose it, it seemed +extremely probable to Edward Cossey that she would not hesitate to face shame, +or even death. Indeed it was through this great passion of hers, and through it +only, that he could hope to influence her. If he could persuade her to release +him, by pointing out that a continuance of the intrigue must involve him in +ruin of some sort, all might yet go well with him. If not his future was a dark +one. +</p> + +<p> +This was the state of affairs before he became attached to Ida de la Molle, +after which the horizon grew blacker than ever. At first he tried to get out of +the difficulty by avoiding Ida, but it did not answer. She exercised an +irresistible attraction over him. Her calm and stately presence was to him what +the sight of mountain snows is to one scorched by continual heat. He was weary +of passionate outbursts, tears, agonies, alarms, presentiments, and all the +paraphernalia of secret love. It appeared to him, looking up at the beautiful +snow, that if once he could reach it life would be all sweetness and light, +that there would be no more thirst, no more fear, and no more forced marches +through those ill-odoured quagmires of deceit. The more he allowed his +imagination to dwell upon the picture, the fiercer grew his longing to possess +it. Also, he knew well enough that to marry a woman like Ida de la Molle would +be the greatest blessing that could happen to him, for she would of necessity +lift him up above himself. She had little money it was true, but that was a +very minor matter to him, and she had birth and breeding and beauty, and a +presence which commands homage. And so it came to pass that he fell deeply and +yet more deeply in love with Ida, and that as he did so his connection with +Mrs. Quest (although we have seen him but yesterday offering in a passing fit +of tenderness and remorse to run away with her) became more and more irksome to +him. And now, as he drove leisurely back to Boisingham, he felt that he had +imperilled all his hopes by a rash indulgence in his trading instincts. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the road took a turn and a sight was revealed that did not tend to +improve his already irritable mood. Just here the roadway was bordered by a +deep bank covered with trees which sloped down to the valley of the Ell, at +this time of the year looking its loveliest in the soft autumn lights. And +here, seated on a bank of turf beneath the shadow of a yellowing chestnut tree, +in such position as to get a view of the green valley and flashing river where +cattle red and white stood chewing the still luxuriant aftermath, was none +other than Ida herself, and what was more, Ida accompanied by Colonel Quaritch. +They were seated on campstools, and in front of each of them was an easel. +Clearly they were painting together, for as Edward gazed, the Colonel rose, +came up close behind his companion’s stool, made a ring of his thumb and +first finger, gazed critically through it at the lady’s performance, then +sadly shook his head and made some remark. Thereupon Ida turned round and began +an animated discussion. +</p> + +<p> +“Hang me,” said Edward to himself, “if she has not taken up +with that confounded old military frump. Painting together! Ah, I know what +that means. Well, I should have thought that if there was one man more than +another whom she would have disliked, it would have been that battered-looking +Colonel.” +</p> + +<p> +He pulled up his horse and reflected for a moment, then handing the reins to +his servant, jumped out, and climbing through a gap in the fence walked up to +the tree. So engrossed were they in their argument, that they neither saw nor +heard him. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nonsense, Colonel Quaritch, perfect nonsense, if you will +forgive me for telling you so,” Ida was saying with warmth. “It is +all very well for you to complain that my trees are a blur, and the castle +nothing but a splotch, but I am looking at the water, and if I am looking at +the water, it is quite impossible that I should see the trees and the cows +otherwise than I have rendered them on the canvas. True art is to paint what +the painter sees and as he sees it.” +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Quaritch shook his head and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“The cant of the impressionist school,” he said sadly; “on +the contrary, the business of the artist is to paint what he knows to be +there,” and he gazed complacently at his own canvas, which had the +appearance of a spirited drawing of a fortified place, or of the contents of a +child’s Noah’s ark, so stiff, so solid, so formidable were its +outlines, trees and animals. +</p> + +<p> +Ida shrugged her shoulders, laughed merrily, and turned round to find herself +face to face with Edward Cossey. She started back, and her expression +hardened—then she stretched out her hand and said, “How do you +do?” in her very coldest tones. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Miss de la Molle?” he said, assuming as unconcerned +an air as he could, and bowing stiffly to Harold Quaritch, who returned the bow +and went back to his canvas, which was placed a few paces off. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw you painting,” went on Edward Cossey in a low tone, +“so I thought I would come and tell you that I have settled the matter +with Mr. de la Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed,” answered Ida, hitting viciously at a wasp with her +paint brush. “Well, I hope that you will find the investment a +satisfactory one. And now, if you please, do not let us talk any more about +money, because I am quite tired of the subject.” Then raising her voice +she went on, “Come here, Colonel Quaritch, and Mr. Cossey shall judge +between us,” and she pointed to her picture. +</p> + +<p> +Edward glanced at the Colonel with no amiable air. “I know nothing about +art,” he said, “and I am afraid that I must be getting on. +Good-morning,” and taking off his hat to Ida, he turned and went. +</p> + +<p> +“Umph,” said the Colonel, looking after him with a quizzical +expression, “that gentleman seems rather short in his temper. Wants +knocking about the world a bit, I should say. But I beg your pardon, I suppose +that he is a friend of yours, Miss de la Molle?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is an acquaintance of mine,” answered Ida with emphasis. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /> +THE TIGER SHOWS HER CLAWS</h2> + +<p> +After this very chilling reception at the hands of the object of his affection, +Edward Cossey continued his drive in an even worse temper than before. He +reached his rooms, had some luncheon, and then in pursuance of a previous +engagement went over to the Oaks to see Mrs. Quest. +</p> + +<p> +He found her waiting for him in the drawing-room. She was standing at the +window with her hands behind her, a favourite attitude of hers. As soon as the +door was shut, she turned, came up to him, and grasped his hand affectionately +between her own. +</p> + +<p> +“It is an age since I have seen you, Edward,” she said, “one +whole day. Really, when I do not see you, I do not live, I only exist.” +</p> + +<p> +He freed himself from her clasp with a quick movement. “Really, +Belle,” he said impatiently, “you might be a little more careful +than to go through that performance in front of an open window—especially +as the gardener must have seen the whole thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t much care if he did,” she said defiantly. +“What does it matter? My husband is certainly not in a position to make a +fuss about other people.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter?” he said, stamping his foot. “What does +it <i>not</i> matter? If you have no care for your good name, do you suppose +that I am indifferent to mine?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Quest opened her large violet eyes to the fullest extent, and a curious +light was reflected from them. +</p> + +<p> +“You have grown wonderfully cautious all of a sudden, Edward,” she +said meaningly. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the use of my being cautious when you are so reckless? I tell +you what it is, Belle. We are talked of all over this gossiping town, and I +don’t like it, and what is more, once and for all, I won’t have it. +If you will not be more careful, I will break with you altogether, and that is +the long and short of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you been this morning?” she asked in the same ominously +calm voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been to Honham Castle on a matter of business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, and yesterday you were there on a matter of pleasure. Now did you +happen to see Ida in the course of your business?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, looking her full in the face, “I did see +her, what about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“By appointment, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not by appointment. Have you done your catechism?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—and now I am going to preach a homily on it. I see through you +perfectly, Edward. You are getting tired of me, and you want to be rid of me. I +tell you plainly that you are not going the right way to work about it. No +woman, especially if she be in my—unfortunate position, can tamely bear +to see herself discarded for another. Certainly I cannot—and I caution +you—I caution you to be careful, because when I think of such a thing I +am not quite myself,” and suddenly, without the slightest warning (for +her face had been hard and cold as stone), she burst into a flood of tears. +</p> + +<p> +Now Edward Cossey was naturally somewhat moved at this sight. Of course he did +his best to console her, though with no great results, for she was still +sobbing bitterly when suddenly there came a knock at the door. Mrs. Quest +turned her face towards the wall and pretended to be reading a letter, and he +tried to look as unconcerned as possible. +</p> + +<p> +“A telegram for you, sir,” said the girl with a sharp glance at her +mistress. “The telegraph boy brought it on here, when he heard that you +were not at home, because he said he would be sure to find you here—and +please, sir, he hopes that you will give him sixpence for bringing it round, as +he thought it might be important.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward felt in his pocket and gave the girl a shilling, telling her to say that +there was no answer. As soon as she had gone, he opened the telegram. It was +from his sister in London, and ran as follows: +</p> + +<p> +“Come up to town at once. Father has had a stroke of paralysis. Shall +expect you by the seven o’clock train.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” said Mrs. Quest, noting the alarm on his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my father is very ill. He has had a stroke of paralysis, and I must +go to town by the next train.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you be long away?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know. How can I tell? Good-bye, Belle. I am sorry that we +should have had this scene just as I am going, but I can’t help +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Edward,” she said, catching him by the arm and turning her +tear-stained face up towards his own, “you are not angry with me, are +you? Do not let us part in anger. How can I help being jealous when I love you +so? Tell me that you do not hate me—or I shall be wretched all the time +that you are away.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, of course not—but I must say, I wish that you would not +make such shocking scenes—good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” she answered as she gave him her shaking hand. +“Good-bye, my dear. If only you knew what I feel here,” she pointed +to her breast, “you would make excuses for me.” Almost before she +had finished her sentence he was gone. She stood near the door, listening to +his retreating footsteps till they had quite died away, and then flung herself +in the chair and rested her head upon her hands. “I shall lose +him,” she said to herself in the bitterness of her heart. “I know I +shall. What chance have I against her? He already cares for Ida a great deal +more than he does for me, in the end he will break from me and marry her. Oh, I +had rather see him dead—and myself too.” +</p> + +<p> +Half-an-hour later, Mr. Quest came in. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Cossey?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Cossey’s father has had a stroke of paralysis and he has gone +up to London to look after him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said Mr. Quest. “Well, if the old gentleman dies, your +friend will be one of the wealthiest men in England.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, so much the better for him. I am sure money is a great blessing. +It protects one from so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr. Quest with emphasis, “so much the better for +him, and all connected with him. Why have you been crying? Because Cossey has +gone away—or have you quarrelled with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that I have been crying? If I have, it’s my +affair. At any rate my tears are my own.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, they are—I do not wish to interfere with your +crying—cry when you like. It will be lucky for Cossey if that old father +of his dies just now, because he wants money.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he want money for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he has undertaken to pay off the mortgages on the Castle +estates.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why has he done that, as an investment?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it is a rotten investment. I believe that he has done it because he +is in love with Miss de la Molle, and is naturally anxious to ingratiate +himself with her. Don’t you know that? I thought perhaps that was what +you had been crying about?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not true,” she answered, her lips quivering with pain. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest laughed gently. “I think you must have lost your power of +observation, which used to be sufficiently keen. However, of course it does not +matter to you. It will in many ways be a most suitable marriage, and I am sure +they will make a very handsome couple.” +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer, and turned her back to hide the workings of her face. For a +few moments her husband stood looking at her, a gentle smile playing on his +refined features. Then remarking that he must go round to the office, but would +be back in time for tea, he went, reflecting with satisfaction that he had +given his wife something to think about which would scarcely be to her taste. +</p> + +<p> +As for Belle Quest, she waited till the door had closed, and then turned round +towards it and spoke aloud, as though she were addressing her vanished husband. +</p> + +<p> +“I hate you,” she said, with bitter emphasis. “I hate you. +You have ruined my life, and now you torment me as though I were a lost soul. +Oh, I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead!” +</p> + +<p> +On reaching his office, Mr. Quest found two letters for him, one of which had +just arrived by the afternoon post. The first was addressed in the +Squire’s handwriting and signed with his big seal, and the other bore a +superscription, the sight of which made him turn momentarily faint. Taking up +this last with a visible effort, he opened it. +</p> + +<p> +It was from the “Tiger,” alias Edith, and its coarse contents need +not be written here. Put shortly they came to this. She was being summoned for +debt. She wanted more money and would have it. If five hundred pounds were not +forthcoming and that shortly—within a week, indeed—she threatened +with no uncertain voice to journey down to Boisingham and put him to an open +shame. +</p> + +<p> +“Great heavens!” he said, “this woman will destroy me. What a +devil! And she’d be as good as her word unless I found her the money. I +must go up to town at once. I wonder how she got that idea into her head. It +makes me shudder to think of her in Boisingham,” and he dropped his face +upon his hands and groaned in the bitterness of his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“It is hard,” he thought to himself; “here have I for years +and years been striving and toiling, labouring to become a respectable and +respected member of society, but always this old folly haunts my steps and +drags me down, and by heaven I believe that it will destroy me after +all.” With a sigh he lifted his head, and taking a sheet of paper wrote +on it, “I have received your letter, and will come and see you to-morrow +or the next day.” This note he placed in an envelope, which he directed +to the high-sounding name of Mrs. d’Aubigne, Rupert St., +Pimlico—and put it in his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +Then with another sigh he took up the Squire’s letter, and glanced +through it. Its length was considerable, but in substance it announced his +acceptance of the arrangement proposed by Mr. Edward Cossey, and requested that +he would prepare the necessary deeds to be submitted to his lawyers. Mr. Quest +read the letter absently enough, and threw it down with a little laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“What a queer world it is,” he said to himself, “and what a +ludicrous side there is to it all. Here is Cossey advancing money to get a hold +over Ida de la Molle, whom he means to marry if he can, and who is probably +playing her own hand. Here is Belle madly in love with Cossey, who will break +her heart. Here am I loving Belle, who hates me, and playing everybody’s +game in order to advance my own, and become a respected member of a society I +am superior to. Here is the Squire blundering about like a walrus in a +horse-pond, and fancying everything is being conducted for his sole advantage, +and that all the world revolves round Honham Castle. And there at the end of +the chain is this female harpy, Edith Jones, otherwise d’Aubigne, alias +the Tiger, gnawing at my vitals and holding my fortunes in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! it’s a queer world and full of combinations, but the worst of +it is that plot as we will the solution of them does not rest with us, no +—not with us.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /> +THE HAPPY DAYS</h2> + +<p> +This is a troublesome world enough, but thanks to that mitigating fate which +now and again interferes to our advantage, there do come to most of us times +and periods of existence which, if they do not quite fulfil all the conditions +of ideal happiness, yet go near enough to that end to permit in after days of +our imagining that they did so. I say to most of us, but in doing so I allude +chiefly to those classes commonly known as the “upper,” by which is +understood those who have enough bread to put into their mouths and clothes to +warm them; those, too, who are not the present subjects of remorseless and +hideous ailments, who are not daily agonised by the sight of their famished +offspring; who are not doomed to beat out their lives against the madhouse +bars, or to see their hearts’ beloved and their most cherished hope +wither towards that cold space from whence no message comes. For such +unfortunates, and for their million-numbered kin upon the globe—the +victims of war, famine, slave trade, oppression, usury, over-population, and +the curse of competition, the rays of light must be few indeed; few and far +between, only just enough to save them from utter hopelessness. And even to the +favoured ones, the well warmed and well fed, who are to a great extent lifted +by fortune or by their native strength and wit above the degradations of the +world, this light of happiness is but as the gleam of stars, uncertain, fitful, +and continually lost in clouds. Only the utterly selfish or the utterly +ignorant can be happy with the happiness of savages or children, however +prosperous their own affairs, for to the rest, to those who think and have +hearts to feel, and imagination to realise, and a redeeming human sympathy to +be touched, the mere weight of the world’s misery pressing round them +like an atmosphere, the mere echoes of the groans of the dying and the cries of +the children are sufficient, and more than sufficient, to dull, aye, to destroy +the promise of their joys. But, even to this finer sort there do come rare +periods of almost complete happiness—little summers in the tempestuous +climate of our years, green-fringed wells of water in our desert, pure northern +lights breaking in upon our gloom. And strange as it may seem, these breadths +of happy days, when the old questions cease to torment, and a man can trust in +Providence and without one qualifying thought bless the day that he was born, +are very frequently connected with the passion which is known as love; that +mysterious symbol of our double nature, that strange tree of life which, with +its roots sucking their strength from the dust-heap of humanity, yet springs +aloft above our level and bears its blooms in the face of heaven. +</p> + +<p> +Why it is and what it means we shall perhaps never know for certain. But it +does suggest itself, that as the greatest terror of our being lies in the utter +loneliness, the unspeakable identity, and unchanging self-completeness of every +living creature, so the greatest hope and the intensest natural yearning of our +hearts go out towards that passion which in its fire heats has the strength, if +only for a little while, to melt down the barriers of our individuality and +give to the soul something of the power for which it yearns of losing its sense +of solitude in converse with its kind. For alone we are from infancy to +death!—we, for the most part, grow not more near together but rather +wider apart with the widening years. Where go the sympathies between the parent +and the child, and where is the close old love of brother for his brother? +</p> + +<p> +The invisible fates are continually wrapping us round and round with the +winding sheets of our solitude, and none may know all our heart save He who +made it. We are set upon the world as the stars are set upon the sky, and +though in following our fated orbits we pass and repass, and each shine out on +each, yet are we the same lonely lights, rolling obedient to laws we cannot +understand, through spaces of which none may mark the measure. +</p> + +<p> +Only, as says the poet in words of truth and beauty: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Only but this is rare—<br /> +When a beloved hand is laid in ours,<br /> +When jaded with the rush and glare<br /> +Of the interminable hours,<br /> +Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear;<br /> +When our world-deafened ear<br /> +Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed<br /> +A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast<br /> +And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again—<br /> +And what we mean we say and what we would we know. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="poem"> +And then he thinks he knows<br /> +The hills where his life rose<br /> +And the sea whereunto it goes.” +</p> + +<p> +Some such Indian summer of delight and forgetfulness of trouble, and the tragic +condition of our days, was now opening to Harold Quaritch and Ida de la Molle. +Every day, or almost every day, they met and went upon their painting +expeditions and argued the point of the validity or otherwise of the +impressionist doctrines of art. Not that of all this painting came anything +very wonderful, although in the evening the Colonel would take out his canvases +and contemplate their rigid proportions with singular pride and satisfaction. +It was a little weakness of his to think that he could paint, and one of which +he was somewhat tenacious. Like many another man he could do a number of things +exceedingly well and one thing very badly, and yet had more faith in that bad +thing than in all the good. +</p> + +<p> +But, strange to say, although he affected to believe so firmly in his own style +of art and hold Ida’s in such cheap regard, it was a little painting of +the latter’s that he valued most, and which was oftenest put upon his +easel for purposes of solitary admiration. It was one of those very +impressionist productions that faded away in the distance, and full of soft +grey tints, such as his soul loathed. There was a tree with a blot of brown +colour on it, and altogether (though as a matter of fact a clever thing enough) +from his point of view of art it was utterly “anathema.” This +little picture in oils faintly shadowed out himself sitting at his easel, +working in the soft grey of the autumn evening, and Ida had painted it and +given it to him, and that was why he admired it so much. For to speak the +truth, our friend the Colonel was going, going fast—sinking out of sight +of his former self into the depths of the love that possessed his soul. +</p> + +<p> +He was a very simple and pure-minded man. Strange as it may appear, since that +first unhappy business of his youth, of which he had never been heard to speak, +no living woman had been anything to him. Therefore, instead of becoming +further vulgarised and hardened by association with all the odds and ends of +womankind that a man travelling about the globe comes into contact with, +generally not greatly to his improvement, his faith had found time to grow up +stronger even than at first. Once more he looked upon woman as a young man +looks before he has had bitter experience of the world—as a being to be +venerated and almost worshipped, as something better, brighter, purer than +himself, hardly to be won, and when won to be worn like a jewel prized at once +for value and for beauty. +</p> + +<p> +Now this is a dangerous state of mind for a man of three or four and forty to +fall into, because it is a soft state, and this is a world in which the softest +are apt to get the worst of it. At four and forty a man, of course, should be +hard enough to get the better of other people, as indeed he generally is. +</p> + +<p> +When Harold Quaritch, after that long interval, set his eyes again upon +Ida’s face, he felt a curious change come over him. All the vague ideas +and more or less poetical aspirations which for five long years had gathered +themselves about that memory, took shape and form, and in his heart he knew he +loved her. Then as the days went on and he came to know her better, he grew to +love her more and more, till at last his whole heart went out towards his late +found treasure, and she became more than life to him, more than aught else had +been or could be. Serene and happy were those days which they spent in painting +and talking as they wandered about the Honham Castle grounds. By degrees +Ida’s slight but perceptible hardness of manner wore away, and she stood +out what she was, one of the sweetest and most natural women in England, and +with it all, a woman having brains and force of character. +</p> + +<p> +Soon Harold discovered that her life had been anything but an easy one. The +constant anxiety about money and her father’s affairs had worn her down +and hardened her till, as she said, she began to feel as though she had no +heart left. Then too he heard all her trouble about her dead and only brother +James, how dearly she had loved him, and what a sore trouble he had been with +his extravagant ways and his continual demands for money, which had to be met +somehow or other. At last came the crushing blow of his death, and with it the +certainty of the extinction of the male line of the de la Molles, and she said +that for a while she had believed her father would never hold up his head +again. But his vitality was equal to the shock, and after a time the debts +began to come in, which although he was not legally bound to do so, her father +would insist upon meeting to the last farthing for the honour of the family and +out of respect for his son’s memory. This increased their money troubles, +which had gone on and on, always getting worse as the agricultural depression +deepened, till things had reached their present position. +</p> + +<p> +All this she told him bit by bit, only keeping back from him the last +development of the drama with the part that Edward Cossey had played in it, and +sad enough it made him to think of that ancient house of de la Molle vanishing +into the night of ruin. +</p> + +<p> +Also she told him something of her own life, how companionless it had been +since her brother went into the army, for she had no real friends about Honham, +and not even an acquaintance of her own tastes, which, without being gushingly +so, were decidedly artistic and intellectual. “I should have +wished,” she said, “to try to do something in the world. I daresay +I should have failed, for I know that very few women meet with a success which +is worth having. But still I should have liked to try, for I am not afraid of +work. But the current of my life is against it; the only thing that is open to +me is to strive and make both ends meet upon an income which is always growing +smaller, and to save my father, poor dear, from as much worry as I can. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t think that I am complaining,” she went on hurriedly, +“or that I want to rush into pleasure-seeking, because I do not—a +little of that goes a long way with me. Besides, I know that I have many things +to be thankful for. Few women have such a kind father as mine, though we do +quarrel at times. Of course we cannot have everything our own way in this +world, and I daresay that I do not make the best of things. Still, at times it +does seem a little hard that I should be forced to lead such a narrow life, +just when I feel that I could work in a wide one.” +</p> + +<p> +Harold looked up at her face and saw that a tear was gathering in her dark eyes +and in his heart he registered a vow that if by any means it ever lay within +his power to improve her lot he would give everything he had to do it. But all +he said was: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be downhearted, Miss de la Molle. Things change in a +wonderful way, and often they mend when they look worst. You know,” he +went on a little nervously, “I am an old-fashioned sort of individual, +and I believe in Providence and all that sort of thing, you see, and that +matters generally come pretty well straight in the long run if people deserve +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida shook her head a little doubtfully and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” she said, “but I suppose that we do not deserve +it. Anyhow, our good fortune is a long while coming,” and the +conversation dropped. +</p> + +<p> +Still her friend’s strong belief in the efficacy of Providence, and +generally his masculine sturdiness, did cheer her up considerably. Even the +strongest women, if they have any element that can be called feminine left in +them, want somebody of the other sex to lean on, and she was no exception to +the rule. Besides, if Ida’s society had charms for Colonel Quaritch, his +society had almost if not quite as much charm for her. It may be remembered +that on the night when they first met she had spoken to herself of him as the +kind of man whom she would like to marry. The thought was a passing one, and it +may be safely said that she had not since entertained any serious idea of +marriage in connection with Colonel Quaritch. The only person whom there seemed +to be the slightest probability of her marrying was Edward Cossey, and the mere +thought of this was enough to make the whole idea of matrimony repugnant to +her. +</p> + +<p> +But this notwithstanding, day by day she found Harold Quaritch’s society +more congenial. Herself by nature, and also to a certain degree by education, a +cultured woman, she rejoiced to find in him an entirely kindred spirit. For +beneath his somewhat rugged and unpromising exterior, Harold Quaritch hid a +vein of considerable richness. Few of those who associated with him would have +believed that the man had a side to his nature which was almost poetic, or that +he was a ripe and finished scholar, and, what is more, not devoid of a certain +dry humour. Then he had travelled far and seen much of men and manners, +gathering up all sorts of quaint odds and ends of information. But perhaps +rather than these accomplishments it was the man’s transparent honesty +and simple-mindedness, his love for what is true and noble, and his contempt of +what is mean and base, which, unwittingly peeping out through his conversation, +attracted her more than all the rest. Ida was no more a young girl, to be +caught by a handsome face or dazzled by a superficial show of mind. She was a +thoughtful, ripened woman, quick to perceive, and with the rare talent of +judgment wherewith to weigh the proceeds of her perception. In plain, +middle-aged Colonel Quaritch she found a very perfect gentleman, and valued him +accordingly. +</p> + +<p> +And so day grew into day through that lovely autumn-tide. Edward Cossey was +away in London, Quest had ceased from troubling, and journeying together +through the sweet shadows of companionship, by slow but sure degrees they drew +near to the sunlit plain of love. For it is not common, indeed, it is so +uncommon as to be almost impossible, that a man and woman between whom there +stands no natural impediment can halt for very long in those shadowed ways. +There is throughout all nature an impulse that pushes ever onwards towards +completion, and from completion to fruition. Liking leads to sympathy, sympathy +points the path to love, and then love demands its own. This is the order of +affairs, and down its well-trodden road these two were quickly travelling. +</p> + +<p> +George the wily saw it, and winked his eye with solemn meaning. The Squire also +saw something of it, not being wanting in knowledge of the world, and after +much cogitation and many solitary walks elected to leave matters alone for the +present. He liked Colonel Quaritch, and thought that it would be a good thing +for Ida to get married, though the idea of parting from her troubled his heart +sorely. Whether or no it would be desirable from his point of view that she +should marry the Colonel was a matter on which he had not as yet fully made up +his mind. Sometimes he thought it would, and sometimes he thought the reverse. +Then at times vague ideas suggested by Edward Cossey’s behaviour about +the loan would come to puzzle him. But at present he was so much in the dark +that he could come to no absolute decision, so with unaccustomed wisdom for so +headstrong and precipitate a man, he determined to refrain from interference, +and for a while at any rate allow events to take their natural course. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /> +THE HOUSE WITH THE RED PILLARS</h2> + +<p> +Two days after his receipt of the second letter from the “Tiger,” +Mr. Quest announced to his wife that he was going to London on business +connected with the bank, and expected to be away for a couple of nights. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed straight out. “Really, William,” she said, “you +are a most consummate actor. I wonder that you think it worth while to keep up +the farce with me. Well, I hope that Edith is not going to be very expensive +this time, because we don’t seem to be too rich just now, and you see +there is no more of my money for her to have.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest winced visibly beneath this bitter satire, which his wife uttered +with a smile of infantile innocence playing upon her face, but he made no +reply. She knew too much. Only in his heart he wondered what fate she would +mete out to him if ever she got possession of the whole truth, and the thought +made him tremble. It seemed to him that the owner of that baby face could be +terribly merciless in her vengeance, and that those soft white hands would +close round the throat of a man she hated and utterly destroy him. Now, if +never before, he realised that between him and this woman there must be enmity +and a struggle to the death; and yet strangely enough he still loved her! +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest reached London about three o’clock, and his first act was to +drive to Cossey and Son’s, where he was informed that old Mr. Cossey was +much better, and having heard that he was coming to town had sent to say that +he particularly wished to see him, especially about the Honham Castle estates. +Accordingly Mr. Quest drove on to the old gentleman’s mansion in +Grosvenor Street, where he asked for Mr. Edward Cossey. The footman said that +Mr. Edward was upstairs, and showed him to a study while he went to tell him of +the arrival of his visitor. Mr. Quest glanced round the luxuriously-furnished +room, which he saw was occupied by Edward himself, for some letters directed in +his handwriting lay upon the desk, and a velveteen lounging coat that Mr. Quest +recognised as belonging to him was hanging over the back of a chair. Mr. +Quest’s eye wandering over this coat, was presently caught by the corner +of a torn flap of an envelope which projected from one of the pockets. It was +of a peculiar bluish tinge, in fact of a hue much affected by his wife. +Listening for a moment to hear if anybody was coming, he stepped to the coat +and extracted the letter. It <i>was</i> in his wife’s handwriting, so he +took the liberty of hastily transferring it to his own pocket. +</p> + +<p> +In another minute Edward Cossey entered, and the two men shook hands. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Quest?” said Edward. “I think that the old +man is going to pull through this bout. He is helpless but keen as a knife, and +has all the important matters from the bank referred to him. I believe that he +will last a year yet, but he will scarcely allow me out of his sight. He +preaches away about business the whole day long and says that he wants to +communicate the fruits of his experience to me before it is too late. He wishes +to see you, so if you will you had better come up.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly they went upstairs to a large and luxurious bedroom on the first +floor, where the stricken man lay upon a patent couch. +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Quest and Edward Cossey entered, a lady, old Mr. Cossey’s eldest +daughter, put down a paper out of which she had been reading the money article +aloud, and, rising, informed her father that Mr. Quest had come. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Quest?” said the old man in a high thin voice. “Ah, yes, +I want to see Mr. Quest very much. Go away now, Anna, you can come back +by-and-by, business before pleasure—most instructive, though, that sudden +fall in American railways. But I thought it would come and I got Cossey’s +clear of them,” and he sniffed with satisfaction and looked as though he +would have rubbed his hands if he had not been physically incapacitated from so +doing. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest came forward to where the invalid lay. He was a gaunt old man with +white hair and a pallid face, which looked almost ghastly in contrast to his +black velvet skull cap. So far as Mr. Quest could see, he appeared to be almost +totally paralysed, with the exception of his head, neck, and left arm, which he +could still move a little. His black eyes, however, were full of life and +intelligence, and roamed about the room without ceasing. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Quest?” he said; “sorry that I +can’t shake hands with you but you see I have been stricken down, though +my brain is clear enough, clearer than ever it was, I think. And I ain’t +going to die yet—don’t think that I am, because I ain’t. I +may live two years more—the doctor says I am sure to live one at least. A +lot of money can be made in a year if you keep your eyes open. Once I made a +hundred and twenty thousand for Cossey’s in one year; and I may do it +again before I die. I may make a lot of money yet, ah, a lot of money!” +and his voice went off into a thin scream that was not pleasant to listen to. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure I hope you will, sir,” said Mr. Quest politely. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you; take that for good luck, you know. Well, well, Mr. Quest, +things haven’t done so bad down in your part of the world; not at all bad +considering the times. I thought we should have had to sell that old de la +Molle up, but I hear that he is going to pay us off. Can’t imagine who +has been fool enough to lend him the money. A client of yours, eh? Well, +he’ll lose it I expect, and serve him right for his pains. But I am not +sorry, for it is unpleasant for a house like ours to have to sell an old client +up. Not that his account is worth much, nothing at all—more trouble than +profit—or we should not have done it. He’s no better than a +bankrupt and the insolvency court is the best place for him. The world is to +the rich and the fulness thereof. There’s an insolvency court especially +provided for de la Molle and his like—empty old windbags with long +sounding names; let him go there and make room for the men who have made +money—hee! hee! hee!” And once more his voice went off into a sort +of scream. +</p> + +<p> +Here Mr. Quest, who had enjoyed about enough of this kind of thing, changed the +conversation by beginning to comment on various business transactions which he +had been conducting on behalf of the house. The old man listened with the +greatest interest, his keen black eyes attentively fixed upon the +speaker’s face, till at last Mr. Quest happened to mention that amongst +others a certain Colonel Quaritch had opened an account with their branch of +the bank. +</p> + +<p> +“Quaritch?” said the old man eagerly, “I know that name. Was +he ever in the 105th Foot?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr. Quest, who knew everything about everybody, +“he was an ensign in that regiment during the Indian Mutiny, where he was +badly wounded when still quite young, and got the Victoria Cross. I found it +all out the other day.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the man; that’s the man,” said old Mr. Cossey, +jerking his head in an excited manner. “He’s a blackguard; I tell +you he’s a blackguard; he jilted my wife’s sister. She was twenty +years younger than my wife—jilted her a week before her marriage, and +would never give a reason, and she went mad and is in a madhouse how. I should +like to have the ruining of him for it. I should like to drive him into the +poor-house.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest and Edward looked at each other, and the old man let his head fall +back exhausted. +</p> + +<p> +“Now good-bye, Mr. Quest, they’ll give you a bit of dinner +downstairs,” he said at length. “I’m getting tired, and I +want to hear the rest of that money article. You’ve done very well for +Cossey’s and Cossey’s will do well for you, for we always pay by +results; that’s the way to get good work and make a lot of money. Mind, +Edward, if ever you get a chance don’t forget to pay that blackguard +Quaritch out pound for pound, and twice as much again for compound +interest—hee! hee! hee!” +</p> + +<p> +“The old gentleman keeps his head for business pretty well,” said +Mr. Quest to Edward Cossey as soon as they were well outside the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Keeps his head?” answered Edward, “I should just think he +did. He’s a regular shark now, that’s what he is. I really believe +that if he knew I had found thirty thousand for old de la Molle he would cut me +off with a shilling.” Here Mr. Quest pricked up his ears. “And +he’s close, too,” he went on, “so close that it is almost +impossible to get anything out of him. I am not particular, but upon my word I +think that it is rather disgusting to see an old man with one foot in the grave +hanging on to his moneybags as though he expected to float to heaven on +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr. Quest, “it is a curious thing to think of, +but, you see, money <i>is</i> his heaven.” +</p> + +<p> +“By the way,” said Edward, as they entered the study, +“that’s queer about that fellow Quaritch, isn’t it? I never +liked the look of him, with his pious air.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very queer, Mr. Cossey,” said he, “but do you know, I almost +think that there must be some mistake? I do not believe that Colonel Quaritch +is the man to do things of that sort without a very good reason. However, +nobody can tell, and it is a long while ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“A long while ago or not I mean to let him know my opinion of him when I +get back to Boisingham,” said Edward viciously. “By Jove! +it’s twenty minutes past six, and in this establishment we dine at the +pleasant hour of half-past. Won’t you come and wash your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest had a very good dinner, and contrary to his custom drank the best +part of a bottle of old port after it. He had an unpleasant business to face +that evening, and felt as though his nerves required bracing. About ten +o’clock he took his leave, and getting into a hansom bade the cabman +drive to Rupert Street, Pimlico, where he arrived in due course. Having +dismissed his cab, he walked slowly down the street till he reached a small +house with red pillars to the doorway. Here he rang the bell. The door was +opened by a middle-aged woman with a cunning face and a simper. Mr. Quest knew +her well. Nominally the Tiger’s servant, she was really her jackal. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mrs. d’Aubigne at home, Ellen?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” she answered with a simper, “but she will be back +from the music hall before long. She does not appear in the second part. But +please come in, sir, you are quite a stranger here, and I am sure that Mrs. +d’Aubigne will be very glad to see you, for she have been dreadfully +pressed for money of late, poor dear; nobody knows the trouble that I have had +with those sharks of tradesmen.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time they were upstairs in the drawing-room, and Ellen had turned the +gas up. The room was well furnished in a certain gaudy style, which included a +good deal of gilt and plate glass. Evidently, however, it had not been tidied +since the Tiger had left it, for there on the table were cards thrown this way +and that amidst an array of empty soda-water bottles, glasses with dregs of +brandy in them, and other <i>debris</i>, such as the ends of cigars and +cigarettes, and a little copper and silver money. On the sofa, too, lay a +gorgeous tea gown resplendent with pink satin, also a pair of gold embroidered +slippers, not over small, and an odd gant de Suede, with such an extraordinary +number of buttons that it almost looked like the cast-off skin of a brown +snake. +</p> + +<p> +“I see that your mistress has been having company, Ellen,” he said +coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, just a few lady friends to cheer her up a bit,” answered +the woman, with her abominable simper; “poor dear, she do get that low +with you away so much, and no wonder; and then all these money troubles, and +she night by night working hard for her living at the music hall. Often and +often have I seen her crying over it all——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said he, breaking in upon her eloquence, “I suppose +that the lady friends smoke cigars. Well, clear away this mess and leave +me—stop, give me a brandy-and-soda first. I will wait for your +mistress.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman stopped talking and did as she was bid, for there was a look in Mr. +Quest’s eye which she did not quite like. So having placed the +brandy-and-soda-water before him she left him to his own reflections. +</p> + +<p> +Apparently they were not very pleasant ones. He walked round the room, which +was reeking of patchouli or some such compound, well mixed with the odour of +stale cigar smoke, looking absently at the gee-gar ornaments. On the +mantelpiece were some photographs, and among them, to his disgust, he saw one +of himself taken many years ago. With something as near an oath as he ever +indulged in, he seized it, and setting fire to it over the gas, waited till the +flames began to scorch his fingers, and then flung it, still burning, into the +grate. Then he looked at himself in the glass in the mantelpiece—the room +was full of mirrors—and laughed bitterly at the incongruity of his +gentlemanlike, respectable, and even refined appearance, in that vulgar, gaudy, +vicious-looking room. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he bethought him of the letter in his wife’s handwriting which +he had stolen from the pocket of Edward Cossey’s coat. He drew it out, +and throwing the tea gown and the interminable glove off the sofa, sat down and +began to read it. It was, as he had expected, a love letter, a wildly +passionate love letter, breathing language which in some places almost touched +the beauty of poetry, vows of undying affection that were throughout redeemed +from vulgarity and even from silliness by their utter earnestness and +self-abandonment. Had the letter been one written under happier circumstances +and innocent of offence against morality, it would have been a beautiful +letter, for passion at its highest has always a wild beauty of its own. +</p> + +<p> +He read it through and then carefully folded it and restored it to his pocket. +“The woman has a heart,” he said to himself, “no one can +doubt it. And yet I could never touch it, though God knows however much I +wronged her I loved her, yes, and love her now. Well, it is a good bit of +evidence, if ever I dare to use it. It is a game of bluff between me and her, +and I expect that in the end the boldest player will win.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose from the sofa—the atmosphere of the place stifled him, and going +to the window threw it open and stepped out on to the balcony. It was a lovely +moonlight night, though chilly, and for London the street was a quiet one. +</p> + +<p> +Taking a chair he sat down there upon the balcony and began to think. His heart +was softened by misery and his mind fell into a tender groove. He thought of +his long-dead mother, whom he had dearly loved, and of how he used to say his +prayers to her, and of how she sang hymns to him on Sunday evenings. Her death +had seemed to choke all the beauty out of his being at the time, and yet now he +thanked heaven that she was dead. And then he thought of the accursed woman who +had been his ruin, and of how she had entered into his life and corrupted and +destroyed him. Next there rose up before him a vision of Belle, Belle as he had +first seen her, a maid of seventeen, the only child of that drunken old village +doctor, now also long since dead, and of how the sight of her had for a while +stayed the corruption of his heart because he grew to love her. And then he +married Belle by foul means, and the woman rose up in his path again, and he +learnt that his wife hated him with all the energy of her passionate heart. +Then came degradation after degradation, and the abandonment of principle after +principle, replaced only by a fierce craving for respectability and rest, a +long, long struggle, which ever ended in new lapses from the right, till at +length he saw himself a hardened schemer, remorselessly pursued by a fury from +whom there was no escape. And yet he knew that under other circumstances he +might have been a good and happy man—leading an honourable life. But now +all hope had gone, that which he was he must be till the end. He leaned his +head upon the stone railing in front of him and wept, wept in the anguish of +his soul, praying to heaven for deliverance from the burden of his sins, well +knowing that he had none to hope for. +</p> + +<p> +For his chance was gone and his fate fixed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /> +THE TIGRESS IN HER DEN</h2> + +<p> +Presently a hansom cab came rattling down the street and pulled up at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for it,” said Mr. Quest to himself as he metaphorically shook +himself together. +</p> + +<p> +Next minute he heard a voice, which he knew only too well, a loud high voice +say from the cab, “Well, open the door, stupid, can’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, my lady fair,” replied another voice—a coarse, +somewhat husky male voice—“adored Edithia, in one moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come stow that and let me out,” replied the adored Edithia +sharply; and in another moment a large man in evening clothes, a horrible +vulgar, carnal-looking man with red cheeks and a hanging under-lip, emerged +into the lamp-light and turned to hand the lady out. As he did so the woman +Ellen advanced from the doorway, and going to the cab door whispered something +to its occupant. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, Johnnie,” said the lady, as she descended from the cab, so +loudly that Mr. Quest on the balcony could hear every word, “you must be +off; Mr. d’Aubigne has turned up, and perhaps he won’t think three +good company, so you had just best take this cab back again, my son, and that +will save me the trouble of paying it. Come, cut.” +</p> + +<p> +“D’Aubigne,” growled the flashy man with an oath, “what +do I care about d’Aubigne? Advance, d’Aubigne, and all’s +well! You needn’t be jealous of me, I’m——” +</p> + +<p> +“Now stop that noise and be off. He’s a lawyer and he might not +freeze on to you; don’t you understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well I’m a lawyer too and a pretty sharp one—<i>arcades +ambo</i>,” said Johnnie with a coarse laugh; “and I tell you what +it is, Edith, it ain’t good enough to cart a fellow down in this howling +wilderness and then send him away without a drink; lend us another fiver at any +rate. It ain’t good enough, I say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good enough or not you’ll have to go and you don’t get any +fivers out of me to-night. Now pack sharp, or I’ll know the reason +why,” and she pointed towards the cab in a fashion that seemed to cow her +companion, for without another word he got into it. +</p> + +<p> +In another moment the cab had turned, and he was gone, muttering curses as he +went. +</p> + +<p> +The woman, who was none other than Mrs. d’Aubigne, <i>alias</i> Edith +Jones, <i>alias</i> the Tiger, turned and entered the house accompanied by her +servant, Ellen, and presently Mr. Quest heard the rustle of her satin dress +upon the stairs. He stepped back into the darkness of the balcony and waited. +She opened the door, entered, and closed it behind her, and then, a little +dazzled by the light, stood for some seconds looking about for her visitor. She +was a thin, tall woman, who might have been any age between forty and fifty, +with the wrecks of a very fine agile-looking figure. Her face, which was +plentifully bedaubed with paint and powder, was sharp, fierce, and handsome, +and crowned with a mane of false yellow hair. Her eyes were cold and blue, her +lips thin and rather drawn, so as to show a double line of large and gleaming +teeth. She was dressed in a rich and hideous tight-fitting gown of yellow +satin, barred with black, and on her arms were long bright yellow gloves. She +moved lightly and silently, and looked around her with a long-searching gaze, +like that of a cat, and her general appearance conveyed an idea of hunger and +wicked ferocity. Such was the outward appearance of the Tiger, and of a truth +it justified her name. “Why, where the dickens has he got to?” she +said aloud; “I wonder if he has given me the slip?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am, Edith,” said Mr. Quest quietly, as he stepped from the +balcony into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there you are, are you?” she said, “hiding away in the +dark—just like your nasty mean ways. Well, my long-lost one, so you have +come home at last, and brought the tin with you. Well, give us a kiss,” +and she advanced on him with her long arms outspread. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest shivered visibly, and stretching out his hand, stopped her from +coming near him. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you,” he said; “I don’t like paint.” +</p> + +<p> +The taunt stopped her, and for a moment an evil light shone in her cold eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“No wonder I have to paint,” she said, “when I am so worn out +with poverty and hard work—not like the lovely Mrs. Q., who has nothing +to do all day except spend the money that I ought to have. I’ll tell you +what it is, my fine fellow: you had better be careful, or I’ll have that +pretty cuckoo out of her soft nest, and pluck her borrowed feathers off her, +like the monkey did to the parrot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you had better stop that talk, and come to business. I am in no +mood for this sort of thing, Edith,” and he turned round, shut the +window, and drew the blind. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, all right; I’m agreeable, I’m sure. Stop a bit, +though—I must have a brandy-and-soda first. I am as dry as a lime-kiln, +and so would you be if you had to sing comic songs at a music hall for a +living. There, that’s better,” and she put down the empty glass and +threw herself on to the sofa. “Now then, tune up as much as you like. How +much tin have you brought?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest sat down by the table, and then, as though suddenly struck by a +thought, rose again, and going to the door, opened it and looked out into the +passage. There was nobody there, so he shut the door again, locked it, and then +under cover of drawing the curtain which hung over it, slipped the key into his +pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you at there?” said the woman suspiciously. +</p> + +<p> +“I was just looking to see that Ellen was not at the key-hole, +that’s all. It would not be the first time that I have caught her +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just like your nasty low ways again,” she said. +“You’ve got some game on. I’ll be bound that you have got +some game on.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest seated himself again, and without taking any notice of this last +remark began the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“I have brought you two hundred and fifty pounds,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Two hundred and fifty pounds!” she said, jumping up with a savage +laugh. “No, my boy, you don’t get off for that if I know it. Why, I +owe all that at this moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had better sit down and be quiet,” he said, “or you will +not get two hundred and fifty pence. In your own interest I recommend you to +sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something about the man’s voice and manner that scared the +female savage before him, fierce as she was, and she sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” he went on, “you are continually complaining of +poverty; I come to your house—your house, mind you, not your rooms, and I +find the <i>debris</i> of a card party lying about. I see champagne bottles +freshly opened there in the corner. I see a dressing gown on the sofa that must +have cost twenty or thirty pounds. I hear some brute associate of yours out in +the street asking you to lend him another ‘fiver.’ You complain of +poverty and you have had over four hundred pounds from me this year alone, and +I know that you earn twelve pounds a week at the music hall, and not five as +you say. No, do not trouble to lie to me, for I have made enquiries.” +</p> + +<p> +“Spying again,” said the woman with a sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, spying, if you like; but there it is. And now to the point—I +am not going on supplying you with money at this rate. I cannot do it and I +will not do it. I am going to give you two hundred and fifty pounds now, and as +much every year, and not one farthing more.” +</p> + +<p> +Once more she sat up. “You must be mad,” she said in a tone that +sounded more like a snarl than a human voice. “Are you such a fool as to +believe that I will be put off with two hundred and fifty pounds a year, I, +<i>your legal wife?</i> I’ll have you in the dock first, in the dock for +bigamy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “I do believe it for a reason that I +shall give you presently. But first I want to go though our joint history, very +briefly, just to justify myself if you like. Five-and-twenty years ago, or was +it six-and-twenty, I was a boy of eighteen and you were a woman of twenty, a +housemaid in my mother’s house, and you made love to me. Then my mother +was called away to nurse my brother who died at school at Portsmouth, and I +fell sick with scarlet fever and you nursed me through it—it would have +been kinder if you had poisoned me, and in my weak state you got a great hold +over my mind, and I became attached to you, for you were handsome in those +days. Then you dared me to marry you, and partly out of bravado, partly from +affection, I took out a licence, to do which I made a false declaration that I +was over age, and gave false names of the parishes in which we resided. Next +day, half tipsy and not knowing what I did, I went through the form of marriage +with you, and a few days afterwards my mother returned, observed that we were +intimate, and dismissed you. You went without a word as to our marriage, which +we both looked on a farce, and for years I lost sight of you. Fifteen years +afterwards, when I had almost forgotten this adventure of my youth, I became +acquainted with a young lady with whom I fell in love, and whose fortune, +though not large, was enough to help me considerably in my profession as a +country lawyer, in which I was doing well. I thought that you were dead, or +that if you lived, the fact of my having made the false declaration of age and +locality would be enough to invalidate the marriage, as would certainly have +been the case if I had also made a false declaration of names; and my impulses +and interests prompting me to take the risk, I married that lady. Then it was +that you hunted me down, and then for the first time I did what I ought to have +done before, and took the best legal opinions as to the validity of the former +marriage, which, to my horror, I found was undoubtedly a binding one. You also +took opinions and came to the same conclusion. Since then the history has been +a simple one. Out of my wife’s fortune of ten thousand pounds, I paid you +no less than seven thousand as hush money, on your undertaking to leave this +country for America, and never return here again. I should have done better to +face it out, but I feared to lose my position and practice. You left and wrote +to me that you too had married in Chicago, but in eighteen months you returned, +having squandered every farthing of the money, when I found that the story of +your marriage was an impudent lie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she put in with a laugh, “and a rare time I had with +that seven thousand too.” +</p> + +<p> +“You returned and demanded more blackmail, and I had no choice but to +give, and give, and give. In eleven years you had something over twenty-three +thousand pounds from me, and you continually demand more. I believe you will +admit that this is a truthful statement of the case,” and he paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” she said, “I am not going to dispute that, but +what then? I am your wife, and you have committed bigamy; and if you +don’t go on paying me I’ll have you in gaol, and that’s all +about it, old boy. You can’t get out of it any way, you nasty mean +brute,” she went on, raising her voice and drawing up her thin lips so as +to show the white teeth beneath. “So you thought that you were going to +play it down low on me in that fashion, did you? Well, you’ve just made a +little mistake for once in your life, and I’ll tell you what it is, you +shall smart for it. I’ll teach you what it is to leave your lawful wife +to starve while you go and live with another woman in luxury. You can’t +help yourself; I can ruin you if I like. Supposing I go to a magistrate and ask +for a warrant? What can you do to keep me quiet?” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the virago stopped as though she were shot, and her fierce countenance +froze into an appearance of terror, as well it might. Mr. Quest, who had been +sitting listening to her with his hand over his eyes, had risen, and his face +was as the face of a fiend, alight with an intense and quiet fury which seemed +to be burning inwardly. On the mantelpiece lay a sharp-pointed Goorka knife, +which one of Mrs. d’Aubigne’s travelled admirers had presented to +her. It was an awful looking weapon, and keen-edged as a razor. This he had +taken up and held in his right hand, and with it he was advancing towards her +as she lounged on the sofa. +</p> + +<p> +“If you make a sound I will kill you at once,” he said, speaking in +a low and husky voice. +</p> + +<p> +She had been paralysed with terror, for like most bullies, male and female, she +was a great coward, but the sound of his voice roused her. The first note of a +harsh screech had already issued from her lips, when he sprang upon her, and +placing the sharp point of the knife against her throat, pricked her with it. +“Be quiet,” he said, “or you are a dead woman.” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped screaming and lay there, her face twitching, and her eyes bright +with terror. +</p> + +<p> +“Now listen,” he said, in the same husky voice. “You +incarnate fiend, you asked me just now how I could keep you quiet. I will tell +you; I can keep you quiet by running this knife up to the hilt in your +throat,” and once more he pricked her with its point. “It would be +murder,” he went on, “but I do not care for that. You and others +between you have not made my life so pleasant for me that I am especially +anxious to preserve it. Now, listen. I will give you the two hundred and fifty +pounds that I have brought, and you shall have the two hundred and fifty a +year. But if you ever again attempt to extort more, or if you molest me either +by spreading stories against my character or by means of legal prosecution, or +in any other way, I swear by the Almighty that I will murder you. I may have to +kill myself afterwards—I don’t care if I do, provided I kill you +first. Do you understand me? you tiger, as you call yourself. If I have to hunt +you down, as they do tigers, I will come up with you at last and <i>kill</i> +you. You have driven me to it, and, by heaven! I will! Come, speak up, and tell +me that you understand, or I may change my mind and do it now,” and once +more he touched her with the knife. +</p> + +<p> +She rolled off the sofa on to the floor and lay there, writhing in abject +terror, looking in the shadow of the table, where her long lithe form was +twisting about in its robe of yellow barred with black, more like one of the +great cats from which she took her name than a human being. “Spare +me,” she gasped, “spare me, I don’t want to die. I swear that +I will never meddle with you again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want your oaths, woman,” answered the stern form +bending over her with the knife. “A liar you have been from your youth +up, and a liar you will be to the end. Do you understand what I have +said?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, I understand. Ah! put away that knife, I can’t bear it! +It makes me sick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well then, get up.” +</p> + +<p> +She tried to rise, but her knees would not support her, so she sat upon the +floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said Mr. Quest, replacing the knife upon the mantelpiece, +“here is your money,” and he flung a bag of notes and gold into her +lap, at which she clutched eagerly and almost automatically. “The two +hundred and fifty pounds will be paid on the 1st of January in each year, and +not one farthing more will you get from me. Remember what I tell you, try to +molest me by word or act, and you are a dead woman; I forbid you even to write +to me. Now go to the devil in your own way,” and without another word he +took up his hat and umbrella, walked to the door, unlocked it and went, leaving +the Tiger huddled together upon the floor. +</p> + +<p> +For half-an-hour or more the woman remained thus, the bag of money in her hand. +Then she struggled to her feet, her face livid and her body shaking. +</p> + +<p> +“Ugh,” she said, “I’m as weak as a cat. I thought he +meant to do it that time, and he will too, for sixpence. He’s got me +there. I am afraid to die. I can’t bear to die. It is better to lose the +money than to die. Besides, if I blow on him he’ll be put in chokey and I +shan’t be able to get anything out of him, and when he comes out +he’ll do for me.” And then, losing her temper, she shook her fist +in the air and broke out into a flood of language such as would neither be +pretty to hear nor good to repeat. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest was a man of judgment. At last he had realised that in one way, and +one only, can a wild beast be tamed, and that is by terror. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /> +“WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET”</h2> + +<p> +Time went on. Mr. Quest had been back at Boisingham for ten days or more, and +was more cheerful than Belle (we can no longer call her his wife) had seen him +for many a day. Indeed he felt as though ten years had been lifted off his +back. He had taken a great and terrible decision and had acted upon it, and it +had been successful, for he knew that his evil genius was so thoroughly +terrified that for a long while at least he would be free from her persecution. +But with Belle his relations remained as strained as ever. +</p> + +<p> +Now that the reader is in the secret of Mr. Quest’s life, it will perhaps +help him to understand the apparent strangeness of his conduct with reference +to his wife and Edward Cossey. It is quite true that Belle did not know the +full extent of her husband’s guilt. She did not know that he was not her +husband, but she did know that nearly all of her little fortune had been paid +over to another woman, and that woman a common, vulgar woman, as one of +Edith’s letters which had fallen into her hands by chance very clearly +showed her. Therefore, had he attempted to expose her proceedings or even to +control her actions, she had in her hand an effective weapon of defence +wherewith she could and would have given blow for blow. This state of affairs +of necessity forced each party to preserve an armed neutrality towards the +other, whilst they waited for a suitable opportunity to assert themselves. Not +that their objects were quite the same. Belle merely wished to be free from her +husband, whom she had always disliked, and whom she now positively hated with +that curious hatred which women occasionally conceive toward those to whom they +are legally bound, when they have been bad enough or unfortunate enough to fall +in love with somebody else. He, on the contrary, had that desire for revenge +upon her which even the gentler stamp of man is apt to conceive towards one +who, herself the object of his strong affection, daily and hourly repels and +repays it with scorn and infidelity. He did love her truly; she was the one +living thing in all his bitter lonely life to whom his heart had gone out. +True, he put pressure on her to marry him, or what comes to the same thing, +allowed and encouraged her drunken old father to do so. But he had loved her +and still loved her, and yet she mocked at him, and in the face of that fact +about the money—her money, which he had paid away to the other woman, a +fact which it was impossible for him to explain except by admission of guilt +which would be his ruin, what was he to urge to convince her of this, even had +she been open to conviction? But it was bitter to him, bitter beyond all +conception, to have this, the one joy of his life, snatched from him. He threw +himself with ardour into the pursuit after wealth and dignity of position, +partly because he had a legitimate desire for these things, and partly to +assuage the constant irritation of his mind, but to no purpose. These two +spectres of his existence, his tiger wife and the fair woman who was his wife +in name, constantly marched side by side before him, blotting out the beauty +from every scene and souring the sweetness of every joy. But if in his pain he +thirsted for revenge upon Belle, who would have none of him, how much more did +he desire to be avenged upon Edward Cossey, who, as it were, had in sheer +wantonness robbed him of the one good thing he had? It made him mad to think +that this man, to whom he knew himself to be in every way superior, should have +had the power thus to injure him, and he longed to pay him back measure for +measure, and through <i>his</i> heart’s affections to strike him as +mortal a blow as he had himself received. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest was no doubt a bad man; his whole life was a fraud, he was selfish +and unscrupulous in his schemes and relentless in their execution, but whatever +may have been the measure of his iniquities, he was not doomed to wait for +another world to have them meted out to him again. His life, indeed, was full +of miseries, the more keenly felt because of the high pitch and capacity of his +nature, and perhaps the sharpest of them all was the sickening knowledge that +had it not been for that one fatal error of his boyhood, that one false step +down the steep of Avernus, he might have been a good and even a great man. +</p> + +<p> +Just now, however, his load was a little lightened, and he was able to devote +himself to his money-making and to the weaving of the web that was to destroy +his rival, Edward Cossey, with a mind a little less preoccupied with other +cares. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, things at the Castle were going very pleasantly for everybody. The +Squire was as happy in attending to the various details connected with the +transfer of the mortgages as though he had been lending thirty thousand pounds +instead of borrowing them. The great George was happy in the accustomed flow of +cash, that enabled him to treat Janter with a lofty scorn not unmingled with +pity, which was as balm to his harassed soul, and also to transact an enormous +amount of business in his own peculiar way with men up trees and otherwise. For +had he not to stock the Moat Farm, and was not Michaelmas at hand? +</p> + +<p> +Ida, too, was happy, happier than she had been since her brother’s death, +for reasons that have already been hinted at. Besides, Mr. Edward Cossey was +out of the way, and that to Ida was a very great thing, for his presence to her +was what a policeman is to a ticket-of-leave man—a most unpleasant and +suggestive sight. She fully realised the meaning and extent of the bargain into +which she had entered to save her father and her house, and there lay upon her +the deep shadow of evil that was to come. Every time she saw her father +bustling about with his business matters and his parchments, every time the +universal George arrived with an air of melancholy satisfaction and a long list +of the farming stock and implements he had bought at some neighbouring +Michaelmas sale, the shadow deepened, and she heard the clanking of her chains. +Therefore she was the more thankful for her respite. +</p> + +<p> +Harold Quaritch was happy too, though in a somewhat restless and peculiar way. +Mrs. Jobson (the old lady who attended to his wants at Molehill, with the help +of a gardener and a simple village maid, her niece, who smashed all the +crockery and nearly drove the Colonel mad by banging the doors, shifting his +papers and even dusting his trays of Roman coins) actually confided to some +friends in the village that she thought the poor dear gentleman was going mad. +When questioned on what she based this belief, she replied that he would walk +up and down the oak-panelled dining-room by the hour together, and then, when +he got tired of that exercise, whereby, said Mrs. Jobson, he had already worn a +groove in the new Turkey carpet, he would take out a “rokey” +(foggy) looking bit of a picture, set it upon a chair and stare at it through +his fingers, shaking his head and muttering all the while. Then—further +and conclusive proof of a yielding intellect—he would get a half-sheet of +paper with some writing on it and put it on the mantelpiece and stare at that. +Next he would turn it upside down and stare at it so, then sideways, then all +ways, then he would hold it before a looking-glass and stare at the +looking-glass, and so on. When asked how she knew all this, she confessed that +her niece Jane had seen it through the key-hole, not once but often. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, as the practised and discerning reader will clearly understand, this +meant only that when walking and wearing out the carpet the Colonel was +thinking of Ida. When contemplating the painting that she had given him, he was +admiring her work and trying to reconcile the admiration with his conscience +and his somewhat peculiar views of art. And when glaring at the paper, he was +vainly endeavouring to make head or tale of the message written to his son on +the night before his execution by Sir James de la Molle in the reign of Charles +I., confidently believed by Ida to contain a key to the whereabouts of the +treasure he was supposed to have secreted. +</p> + +<p> +Of course the tale of this worthy soul, Mrs. Jobson, did not lose in the +telling, and when it reached Ida’s ears, which it did at last through the +medium of George—for in addition to his numberless other functions, +George was the sole authorised purveyor of village and county news—it +read that Colonel Quaritch had gone raving mad. +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes afterwards this raving lunatic arrived at the Castle in dress +clothes and his right mind, whereon Ida promptly repeated her thrilling +history, somewhat to the subsequent discomfort of Mrs. Jobson and Jane. +</p> + +<p> +No one, as somebody once said with equal truth and profundity, knows what a +minute may bring forth, much less, therefore, does anybody know what an evening +of say two hundred and forty minutes may produce. For instance, Harold +Quaritch—though by this time he had gone so far as to freely admit to +himself that he was utterly and hopelessly in love with Ida, in love with her +with that settled and determined passion which sometimes strikes a man or woman +in middle age—certainly did not know that before the evening was out he +would have declared his devotion with results that shall be made clear in their +decent order. When he put on his dress clothes to come up to dinner, he had no +more intention of proposing to Ida than he had of not taking them off when he +went to bed. His love was deep enough and steady enough, but perhaps it did not +possess that wild impetuosity which carries people so far in their youth, +sometimes indeed a great deal further than their reason approves. It was +essentially a middle-aged devotion, and bore the same resemblance to the +picturesque passion of five-and-twenty that a snow-fed torrent does to a +navigable river. The one rushes and roars and sweeps away the bridges and +devastates happy homes, while the other bears upon its placid breast the +argosies of peace and plenty and is generally serviceable to the necessities of +man. Still, there is something attractive about torrents. There is a grandeur +in that first rush of passion which results from the sudden melting of the +snows of the heart’s purity and faith and high unstained devotion. +</p> + +<p> +But both torrents and navigable rivers are liable to a common fate, they may +fall over precipices, and when this comes to pass even the latter cease to be +navigable for a space. Now this catastrophe was about to overtake our friend +the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +Well, Harold Quaritch had dined, and had enjoyed a pleasant as well as a good +dinner. The Squire, who of late had been cheerful as a cricket, was in his best +form, and told long stories with an infinitesimal point. In anybody +else’s mouth these stories would have been wearisome to a degree, but +there was a gusto, an originality, and a kind of Tudor period flavour about the +old gentleman, which made his worst and longest story acceptable in any +society. The Colonel himself had also come out in a most unusual way. He +possessed a fund of dry humour which he rarely produced, but when he did +produce it, it was of a most satisfactory order. On this particular night it +was all on view, greatly to the satisfaction of Ida, who was a witty as well as +a clever woman. And so it came to pass that the dinner was a very pleasant one. +</p> + +<p> +Harold and the Squire were still sitting over their wine. The latter was for +the fifth time giving his guest a full and particular account of how his +deceased aunt, Mrs. Massey, had been persuaded by a learned antiquarian to +convert or rather to restore Dead Man’s Mount into its supposed primitive +condition of an ancient British dwelling, and of the extraordinary expression +of her face when the bill came in, when suddenly the servant announced that +George was waiting to see him. +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman grumbled a great deal, but finally got up and went to enjoy +himself for the next hour or so in talking about things in general with his +retainer, leaving his guest to find his way to the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +When the Colonel reached the room, he found Ida seated at the piano, singing. +She heard him shut the door, looked round, nodded prettily, and then went on +with her singing. He came and sat down on a low chair some two paces from her, +placing himself in such a position that he could see her face, which indeed he +always found a wonderfully pleasant object of contemplation. Ida was playing +without music—the only light in the room was that of a low lamp with a +red fringe to it. Therefore, he could not see very much, being with difficulty +able to trace the outlines of her features, but if the shadow thus robbed him, +it on the other hand lent her a beauty of its own, clothing her face with an +atmosphere of wonderful softness which it did not always possess in the glare +of day. The Colonel indeed (we must remember that he was in love and that it +was after dinner) became quite poetical (internally of course) about it, and in +his heart compared her first to St. Cecilia at her organ, and then to the Angel +of the Twilight. He had never seen her look so lovely. At her worst she was a +handsome and noble-looking woman, but now the shadow from without, and though +he knew nothing of that, the shadow from her heart within also, aided maybe by +the music’s swell, had softened and purified her face till it did indeed +look almost like an angel’s. It is strong, powerful faces that are +capable of the most tenderness, not the soft and pretty ones, and even in a +plain person, when such a face is in this way seen, it gathers a peculiar +beauty of its own. But Ida was not a plain person, so on the whole it is +scarcely wonderful that a certain effect was produced upon Harold Quaritch. Ida +went on singing almost without a break—to outward appearance, at any +rate, all unconscious of what was passing in her admirer’s mind. She had +a good memory and a sweet voice, and really liked music for its own sake, so it +was no great effort to her to do so. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, she sang a song from Tennyson’s “Maud,” the tender +and beautiful words whereof will be familiar to most readers of her story. It +began: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“O let the solid ground<br /> + Not fail beneath my feet<br /> +Before my life has found<br /> + What some have found so sweet.” +</p> + +<p> +The song is a lovely one, nor did it suffer from her rendering, and the effect +it produced upon Harold was of a most peculiar nature. All his past life seemed +to heave and break beneath the magic of the music and the magic of the singer, +as a northern field of ice breaks up beneath the outburst of the summer sun. It +broke, sank, and vanished into the depths of his nature, those dread unmeasured +depths that roll and murmur in the vastness of each human heart as the sea +rolls beneath its cloak of ice; that roll and murmur here, and set towards a +shore of which we have no chart or knowledge. The past was gone, the frozen +years had melted, and once more the sweet strong air of youth blew across his +heart, and once more there was clear sky above, wherein the angels sailed. +Before the breath of that sweet song the barrier of self fell down, his being +went out to meet her being, and all the sleeping possibilities of life rose +from the buried time. +</p> + +<p> +He sat and listened, trembling as he listened, till the gentle echoes of the +music died upon the quiet air. They died, and were gathered into the emptiness +which receives and records all things, leaving him broken. +</p> + +<p> +She turned to him, smiling faintly, for the song had moved her also, and he +felt that he must speak. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a beautiful song,” he said; “sing it again if you do +not mind.” +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer, but once more she sang: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“O let the solid ground<br /> + Not fail beneath my feet<br /> +Before my life has found<br /> + What some have found so sweet;” +</p> + +<p> +and then suddenly broke off. +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you looking at me?” she said. “I can feel you +looking at me and it makes me nervous.” +</p> + +<p> +He bent towards her and looked her in the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I love you, Ida,” he said, “I love you with all my +heart,” and he stopped suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +She turned quite pale, even in that light he could see her pallor, and her +hands fell heavily on the keys. +</p> + +<p> +The echo of the crashing notes rolled round the room and slowly died +away—but still she said nothing. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /> +IN PAWN</h2> + +<p> +At last she spoke, apparently with a great effort. +</p> + +<p> +“It is stifling in here,” she said, “let us go out.” +She rose, took up a shawl that lay beside her on a chair, and stepped through +the French window into the garden. It was a lovely autumn night, and the air +was still as death, with just a touch of frost in it. +</p> + +<p> +Ida threw the shawl over her shoulders and followed by Harold walked on through +the garden till she came to the edge of the moat, where there was a seat. Here +she sat down and fixed her eyes upon the hoary battlements of the gateway, now +clad in a solemn robe of moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +Harold looked at her and felt that if he had anything to say the time had come +for him to say it, and that she had brought him here in order that she might be +able to listen undisturbed. So he began again, and told her that he loved her +dearly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am some seventeen years older than you,” he went on, “and +I suppose that the most active part of my life lies in the past; and I +don’t know if, putting other things aside, you could care to marry so old +a man, especially as I am not rich. Indeed, I feel it presumptuous on my part, +seeing what you are and what I am not, to ask you to do so. And yet, Ida, I +believe if you could care for me that, with heaven’s blessing, we should +be very happy together. I have led a lonely life, and have had little to do +with women—once, many years ago, I was engaged, and the matter ended +painfully, and that is all. But ever since I first saw your face in the drift +five years and more ago, it has haunted me and been with me. Then I came to +live here and I have learnt to love you, heaven only knows how much, and I +should be ashamed to try to put it into words, for they would sound foolish. +All my life is wrapped up in you, and I feel as though, should you see me no +more, I could never be a happy man again,” and he paused and looked +anxiously at her face, which was set and drawn as though with pain. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot say ‘yes,’ Colonel Quaritch,” she answered at +length, in a tone that puzzled him, it was so tender and so unfitted to the +words. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” he stammered, “I suppose that you do not care +for me? Of course, I have no right to expect that you would.” +</p> + +<p> +“As I have said that I cannot say ‘yes,’ Colonel Quaritch, do +you not think that I had better leave that question unanswered?” she +replied in the same soft notes which seemed to draw the heart out of him. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand,” he went on. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she broke in with a bitter little laugh, “shall I tell +you why? Because I am <i>in pawn!</i> Look,” she went on, pointing to the +stately towers and the broad lands beyond. “You see this place. <i>I</i> +am security for it, I <i>myself</i> in my own person. Had it not been for me it +would have been sold over our heads after having descended in our family for +all these centuries, put upon the market and sold for what it would fetch, and +my old father would have been turned out to die, for it would have killed him. +So you see I did what unfortunate women have often been driven to do, I sold +myself body and soul; and I got a good price too—thirty thousand +pounds!” and suddenly she burst into a flood of tears, and began to sob +as though her heart would break. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Harold Quaritch looked on bewildered, not in the least +understanding what Ida meant, and then he followed the impulse common to +mankind in similar circumstances and took her in his arms. She did not resent +the movement, indeed she scarcely seemed to notice it, though to tell the +truth, for a moment or two, which to the Colonel seemed the happiest of his +life, her head rested on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +Almost instantly, however, she raised it, freed herself from his embrace and +ceased weeping. +</p> + +<p> +“As I have told you so much,” she said, “I suppose that I had +better tell you everything. I know that whatever the temptation,” and she +laid great stress upon the words, “under any conceivable circumstances +—indeed, even if you believed that you were serving me in so +doing—I can rely upon you never to reveal to anybody, and above all to my +father, what I now tell you,” and she paused and looked up at him with +eyes in which the tears still swam. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, you can rely on me,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. I am sure that I shall never have to reproach you with the +words. I will tell you. I have virtually promised to marry Mr. Edward Cossey, +should he at any time be in a position to claim fulfilment of the promise, on +condition of his taking up the mortgages on Honham, which he has done.” +</p> + +<p> +Harold Quaritch took a step back and looked at her in horrified astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>What?</i>” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” she answered hastily, putting up her hand as though to +shield herself from a blow. “I know what you mean; but do not think too +hardly of me if you can help it. It was not for myself. I would rather work for +my living with my hands than take a price, for there is no other word for it. +It was for my father, and my family too. I could not bear to think of the old +place going to the hammer, and I did it all in a minute without consideration; +but,” and she set her face, “even as things are, I believe I should +do it again, because I think that no one woman has a right to destroy her +family in order to please herself. If one of the two must go, let it be the +woman. But don’t think hardly of me for it,” she added almost +pleadingly, “that is if you can help it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not thinking of you,” he answered grimly; “by heaven I +honour you for what you have done, for however much I may disagree with the +act, it is a noble one. I am thinking of the man who could drive such a bargain +with any woman. You say that you have promised to marry him should he ever be +in a position to claim it. What do you mean by that? As you have told me so +much you may as well tell me the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke clearly and with a voice full of authority, but his bearing did not +seem to jar upon Ida. +</p> + +<p> +“I meant,” she answered humbly, “that I believe—of +course I do not know if I am right—I believe that Mr. Cossey is in some +way entangled with a lady, in short with Mrs. Quest, and that the question of +whether or no he comes forward again depends upon her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word,” said the Colonel, “upon my word the thing +gets worse and worse. I never heard anything like it; and for money too! The +thing is beyond me.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” she answered, “there it is. And now, Colonel +Quaritch, one word before I go in. It is difficult for me to speak without +saying too much or too little, but I do want you to understand how honoured and +how grateful I feel for what you have told me to-night—I am so little +worthy of all you have given me, and to be honest, I cannot feel as pained +about it as I ought to feel. It is feminine vanity, you know, nothing else. I +am sure that you will not press me to say more.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered, “no. I think that I understand the +position. But, Ida, there is one thing that I must ask—you will forgive +me if I am wrong in doing so, but all this is very sad for me. If in the end +circumstances should alter, as I pray heaven that they may, or if Mr. +Cossey’s previous entanglement should prove too much for him, will you +marry me, Ida?” +</p> + +<p> +She thought for a moment, and then rising from the seat, gave him her hand and +said simply: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I <i>will</i> marry you.” +</p> + +<p> +He made no answer, but lifting her hand touched it gently with his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Meanwhile,” she went on, “I have your promise, and I am sure +that you will not betray it, come what may.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “I will not betray it.” +</p> + +<p> +And they went in. +</p> + +<p> +In the drawing-room they found the Squire puzzling over a sheet of paper, on +which were scrawled some of George’s accounts, in figures which at first +sight bore about as much resemblance to Egyptian hieroglyphics as they did to +those in use to-day. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo!” he said, “there you are. Where on earth have you +been?” +</p> + +<p> +“We have been looking at the Castle in the moonlight,” answered Ida +coolly. “It is beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“Um—ah,” said the Squire, dryly, “I have no doubt that +it is beautiful, but isn’t the grass rather damp? Well, look here,” +and he held up the sheet of hieroglyphics, “perhaps you can add this up, +Ida, for it is more than I can. George has bought stock and all sorts of things +at the sale to-day and here is his account; three hundred and seventy-two +pounds he makes it, but I make it four hundred and twenty, and hang me if I can +find out which is right. It is most important that these accounts should be +kept straight. Most important, and I cannot get this stupid fellow to do +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida took the sheet of paper and added it up, with the result that she +discovered both totals to be wrong. Harold, watching her, wondered at the nerve +of a woman who, after going through such a scene as that which had just +occurred, could deliberately add up long rows of badly-written figures. +</p> + +<p> +And this money which her father was expending so cheerfully was part of the +price for which she had bound herself. +</p> + +<p> +With a sigh he rose, said good-night, and went home with feelings almost too +mixed to admit of accurate description. He had taken a great step in his life, +and to a certain extent that step had succeeded. He had not altogether built +his hopes upon sand, for from what Ida had said, and still more from what she +had tacitly admitted, it was necessarily clear to him that she did more or less +regard him as a man would wish to be regarded by a woman whom he dearly loved. +This was a great deal, more indeed than he had dared to believe, but then, as +is usually the case in this imperfect world, where things but too often seem to +be carefully arranged at sixes and sevens, came the other side of the shield. +Of what use to him was it to have won this sweet woman’s love, of what +use to have put this pure water of happiness to his lips in the desert of his +lonely life, only to see the cup that held it shattered at a blow? To him the +story of the money loan—in consideration of which, as it were, Ida had +put herself in pawn, as the Egyptians used to put the mummies of their fathers +in pawn—was almost incredible. To a person of his simple and honourable +nature, it seemed a preposterous and unheard of thing that any man calling +himself a gentleman should find it possible to sink so low as to take such +advantage of a woman’s dire necessity and honourable desire to save her +father from misery and her race from ruin, and to extract from her a promise of +marriage in consideration of value received. Putting aside his overwhelming +personal interest in the matter, it made his blood boil to think that such a +thing could be. And yet it was, and what was more, he believed he knew Ida well +enough to be convinced that she would not shirk the bargain. If Edward Cossey +came forward to claim his bond it would be paid down to the last farthing. It +was a question of thirty thousand pounds; the happiness of his life and of +Ida’s depended upon a sum of money. If the money were forthcoming, Cossey +could not claim his flesh and blood. But where was it to come from? He himself +was worth perhaps ten thousand pounds, or with the commutation value of his +pension, possibly twelve, and he had not the means of raising a farthing more. +He thought the position over till he was tired of thinking, and then with a +heavy heart and yet with a strange glow of happiness shining through his grief, +like sunlight through a grey sky, at last he went to sleep and dreamed that Ida +had gone from him, and that he was once more utterly alone in the world. +</p> + +<p> +But if he had cause for trouble, how much more was it so with Ida? Poor woman! +under her somewhat cold and stately exterior lay a deep and at times a +passionate nature. For some weeks she had been growing strangely attracted to +Harold Quaritch, and now she knew that she loved him, so that there was no one +thing that she desired more in this wide world than to become his wife. And yet +she was bound, bound by a sense of honour and a sense too of money received, to +stay at the beck and call of a man she detested, and if at any time it pleased +him to throw down the handkerchief, to be there to pick it up and hold it to +her breast. It was bad enough to have had this hanging over her head when she +was herself more or less in a passive condition, and therefore to a certain +extent reckless as to her future; but now that her heart was alight with the +holy flame of a good woman’s love, now that her whole nature rebelled and +cried out aloud against the sacrilege involved, it was both revolting and +terrible. +</p> + +<p> +And yet so far as she could see there was no great probability of escape. A +shrewd and observant woman, she could gauge Mr. Cossey’s condition of +mind towards herself with more or less accuracy. Also she did not think it in +the least likely that having spent thirty thousand pounds to advance his +object, he would be content to let his advantage drop. Such a course would be +repellent to his trading instincts. She knew in her heart that the hour was not +far off when he would claim his own, and that unless some accident occurred to +prevent it, it was practically certain that she would be called upon to fulfil +her pledge, and whilst loving another man to become the wife of Edward Cossey. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /> +“GOOD-BYE TO YOU, EDWARD”</h2> + +<p> +It was on the day following the one upon which Harold proposed to Ida, that +Edward Cossey returned to Boisingham. His father had so far recovered from his +attack as to be at last prevailed upon to allow his departure, being chiefly +moved thereto by the supposition that Cossey and Son’s branch +establishments were suffering from his son’s absence. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, in his high, piercing voice, “business is +business, and must be attended to, so perhaps you had better go. They talk +about the fleeting character of things, but there is one thing that never +changes, and that is money. Money is immortal; men may come and men may go, but +money goes on for ever. Hee! hee! money is the honey-pot, and men are the +flies; and some get their fill and some stick their wings, but the honey is +always there, so never mind the flies. No, never mind me either; you go and +look after the honey, Edward. Money—honey, honey—money, they rhyme, +don’t they? And look here, by the way, if you get a chance—and the +world is full of chances to men who have plenty of money—mind you +don’t forget to pay out that half-pay Colonel—what’s his +name?—Quaritch. He played our family a dirty trick, and there’s +your poor Aunt Julia in a lunatic asylum to this moment and a constant source +of expense to us.” +</p> + +<p> +And so Edward bade his estimable parent farewell and departed. Nor in truth did +he require any admonition from Mr. Cossey, Senior, to make him anxious to do +Colonel Quaritch an ill-turn if the opportunity should serve. Mrs. Quest, in +her numerous affectionate letters, had more than once, possibly for reasons of +her own, given him a full and vivid <i>resume</i> of the local gossip about the +Colonel and Ida, who were, she said, according to common report, engaged to be +married. Now, absence had not by any means cooled Edward’s devotion to +Miss de la Molle, which was a sincere one enough in its own way. On the +contrary, the longer he was away from her the more his passion grew, and with +it a vigorous undergrowth of jealousy. He had, it is true, Ida’s implied +promise that she would marry him if he chose to ask her, but on this he put no +great reliance. Hence his hurry to return to Boisingham. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving London by an afternoon train, he reached Boisingham about half-past +six, and in pursuance of an arrangement already made, went to dine with the +Quests. When he reached the house he found Belle alone in the drawing-room, for +her husband, having come in late, was still dressing, but somewhat to his +relief he had no opportunity of private conversation with her, for a servant +was in the room, attending to the fire, which would not burn. The dinner passed +off quietly enough, though there was an ominous look about the lady’s +face which, being familiar with these signs of the feminine weather, he did not +altogether like. After dinner, however, Mr. Quest excused himself, saying that +he had promised to attend a local concert in aid of the funds for the +restoration of the damaged pinnacle of the parish church, and he was left alone +with the lady. +</p> + +<p> +Then it was that all her pent-up passion broke out. She overwhelmed him with +her affection, she told him that her life had been a blank while he was away, +she reproached him with the scarcity and coldness of his letters, and generally +went on in a way with which he was but too well accustomed, and, if the truth +must be told, heartily tired. His mood was an irritable one, and to-night the +whole thing wearied him beyond bearing. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Belle,” he said at last, “for goodness’ sake be +a little more rational. You are getting too old for this sort of tomfoolery, +you know.” +</p> + +<p> +She sprang up and faced him, her eyes flashing and her breast heaving with +jealous anger. “What do you mean?” she said. “Are you tired +of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not say that,” he answered, “but as you have started +the subject I must tell you that I think all this has gone far enough. Unless +it is stopped I believe we shall both be ruined. I am sure that your husband is +becoming suspicious, and as I have told you again and again, if once the +business gets to my father’s ears he will disinherit me.” +</p> + +<p> +Belle stood quite still till he had finished. She had assumed her favourite +attitude and crossed her arms behind her back, and her sweet childish face was +calm and very white. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the good of making excuses and telling me what is not true, +Edward?” she said. “One never hears a man who loves a woman talk +like that; prudence comes with weariness, and men grow circumspect when there +is nothing more to gain. You <i>are</i> tired of me. I have seen it a long +time, but like a blind fool I have tried not to believe it. It is not a great +reward to a woman who has given her whole life to a man, but perhaps it is as +much as she can expect, for I do not want to be unjust to you. I am the most to +blame, because we need never take a false step except of our own free +will.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” he said impatiently, “what of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only this, Edward. I have still a little pride left, and as you are +tired of me, why—<i>go</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +He tried hard to prevent it, but do what he would, a look of relief struggled +into his face. She saw it, and it stung her almost to madness. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not look so happy, Edward; it is scarcely decent; and, besides, +you have not heard all that I have to say. I know what this arises from. You +are in love with Ida de la Molle. Now <i>there</i> I draw the line. You may +leave me if you like, but you shall not marry Ida while I am alive to prevent +it. That is more than I can bear. Besides, like a wise woman, she wishes to +marry Colonel Quaritch, who is worth two of you, Edward Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not believe it,” he answered; “and what right have you +to say that I am in love with Miss de la Molle? And if I am in love with her, +how can you prevent me from marrying her if I choose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Try and you will see,” she answered, with a little laugh. +“And now, as the curtain has dropped, and it is all over between us, why +the best thing that we can do is to put out the lights and go to bed,” +and she laughed again and courtesied with much assumed playfulness. +“Good-night, Mr. Cossey; good-night, and good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +He held out his hand. “Come, Belle,” he said, “don’t +let us part like this.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head and once more put her arms behind her. “No,” she +answered, “I will not take your hand. Of my own free will I shall never +touch it again, for to me it is like the hand of the dead. Good-bye, once more; +good-bye to you, Edward, and to all the happiness that I ever had. I built up +my life upon my love for you, and you have shattered it like glass. I do not +reproach you; you have followed after your nature and I must follow after mine, +and in time all things will come right—in the grave. I shall not trouble +you any more, provided that you do not try to marry Ida, for that I will not +bear. And now go, for I am very tired,” and turning, she rang the bell +for the servant to show him out. +</p> + +<p> +In another minute he was gone. She listened till she heard the front door close +behind him, and then gave way to her grief. Flinging herself upon the sofa, she +covered her face with her hands and moaned bitterly, weeping for the past, and +weeping, too, for the long desolate years that were to come. Poor woman! +whatever was the measure of her sin it had assuredly found her out, as our sins +always do find us out in the end. She had loved this man with a love which has +no parallel in the hearts of well-ordered and well-brought-up women. She never +really lived till this fatal passion took possession of her, and now that its +object had deserted her, her heart felt as though it was dead within her. In +that short half-hour she suffered more than many women do in their whole lives. +But the paroxysm passed, and she rose pale and trembling, with set teeth and +blazing eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“He had better be careful,” she said to herself; “he may go, +but if he tries to marry Ida I will keep my word—yes, for her sake as +well as his.” +</p> + +<p> +When Edward Cossey came to consider the position, which he did seriously, on +the following morning, he did not find it very satisfactory. To begin with, he +was not altogether a heartless man, and such a scene as that which he had +passed through on the previous evening was in itself quite enough to upset his +nerves. At one time, at any rate, he had been much attached to Mrs. Quest; he +had never borne her any violent affection; that had all been on her side, but +still he had been fond of her, and if he could have done so, would probably +have married her. Even now he was attached to her, and would have been glad to +remain her friend if she would have allowed it. But then came the time when her +heroics began to weary him, and he on his side began to fall in love with Ida +de la Molle, and as he drew back so she came forward, till at length he was +worn out, and things culminated as has been described. He was sorry for her +too, knowing how deeply she was attached to him, though it is probable that he +did not in the least realise the extent to which she suffered, for neither men +nor women who have intentionally or otherwise been the cause of intense mental +anguish to one of the opposite sex ever do quite realise this. They, not +unnaturally, measure the trouble by the depth of their own, and are therefore +very apt to come to erroneous conclusions. Of course this is said of cases +where all the real passion is on one side, and indifference or comparative +indifference on the other; for where it is mutual, the grief will in natures of +equal depth be mutual also. +</p> + +<p> +At any rate, Edward Cossey was quite sensitive enough to acutely feel parting +with Mrs. Quest, and perhaps he felt the manner of it even more than the fact +of the separation. Then came another consideration. He was, it is true, free +from his entanglement, in itself an enormous relief, but the freedom was of a +conditional nature. Belle had threatened trouble in the most decisive tones +should he attempt to carry out his secret purpose of marrying Ida, which she +had not been slow to divine. For some occult reason, at least to him it seemed +occult, the idea of this alliance was peculiarly distasteful to her, though no +doubt the true explanation was that she believed, and not inaccurately, that in +order to bring it about he was bent upon deserting her. The question with him +was, would she or would she not attempt to put her threat into execution? It +certainly seemed to him difficult to imagine what steps she could take to that +end, seeing that any such steps would necessarily involve her own exposure, and +that too when there was nothing to gain, and when all hopes of thereby securing +him for herself had passed away. Nor did he seriously believe that she would +attempt anything of the sort. It is one thing for a woman to make such threats +in the acute agony of her jealousy, and quite another for her to carry them out +in cold blood. Looking at the matter from a man’s point of view, it +seemed to him extremely improbable that when the occasion came she would +attempt such a move. He forgot how much more violently, when once it has taken +possession of his being, the storm of passion sweeps through such a +woman’s heart than through a man’s, and how utterly reckless to all +consequence the former sometimes becomes. For there are women with whom all +things melt in that white heat of anguished jealousy—honour, duty, +conscience, and the restraint of religion—and of these Belle Quest was +one. +</p> + +<p> +But of this he was not aware, and though he recognised a risk, he saw in it no +sufficient reason to make him stay his hand. For day by day the strong desire +to make Ida his wife had grown upon him, till at last it possessed him body and +soul. For a long while the intent had been smouldering in his breast, and the +tale that he now heard, to the effect that Colonel Quaritch had been beforehand +with him, had blown it into a flame. Ida was ever present in his thoughts; even +at night he could not be rid of her, for when he slept her vision, dark-eyed +and beautiful, came stealing down his dreams. She was his heaven, and if by any +ladder known to man he might climb thereto, thither he would climb. And so he +set his teeth and vowed that, Mrs. Quest or no Mrs. Quest, he would stake his +fortune upon the hazard of the die, aye, and win, even if he loaded the dice. +</p> + +<p> +While he was still thinking thus, standing at his window and gazing out on to +the market place of the quiet little town, he suddenly saw Ida herself driving +in her pony-carriage. It was a wet and windy day, the rain was on her cheek, +and the wind tossed a little lock of her brown hair. The cob was pulling, and +her proud face was set, as she concentrated her energies upon holding him. +Never to Edward Cossey had she looked more beautiful. His heart beat fast at +the sight of her, and whatever doubts might have lingered in his mind, +vanished. Yes, he would claim her promise and marry her. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the pony carriage pulled up at his door, and the boy who was sitting +behind got down and rang the bell. He stepped back from the window, wondering +what it could be. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you please give that note to Mr. Cossey,” said Ida, as the +door opened, “and ask him to send an answer?” and she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +The note was from the Squire, sealed with his big seal (the Squire always +sealed his letters in the old-fashioned way), and contained an invitation to +himself to shoot on the morrow. “George wants me to do a little partridge +driving,” it ended, “and to brush through one or two of the small +coverts. There will only be Colonel Quaritch besides yourself and George, but I +hope that you will have a fair rough day. If I don’t hear from you I +shall suppose that you are coming, so don’t trouble to write.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, I will go,” said Edward. “Confound that Quaritch. At +any rate I can show him how to shoot, and what is more I will have it out with +him about my aunt.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /> +THE COLONEL GOES OUT SHOOTING</h2> + +<p> +The next morning was fine and still, one of those lovely autumn days of which +we get four or five in the course of a season. After breakfast Harold Quaritch +strolled down his garden, stood himself against a gate to the right of Dead +Man’s Mount, and looked at the scene. All about him, their foliage +yellowing to its fall, rose the giant oaks, which were the pride of the country +side, and so quiet was the air that not a leaf upon them stirred. The only +sounds that reached his ears were the tappings of the nut-hatches as they +sought their food in the rough crannies of the bark, and the occasional falling +of a rich ripe acorn from its lofty place on to the frosted grass beneath. The +sunshine shone bright, but with a chastened heat, the squirrels scrambled up +the oaks, and high in the blue air the rooks pursued their path. It was a +beautiful morning, for summer is never more sweet than on its death-bed, and +yet it filled him with solemn thoughts. How many autumns had those old trees +seen, and how many would they still see, long after his eyes had lost their +sight! And if they were old, how old was Dead Man’s Mount there to his +left! Old, indeed! for he had discovered it was mentioned in Doomday Book and +by that name. And what was it—a boundary hill, a natural formation, or, +as its name implied, a funeral barrow? He had half a mind to dig one day and +find out, that is if he could get anybody to dig with him, for the people about +Honham were so firmly convinced that Dead Man’s Mount was haunted, a +reputation which it had owned from time immemorial, that nothing would have +persuaded them to touch it. +</p> + +<p> +He contemplated the great mound carefully without coming to any conclusion, and +then looked at his watch. It was a quarter to ten, time for him to start for +the Castle for his day’s shooting. So he got his gun and cartridges, and +in due course arrived at the Castle, to find George and several myrmidons, in +the shape of beaters and boys, already standing in the yard. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, Colonel, the Squire hopes you’ll go in and have a glass of +summut before you start,” said George; so accordingly he went, not to +“have a glass of summut,” but on the chance of seeing Ida. In the +vestibule he found the old gentleman busily engaged in writing an enormous +letter. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, Colonel,” he halloaed, without getting up, “glad to +see you. Excuse me for a few moments, will you, I want to get this off my mind. +Ida! Ida! Ida!” he shouted, “here’s Colonel Quaritch.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious, father,” said that young lady, arriving in a hurry, +“you are bringing the house down,” and then she turned round and +greeted Harold. It was the first time they had met since the eventful evening +described a chapter or two back, so the occasion might be considered a little +awkward; at any rate he felt it so. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Colonel Quaritch?” she said quite simply, giving +him her hand. There was nothing in the words, and yet he felt that he was very +welcome. For when a woman really loves a man there is about her an atmosphere +of softness and tender meaning which can scarcely be mistaken. Sometimes it is +only perceptible to the favoured individual himself, but more generally is to +be discerned by any person of ordinary shrewdness. A very short course of +observation in general society will convince the reader of the justice of this +observation, and when once he gets to know the signs of the weather he will +probably light upon more affairs of the heart than were ever meant for his +investigation. +</p> + +<p> +This softness, or atmospheric influence, or subdued glow of affection radiating +from a light within, was clearly enough visible in Ida that morning, and +certainly it made our friend the Colonel unspeakably happy to see it. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you fond of shooting?” she asked presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, very, and have been all my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you a good shot?” she asked again. +</p> + +<p> +“I call that a rude question,” he answered smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is, but I want to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Harold, “I suppose that I am pretty fair, that +is at rough shooting; I never had much practice at driven birds and that kind +of sport.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it does not much matter. One goes out shooting for the sport of the +thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know, but Mr. Edward Cossey,” and she shrank visibly as she +uttered the name, “is coming, and he is a <i>very</i> good shot and +<i>very</i> conceited about it. I want you to beat him if you can—will +you try?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Harold, “I don’t at all like shooting +against a man. It is not sportsmanlike, you know; and, besides, if Mr. Cossey +is a crack shot, I daresay that I shall be nowhere; but I will shoot as well as +I can.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, it is very feminine, but I would give anything to see you +beat him?” and she nodded and laughed, whereupon Harold Quaritch vowed in +his heart that if it in him lay he would not disappoint her. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Edward Cossey’s fast trotting horse drew up at the door +with a prodigious crunching of gravel, and Edward himself entered, looking very +handsome and rather pale. He was admirably dressed, that is to say, his +shooting clothes were beautifully made and very new-looking, and so were his +boots, and so was his hat, and so were his hammerless guns, of which he brought +a pair. There exists a certain class of sportsmen who always appear to have +just walked out of a sporting tailor’s shop, and to this class Edward +Cossey belonged. Everything about him was of the best and newest and most +expensive kind possible; even his guns were just down from a famous maker, and +the best that could be had for love or money, having cost exactly a hundred and +forty guineas the pair. Indeed, he presented a curious contrast to his rival. +The Colonel had certainly nothing new-looking about <i>him</i>; an old tweed +coat, an old hat, with a piece of gut still twined round it, a sadly frayed bag +full of brown cartridges, and, last of all, an old gun with the brown worn off +the barrels, original cost, 17 pounds 10s. And yet there was no possibility of +making any mistake as to which of the two looked more of a gentleman, or, +indeed, more of a sportsman. +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey shook hands with Ida, but when the Colonel was advancing to give +him his hand, he turned and spoke to the Squire, who had at length finished his +letter, so that no greeting was passed between them. At the time Harold did not +know if this move was or was not accidental. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they started, Edward Cossey attended by his man with the second gun. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo! Cossey,” sang out the Squire after him, “it +isn’t any use bringing your two guns for this sort of work. I don’t +preserve much here, you know, at least not now. You will only get a dozen cock +pheasants and a few brace of partridges.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you,” he answered, “I always like to have a second +gun in case I should want it. It’s no trouble, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said the Squire. “Ida and I will come down with +the luncheon to the grove. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +After crossing the moat, Edward Cossey walked by himself, followed by his man +and a very fine retriever, and the Colonel talked to George, who was informing +him that Mr. Cossey was “a pretty shot, he wore, but rather snappy over +it,” till they came to a field of white turnips. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, gentlemen, if you please,” said George, “we will walk +through these here turnips. I put two coveys of birds in here myself, and +it’s rare good ‘lay’ for them; so I think that we had better +see if they will let us come nigh them.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly they started down the field, the Colonel on the right, George in +the middle and Edward Cossey on the left. +</p> + +<p> +Before they had gone ten yards, an old Frenchman got up in the front of one of +the beaters and wheeled round past Edward, who cut him over in first-rate +style. +</p> + +<p> +From that one bird the Colonel could see that the man was a quick and clever +shot. Presently, however, a leash of English birds rose rather awkwardly at +about forty paces straight in front of Edward Cossey, and Harold noticed that +he left them alone, never attempting to fire at them. In fact he was one of +those shooters who never take a hard shot if they can avoid it, being always in +terror lest they should miss it and so reduce their average. +</p> + +<p> +Then George, who was a very fair shot of the “poking” order, fired +both barrels and got a bird, and Edward Cossey got another. It was not till +they were getting to the end of their last beat that Harold found a chance of +letting off his gun. Suddenly, however, a brace of old birds sprang up out of +the turnips in front of him at about thirty yards as swiftly as though they had +been ejected from a mortar, and made off, one to the right and one to the left, +both of them rising shots. He got the right-hand bird, and then turning killed +the other also, when it was more than fifty yards away. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel felt satisfied, for the shots were very good. Mr. Cossey opened his +eyes and wondered if it was a fluke, and George ejaculated, “Well, +that’s a master one.” +</p> + +<p> +After this they pursued their course, picking up another two brace of birds on +the way to the outlying cover, a wood of about twenty acres through which they +were to brush. It was a good holding wood for pheasants, but lay on the outside +of the Honham estate, where they were liable to be poached by the farmers whose +land marched, so George enjoined them particularly not to let anything go. +</p> + +<p> +Into the details of the sport that followed we need not enter, beyond saying +that the Colonel, to his huge delight, never shot better in his life. Indeed, +with the exception of one rabbit and hen pheasant that flopped up right beneath +his feet, he scarcely missed anything, though he took the shots as they came. +Edward Cossey also shot well, and with one exception missed nothing, but then +he never took a difficult shot if he could avoid it. The exception was a +woodcock which rose in front of George, who was walking down an outside belt +with the beaters. He loosed two barrels at it and missed, and on it came among +the tree tops, past where Edward Cossey was standing, about half-way down the +belt, giving him a difficult chance with the first barrel and a clear one with +the second. Bang! bang! and on came the woodcock, now flying low, but at +tremendous speed, straight at the Colonel’s head, a most puzzling shot. +However, he fired, and to his joy (and what joy is there like to the joy of a +sportsman who has just killed a woodcock which everybody has been popping at?) +down it came with a thump almost at his feet. +</p> + +<p> +This was their last beat before lunch, which was now to be seen approaching +down a lane in a donkey cart convoyed by Ida and the Squire. The latter was +advancing in stages of about ten paces, and at every stage he stopped to utter +a most fearful roar by way of warning all and sundry that they were not to +shoot in his direction. Edward gave his gun to his bearer and at once walked +off to join them, but the Colonel went with George to look after two running +cocks which he had down, for he was an old-fashioned sportsman, and hated not +picking up his game. After some difficulty they found one of the cocks in the +hedgerow, but the other they could not find, so reluctantly they gave up the +search. When they got to the lane they found the luncheon ready, while one of +the beaters was laying out the game for the Squire to inspect. There were +fourteen pheasants, four brace and a half of partridges, a hare, three rabbits, +and a woodcock. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo,” said the Squire, “who shot the woodcock?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” said George, “we all had a pull at him, but the +Colonel wiped our eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mr. Cossey,” said Ida, in affected surprise, “why, I +thought you never missed <i>anything</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody misses sometimes,” answered that gentleman, looking +uncommonly sulky. “I shall do better this afternoon when it comes to the +driven partridges.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe you will,” went on Ida, laughing +maliciously. “I bet you a pair of gloves that Colonel Quaritch will shoot +more driven partridges than you do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Done,” said Edward Cossey sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, do you hear that, Colonel Quaritch?” went on Ida. “I +have bet Mr. Cossey a pair of gloves that you will kill more partridges this +afternoon than he will, so I hope you won’t make me lose them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Goodness gracious,” said the Colonel, in much alarm. “Why, +the last partridge-driving that I had was on the slopes of some mountains in +Afghanistan. I daresay that I shan’t hit anything. Besides,” he +said with some irritation, “I don’t like being set up to shoot +against people.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, of course,” said Edward loftily, “if Colonel Quaritch +does not like to take it up there’s an end of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Colonel, “if you put it in that way I +don’t mind trying, but I have only one gun and you have two.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that will be all right,” said Ida to the Colonel. “You +shall have George’s gun; he never tries to shoot when they drive +partridges, because he cannot hit them. He goes with the beaters. It is a very +good gun.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel took up the gun and examined it. It was of about the same bend and +length as his own, but of a better quality, having once been the property of +James de la Molle. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “but then I haven’t got a +loader.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. I’ll do that, I know all about it. I often used to +hold my brother’s second gun when we drove partridges, because he said I +was so much quicker than the men. Look,” and she took the gun and rested +one knee on the turf; “first position, second position, third position. +We used to have regular drills at it,” and she sighed. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel laughed heartily, for it was a curious thing to see this stately +woman handling a gun with all the skill and quickness of a practised shot. +Besides, as the loader idea involved a whole afternoon of Ida’s society +he certainly was not inclined to negative it. But Edward Cossey did not smile; +on the contrary he positively scowled with jealousy, and was about to make some +remark when Ida held up her finger. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” she said, “here comes my father” (the Squire +had been counting the game); “he hates bets, so you mustn’t say +anything about our match.” +</p> + +<p> +Luncheon went off pretty well, though Edward Cossey did not contribute much to +the general conversation. When it was done the Squire announced that he was +going to walk to the other end of the estate, whereon Ida said that she should +stop and see something of the shooting, and the fun began. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /> +THE END OF THE MATCH</h2> + +<p> +They began the afternoon with several small drives, but on the whole the birds +did very badly. They broke back, went off to one side or the other, and +generally misbehaved themselves. In the first drive the Colonel and Edward +Cossey got a bird each. In the second drive the latter got three birds, firing +five shots, and his antagonist only got a hare and a pheasant that jumped out +of a ditch, neither of which, of course, counted anything. Only one brace of +birds came his way at all, but if the truth must be told, he was talking to Ida +at the moment and did not see them till too late. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a longer drive, when the birds were pretty plentiful. The Colonel got +one, a low-flying Frenchman, which he killed as he topped the fence, and after +that for the life of him he could not touch a feather. Every sportsman knows +what a fatal thing it is to begin to miss and then get nervous, and that was +what happened to the Colonel. Continually there came distant cries of +“<i>Mark! mark over!</i>” followed by the apparition of +half-a-dozen brown balls showing clearly against the grey autumn sky and +sweeping down towards him like lightning. <i>Whizz</i> in front, overhead and +behind; bang, bang; bang again with the second gun, and they were +away—vanished, gone, leaving nothing but a memory behind them. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel swore beneath his breath, and Ida kneeling at his side, sighed +audibly; but it was of no use, and presently the drive was done, and there he +was with one wretched French partridge to show for it. +</p> + +<p> +Ida said nothing, but she looked volumes, and if ever a man felt humiliated, +Harold Quaritch was that man. She had set her heart upon his winning the match, +and he was making an exhibition of himself that might have caused a schoolboy +to blush. +</p> + +<p> +Only Edward Cossey smiled grimly as he told his bearer to give the two and a +half brace which he had shot to George. +</p> + +<p> +“Last drive this next, gentlemen,” said that universal functionary +as he surveyed the Colonel’s one Frenchman, and then glancing sadly at +the tell-tale pile of empty cartridge cases, added, “You’ll hev to +shoot up, Colonel, this time, if you are a-going to win them there gloves for +Miss Ida. Mr. Cossey hev knocked up four brace and a half, and you hev only got +a brace. Look you here, sir,” he went on in a portentous whisper, +“keep forrard of them, well forrard, fire ahead, and down they’ll +come of themselves like. You’re a better shot than he is a long way; you +could give him ‘birds,’ sir, that you could, and beat him.” +</p> + +<p> +Harold said nothing. He was sorely tempted to make excuses, as any man would +have been, and he might with truth have urged that he was not accustomed to +partridge-driving, and that one of the guns was new to him. But he resisted +manfully and said never a word. +</p> + +<p> +George placed the two guns, and then went off to join the beaters. It was a +capital spot for a drive, for on each side were young larch plantations, +sloping down towards them like a V, the guns being at the narrow end and level +with the points of the plantations, which were at this spot about a hundred and +twenty yards apart. In front was a large stretch of open fields, lying in such +a fashion that the birds were bound to fly straight over the guns and between +the gap at the end of the V-shaped covers. +</p> + +<p> +They had to wait a long while, for the beat was of considerable extent, and +this they did in silence, till presently a couple of single birds appeared +coming down the wind like lightning, for a stiffish breeze had sprung up. One +went to the left over Edward Cossey’s head, and he shot it very neatly, +but the other, catching sight of Harold’s hat beneath the fence, which +was not a high one, swerved and crossed, an almost impossible shot, nearer +sixty than fifty yards from him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said Ida, and he fired, and to his joy down came the bird +with a thud, bounding full two feet into the air with the force of its impact, +being indeed shot through the head. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s better,” said Ida, as she handed him the second gun. +</p> + +<p> +Another moment and a covey came over, high up. He fired both barrels and got a +right and left, and snatching the second gun sent another barrel after them, +hitting a third bird, which did not fall. And then a noble enthusiasm and +certainty possessed him, and he knew that he should miss no more. Nor did he. +With two almost impossible exceptions he dropped every bird that drive. But his +crowning glory, a thing whereof he still often dreams, was yet to come. +</p> + +<p> +He had killed four brace of partridge and fired eleven times, when at last the +beaters made their appearance about two hundred yards away at the further end +of rather dirty barley stubble. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that is the lot,” he said; “I’m afraid you +have lost your gloves, Ida.” +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when there was a yell of +“mark!” and a strong covey of birds appeared, swooping down the +wind right on to him. +</p> + +<p> +On they came, scattered and rather “stringy.” Harold gripped his +gun and drew a deep breath, while Ida, kneeling at his side, her lips apart, +and her beautiful eyes wide open, watched their advent through a space in the +hedge. Lovely enough she looked to charm the heart of any man, if a man out +partridge-driving could descend to such frivolity, which we hold to be +impossible. +</p> + +<p> +Now is the moment. The leading brace are something over fifty yards away, and +he knows full well that if there is to be a chance left for the second gun he +must shoot before they are five yards nearer. +</p> + +<p> +“Bang!” down comes the old cock bird; “bang!” and his +mate follows him, falling with a smash into the fence. +</p> + +<p> +Quick as light Ida takes the empty gun with one hand, and as he swings round +passes him the cocked and loaded one with the other. “Bang!” +Another bird topples head first out of the thinned covey. They are nearly sixty +yards away now. “Bang!” again, and oh, joy and wonder! the last +bird turns right over backwards, and falls dead as a stone some seventy paces +from the muzzle of the gun. +</p> + +<p> +He had killed four birds out of a single driven covey, which as shooters well +know is a feat not often done even by the best driving shots. +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo!” said Ida, “I was sure that you could shoot if you +chose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “it was pretty good work;” and he +commenced collecting the birds, for by this time the beaters were across the +field. They were all dead, not a runner in the lot, and there were exactly six +brace of them. Just as he picked up the last, George arrived, followed by +Edward Cossey. +</p> + +<p> +“Well I niver,” said the former, while something resembling a smile +stole over his melancholy countenance, “if that bean’t the +masterest bit of shooting that ever I did see. Lord Walsingham couldn’t +hardly beat that hisself—fifteen empty cases and twelve birds picked up. +Why,” and he turned to Edward, “bless me, sir, if I don’t +believe the Colonel has won them gloves for Miss Ida after all. Let’s +see, sir, you got two brace this last drive and one the first, and a leash the +second, and two brace and a half the third, six and a half brace in all. And +the Colonel, yes, he hev seven brace, one bird to the good.” +</p> + +<p> +“There, Mr. Cossey,” said Ida, smiling sweetly, “I have won +my gloves. Mind you don’t forget to pay them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I will not forget, Miss de la Molle,” said he, smiling also, +but not too prettily. “I suppose,” he said, addressing the Colonel, +“that the last covey twisted up and you browned them.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered quietly, “all four were clear shots.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cossey smiled again, as he turned away to hide his vexation, an incredulous +smile, which somehow sent Harold Quaritch’s blood leaping through his +veins more quickly than was good for him. Edward Cossey would rather have lost +a thousand pounds than that his adversary should have got that extra bird, for +not only was he a jealous shot, but he knew perfectly well that Ida was anxious +that he should lose, and desired above all things to see him humiliated. And +then he, the smartest shot within ten miles round, to be beaten by a +middle-aged soldier shooting with a strange gun, and totally unaccustomed to +driven birds! Why, the story would be told over the county; George would see to +that. His anger was so great when he thought of it, that afraid of making +himself ridiculous, he set off with his bearer towards the Castle without +another word, leaving the others to follow. +</p> + +<p> +Ida looked after him and smiled. “He is so conceited,” she said; +“he cannot bear to be beaten at anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that you are rather hard on him,” said the Colonel, for +the joke had an unpleasant side which jarred upon his taste. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” she answered, with a little stamp, “it is not +for you to say so. If you disliked him as much as I do you would be hard on +him, too. Besides, I daresay that his turn is coming.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel winced, as well he might, but looking at her handsome face, set +just now like steel at the thought of what the future might bring forth, he +reflected that if Edward Cossey’s turn did come he was by no means sure +that the ultimate triumph would rest with him. Ida de la Molle, to whatever +extent her sense of honour and money indebtedness might carry her, was no +butterfly to be broken on a wheel, but a woman whose dislike and anger, or +worse still, whose cold, unvarying disdain, was a thing from which the boldest +hearted man might shrink aghast. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more was said on the subject, and they began to talk, though somewhat +constrainedly, about indifferent matters. They were both aware that it was a +farce, and that they were playing a part, for beneath the external ice of +formalities the river of their devotion ran strong—whither they knew not. +All that had been made clear a few nights back. But what will you have? +Necessity over-riding their desires, compelled them along the path of +self-denial, and, like wise folk, they recognised the fact: for there is +nothing more painful in the world than the outburst of hopeless affection. +</p> + +<p> +And so they talked about painting and shooting and what not, till they reached +the grey old Castle towers. Here Harold wanted to bid her good-bye, but she +persuaded him to come in and have some tea, saying that her father would like +to say good-night to him. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly he went into the vestibule, where there was a light, for it was +getting dusk; and here he found the Squire and Mr. Cossey. As soon as he +entered, Edward Cossey rose, said good-night to the Squire and Ida, and then +passed towards the door, where the Colonel was standing, rubbing the mud off +his shooting boots. As he came, Harold being slightly ashamed of the business +of the shooting match, and very sorry to have humiliated a man who prided +himself so much upon his skill in a particular branch of sport, held out his +hand and said in a friendly tone: +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Mr. Cossey. Next time that we are out shooting together I +expect I shall be nowhere. It was an awful fluke of mine killing those four +birds.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey took no notice of the friendly words or outstretched hand, but +came straight on as though he intended to walk past him. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel was wondering what it was best to do, for he could not mistake the +meaning of the oversight, when the Squire, who was sometimes very quick to +notice things, spoke in a loud and decided tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Cossey,” he said, “Colonel Quaritch is offering you his +hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I observe that he is,” he answered, setting his handsome face, +“but I do not wish to take Colonel Quaritch’s hand.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came a moment’s silence, which the Squire again broke. +</p> + +<p> +“When a gentleman in my house refuses to take the hand of another +gentleman,” he said very quietly, “I think that I have a right to +ask the reason for his conduct, which, unless that reason is a very sufficient +one, is almost as much a slight upon me as upon him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that Colonel Quaritch must know the reason, and will not press +me to explain,” said Edward Cossey. +</p> + +<p> +“I know of no reason,” replied the Colonel sternly, “unless +indeed it is that I have been so unfortunate as to get the best of Mr. Cossey +in a friendly shooting match.” +</p> + +<p> +“Colonel Quaritch must know well that this is not the reason to which I +allude,” said Edward. “If he consults his conscience he will +probably discover a better one.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida and her father looked at each other in surprise, while the Colonel by a +half involuntary movement stepped between his accuser and the door; and Ida +noticed that his face was white with anger. +</p> + +<p> +“You have made a very serious implication against me, Mr. Cossey,” +he said in a cold clear voice. “Before you leave this room you will be so +good as to explain it in the presence of those before whom it has been +made.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, if you wish it,” he answered, with something like a +sneer. “The reason why I refused to take your hand, Colonel Quaritch, is +that you have been guilty of conduct which proves to me that you are not a +gentleman, and, therefore, not a person with whom I desire to be on friendly +terms. Shall I go on?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most certainly you will go on,” answered the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. The conduct to which I refer is that you were once engaged to +my aunt, Julia Heston; that within three days of the time of the marriage you +deserted and jilted her in a most cruel way, as a consequence of which she went +mad, and is to this moment an inmate of an asylum.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida gave an exclamation of astonishment, and the Colonel started, while the +Squire, looking at him curiously, waited to hear what he had to say. +</p> + +<p> +“It is perfectly true, Mr. Cossey,” he answered, “that I was +engaged twenty years ago to be married to Miss Julia Heston, though I now for +the first time learn that she was your aunt. It is also quite true that that +engagement was broken off, under most painful circumstances, within three days +of the time fixed for the marriage. What those circumstances were I am not at +liberty to say, for the simple reason that I gave my word not to do so; but +this I will say, that they were not to my discredit, though you may not be +aware of that fact. But as you are one of the family, Mr. Cossey, my tongue is +not tied, and I will do myself the honour of calling upon you to-morrow and +explaining them to you. After that,” he added significantly, “I +shall require you to apologise to me as publicly as you have accused me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may require, but whether I shall comply is another matter,” +said Edward Cossey, and he passed out. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry, Mr. de la Molle,” said the Colonel, as soon as he +had gone, “more sorry than I can say, that I should have been the cause +of this most unpleasant scene. I also feel that I am placed in a very false +position, and until I produce Mr. Cossey’s written apology, that position +must to some extent continue. If I fail to obtain that apology, I shall have to +consider what course to take. In the meanwhile I can only ask you to suspend +your judgment.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /> +THE BLOW FALLS</h2> + +<p> +On the following morning, about ten o’clock, while Edward Cossey was +still at breakfast, a dog-cart drew up at his door and out of it stepped +Colonel Quaritch. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for the row,” said he to himself. “I hope that the +governor was right in his tale, that’s all. Perhaps it would have been +wiser to say nothing till I had made sure,” and he poured out some more +tea a little nervously, for in the Colonel he had, he felt, an adversary not to +be despised. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the door opened, and “Colonel Quaritch” was announced. He +rose and bowed a salutation, which the Colonel whose face bore a particularly +grim expression, did not return. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you take a chair?” he said, as soon as the servant had left, +and without speaking Harold took one—and presently began the +conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“Last night, Mr. Cossey,” he said, “you thought proper to +publicly bring a charge against me, which if it were true would go a long way +towards showing that I was not a fit person to associate with those before whom +it was brought.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Edward coolly. +</p> + +<p> +“Before making any remarks on your conduct in bringing such a charge, +which I give you credit for believing to be true, I purpose to show to you that +it is a false charge,” went on the Colonel quietly. “The story is a +very simple one, and so sad that nothing short of necessity would force me to +tell it. I was, when quite young, engaged to your aunt, Miss Heston, to whom I +was much attached, and who was then twenty years of age. Though I had little +besides my profession, she had money, and we were going to be married. The +circumstances under which the marriage was broken off were as +follow:—Three days before the wedding was to take place I went +unexpectedly to the house, and was told by the servant that Miss Heston was +upstairs in her sitting-room. I went upstairs to the room, which I knew well, +knocked and got no answer. Then I walked into the room, and this is what I saw. +Your aunt was lying on the sofa in her wedding dress (that is, in half of it, +for she had only the skirt on), as I first thought, asleep. I went up to her, +and saw that by her side was a brandy bottle, half empty. In her hand also was +a glass containing raw brandy. While I was wondering what it could mean, she +woke up, got off the sofa, and I saw that she was intoxicated.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a lie!” said Edward excitedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Be careful what you say, sir,” answered the Colonel, “and +wait to say it till I have done.” +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as I realised what was the matter, I left the room again, and +going down to your grandfather’s study, where he was engaged in writing a +sermon, I asked him to come upstairs, as I feared that his daughter was not +well. He came and saw, and the sight threw him off his balance, for he broke +out into a torrent of explanations and excuses, from which in time I extracted +the following facts:—It appeared that ever since she was a child, Miss +Heston had been addicted to drinking fits, and that it was on account of this +constitutional weakness, which was of course concealed from me, that she had +been allowed to engage herself to a penniless subaltern. It appeared, too, that +the habit was hereditary, for her mother had died from the effects of drink, +and one of her aunts had become mad from it. +</p> + +<p> +“I went away and thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that +under these circumstances it would be impossible for me, much as I was attached +to your aunt, to marry her, because even if I were willing to do so, I had no +right to run the risk of bringing children into the world who might inherit the +curse. Having come to this determination, which it cost me much to do, I wrote +and communicated it to your grandfather, and the marriage was broken +off.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not believe it, I do not believe a word of it,” said Edward, +jumping up. “You jilted her and drove her mad, and now you are trying to +shelter yourself behind a tissue of falsehood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you acquainted with your grandfather’s handwriting?” +asked the Colonel quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that it?” he went on, producing a yellow-looking letter and +showing it to him. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so—at least it looks like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then read the letter.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward obeyed. It was one written in answer to that of Harold Quaritch to his +betrothed’s father, and admitted in the clearest terms the justice of the +step that he had taken. Further, it begged him for the sake of Julia and the +family at large, never to mention the cause of his defection to any one outside +the family. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you satisfied, Mr. Cossey? I have other letters, if you wish to see +them.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward made no reply, and the Colonel went on:—“I gave the promise +your grandfather asked for, and in spite of the remarks that were freely made +upon my behaviour, I kept it, as it was my duty to do. You, Mr. Cossey, are the +first person to whom the story has been told. And now that you have thought fit +to make accusations against me, which are without foundation, I must ask you to +retract them as fully as you made them. I have prepared a letter which you will +be so good as to sign,” and he handed him a note addressed to the Squire. +It ran: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dear Mr. de la Molle,—<br /> +“I beg in the fullest and most ample manner possible to retract the +charges which I made yesterday evening against Colonel Quaritch, in the +presence of yourself and Miss de la Molle. I find that those charges were +unfounded, and I hereby apologise to Colonel Quaritch for having made +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“And supposing that I refuse to sign,” said Edward sulkily. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think,” answered the Colonel, “that you will +refuse.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward looked at Colonel Quaritch, and the Colonel looked at Edward. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Colonel, “please understand I mean that you +should sign this letter, and, indeed, seeing how absolutely you are in the +wrong, I do not think that you can hesitate to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +Then very slowly and unwillingly, Edward Cossey took up a pen, affixed his +signature to the letter, blotted it, and pushed it from him. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel folded it up, placed it in an envelope which he had ready, and put +it in his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Cossey,” he said, “I will wish you good-morning. +Another time I should recommend you to be more careful, both of your facts and +the manner of your accusations,” and with a slight bow he left the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Curse the fellow,” thought Edward to himself as the front door +closed, “he had me there—I was forced to sign. Well, I will be even +with him about Ida, at any rate. I will propose to her this very day, Belle or +no Belle, and if she won’t have me I will call the money in and smash the +whole thing up”—and his handsome face bore a very evil look, as he +thought of it. +</p> + +<p> +That very afternoon he started in pursuance of this design, to pay a visit to +the Castle. The Squire was out, but Miss de la Molle was at home. He was +ushered into the drawing-room, where Ida was working, for it was a wet and +windy afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +She rose to greet him coldly enough, and he sat down, and then came a pause +which she did not seem inclined to break. +</p> + +<p> +At last he spoke. “Did the Squire get my letter, Miss de la Molle?” +he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, rather icily. “Colonel Quaritch sent it +up.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry,” he added confusedly, “that I should have +put myself in such a false position. I hope that you will give me credit for +having believed my accusation when I made it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Such accusations should not be lightly made, Mr. Cossey,” was her +answer, and, as though to turn the subject, she rose and rang the bell for tea. +</p> + +<p> +It came, and the bustle connected with it prevented any further conversation +for a while. At length, however, it subsided, and once more Edward found +himself alone with Ida. He looked at her and felt afraid. The woman was of a +different clay to himself, and he knew it—he loved her, but he did not +understand her in the least. However, if the thing was to be done at all it +must be done now, so, with a desperate effort, he brought himself to the point. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss de la Molle,” he said, and Ida, knowing full surely what was +coming, felt her heart jump within her bosom and then stand still. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss de la Molle,” he repeated, “perhaps you will remember a +conversation that passed between us some weeks ago in the conservatory?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “I remember—about the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“About the money and other things,” he said, gathering courage. +“I hinted to you then that I hoped in certain contingencies to be allowed +to make my addresses to you, and I think that you understood me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understood you perfectly,” answered Ida, her pale face set like +ice, “and I gave you to understand that in the event of your lending my +father the money, I should hold myself bound to—to listen to what you had +to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, never mind the money,” broke in Edward. “It is not a +question of money with me, Ida, it is not, indeed. I love you with all my +heart. I have loved you ever since I saw you. It was because I was jealous of +him that I made a fool of myself last night with Colonel Quaritch. I should +have asked you to marry me long ago only there were obstacles in the way. I +love you, Ida; there never was a woman like you—never.” +</p> + +<p> +She listened with the same set face. Obviously he was in earnest, but his +earnestness did not move her; it scarcely even flattered her pride. She +disliked the man intensely, and nothing that he could say or do would lessen +that dislike by one jot—probably, indeed, it would only intensify it. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he stopped, his breast heaving and his face broken with emotion, and +tried to take her hand. +</p> + +<p> +She withdrew it sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think that there is any need for all this,” she said +coldly. “I gave a conditional promise. You have fulfilled your share of +the bargain, and I am prepared to fulfil mine in due course.” +</p> + +<p> +So far as her words went, Edward could find no fault with their meaning, and +yet he felt more like a man who has been abruptly and finally refused than one +declared chosen. He stood still and looked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it right to tell you, however,” she went on in the same +measured tones, “that if I marry you it will be from motives of duty, and +not from motives of affection. I have no love to give you and I do not wish for +yours. I do not know if you will be satisfied with this. If you are not, you +had better give up the idea,” and for the first time she looked up at him +with more anxiety in her face than she would have cared to show. +</p> + +<p> +But if she hoped that her coldness would repel him, she was destined to be +disappointed. On the contrary, like water thrown on burning oil, it only +inflamed him the more. +</p> + +<p> +“The love will come, Ida,” he said, and once more he tried to take +her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Cossey,” she said, in a voice that checked him. “I +am sorry to have to speak so plainly, but till I marry I am my own mistress. +Pray understand me.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you like,” he said, drawing back from her sulkily. “I am +so fond of you that I will marry you on any terms, and that is the truth. I +have, however, one thing to ask of you, Ida, and it is that you will keep our +engagement secret for the present, and get your father (I suppose I must speak +to him) to do the same. I have reasons,” he went on by way of +explanation, “for not wishing it to become known.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not see why I should keep it secret,” she said; “but it +does not matter to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is,” he explained, “my father is a very curious +man, and I doubt if he would like my engagement, because he thinks I ought to +marry a great deal of money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed,” answered Ida. She had believed, as was indeed the +case, that there were other reasons not unconnected with Mrs. Quest, on account +of which he was anxious to keep the engagement secret. “By the +way,” she went on, “I am sorry to have to talk of business, but +this is a business matter, is it not? I suppose it is understood that, in the +event of our marriage, the mortgage you hold over this place will not be +enforced against my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not,” he answered. “Look here, Ida, I will give +you those mortgage bonds as a wedding present, and you can put them in the +fire; and I will make a good settlement on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she said, “but I do not require any settlement +on myself; I had rather none was made; but I consent to the engagement only on +the express condition that the mortgages shall be cancelled before marriage, +and as the property will ultimately come to me, this is not much to ask. And +now one more thing, Mr. Cossey; I should like to know when you would wish this +marriage to take place; not yet, I presume?” +</p> + +<p> +“I could wish it to take place to-morrow,” he said with an attempt +at a laugh; “but I suppose that between one thing and another it +can’t come off at once. Shall we say this time six months, that will be +in May?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said Ida; “this day six months I shall be +prepared to become your wife, Mr. Cossey. I believe,” she added with a +flash of bitter sarcasm, “it is the time usually allowed for the +redemption of a mortgage.” +</p> + +<p> +“You say very hard things,” he answered, wincing. +</p> + +<p> +“Do I? I daresay. I am hard by nature. I wonder that you can wish to +marry me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish it beyond everything in the world,” he answered earnestly. +“You can never know how much. By the way, I know I was foolish about +Colonel Quaritch; but, Ida, I cannot bear to see that man near you. I hope that +you will now drop his acquaintance as much as possible.” +</p> + +<p> +Once more Ida’s face set like a flint. “I am not your wife yet, Mr. +Cossey,” she said; “when I am you will have a right to dictate to +me as to whom I shall associate with. At present you have no such right, and if +it pleases me to associate with Colonel Quaritch, I shall do so. If you +disapprove of my conduct, the remedy is simple—you can break off the +engagement.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose absolutely crushed, for Ida was by far the stronger of the two, and +besides, his passion gave her an unfair advantage over him. Without attempting +a reply he held out his hand and said good-night, for he was afraid to venture +on any demonstration of affection, adding that he would come to see her father +in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +She touched his outstretched hand with her fingers, and then fearing lest he +should change his mind, promptly rang the bell. +</p> + +<p> +In another minute the door had closed behind him and she was left alone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br /> +“GOOD-BYE, MY DEAR, GOOD-BYE!”</h2> + +<p> +When Edward Cossey had gone, Ida rose and put her hands to her head. So the +blow had fallen, the deed was done, and she was engaged to be married to Edward +Cossey. And Harold Quaritch! Well, there must be an end to that. It was hard, +too—only a woman could know how hard. Ida was not a person with a long +record of love affairs. Once, when she was twenty, she had received a proposal +which she had refused, and that was all. So it happened that when she became +attached to Colonel Quaritch she had found her heart for the first time, and +for a woman, somewhat late in life. Consequently her feelings were all the more +profound, and so indeed was her grief at being forced not only to put them +away, but to give herself to another man who was not agreeable to her. She was +not a violent or ill-regulated woman like Mrs. Quest. She looked facts in the +face, recognised their meaning and bowed before their inexorable logic. It +seemed to her almost impossible that she could hope to avoid this marriage, and +if that proved to be so, she might be relied upon to make the best of it. +Scandal would, under any circumstances, never find a word to say against Ida, +for she was not a person who could attempt to console herself for an unhappy +marriage. But it was bitter, bitter as gall, to be thus forced to turn aside +from her happiness—for she well knew that with Harold Quaritch her life +would be very happy—and fit her shoulders to this heavy yoke. Well, she +had saved the place to her father, and also to her descendants, if she had any, +and that was all that could be said. +</p> + +<p> +She thought and thought, wishing in the bitterness of her heart that she had +never been born to come to such a heavy day, till at last she could think no +more. The air of the room seemed to stifle her, though it was by no means +overheated. She went to the window and looked out. It was a wild wet evening, +and the wind drove the rain before it in sheets. In the west the lurid rays of +the sinking sun stained the clouds blood red, and broke in arrows of ominous +light upon the driving storm. +</p> + +<p> +But bad as was the weather, it attracted Ida. When the heart is heavy and torn +by conflicting passions, it seems to answer to the calling of the storm, and to +long to lose its petty troubling in the turmoil of the rushing world. Nature +has many moods of which our own are but the echo and reflection, and she can be +companionable when all human sympathy must fail. For she is our mother from +whom we come, to whom we go, and her arms are ever open to clasp the children +who can hear her voices. Drawn thereto by an impulse which she could not have +analysed, Ida went upstairs, put on a thick pair of boots, a macintosh and an +old hat. Then she sallied out into the wind and wet. It was blowing big guns, +and as the rain whirled down the drops struck upon her face like spray. She +crossed the moat bridge, and went out into the parkland beyond. The air was +full of dead leaves, and the grass rustled with them as though it were alive, +for this was the first wind since the frost. The great boughs of the oaks +rattled and groaned above her, and high overhead, among the sullen clouds, a +flight of rooks were being blown this way and that. +</p> + +<p> +Ida bent her tall form against the rain and gale, and fought her way through +them. At first she had no clear idea as to where she was going, but presently, +perhaps from custom, she took the path that ran across the fields to Honham +Church. It was a beautiful old church, particularly as regards the tower, one +of the finest in the county, which had been partially blown down and rebuilt +about the time of Charles I. The church itself had originally been founded by +the Boissey family, and considerably enlarged by the widow of a de la Molle, +whose husband had fallen at Agincourt, “as a memorial for ever.” +There, upon the porch, were carved the “hawks” of the de la Molles, +wreathed round with palms of victory; and there, too, within the chancel, hung +the warrior’s helmet and his dinted shield. +</p> + +<p> +Nor was he alone, for all around lay the dust of his kindred, come after the +toil and struggle of their stormy lives to rest within the walls of that old +church. Some of them had monuments of alabaster, whereon they lay in effigy, +their heads pillowed upon that of a conquered Saracen; some had monuments of +oak and brass, and some had no monuments at all, for the Puritans had +ruthlessly destroyed them. But they were nearly all there, nearly twenty +generations of the bearers of an ancient name, for even those of them who +perished on the scaffold had been borne here for burial. The place was eloquent +of the dead and of the mournful lesson of mortality. From century to century +the bearers of that name had walked in these fields, and lived in yonder +Castle, and looked upon the familiar swell of yonder ground and the silver +flash of yonder river, and now their ashes were gathered here and all the +forgotten turmoil of their lives was lost in the silence of those narrow tombs. +</p> + +<p> +Ida loved the spot, hallowed to her not only by the altar of her faith, but +also by the human associations that clung around and clothed it as the ivy +clothed its walls. Here she had been christened, and here among her ancestors +she hoped to be buried also. Here as a girl, when the full moon was up, she had +crept in awed silence with her brother James to look through the window at the +white and solemn figures stretched within. Here, too, she had sat on Sunday +after Sunday for more than twenty years, and stared at the quaint Latin +inscriptions cut on marble slabs, recording the almost superhuman virtues of +departed de la Molles of the eighteenth century, her own immediate ancestors. +The place was familiar to her whole life; she had scarcely a recollection with +which it was not in some way connected. It was not wonderful, therefore, that +she loved it, and that in the trouble of her mind her feet shaped their course +towards it. +</p> + +<p> +Presently she was in the churchyard. Taking her stand under the shelter of a +line of Scotch firs, through which the gale sobbed and sang, she leant against +a side gate and looked. The scene was desolate enough. Rain dropped from the +roof on to the sodden graves beneath, and ran in thin sheets down the flint +facing of the tower; the dead leaves whirled and rattled about the empty porch, +and over all shot one red and angry arrow from the sinking sun. She stood in +the storm and rain, gazing at the old church that had seen the end of so many +sorrows more bitter than her own, and the wreck of so many summers, till the +darkness began to close round her like a pall, while the wind sung the requiem +of her hopes. Ida was not of a desponding or pessimistic character, but in that +bitter hour she found it in her heart, as most people have at one time or +another in their lives, to wish the tragedy over and the curtain down, and that +she lay beneath those dripping sods without sight or hearing, without hope or +dread. It seemed to her that the Hereafter must indeed be terrible if it +outweighs the sorrows of the Here. +</p> + +<p> +And then, poor woman, she thought of the long years between her and rest, and +leaning her head against the gate-post, began to cry bitterly in the gloom. +</p> + +<p> +Presently she ceased crying and with a start looked up, feeling that she was no +longer alone. Her instincts had not deceived her, for in the shadow of the fir +trees, not more than two paces from her, was the figure of a man. Just then he +took a step to the left, which brought his outline against the sky, and +Ida’s heart stood still, for now she knew him. It was Harold Quaritch, +the man over whose loss she had been weeping. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very odd,” she heard him say, for she was to leeward of +him, “but I could have sworn that I heard somebody sobbing; I suppose it +was the wind.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida’s first idea was flight, and she made a movement for that purpose, +but in doing so tripped over a stick and nearly fell. +</p> + +<p> +In a minute he was by her side. She was caught, and perhaps she was not +altogether sorry, especially as she had tried to get away. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it? what’s the matter?” said the Colonel, lighting a +fusee under her eyes. It was one of those flaming fusees, and burnt with a blue +light, showing Ida’s tall figure and beautiful face, all stained with +grief and tears, showing her wet macintosh, and the gate-post against which she +had been leaning—showing everything. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Ida,” he said in amaze, “what are you doing here, +crying too?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not crying,” she said, with a sob; “it’s the +rain that has made my face wet.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then the light burnt out and he dropped it. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, dear, what is it?” he said in great distress, for the +sight of her alone in the wet and dark, and in tears, moved him beyond himself. +Indeed he would have been no man if it had not. +</p> + +<p> +She tried to answer, but she could not, and in another minute, to tell the +honest truth, she had exchanged the gate-post for Harold’s broad +shoulder, and was finishing her “cry” there. +</p> + +<p> +Now to see a young and pretty woman weeping (more especially if she happens to +be weeping on your shoulder) is a very trying thing. It is trying even if you +do not happen to be in love with her at all. But if you are in love with her, +however little, it is dreadful; whereas, if, as in the present case, you happen +to worship her, more, perhaps, than it is good to worship any fallible human +creature, then the sight is positively overpowering. And so, indeed, it proved +in the present instance. The Colonel could not bear it, but lifting her head +from his shoulder, he kissed her sweet face again and again. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, darling?” he said, “what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave go of me and I will tell you,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +He obeyed, though with some unwillingness. +</p> + +<p> +She hunted for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, and then at last she spoke: +</p> + +<p> +“I am engaged to be married,” she said in a low voice, “I am +engaged to Mr. Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, for about the first time in his life, Harold Quaritch swore violently in +the presence of a lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, damn it all!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She took no notice of the strength of the language, perhaps indeed she +re-echoed it in some feminine equivalent. +</p> + +<p> +“It is true,” she said with a sigh. “I knew that it would +come, those dreadful things always do—and it was not my fault—I am +sure you will always remember that. I had to do it—he advanced the money +on the express condition, and even if I could pay back the money, I suppose +that I should be bound to carry out the bargain. It is not the money which he +wants but his bond.” +</p> + +<p> +“Curse him for a Shylock,” said Harold again, and groaned in his +bitterness and jealousy. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there nothing to be done?” he asked presently in a harsh voice, +for he was very hard hit. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” she answered sadly. “I do not see what can help +us, unless the man died,” she said; “and that is not likely. +Harold,” she went on, addressing him for the first time in her life by +his Christian name, for she felt that after crying upon a man’s shoulder +it is ridiculous to scruple about calling him by his name; “Harold, there +is no help for it. I did it myself, remember, because, as I told you, I do not +think that any one woman has a right to place her individual happiness before +the welfare of her family. And I am only sorry,” she added, her voice +breaking a little, “that what I have done should bring suffering upon +you.” +</p> + +<p> +He groaned again, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“We must try to forget,” she went on wildly. “Oh no! no! I +feel it is not possible that we should forget. You won’t forget me, +Harold, will you? And though it must be all over between us, and we must never +speak like this again—never—you will always know I have not +forgotten you, will you not, but that I think of you always?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no fear of my forgetting,” he said, “and I am +selfish enough to hope that you will think of me at times, Ida.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, indeed I will. We all have our burdens to bear. It is a hard world, +and we must bear them. And it will all be the same in the end, in just a few +years. I daresay these dead people here have felt as we feel, and how quiet +they are! And perhaps there may be something beyond, where things are not so. +Who can say? You won’t go away from this place, Harold, will you? Not +until I am married at any rate; perhaps you had better go then. Say that you +won’t go till then, and you will let me see you sometimes; it is a +comfort to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should have gone, certainly,” he said; “to New Zealand +probably, but if you wish it I will stop for the present.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you; and now good-bye, my dear, good-bye! No, don’t come +with me, I can find my own way home. And—why do you wait? Good-bye, +good-bye for ever in this way. Yes, kiss me once and swear that you will never +forget me. Marry if you wish to; but don’t forget me, Harold. Forgive me +for speaking so plainly, but I speak as one about to die to you, and I wish +things to be clear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall never marry and I shall never forget you,” he answered. +“Good-bye, my love, good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +In another minute she had vanished into the storm and rain, out of his sight +and out of his life, but not out of his heart. +</p> + +<p> +He, too, turned and went his way into the wild and lonely night. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +An hour afterwards Ida came down into the drawing-room dressed for dinner, +looking rather pale but otherwise quite herself. Presently the Squire arrived. +He had been at a magistrate’s meeting, and had only just got home. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Ida,” he said, “I could not find you anywhere. I met +George as I was driving from Boisingham, and he told me that he saw you walking +through the park.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he?” she answered indifferently. “Yes, I have been out. +It was so stuffy indoors. Father,” she went on, with a change of tone, +“I have something to tell you. I am engaged to be married.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her curiously, and then said quietly—the Squire was always +quiet in any matter of real emergency—“Indeed, my dear! That is a +serious matter. However, speaking off-hand, I think that notwithstanding the +disparity of age, Quaritch——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she said, wincing visibly, “I am not engaged to +Colonel Quaritch, I am engaged to Mr. Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, “oh, indeed! I thought from what I saw, +that—that——” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the servant announced dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, never mind about it now, father,” she said; “I am +tired and want my dinner. Mr. Cossey is coming to see you to-morrow, and we can +talk about it afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +And though the Squire thought a good deal, he made no further allusion to the +subject that night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br /> +THE SQUIRE GIVES HIS CONSENT</h2> + +<p> +Edward Cossey did not come away from the scene of his engagement in a very +happy or triumphant tone of mind. Ida’s bitter words stung like whips, +and he understood, and she clearly meant he should understand, that it was only +in consideration of the money advanced that she had consented to become his +wife. Now, however satisfactory it is to be rich enough to purchase your +heart’s desire in this fashion, it is not altogether soothing to the +pride of a nineteenth-century man to be continually haunted by the thought that +he is a buyer in the market and nothing but a buyer. Of course, he saw clearly +enough that there was an object in all this—he saw that Ida, by making +obvious her dislike, wished to disgust him with his bargain, and escape from an +alliance of which the prospect was hateful to her. But he had no intention of +being so easily discouraged. In the first place his passion for the woman was +as a devouring flame, eating ever at his heart. In that at any rate he was +sincere; he did love her so far as his nature was capable of love, or at any +rate he had the keenest desire to make her his wife. A delicate-minded man +would probably have shrunken from forcing himself upon a woman under parallel +circumstances; but Edward Cossey did not happen to fall into that category. As +a matter of fact such men are not as common as they might be. +</p> + +<p> +Another thing which he took into account was that Ida would probably get over +her dislike. He was a close observer of women, in a cynical and half +contemptuous way, and he remarked, or thought that he remarked, a curious +tendency among them to submit with comparative complacency to the inevitable +whenever it happened to coincide with their material advantage. Women, he +argued, have not, as a class, outgrown the traditions of their primitive +condition when their partners for life were chosen for them by lot or the +chance of battle. They still recognise the claims of the wealthiest or +strongest, and their love of luxury and ease is so keen that if the nest they +lie in is only soft enough, they will not grieve long over the fact that it was +not of their own choosing. Arguing from these untrustworthy premises, he came +to the conclusion that Ida would soon get over her repugnance to marrying him, +when she found how many comforts and good things marriage with so rich a man +would place at her disposal, and would, if for no other reason, learn to look +on him with affection and gratitude as the author of her gilded ease. And so +indeed she might have done had she been of another and more common stamp. But, +unfortunately for his reasoning, there exist members of her sex who are by +nature of an order of mind superior to these considerations, and who realise +that they have but one life to live, and that the highest form of happiness is +<i>not</i> dependent upon money or money’s worth, but rather upon the +indulgence of mental aspirations and those affections which, when genuine, draw +nearer to holiness than anything else about us. Such a woman, more especially +if she is already possessed with an affection for another man, does not easily +become reconciled to a distasteful lot, however quietly she may endure it, and +such a woman was Ida de la Molle. +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey, when he reached Boisingham on the evening of his engagement, at +once wrote and posted a note to the Squire, saying that he would call on the +following morning about a matter of business. Accordingly, at half-past ten +o’clock, he arrived and was shown into the vestibule, where he found the +old gentleman standing with his back to the fire and plunged in reflection. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. de la Molle,” said Edward, rather nervously, so soon as +he had shaken hands, “I do not know if Ida has spoken to you about what +took place between us yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “yes, she told me something to the effect +that she had accepted a proposal of marriage from you, subject to my consent, +of course; but really the whole thing is so sudden that I have hardly had time +to consider it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very simple,” said Edward; “I am deeply attached to +your daughter, and I have been so fortunate as to be accepted by her. Should +you give your consent to the marriage, I may as well say at once that I wish to +carry out the most liberal money arrangements in my power. I will make Ida a +present of the mortgage that I hold over this property, and she may put it in +the fire. Further, I will covenant on the death of my father, which cannot now +be long delayed, to settle two hundred thousand pounds upon her absolutely. +Also, I am prepared to agree that if we have a son, and he should wish to do +so, he shall take the name of de la Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” said the Squire, turning round to hide his natural +gratification at these proposals, “your offers on the subject of +settlements are of a most liberal order, and of course so far as I am +concerned, Ida will have this place, which may one day be again more valuable +than it is now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad that they meet with your approval,” said Edward; +“and now there is one more thing I want to ask you, Mr. de la Molle, and +which I hope, if you give your consent to the marriage, you will not raise any +objection to. It is, that our engagement should not be announced at present. +The fact is,” he went on hurriedly, “my father is a very peculiar +man, and has a great idea of my marrying somebody with a large fortune. Also +his state of health is so uncertain that there is no possibility of knowing how +he will take anything. Indeed he is dying; the doctors told me that he might go +off any day, and that he cannot last for another three months. If the +engagement is announced to him now, at the best I shall have a great deal of +trouble, and at the worst he might make me suffer in his will, should he happen +to take a fancy against it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph,” said the Squire, “I don’t quite like the idea +of a projected marriage with my daughter, Miss de la Molle of Honham Castle, +being hushed up as though there were something discreditable about it, but +still there may be peculiar circumstances in the case which would justify me in +consenting to that course. You are both old enough to know your own minds, and +the match would be as advantageous for you as it could be to us, for even +now-a-days, family, and I may even say personal appearance, still go for +something where matrimony is concerned. I have reason to know that your father +is a peculiar man, very peculiar. Yes, on the whole, though I don’t like +hole and corner affairs, I shall have no objection to the engagement not being +announced for the next month or two.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you for considering me so much,” said Edward with a sigh of +relief. “Then am I to understand that you give your consent to our +engagement?” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire reflected for a moment. Everything seemed quite straight, and yet he +suspected crookedness. His latent distrust of the man, which had not been +decreased by the scene of two nights before—for he never could bring +himself to like Edward Cossey—arose in force and made him hesitate when +there was no visible ground for hesitation. He possessed, as has been said, an +instinctive insight into character that was almost feminine in its intensity, +and it was lifting a warning finger before him now. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite know what to say,” he replied at length. +“The whole affair is so sudden—and to tell you the truth, I thought +that Ida had bestowed her affections in another direction.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward’s face darkened. “I thought so too,” he answered, +“until yesterday, when I was so happy as to be undeceived. I ought to +tell you, by the way,” he went on, running away from the covert falsehood +in his last words as quickly as he could, “how much I regret I was the +cause of that scene with Colonel Quaritch, more especially as I find that there +is an explanation of the story against him. The fact is, I was foolish enough +to be vexed because he beat me out shooting, and also because, well I—I +was jealous of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes,” said the Squire, rather coldly, “a most +unfortunate affair. Of course, I don’t know what the particulars of the +matter were, and it is no business of mine, but speaking generally, I should +say never bring an accusation of that sort against a man at all unless you are +driven to it, and if you do bring it be quite certain of your ground. However, +that is neither here nor there. Well, about this engagement. Ida is old enough +to judge for herself, and seems to have made up her mind, so as I know no +reason to the contrary, and as the business arrangements proposed are all that +I could wish, I cannot see that I have any ground for withholding my consent. +So all I can say, sir, is that I hope you will make my daughter a good husband, +and that you will both be happy. Ida is a high-spirited woman; but in my +opinion she is greatly above the average of her sex, as I have known it, and +provided you have her affection, and don’t attempt to drive her, she will +go through thick and thin for you. But I dare say you would like to see her. +Oh, by the way, I forgot, she has got a headache this morning, and is stopping +in bed. It isn’t much in her line, but I daresay that she is a little +upset. Perhaps you would like to come up to dinner to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +This proposition Edward, knowing full well that Ida’s headache was a +device to rid herself of the necessity of seeing him, accepted with gratitude +and went. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he had gone, Ida herself came down. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear,” said the Squire cheerfully, “I have just had +the pleasure of seeing Edward Cossey, and I have told him that, as you seemed +to wish it——” +</p> + +<p> +Here Ida made a movement of impatience, but remembered herself and said +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“That as you seemed to wish that things should be so, I had no ground of +objection to your engagement. I may as well tell you that the proposals which +he makes as regards settlements are of the most liberal nature.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are they?” answered Ida indifferently. “Is Mr. Cossey coming +here to dinner?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I asked him. I thought that you would like to see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, I wish you had not,” she answered with animation, +“because there is nothing to eat except some cold beef. Really, father, +it is very thoughtless of you;” and she stamped her foot and went off in +a huff, leaving the Squire full of reflection. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder what it all means,” he said to himself. “She +can’t care about the man much or she would not make that fuss about his +being asked to dinner. Ida isn’t the sort of woman to be caught by the +money, I should think. Well, I know nothing about it; it is no affair of mine, +and I can only take things as I find them.” +</p> + +<p> +And then he fell to reflecting that this marriage would be an extraordinary +stroke of luck for the family. Here they were at the last gasp, mortgaged up +the eyes, when suddenly fortune, in the shape of an, on the whole, perfectly +unobjectionable young man, appears, takes up the mortgages, proposes +settlements to the tune of hundreds of thousands, and even offers to perpetuate +the old family name in the person of his son, should he have one. Such a state +of affairs could not but be gratifying to any man, however unworldly, and the +Squire was not altogether unworldly. That is, he had a keen sense of the +dignity of his social position and his family, and it had all his life been his +chief and laudable desire to be sufficiently provided with the goods of this +world to raise the de la Molles to the position which they had occupied in +former centuries. Hitherto, however, the tendency of events had been all the +other way—the house was a sinking one, and but the other day its ancient +roof had nearly fallen about their ears. But now the prospect changed as though +by magic. On Ida’s marriage all the mortgages, those heavy accumulations +of years of growing expenditure and narrowing means, would roll off the back of +the estate, and the de la Molles of Honham Castle would once more take the +place in the county to which they were undoubtedly entitled. +</p> + +<p> +It is not wonderful that the prospect proved a pleasing one to him, or that his +head was filled with visions of splendours to come. +</p> + +<p> +As it chanced, on that very morning it was necessary for Mr. Quest to pay the +old gentleman a visit in order to obtain his signature to a lease of a bakery +in Boisingham, which, together with two or three other houses, belonged to the +estate. +</p> + +<p> +He arrived just as the Squire was in the full flow of his meditations, and it +would not have needed a man of Mr. Quest’s penetration and powers of +observation to discover that he had something on his mind which he was longing +for an opportunity to talk about. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire signed the lease without paying the slightest attention to Mr. +Quest’s explanations, and then suddenly asked him when the first interest +on the recently-effected mortgages came due. +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer mentioned a certain date. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the Squire, “then it will have to be met; but it +does not matter, it will be for the last time.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest pricked up his ears and looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is, Quest,” he went on by way of explanation, “that +there are—well—family arrangements pending which will put an end to +these embarrassments in a natural and a proper way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Mr. Quest, “I am very glad to hear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said the Squire, “unfortunately I am under some +restraints in speaking about the matter at present, or I should like to ask +your opinion, for which as you know I have a great respect. Really, though, I +do not know why I should not consult my lawyer on a matter of business; I only +consented not to trumpet the thing about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lawyers are confidential agents,” said Mr. Quest quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course they are. Of course, and it is their business to hold their +tongues. I may rely upon your discretion, may I not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said Mr. Quest. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the matter is this: Mr. Edward Cossey is engaged to Miss de la +Molle. He has just been here to obtain my consent, which, of course, I have not +withheld, as I know nothing against the young man—nothing at all. The +only stipulation that he made is, as I think, a reasonable one under the +circumstances, namely, that the engagement is to be kept quiet for a little +while on account of the condition of his father’s health. He says that he +is an unreasonable man, and that he might take a prejudice against it.” +</p> + +<p> +During this announcement Mr. Quest had remained perfectly quiet, his face +showing no signs of excitement, only his eyes shone with a curious light. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” he said, “this is very interesting news.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the Squire. “That is what I meant by saying that +there would be no necessity to make any arrangements as to the future payment +of interest, for Cossey has informed me that he proposes to put the mortgage +bonds in the fire before his marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Mr. Quest; “well, he could hardly do less, +could he? Altogether, I think you ought to be congratulated, Mr. de la Molle. +It is not often that a man gets such a chance of clearing the encumbrances off +a property. And now I am very sorry, but I must be getting home, as I promised +my wife to be back for luncheon. As the thing is to be kept quiet, I suppose +that it would be premature for me to offer my good wishes to Miss de la +Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, don’t say anything about it at present. Well, +good-bye.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br /> +BELLE PAYS A VISIT</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Quest got into his dog-cart and drove homewards, full of feelings which it +would be difficult to describe. +</p> + +<p> +The hour of his revenge was come. He had played his cards and he had won the +game, and fortune with it, for his enemy lay in the hollow of his hand. He +looked behind him at the proud towers of the Castle, reflecting as he did so, +that in all probability they would belong to him before another year was over +his head. At one time he had earnestly longed to possess this place, but now +this was not so much the object of his desire. What he wanted now was the +money. With thirty thousand pounds in his hand he would, together with what he +had, be a rich man, and he had already laid his plans for the future. Of Edith +he had heard nothing lately. She was cowed, but he well knew that it was only +for a while. By-and-by her rapacity would get the better of her fear and she +would recommence her persecutions. This being so, he came to a +determination—he would put the world between them. Once let him have this +money in his hand and he would start his life afresh in some new country; he +was not too old for it, and he would be a rich man, and then perhaps he might +get rid of the cares which had rendered so much of his existence valueless. If +Belle would go with him, well and good—if not, he could not help it. If +she did go, there must be a reconciliation first, for he could not any longer +tolerate the life they lived. +</p> + +<p> +In due course he reached the Oaks and went in. Luncheon was on the table, at +which Belle was sitting. She was, as usual, dressed in black, and beautiful to +look on; but her round babyish face was pale and pinched, and there were black +lines beneath her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know that you were coming back to luncheon,” she said; +“I am afraid there is not much to eat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “I finished my business up at the Castle, so +I thought I might as well come home. By-the-by, Belle, I have a bit of news for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she asked, looking up sharply, for something in his +tone attracted her attention and awoke her fears. +</p> + +<p> +“Your friend, Edward Cossey, is going to be married to Ida de la +Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +She blanched till she looked like death itself, and put her hands to her heart +as though she had been stabbed. +</p> + +<p> +“The Squire told me so himself,” he went on, keeping his eyes +remorselessly fixed upon her face. She leaned forward and he thought that she +was going to faint, but she did not. By a supreme effort she recovered herself +and drank a glass of sherry which was standing by her side. +</p> + +<p> +“I expected it,” she said in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that you dreaded it,” answered Mr. Quest quietly. He rose +and locked the door and then came and stood close to her and spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, Belle. I know all about your affair with Edward Cossey. I have +proofs of it, but I have forborne to use them, because I saw that in the end he +would weary of you and desert you for some other woman, and that would be my +best revenge upon you. You have all along been nothing but his toy, the light +woman with whom he amused his leisure hours.” +</p> + +<p> +She put her hands back over her heart but said no word and he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Belle, I did wrong to marry you when you did not want to marry me, but, +being married, you have done wrong to be unfaithful to your vows. I have been +rewarded by your infidelity, and your infidelity has been rewarded by +desertion. Now I have a proposal to make, and if you are wise you will accept +it. Let us set the one wrong against the other; let both be forgotten. Forgive +me, and I will forgive you, and let us make peace—if not now, then in a +little while, when your heart is not so sore—and go right away from +Edward Cossey and Ida de la Molle and Honham and Boisingham, into some new part +of the world where we can begin life again and try to forget the past.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up at him and shook her head mournfully, and twice she tried to +speak and twice she failed. The third time her words came. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not understand me,” she said. “You are very kind and +I am very grateful to you, but you do not understand me. I cannot get over +things so easily as I know most women can; what I have done I never can undo. I +do not blame him altogether, it was as much or more my fault than his, but +having once loved him I cannot go back to you or any other man. If you like I +will go on living with you as we live, and I will try to make you comfortable, +but I can say no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think again, Belle,” he said almost pleadingly; “I daresay +that you have never given me credit for much tenderness of heart, and I know +that you have as much against me as I have against you. But I have always loved +you, and I love you now, really and truly love you, and I will make you a good +husband if you will let me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very good,” she said, “but it cannot be. Get rid of +me if you like and marry somebody else. I am ready to take the penalty of what +I have done.” +</p> + +<p> +“Once more, Belle, I beg you to consider. Do you know what kind of man +this is for whom you are giving up your life? Not only has he deserted you, but +do you know how he has got hold of Ida de la Molle? He has, as I know well, +<i>bought</i> her. I tell you he has bought her as much as though he had gone +into the open market and paid down a price for her. The other day Cossey and +Son were going to foreclose upon the Honham estates, which would have ruined +the old gentleman. Well, what did your young man do? He went to the +girl—who hates him, by the way, and is in love with Colonel +Quaritch—and said to her, ‘If you will promise to marry me when I +ask you, I will find the thirty thousand pounds and take up the +mortgages.’ And on those terms she agreed to marry him. And now he has +got rid of you and he claims her promise. There is the history. I wonder that +your pride will bear such a thing. By heaven, I would kill the man.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up at him curiously. “Would you?” she said. “It is +not a bad idea. I dare say it is all true. He is worthless. Why does one fall +in love with worthless people? Well, there is an end of it; or a beginning of +the end. As I have sown, so must I reap;” and she got up, and unlocking +the door left the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said aloud when she had gone, “there is a beginning +of the end. Upon my word, what between one thing and another, unlucky devil as +I am, I had rather stand in my own shoes than in Edward Cossey’s.” +</p> + +<p> +Belle went to her room and sat thinking, or rather brooding, sullenly. Then she +put on her bonnet and cloak and started out, taking the road that ran past +Honham Castle. She had not gone a hundred yards before she found herself face +to face with Edward Cossey himself. He was coming out of a gunsmith’s +shop, where he had been ordering some cartridges. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Belle?” he said, colouring and lifting his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Cossey?” she answered, coming to a stop and +looking him straight in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going?” he asked, not knowing what to say. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to walk up to the Castle to call on Miss de la Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think that you will find her. She is in bed with a +headache.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! So you have been up there this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I had to see the Squire about some business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed.” Then looking him in the eyes again, “Are you +engaged to be married to Ida?” +</p> + +<p> +He coloured once more, he could not prevent himself from doing so. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered; “what makes you ask such a +question?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she said, laughing a little; “feminine +curiosity I suppose. I thought that you might be. Good-bye,” and she went +on, leaving Edward Cossey to the enjoyment of a very peculiar set of +sensations. +</p> + +<p> +“What a coward!” said Belle to herself. “He does not even +dare to tell me the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +Nearly an hour later she arrived at the Castle, and, asking for Ida, was shown +into the drawing-room, where she found her sitting with a book in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +Ida rose to greet her in friendly fashion, for the two women, although they +were at the opposite poles of character, had a liking for each other. In a way +they were both strong, and strength always recognises and respects strength. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you walked up?” asked Ida. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I came on the chance of finding you. I want to speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Ida, “what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“This. Forgive me, but are you engaged to be married to Edward +Cossey?” +</p> + +<p> +Ida looked at her in a slow, stately way, which seemed to ask by what right she +came to question her. At least, so Belle read it. +</p> + +<p> +“I know that I have no right to ask such a question,” she said, +with humility, “and, of course, you need not answer it, but I have a +reason for asking.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Ida, “I was requested by Mr. Cossey to keep the +matter secret, but he appears to have divulged it. Yes, I am engaged to be +married to him.” +</p> + +<p> +Belle’s beautiful face turned a shade paler, if that was possible, and +her eyes hardened. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wonder why I ask you this?” she said. “I will tell +you, though probably when I have done so you will never speak to me again. I am +Edward Cossey’s discarded mistress,” and she laughed bitterly +enough. +</p> + +<p> +Ida shrank a little and coloured, as a pure and high-minded woman naturally +does when she is for the first time suddenly brought into actual contact with +impurity and passion. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” went on Belle, “that I must seem a shameful thing +to you; but, Miss de la Molle, good and cold and stately as you are, pray God +that you may never be thrown into temptation; pray God that you may never be +married almost by force to a man whom you hate, and then suddenly learn what a +thing it is to fall in love, and for the first time feel your life +awake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said Ida gently, “what right have I to judge +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I loved him,” went on Belle, “I loved him passionately, and +for a while it was as though heaven had opened its gates, for he used to care +for me a little, and I think he would have taken me away and married me +afterwards, but I would not hear of it, because I knew that it would ruin him. +He offered to, once, and I refused, and within three hours of that I believe he +was bargaining for you. Well, and then it was the old story, he fell more and +more in love with you and of course I had no hold upon him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Ida, moving impatiently, “but why do you tell me +all this? It is very painful and I had rather not hear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do I tell you? I tell you because I do not wish you to marry Edward +Cossey. I tell you because I wish <i>him</i> to feel a little of what <i>I</i> +have to feel, and because I have said that he should <i>not</i> marry +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish that you could prevent it,” said Ida, with a sudden +outburst. “I am sure you are quite welcome to Mr. Cossey so far as I am +concerned, for I detest him, and I cannot imagine how any woman could ever have +done otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Belle; “but I have done with Mr. Cossey, +and I think I hate him too. I know that I did hate him when I met him in the +street just now and he told me that he was not engaged to you. You say that you +detest him, why then do you marry him—you are a free woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to know?” said Ida, wheeling round and looking her +visitor full in the face. “I am going to marry him for the same reason +that you say caused you to marry—because I <i>must</i>. I am going to +marry him because he lent us money on condition that I promised to marry him, +and as I have taken the money, I must give him his price, even if it breaks my +heart. You think that you are wretched; how do you know that I am not fifty +times as wretched? Your lot is to lose your lover, mine is to have one forced +upon me and endure him all my life. The worst of your pain is over, all mine is +to come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? why?” broke in Belle. “What is such a promise as that? +He cannot force you to marry him, and it is better for a woman to die than to +marry a man she hates, especially,” she added meaningly, “if she +happens to care for somebody else. Be advised by me, I know what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Ida, “perhaps it is better to die, but death is +not so easy. As for the promise, you do not seem to understand that no +gentleman or lady can break a promise in consideration of which money has been +received. Whatever he has done, and whatever he is, I <i>must</i> marry Mr. +Cossey, so I do not think that we need discuss the subject any more.” +</p> + +<p> +Belle sat silent for a minute or more, and then rising said that she must go. +“I have warned you,” she added, “although to warn you I am +forced to put myself at your mercy. You can tell the story and destroy me if +you like. I do not much care if you do. Women such as I grow reckless.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must understand me very little, Mrs. Quest” (it had always +been Belle before, and she winced at the changed name), “if you think me +capable of such conduct. You have nothing to fear from me.” +</p> + +<p> +She held out her hand, but in her humility and shame, Belle went without taking +it, and through the angry sunset light walked slowly back to Boisingham. And as +she walked there was a look upon her face that Edward Cossey would scarcely +have cared to see. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br /> +MR. QUEST HAS HIS INNINGS</h2> + +<p> +All that afternoon and far into the evening Mr. Quest was employed in drafting, +and with his own hand engrossing on parchment certain deeds, for the proper +execution of which he seemed to find constant reference necessary to a tin box +of papers labelled “Honham Castle Estates.” +</p> + +<p> +By eleven that night everything was finished, and having carefully collected +and docketed his papers, he put the tin box away and went home to bed. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning, about ten o’clock, Edward Cossey was sitting at breakfast +in no happy frame of mind. He had gone up to the Castle to dinner on the +previous evening, but it cannot be said that he had enjoyed himself. Ida was +there, looking very handsome in her evening dress, but she was cold as a stone +and unapproachable as a statue. She scarcely spoke to him, indeed, except in +answer to some direct remark, reserving all her conversation for her father, +who seemed to have caught the contagion of restraint, and was, for him, +unusually silent and depressed. +</p> + +<p> +But once or twice he found her looking at him, and then there was upon her face +a mingled expression of contempt and irresistible aversion which chilled him to +the marrow. +</p> + +<p> +These qualities were indeed so much more plainly developed towards himself than +they had been before, that at last a conviction which he at first rejected as +incredible forced itself into his mind. This conviction was, that Belle had +disbelieved his denial of the engagement, and in her eagerness for revenge, +must have told Ida the whole story. The thought made him feel faint. Well, +there was but one thing to be done—face it out. +</p> + +<p> +Once when the Squire’s back was turned he had ventured to attempt some +little verbal tenderness in which the word “dear” occurred, but Ida +did not seem to hear it and looked straight over his head into space. This he +felt was trying. So trying did he find the whole entertainment indeed that +about half-past nine he rose and came away, saying that he had received some +bank papers which must be attended to that night. +</p> + +<p> +Now most men would in all human probability have been dismayed by this state of +affairs into relinquishing an attempt at matrimony which it was evident could +only be carried through in the face of the quiet but none the less vigorous +dislike and contempt of the other contracting party. But this was not so with +Edward Cossey. Ida’s coldness excited upon his tenacious and obstinate +mind much the same effect that may be supposed to be produced upon the +benighted seeker for the North Pole by the sight of a frozen ocean of icebergs. +Like the explorer he was convinced that if once he could get over those cold +heights he would find a smiling sunny land beyond and perchance many other +delights, and like the explorer again, he was, metaphorically, ready to die in +the effort. For he loved her more every day, till now his passion dominated his +physical being and his mental judgment, so that whatever loss was entailed, and +whatever obstacles arose, he was determined to endure and overcome them if by +so doing he might gain his end. +</p> + +<p> +He was reflecting upon all this on the morning in question when Mr. Quest, +looking very cool, composed and gentlemanlike, was shown into his room, much as +Colonel Quaritch had been shown in two mornings before. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Quest?” he said, in a from high to low tone, which +he was in the habit of adopting towards his official subordinates. “Sit +down. What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is some business, Mr. Cossey,” the lawyer answered in his usual +quiet tones. +</p> + +<p> +“Honham Castle mortgages again, I suppose,” he growled. “I +only hope you don’t want any more money on that account at present, +that’s all; because I can’t raise another cent while my father +lives. They don’t entail cash and bank shares, you know, and though my +credit’s pretty good I am not far from the bottom of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Quest, with a faint smile, “it has to do +with the Honham Castle mortgages; but as I have a good deal to say, perhaps we +had better wait till the things are cleared.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. Just ring the bell, will you, and take a cigarette?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest smiled again and rang the bell, but did not take the cigarette. When +the breakfast things had been removed he took a chair, and placing it on the +further side of the table in such a position that the light, which was to his +back, struck full upon Edward Cossey’s face, began to deliberately untie +and sort his bundle of papers. Presently he came to the one he wanted—a +letter. It was not an original letter, but a copy. “Will you kindly read +this, Mr. Cossey?” he said quietly, as he pushed the letter towards him +across the table. +</p> + +<p> +Edward finished lighting his cigarette, then took the letter up and glanced at +it carelessly. At sight of the first line his expression changed to one of +absolute horror, his face blanched, the perspiration sprang out upon his +forehead, and the cigarette dropped from his fingers to the carpet, where it +lay smouldering. Nor was this wonderful, for the letter was a copy of one of +Belle’s most passionate epistles to himself. He had never been able to +restrain her from writing these compromising letters. Indeed, this one was the +very same that some little time before Mr. Quest had abstracted from the pocket +of Mr. Cossey’s lounging coat in the room in London. +</p> + +<p> +He read on for a little way and then put the letter down upon the table. There +was no need for him to go further, it was all in the same strain. +</p> + +<p> +“You will observe, Mr. Cossey, that this is a copy,” said Mr. +Quest, “but if you like you can inspect the original document.” +</p> + +<p> +He made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” went on Mr. Quest, handing him a second paper, “here +is the copy of another letter, of which the original is in your +handwriting.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward looked at it. It was an intercepted letter of his own, dated about a +year before, and its contents, though not of so passionate a nature as the +other, were of a sufficiently incriminating character. +</p> + +<p> +He put it down upon the table by the side of the first and waited for Mr. Quest +to go on. +</p> + +<p> +“I have other evidence,” said his visitor presently, “but you +are probably sufficiently versed in such matters to know that these letters +alone are almost enough for my purpose. That purpose is to commence a suit for +divorce against my wife, in which you will, of course, in accordance with the +provisions of the Act, be joined as co-respondent. Indeed, I have already drawn +up a letter of instruction to my London agents directing them to take the +preliminary steps,” and he pushed a third paper towards him. +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey turned his back to his tormentor and resting his head upon his +hand tried to think. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Quest,” he said presently in a hoarse voice, “without +admitting anything, there are reasons which would make it ruinous to me if such +an action were commenced at present.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he answered, “there are. In the first place there is +no knowing in what light your father would look on the matter and how his view +of it would affect your future interests. In the second your engagement to Miss +de la Molle, upon which you are strongly set, would certainly be broken +off.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that I am engaged?” asked Edward in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“It does not matter how I know it,” said the lawyer, “I do +know it, so it will be useless for you to deny it. As you remark, this suit +will probably be your ruin in every way, and therefore it is, as you will +easily understand, a good moment for a man who wants his revenge to choose to +bring it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Without admitting anything,” answered Edward Cossey, “I wish +to ask you a question. Is there no way out of this? Supposing that I have done +you a wrong, wrong admits of compensation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it does, Mr. Cossey, and I have thought of that. Everybody has his +price in this world and I have mine; but the compensation for such a wrong must +be a heavy one.” +</p> + +<p> +“At what price will you agree to stay the action for ever?” he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“The price that I will take to stay the action is the transfer into my +name of the mortgages you hold over the Honham Castle Estates,” answered +Mr. Quest quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Great heavens!” said Edward, “why that is a matter of thirty +thousand pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it is, and I know also that it is worth your while to pay thirty +thousand pounds to save yourself from the scandal, the chance of +disinheritance, and the certainty of the loss of the woman whom you want to +marry. So well do I know it that I have prepared the necessary deeds for your +signature, and here they are. Listen, sir,” he went on sternly; +“refuse to accept my terms and by to-night’s post I shall send this +letter of instructions. Also I shall send to Mr. Cossey, Senior, and to Mr. de +la Molle copies of these two precious epistles,” and he pointed to the +incriminating documents, “together with a copy of the letter to my +agents; and where will you be then? Consent, and I will bind myself not to +proceed in any way or form. Now, make your choice.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I cannot; even if I will, I cannot,” said he, almost wringing +his hands in his perplexity. “It was on condition of my taking up those +mortgages that Ida consented to become engaged to me, and I have promised that +I will cancel them on our wedding. Will you not take money instead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Mr. Quest, “I would take money. A little time +ago I would not have taken it because I wanted that property; now I have +changed my ideas. But as you yourself said, your credit is strained to the +utmost, and while your father is alive you will not find it possible to raise +another thirty thousand pounds. Besides, if this matter is to be settled at all +it must be settled at once. I will not wait while you make attempts to raise +the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“But about the mortgages? I promised to keep them. What shall I say to +Ida?” +</p> + +<p> +“Say? Say nothing. You can meet them if you choose after your +father’s death. Refuse if you like, but if you refuse you will be mad. +Thirty thousand pounds will be nothing to you, but exposure will be ruin. Have +you made up your mind? You must take my offer or leave it. Sign the documents +and I will put the originals of those two letters into your hands; refuse and I +will take my steps.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey thought for a moment and then said, “I will sign. Let me +see the papers.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest turned aside to hide the expression of triumph which flitted across +his face and then handed him the deeds. They were elaborately drawn, for he was +a skilful legal draughtsman, quite as skilful as many a leading Chancery +conveyancer, but the substance of them was that the mortgages were transferred +to him by the said Edward Cossey in and for the consideration that he, the said +William M. Quest, consented to abandon for ever a pending action for divorce +against his wife, Belle Quest, whereto the said Edward Cossey was to be joined +as co-respondent. +</p> + +<p> +“You will observe,” said Mr. Quest, “that if you attempt to +contest the validity of this assignment, which you probably could not do with +any prospect of success, the attempt must recoil upon your own head, because +the whole scandal will then transpire. We shall require some witnesses, so with +your permission I will ring the bell and ask the landlady and your servant to +step up. They need know nothing of the contents of the papers,” and he +did so. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop,” said Edward presently. “Where are the original +letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” answered Mr. Quest, producing them from an inner pocket, +and showing them to him at a distance. “When the landlady comes up I will +give them to her to hold in this envelope, directing her to hand them to you +when the deeds are signed and witnessed. She will think that it is part of the +ceremony.” +</p> + +<p> +Presently the man-servant and the landlady arrived, and Mr. Quest, in his most +matter-of-fact way, explained to them that they were required to witness some +documents. At the same time he handed the letters to the woman, saying that she +was to give them to Mr. Cossey when they had all done signing. +</p> + +<p> +Then Edward Cossey signed, and placing his thumb on the familiar wafer +delivered the various documents as his act and deed. The witnesses with much +preparation and effort affixed their awkward signatures in the places pointed +out to them, and in a few minutes the thing was done, leaving Mr. Quest a +richer man by thirty thousand pounds than when he had got up that morning. +</p> + +<p> +“Now give Mr. Cossey the packet, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said, as he +blotted the signatures, “and you can go.” She did so and went. +</p> + +<p> +When the witnesses had gone Edward looked at the letters, and then with a +savage oath flung them into the fire and watched them burn. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, Mr. Cossey,” said Mr. Quest as he prepared to part +with the deeds. “You have now bought your experience and had to pay +dearly for it; but, upon my word, when I think of all you owe me, I wonder at +myself for letting you off at so small a price.” +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he had gone, Edward Cossey gave way to his feelings in language +forcible rather than polite. For now, in addition to all the money which he had +lost, and the painful exposure to which he had been subjected, he was face to +face with a new difficulty. Either he must make a clean breast of it to Ida +about the mortgages being no longer in his hands or he must pretend that he +still had them. In the first alternative, the consideration upon which she had +agreed to marry him came to nothing. Moreover, Ida was thereby released from +her promise, and he was well aware that under these circumstances she would +probably break off the engagement. In the second, he would be acting a lie, and +the lie would sooner or later be discovered, and what then? Well, if it was +after marriage, what would it matter? To a woman of gentle birth there is only +one thing more irretrievable than marriage, and that is death. Anyhow, he had +suffered so much for the sake of this woman that he did not mean to give her up +now. He must meet the mortgages after marriage, that was all. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Facilis est descensus Averni</i>. When a man of the character of Edward +Cossey, or indeed of any character, allows his passions to lead him into a +course of deceit, he does not find it easy to check his wild career. From +dishonour to dishonour shall he go till at length, in due season, he reaps as +he has sown. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br /> +HOW GEORGE TREATED JOHNNIE</h2> + +<p> +Some two or three days before the scene described in the last chapter the +faithful George had suddenly announced his desire to visit London. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” said the Squire in astonishment, for George had never been +known to go out of his own county before. “Why, what on earth are you +going to do in London?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Squire,” answered his retainer, looking marvellously +knowing, “I don’t rightly know, but there’s a cheap train +goes up to this here Exhibition on the Tuesday morning and comes back on the +Thursday evening. Ten shillings both ways, that’s the fare, and I see in +the <i>Chronicle</i>, I du, that there’s a wonnerful show of these +new-fangled self-tying and delivering reapers, sich as they foreigners use over +sea in America, and I’m rarely fell on seeing them and having a holiday +look round Lunnon town. So as there ain’t not nothing particler a-doing, +if you hain’t got anything to say agin it, I think I’ll go, +Squire.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said the Squire; “are you going to take your +wife with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why no, Squire; I said as I wanted to go for a holiday, and that +ain’t no holiday to take the old missus too,” and George chuckled +in a manner which evidently meant volumes. +</p> + +<p> +And so it came to pass that on the afternoon of the day of the transfer of the +mortgages from Edward Cossey to Mr. Quest the great George found himself +wandering vaguely about the vast expanse of the Colinderies, and not enjoying +himself in the least. He had been recommended by some travelled individual in +Boisingham to a certain lodging near Liverpool Street Station, which he found +with the help of a friendly porter. Thence he set out for the Exhibition, but, +being of a prudent mind, thought that he would do well to save his money and +walk the distance. So he walked and walked till he was tired, and then, after +an earnest consultation with a policeman, he took a ‘bus, which an hour +later landed him—at the Royal Oak. His further adventures we need not +pursue; suffice it to say that, having started from his lodging at three, it +was past seven o’clock at night when he finally reached the Exhibition, +more thoroughly wearied than though he had done a good day’s harvesting. +</p> + +<p> +Here he wandered for a while in continual dread of having his pocket picked, +seeking reaping machines and discovering none, till at length he found himself +in the gardens, where the electric light display was in full swing. Soon +wearying of this, for it was a cold damp night, he made a difficult path to a +buffet inside the building, where he sat down at a little table, and devoured +some very unpleasant-looking cold beef. Here slumber overcame him, for his +weariness was great, and he dozed. +</p> + +<p> +Presently through the muffled roar and hum of voices which echoed in his +sleep-dulled ears, he caught the sound of a familiar name, that woke him up +“all of a heap,” as he afterwards said. The name was +“Quest.” Without moving his body he opened his eyes. At the very +next table to his own were seated two people, a man and a woman. He looked at +the latter first. She was clad in yellow, and was very tall, thin and +fierce-looking; so fierce-looking that George involuntarily jerked his head +back, and brought it with painful force in contact with the wall. It was the +Tiger herself, and her companion was the coarse, dreadful-looking man called +Johnnie, whom she had sent away in the cab on the night of Mr. Quest’s +visit. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” Johnnie was saying, “so Quest is his name, is it, and +he lives in a city called Boisingham, does he? Is he an off bird?” (rich) +</p> + +<p> +“Rather,” answered the Tiger, “if only one can make the +dollars run, but he’s a nasty mean boy, he is. Look here, not a cent, not +a stiver have I got to bless myself with, and I daren’t ask him for any +more not till January. And how am I going to live till January? I got the sack +from the music hall last week because I was a bit jolly. And now I can’t +get another billet any way, and there’s a bill of sale over the +furniture, and I’ve sold all my jewels down to my ticker, or at least +most of them, and there’s that brute,” and her voice rose to a +subdued scream, “living like a fighting-cock while his poor wife is left +to starve.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Wife!’ Oh, yes, we know all about that,” said the +gentleman called Johnnie. +</p> + +<p> +A look of doubt and cunning passed across the woman’s face. Evidently she +feared that she had said too much. “Well, it’s a good a name as +another,” she said. “Oh, don’t I wish that I could get a grip +of him; I’d wring him,” and she twisted her long bony hands as +washerwomen do when they squeeze a cloth. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d back you to,” said Johnnie. “And now, adored +Edithia, I’ve had enough of this blooming show, and I’m off. +Perhaps I shall look in down Rupert Street way this evening. Ta-ta.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you may as well stand a drink first,” said the adored one. +“I’m pretty dry, I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, with pleasure; I will order one. Waiter, a brandy-and-soda +for this lady—<i>six</i> of brandy, if you please; she’s very +delicate and wants support.” +</p> + +<p> +The waiter grinned and brought the drink and the man Johnnie turned round as +though to pay him, but really he went without doing so. +</p> + +<p> +George watched him go, and then looked again at the lady, whose appearance +seemed to fascinate him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if that ain’t a master one,” he said to himself, +“and she called herself his wife, she did, and then drew up like a +slug’s horns. Hang me if I don’t stick to her till I find out a bit +more of the tale.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus ruminated George, who, be it observed, was no fool, and who had a hearty +dislike and mistrust of Mr. Quest. While he was wondering how he was to go to +work an unexpected opportunity occurred. The lady had finished her +brandy-and-soda, and was preparing to leave, when the waiter swooped down upon +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Money please, miss,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Money!” she said, “why you’re paid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, none of that,” said the waiter. “I want a shilling for +the brandy-and-soda.” +</p> + +<p> +“A shilling, do you? Then you’ll have to want, you cheating +white-faced rascal you; my friend paid you before he went away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, we’ve had too much of that game,” said the waiter, +beckoning to a constable, to whom, in spite of the “fair +Edithia’s” very vigorous and pointed protestations, he went on to +give her in charge, for it appeared that she had only twopence about her. This +was George’s opportunity, and he interfered. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, marm,” he said, “that the fat gent with you was +a-playing of a little game. He only pretinded to pay the waiter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Playing a game, was he?” gasped the infuriated Tiger. “If I +don’t play a little game on him when I get a chance my name is not Edith +d’Aubigne, the nasty mean beast—the——” +</p> + +<p> +“Permit me, marm,” said George, putting a shilling on the table, +which the waiter took and went away. “I can’t bear to see a real +lady like you in difficulty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you are a gentleman, you are,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, marm. That’s my way. And now, marm, won’t you +have another?” +</p> + +<p> +No objection was raised by the lady, who had another, with the result that she +became if not exactly tipsy at any rate not far off it. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly after this the building was cleared, and George found himself standing +in Exhibition Road with the woman on his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re going to give me a lift home, ain’t you?” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, marm, for sure I am,” said George, sighing as he thought of +the cab fare. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly they got into a hansom, and Mrs. d’Aubigne having given the +address in Pimlico, of which George instantly made a mental note, they started. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in and have a drink,” she said when they arrived, and +accordingly he paid the cab—half-a-crown it cost him—and was +ushered by the woman with a simper into the gilded drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +Here the Tiger had another brandy-and-soda, after which George thought that she +was about in a fit state for him to prosecute his inquiries. +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful place this Lunnon, marm; I niver was up here afore and had no +idea that I should find folks so friendly. As I was a saying to my friend +Laryer Quest down at Boisingham yesterday——” +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, what’s that?” she said. “Do you know the old +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you means Laryer Quest, why in course I do, and Mrs. Quest too. Ah! +she’s a pretty one, she is.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the lady burst into a flood of incoherent abuse which tired her so much +that she had a fourth brandy-and-soda; George mixed it for her and he mixed it +strong. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he rich?” she asked as she put down the glass. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Laryer Quest? Well I should say that he is about the warmest man +in our part of the county.” +</p> + +<p> +“And here am I starving,” burst out the horrible woman with a flood +of drunken tears. “Starving without a shilling to pay for a cab or a +drink while my wedded husband lives in luxury with another woman. You tell him +that I won’t stand it; you tell him that if he don’t find a +‘thou.’ pretty quick I’ll let him know the reason why.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite understand, marm,” said George; +“there’s a lady down in Boisingham as is the real Mrs. +Quest.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a lie!” she shrieked, “it’s a lie! He +married me before he married her. I could have him in the dock to-morrow, and I +would, too, if I wasn’t afraid of him, and that’s a fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, marm, come,” said George, “draw it mild from that +tap.” +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t believe me, won’t you?” said the woman, on +whom the liquor was now beginning to take its full effect; “then +I’ll show you,” and she staggered to a desk, unlocked it and took +from it a folded paper, which she opened. +</p> + +<p> +It was a properly certified copy of a marriage certificate, or purported so to +be; but George, who was not too quick at his reading, had only time to note the +name Quest, and the church, St. Bartholomew’s, Hackney, when she snatched +it away from him and locked it up again. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” she said, “it isn’t any business of yours. +What right have you to come prying into the affairs of a poor lone +woman?” And she sat down upon the sofa beside him, threw her long arm +round him, rested her painted face upon his shoulder and began to weep the +tears of intoxication. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, blow me!” said George to himself, “if this ain’t +a master one! I wonder what my old missus would say if she saw me in this fix. +I say, marm——” +</p> + +<p> +But at that moment the door opened, and in came Johnnie, who had evidently also +been employing the interval in refreshing himself, for he rolled like a ship in +a sea. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “and who the deuce are you? Come get out of +this, you Methody parson-faced clodhopper, you. Fairest Edithia, what means +this?” +</p> + +<p> +By this time the fairest Edithia had realised who her visitor was, and the +trick whereby he had left her to pay for the brandy-and-soda recurring to her +mind she sprang up and began to express her opinion of Johnnie in violent and +libellous language. He replied in appropriate terms, as according to the +newspaper reports people whose healths are proposed always do, and fast and +furious grew the fun. At length, however, it seemed to occur to Johnnie that +he, George, was in some way responsible for this state of affairs, for without +word or warning he hit him on the nose. This proved too much for George’s +Christian forbearance. +</p> + +<p> +“You would, you lubber! would you?” he said, and sprang at him. +</p> + +<p> +Now Johnnie was big and fat, but Johnnie was rather drunk, and George was tough +and exceedingly strong. In almost less time than it takes to write it he +grasped the abominable Johnnie by the scruff of the neck and had with a mighty +jerk hauled him over the sofa so that he lay face downwards thereon. By the +door quite convenient to his hand stood George’s ground ash stick, a +peculiarly good and well-grown one which he had cut himself in Honham wood. He +seized it. “Now, boar,” he said, “I’ll teach you how we +do the trick where I come from,” and he laid on without mercy. <i>Whack! +whack! whack!</i> came the ground ash on Johnnie’s tight clothes. He +yelled, swore and struggled in the grip of the sturdy countryman, but it was of +no use, the ash came down like fate; never was a Johnnie so bastinadoed before. +</p> + +<p> +“Give it the brute, give it him,” shrilled the fair Edithia, +bethinking her of her wrongs, and he did till he was tired. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Johnnie boar,” he panted at last, “I’m thinking +I’ve pretty nigh whacked you to dead. Perhaps you’ll larn to be +more careful how you handles your betters by-and-by.” Then seizing his +hat he ran down the stairs without seeing anybody and slipping into the street +crossed over and listened. +</p> + +<p> +They were at it again. Seeing her enemy prostrate the Tiger had fallen on him, +with the fire-irons to judge from the noise. +</p> + +<p> +Just then a policeman hurried up. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, master,” said George, “the folk in that there house +with the red pillars do fare to be a murdering of each other.” +</p> + +<p> +The policeman listened to the din and then made for the house. Profiting by his +absence George retreated as fast as he could, his melancholy countenance +shining with sober satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, before he returned to Honham, George paid a visit to +St. Bartholomew’s Church, Hackney. Here he made certain investigations in +the registers, the results of which were not unsatisfactory to him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br /> +EDWARD COSSEY MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT</h2> + +<p> +At the best of times this is not a gay world, though no doubt we ought to +pretend that humanity at large is as happy as it is represented to be in, let +us say, the Christmas number of an illustrated paper. How well we can imagine +the thoughtful inhabitant of this country Anno Domini 7500 or thereabouts +disinterring from the crumbling remains of a fireproof safe a Christmas number +of the <i>Illustrated London News</i> or the <i>Graphic</i>. The archaic +letters would perhaps be unintelligible to him, but he would look at the +pictures with much the same interest that we regard bushmen’s drawings or +the primitive clay figures of Peru, and though his whole artistic seventy-sixth +century soul would be revolted at the crudeness of the colouring, surely he +would moralise thus: “Oh, happy race of primitive men, how I, the child +of light and civilisation, envy you your long-forgotten days! Here in these +rude drawings, which in themselves reveal the extraordinary capacity for +pleasure possessed by the early races, who could look upon them and gather +gratification from the sight, may we trace your joyous career from the cradle +to the grave. Here you figure as a babe, at whose appearance everybody seems +delighted, even those of your race whose inheritance will be thereby +diminished—and here a merry lad you revel in the school which the youth +of our age finds so wearisome. There, grown more old, you stand at the altar of +a beautiful lost faith, a faith that told of hope and peace beyond the grave, +and by you stands your blushing bride. No hard fate, no considerations of +means, no worldly-mindedness, come to snatch you from her arms as now they +daily do. With her you spend your peaceful days, and here at last we see you +old but surrounded by love and tender kindness, and almost looking forward to +that grave which you believed would be but the gate of glory. Oh, happy race of +simple-minded men, what a commentary upon our fevered, avaricious, +pleasure-seeking age is this rude scroll of primitive and infantile art!” +</p> + +<p> +So will some unborn <i>laudator temporis acti</i> speak in some dim century to +be, when our sorrows have faded and are not. +</p> + +<p> +And yet, though we do not put a record of them in our Christmas numbers, +troubles are as troubles have been and will continually be, for however +apparently happy the lot of individuals, it is not altogether a cheerful world +in which we have been called to live. At any rate so thought Harold Quaritch on +that night of the farewell scene with Ida in the churchyard, and so he +continued to think for some time to come. A man’s life is always more or +less a struggle; he is a swimmer upon an adverse sea, and to live at all he +must keep his limbs in motion. If he grows faint-hearted or weary and no longer +strives, for a little while he floats, and then at last, morally or physically, +he vanishes. We struggle for our livelihoods, and for all that makes life worth +living in the material sense, and not the less are we called upon to struggle +with an army of spiritual woes and fears, which now we vanquish and now are +vanquished by. Every man of refinement, and many women, will be able to recall +periods in his or her existence when life has seemed not only valueless but +hateful, when our small successes, such as they are, dwindled away and vanished +in the gulf of our many failures, when our hopes and aspirations faded like a +little sunset cloud, and we were surrounded by black and lonely mental night, +from which even the star of Faith had passed. Such a time had come to Harold +Quaritch now. His days had not, on the whole, been happy days; but he was a +good and earnest man, with that touching faith in Providence which is given to +some among us, and which had brought with it the reward of an even thankful +spirit. And then, out of the dusk of his contentment a hope of happiness had +arisen like the Angel of the Dawn, and suddenly life was aflame with the light +of love, and became beautiful in his eyes. And now the hope had passed: the +woman whom he deeply loved, and who loved him back again, had gone from his +reach and left him desolate—gone from his reach, not into the grave, but +towards the arms of another man. +</p> + +<p> +Our race is called upon to face many troubles; sickness, poverty, and death, +but it is doubtful if Evil holds another arrow so sharp as that which pierced +him now. He was no longer young, it is true, and therefore did not feel that +intense agony of disappointed passion, that sickening sense of utter loss which +in such circumstances sometimes settle on the young. But if in youth we feel +more sharply and with a keener sympathy of the imagination, we have at least +more strength to bear, and hope does not altogether die. For we know that we +shall live it down, or if we do not know it then, we <i>do</i> live it down. +Very likely, indeed, there comes a time when we look back upon our sorrow and +he or she who caused it with wonder, yes even with scorn and bitter laughter. +But it is not so when the blow falls in later life. It may not hurt so much at +the time, it may seem to have been struck with the bludgeon of Fate rather than +with her keen dividing sword, but the effect is more lasting, and for the rest +of our days we are numb and cold, for Time has no salve to heal us. +</p> + +<p> +These things Harold realised most clearly in the heavy days which followed that +churchyard separation. +</p> + +<p> +He took his punishment like a brave man indeed, and went about his daily +occupations with a steadfast face, but his bold behaviour did not lessen its +weight. He had promised not to go away till Ida was married and he would keep +the promise, but in his heart he wondered how he should bear the sight of her. +What would it be to see her, to touch her hand, to hear the rustle of her dress +and the music of her beloved voice, and to realise again and yet again that all +these things were not for him, that they had passed from him into the ownership +of another man? +</p> + +<p> +On the day following that upon which Edward Cossey had been terrified into +transferring the Honham mortgages to Mr. Quest the Colonel went out shooting. +He had lately become the possessor of a new hammerless gun by a well-known +London maker, of which he stood in considerable need. Harold had treated +himself to this gun when he came into his aunt’s little fortune, but it +was only just completed. The weapon was a beautiful one, and at any other time +it would have filled his sportsman’s heart with joy. Even as it was, when +he put it together and balanced it and took imaginary shots at blackbirds in +the garden, for a little while he forgot his sorrows, for the woe must indeed +be heavy which a new hammerless gun by such a maker cannot do something towards +lightening. So on the next morning he took this gun and went to the marshes by +the river—where, he was credibly informed, several wisps of snipe had +been seen—to attempt to shoot some of them and put the new weapon to the +test. +</p> + +<p> +It was on this same morning that Edward Cossey got a letter which disturbed him +not a little. It was from Belle Quest, and ran thus: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dear Mr. Cossey,—Will you come over and see me this afternoon +about three o’clock? I shall <i>expect</i> you, so I am sure you will not +disappoint me.—B.Q.” +</p> + +<p> +For a long while he hesitated what to do. Belle Quest was at the present +juncture the very last person whom he wished to see. His nerves were shaken and +he feared a scene, but on the other hand he did not know what danger might +threaten him if he refused to go. Quest had got his price, and he knew that he +had nothing more to fear from him; but a jealous woman has no price, and if he +did not humour her it might, he felt, be at a risk which he could not estimate. +Also he was nervously anxious to give no further cause for gossip. A sudden +outward and visible cessation of his intimacy with the Quests might, he +thought, give rise to surmises and suspicion in a little country town like +Boisingham, where all his movements were known. So, albeit with a faint heart, +he determined to go. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, at three o’clock precisely, he was shown into the +drawing-room at the Oaks. Mrs. Quest was not there; indeed he waited for ten +minutes before she came in. She was pale, so pale that the blue veins on her +forehead showed distinctly through her ivory skin, and there was a curious +intensity about her manner which frightened him. She was very quiet also, +unnaturally so, indeed; but her quiet was of the ominous nature of the silence +before the storm, and when she spoke her words were keen, and quick, and vivid. +</p> + +<p> +She did not shake hands with him, but sat down and looked at him, slowly +fanning herself with a painted ivory fan which she took up from the table. +</p> + +<p> +“You sent for me, Belle, and here I am,” he said, breaking the +silence. +</p> + +<p> +Then she spoke. “You told me the other day,” she said, “that +you were not engaged to be married to Ida de la Molle. It is not true. You are +engaged to be married to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who said so?” he asked defiantly. “Quest, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have it on a better authority,” she answered. “I have it +from Miss de la Molle herself. Now, listen, Edward Cossey. When I let you go, I +made a condition, and that condition was that you should <i>not</i> marry Ida +de la Molle. Do you still intend to marry her?” +</p> + +<p> +“You had it from Ida,” he said, disregarding her question; +“then you must have spoken to Ida—you must have told her +everything. I suspected as much from her manner the other night. +You——” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is true,” she broke in coldly. “It is true, and in +addition to your other failings, Edward, you are a coward and—a +liar.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it to you what I am or what I am not?” he answered +savagely. “What business is it of yours? You have no hold over me, and no +claim upon me. As it is I have suffered enough at your hands and at those of +your accursed husband. I have had to pay him thirty thousand pounds, do you +know that? But of course you know it. No doubt the whole thing is a plant, and +you will share the spoil.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ah!</i>” she said, drawing a long breath. +</p> + +<p> +“And now look here,” he went on. “Once and for all, I will +not be interfered with by you. I <i>am</i> engaged to marry Ida de la Molle, +and whether you wish it or no I shall marry her. And one more thing. I will not +allow you to associate with Ida. Do you understand me? I will not allow +it.” +</p> + +<p> +She had been holding the fan before her face while he spoke. Now she lowered it +and looked at him. Her face was paler than ever, paler than death, if that be +possible, but in her eyes there shone a light like the light of a flame. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” she said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” he answered savagely. “I wonder that you think it +necessary to ask such a question, but as you do I will tell you why. Because +Ida is the lady whom I am going to marry, and I do not choose that she should +associate with a woman who is what you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ah!</i>” she said again, “I understand now.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment a diversion occurred. The drawing-room looked on to the garden, +and at the end of the garden was a door which opened into another street. +</p> + +<p> +Through this door had come Colonel Quaritch accompanied by Mr. Quest, the +former with his gun under his arm. They walked up the garden and were almost at +the French window when Edward Cossey saw them. “Control yourself,” +he said in a low voice, “here is your husband.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest advanced and knocked at the window, which his wife opened. When he +saw Edward Cossey he hesitated a little, then nodded to him, while the Colonel +came forward, and placing his gun by the wall entered the room, shook hands +with Mrs. Quest, and bowed coldly to Edward Cossey. +</p> + +<p> +“I met the Colonel, Belle,” said Mr. Quest, “coming here with +the benevolent intention of giving you some snipe, so I brought him up by the +short way.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very kind of you, Colonel Quaritch,” said she with a sweet +smile (for she had the sweetest smile imaginable). +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her. There was something about her face which attracted his +attention, something unusual. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you looking at?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“You,” he said bluntly, for they were out of hearing of the other +two. “If I were poetically minded I should say that you looked like the +Tragic Muse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I?” she answered, laughing. “Well, that is curious, +because I feel like Comedy herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s something wrong with that woman,” thought the +Colonel to himself as he extracted two couple of snipe from his capacious coat +tails. “I wonder what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then Mr. Quest and Edward Cossey passed out into the garden talking. +</p> + +<p> +“Here are the snipe, Mrs. Quest,” he said. “I have had rather +good luck. I killed four couple and missed two couple more; but then I had a +new gun, and one can never shoot so well with a new gun.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you,” she said, “do pull out the +‘painters’ for me. I like to put them in my riding hat, and I can +never find them myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he answered, “but I must go into the garden to +do it; there is not light enough here. It gets dark so soon now.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly he stepped out through the window, and began to hunt for the pretty +little feathers which are to be found at the angle of a snipe’s wing. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that the new gun, Colonel Quaritch?” said Mrs. Quest presently; +“what a beautiful one!” +</p> + +<p> +“Be careful,” he said, “I haven’t taken the cartridges +out.” +</p> + +<p> +If he had been looking at her, which at that moment he was not, Harold would +have seen her stagger and catch at the wall for support. Then he would have +seen an awful and malevolent light of sudden determination pass across her +face. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” she said, “I know about guns. My father used to +shoot and I often cleaned his gun,” and she took the weapon up and began +to examine the engraving on the locks. +</p> + +<p> +“What is this?” she said, pointing to a little slide above the +locks on which the word “safe” was engraved in gold letters. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that’s the safety bolt,” he said. “When you see +the word ‘safe,’ the locks are barred and the gun won’t go +off. You have to push the bolt forward before you can fire.” +</p> + +<p> +“So?” she said carelessly, and suiting the action to the word. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, so, but please be careful, the gun is loaded.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’ll be careful,” she answered. “Well, it is a +very pretty gun, and so light that I believe I could shoot with it +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Edward Cossey and Mr. Quest, who were walking up the garden, had +separated, Mr. Quest going to the right across the lawn to pick up a glove +which had dropped upon the grass, while Edward Cossey slowly sauntered towards +them. When he was about nine paces off he too halted and, stooping a little, +looked abstractedly at a white Japanese chrysanthemum which was still in bloom. +Mrs. Quest turned, as the Colonel thought, to put the gun back against the +wall. He would have offered to take it from her but at the moment both his +hands were occupied in extracting one of the “painters” from a +snipe. The next thing he was aware of was a loud explosion, followed by an +exclamation or rather a cry from Mrs. Quest. He dropped the snipe and looked +up, just in time to see the gun, which had leapt from her hands with the +recoil, strike against the wall of the house and fall to the ground. Instantly, +whether by instinct or by chance he never knew, he glanced towards the place +where Edward Cossey stood, and saw that his face was streaming with blood and +that his right arm hung helpless by his side. Even as he looked, he saw him put +his uninjured hand to his head, and, without a word or a sound, sink down on +the gravel path. +</p> + +<p> +For a second there was silence, and the blue smoke from the gun hung heavily +upon the damp autumn air. In the midst of it stood Belle Quest like one +transfixed, her lips apart, her blue eyes opened wide, and the stamp of +terror—or was it guilt?—upon her pallid face. +</p> + +<p> +All this he saw in a flash, and then ran to the bleeding heap upon the gravel. +</p> + +<p> +He reached it almost simultaneously with Mr. Quest, and together they turned +the body over. But still Belle stood there enveloped in the heavy smoke. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, however, her trance left her and she ran up, flung herself upon her +knees, and looked at her former lover, whose face and head were now a mass of +blood. +</p> + +<p> +“He is dead,” she wailed; “he is dead, and I have killed him! +Oh, Edward! Edward!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest turned on her savagely; so savagely that one might almost have +thought he feared lest in her agony she should say something further. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop that,” he said, seizing her arm, “and go for the +doctor, for if he is not dead he will soon bleed to death.” +</p> + +<p> +With an effort she rose, put her hand to her forehead, and then ran like the +wind down the garden and through the little door. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br /> +HAROLD TAKES THE NEWS</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Quest and Harold bore the bleeding man—whether he was senseless or +dead they knew not—into the house and laid him on the sofa. Then, having +despatched a servant to seek a second doctor in case the one already gone for +was out, they set to work to cut the clothes from his neck and arm, and do what +they could, and that was little enough, towards staunching the bleeding. It +soon, however, became evident that Cossey had only got the outside portion of +the charge of No. 7 that is to say, he had been struck by about a hundred +pellets of the three or four hundred which would go to the ordinary ounce and +an eighth. Had he received the whole charge he must, at that distance, have +been instantly killed. As it was, the point of the shoulder was riddled, and so +to a somewhat smaller extent was the back of his neck and the region of the +right ear. One or two outside pellets had also struck the head higher up, and +the skin and muscles along the back were torn by the passage of shot. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove!” said Mr. Quest, “I think he is done for.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel nodded. He had some experience of shot wounds, and the present was +not of a nature to encourage hope of the patient’s survival. +</p> + +<p> +“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Quest presently, as he mopped up the +streaming blood with a sponge. +</p> + +<p> +“It was an accident,” groaned the Colonel. “Your wife was +looking at my new gun. I told her it was loaded, and that she must be careful, +and I thought she had put it down. The next thing that I heard was the report. +It is all my cursed fault for leaving the cartridges in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Mr. Quest. “She always thought she understood +guns. It is a shocking accident.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then one of the doctors, followed by Belle Quest, ran up the lawn carrying +a box of instruments, and in another minute was at work. He was a quick and +skilful surgeon, and having announced that the patient was not dead, at once +began to tie one of the smaller arteries in the throat, which had been pierced, +and through which Edward Cossey was rapidly bleeding to death. By the time that +this was done the other doctor, an older man, put in an appearance, and +together they made a rapid examination of the injuries. +</p> + +<p> +Belle stood by holding a basin of water. She did not speak, and on her face was +that same fixed look of horror which Harold had observed after the discharge of +the gun. +</p> + +<p> +When the examination was finished the two doctors whispered together for a few +seconds. +</p> + +<p> +“Will he live?” asked Mr. Quest. +</p> + +<p> +“We cannot say,” answered the older doctor. “We do not think +it likely that he will. It depends upon the extent of his injuries, and whether +or no they have extended to the spine. If he does live he will probably be +paralysed to some extent, and must certainly lose the hearing of the right +ear.” +</p> + +<p> +When she heard this Belle sank down upon a chair overwhelmed. Then the two +doctors, assisted by Harold, set to work to carry Edward Cossey into another +room which had been rapidly prepared, leaving Mr. Quest alone with his wife. +</p> + +<p> +He came, stood in front of her, looked her in the face, and then laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word,” he said, “we men are bad enough, but you +women beat us in wickedness.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” she said faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that you are a murderess, Belle,” he said solemnly. +“And you are a bungler, too. You could not hold the gun straight.” +</p> + +<p> +“I deny it,” she said, “the gun went off——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “you are wise to make no admissions; they +might be used in evidence against you. Let me counsel you to make no +admissions. But now look here. I suppose the man will have to lie in this house +until he recovers or dies, and that you will help to nurse him. Well, I will +have none of your murderous work going on here. Do you hear me? You are not to +complete at leisure what you have begun in haste.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you take me for?” she asked, with some return of spirit; +“do you think that I would injure a wounded man?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” he answered, with a shrug, “and as for what +I take you for, I take you for a woman whose passion has made her mad,” +and he turned and left the room. +</p> + +<p> +When they had carried Edward Cossey, dead or alive—and he looked more +like death than life—up to the room prepared for him, seeing that he +could be of no further use the Colonel left the house with a view of going to +the Castle. +</p> + +<p> +On his way out he looked into the drawing-room and there was Mrs. Quest, still +sitting on the chair and gazing blankly before her. Pitying her he entered. +“Come, cheer up, Mrs. Quest,” he said kindly, “they hope that +he will live.” +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +“It is an awful accident, but I am almost as culpable as you, for I left +the cartridges in the gun. Anyhow, God’s will be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“God’s will!” she said, looking up, and then once more +relapsed into silence. +</p> + +<p> +He turned to go, when suddenly she rose and caught him by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Will he die?” she said almost fiercely. “Tell me what you +think—not what the doctors say; you have seen many wounded men and know +better than they do. Tell me the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot say,” he answered, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +Apparently she interpreted his answer in the affirmative. At any rate she +covered her face with her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“What would you do, Colonel Quaritch, if you had killed the only thing +you loved in the whole world?” she asked dreamily. “Oh, what am I +saying?—I am off my head. Leave me—go and tell Ida; it will be good +news for Ida.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly he started for the Castle, having first picked up his gun on the +spot where it had fallen from the hands of Mrs. Quest. +</p> + +<p> +And then it was that for the first time the extraordinary importance of this +dreadful accident in its bearing upon his own affairs flashed upon his mind. If +Cossey died he could not marry Ida, that was clear. This was what Mrs. Quest +must have meant when she said that it would be good news for Ida. But how did +she know anything about Ida’s engagement to Edward Cossey? And, by Jove! +what did the woman mean when she asked what he would do if he had killed the +only thing he loved in the world? Cossey must be the “only thing she +loved,” and now he thought of it, when she believed that he was dead she +called him “Edward, Edward.” +</p> + +<p> +Harold Quaritch was as simple and unsuspicious a man as it would be easy to +find, but he was no fool. He had moved about the world and on various occasions +come in contact with cases of this sort, as most other men have done. He knew +that when a woman, in a moment of distress, calls a man by his Christian name +it is because she is in the habit of thinking of him and speaking to him by +that name. Not that there was much in that by itself, but in public she called +him “Mr. Cossey.” “Edward” clearly then was the +“only thing she loved,” and Edward was secretly engaged to Ida, and +Mrs. Quest knew it. +</p> + +<p> +Now when a man who is not her husband has the fortune, or rather the +misfortune, to be the only thing a married woman ever loved, and when that +married woman is aware of the fact of his devotion and engagement to somebody +else, it is obvious, he reflected, that in nine cases out of ten the knowledge +will excite strong feelings in her breast, feelings indeed which in some +natures would amount almost to madness. +</p> + +<p> +When he had first seen Mrs. Quest that afternoon she and Cossey were alone +together, and he had noticed something unusual about her, something unnatural +and intense. Indeed, he remembered he had told her that she looked like the +Tragic Muse. Could it be that the look was the look of a woman maddened by +insult and jealousy, who was meditating some fearful crime? <i>How did that gun +go off?</i> He did not see it, and he thanked heaven that he did not, for we +are not always so anxious to bring our fellow creatures to justice as we might +be, especially when they happen to be young and lovely women. How did it go +off? She understood guns; he could see that from the way she handled it. Was it +likely that it exploded of itself, or owing to an accidental touch of the +trigger? It was possible, but not likely. Still, such things have been known to +happen, and it would be very difficult to prove that it had not happened in +this case. If it should be attempted murder it was very cleverly managed, +because nobody could prove that it was not accidental. But could it be that +this soft, beautiful, baby-faced woman had on the spur of the moment taken +advantage of his loaded gun to wreak her jealousy and her wrongs upon her +faithless lover? Well, the face is no mirror of the quality of the soul within, +and it was possible. Further than that it did not seem to him to be his +business to inquire. +</p> + +<p> +By this time he had reached the Castle. The Squire had gone out but Ida was in, +and he was shown into the drawing-room while the servant went to seek her. +Presently he heard her dress rustle upon the stairs, and the sound of it sent +the blood to his heart, for where is the music that is more sweet than the +rustling of the dress of the woman whom we love? +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what is the matter?” she said, noticing the disturbed +expression on his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “there has been an accident—a very bad +accident.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” she said. “Not my father?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; Mr. Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “Why did you frighten +me so?” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel smiled grimly at this unconscious exhibition of the relative state +of her affections. +</p> + +<p> +“What has happened to him?” asked Ida, this time with a suitable +expression of concern. +</p> + +<p> +“He has been accidentally shot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who by?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Quest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then she did it on purpose—I mean—is he dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I believe that he will die.” +</p> + +<p> +They looked at one another, and each read in the eyes of the other the thought +which passed through their brains. If Edward Cossey died they would be free to +marry. So clearly did they read it that Ida actually interpreted it in words. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not think that,” she said, “it is very +wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is wrong,” answered the Colonel, apparently in no way surprised +at her interpretation of his thoughts, “but unfortunately human nature is +human nature.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he went on to tell her all about it. Ida made no comment, that is after +those first words, “she did it on purpose,” which burst from her in +astonishment. She felt, and he felt too, that the question as to how that gun +went off was one which was best left uninquired into by them. No doubt if the +man died there would be an inquest, and the whole matter would be investigated. +Meanwhile one thing was certain, Edward Cossey, whom she was engaged to, was +shot and likely to die. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, while they were still talking, the Squire came in from his walk. To +him also the story was told, and to judge from the expression of his face he +thought it grave enough. If Edward Cossey died the mortgages over the Honham +property would, as he believed, pass to his heir, who, unless he had made a +will, which was not probable, would be his father, old Mr. Cossey, the banker, +from whom Mr. de la Molle well knew he had little mercy to expect. This was +serious enough, and still more serious was it that all the bright prospects in +which he had for some days been basking of the re-establishment of his family +upon a securer basis than it had occupied for generations would vanish like a +vision. He was not more worldly-minded than are other men, but he did fondly +cherish a natural desire to see the family fortunes once more in the ascendant. +The projected marriage between his daughter and Edward Cossey would have +brought this about most fully, and however much he might in his secret heart +distrust the man himself, and doubt whether the match was really acceptable to +Ida, he could not view its collapse with indifference. While they were still +talking the dressing-bell rang, and Harold rose to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop and dine, won’t you, Quaritch?” said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +Harold hesitated and looked at Ida. She made no movement, but her eyes said +“stay,” and he sighed and yielded. Dinner was rather a melancholy +feast, for the Squire was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and Ida had not +much to say. So far as the Colonel was concerned, the recollection of the +tragedy he had witnessed that afternoon, and of all the dreadful details with +which it was accompanied, was not conducive to appetite. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as dinner was over the Squire announced that he should walk into +Boisingham to inquire how the wounded man was getting on. Shortly afterwards he +started, leaving his daughter and Harold alone. +</p> + +<p> +They went into the drawing-room and talked about indifferent things. No word of +love passed between them; no word, even, that could bear an affectionate +significance, and yet every sentence which passed their lips carried a message +with it, and was as heavy with unuttered tenderness as a laden bee with honey. +For they loved each other dearly, and deep love is a thing that can hardly be +concealed by lovers from each other. +</p> + +<p> +It was happiness for him merely to sit beside her and hear her speak, to watch +the changes of her face and the lamplight playing upon her hair, and it was +happiness for her to know that he was sitting there and watching. For the most +beautiful aspect of true affection is its accompanying sense of perfect +companionship and rest. It is a sense which nothing else in this life can give, +and, like a lifting cloud, reveals the white and distant peaks of that unbroken +peace which we cannot hope to win in our stormy journey through the world. +</p> + +<p> +And so the evening wore away till at last they heard the Squire’s loud +voice talking to somebody outside. Presently he came in. +</p> + +<p> +“How is he?” asked Harold. “Will he live?” +</p> + +<p> +“They cannot say,” was the answer. “But two great doctors +have been telegraphed for from London, and will be down to-morrow.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br /> +IDA RECANTS</h2> + +<p> +The two great doctors came, and the two great doctors pocketed their hundred +guinea fees and went, but neither the one nor the other, nor eke the twain, +would commit themselves to a fixed opinion as to Edward Cossey’s chances +of life or death. However, one of them picked out a number of shot from the +wounded man, and a number more he left in because he could not pick them out. +Then they both agreed that the treatment of their local brethren was all that +could be desired, and so far as they were concerned there was an end of it. +</p> + +<p> +A week had passed, and Edward Cossey, nursed night and day by Belle Quest, +still hovered between life and death. +</p> + +<p> +It was a Thursday, and Harold had walked up to the Castle to give the Squire +the latest news of the wounded man. Whilst he was in the vestibule saying what +he had to say to Mr. de la Molle and Ida, a man rung the bell, whom he +recognised as one of Mr. Quest’s clerks. He was shown in, and handed the +Squire a fully-addressed brief envelope, which, he said, he had been told to +deliver by Mr. Quest, and adding that there was no answer bowed himself out. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he had gone the envelope was opened by Mr. de la Molle, who took +from it two legal-looking documents which he began to read. Suddenly the first +dropped from his hand, and with an exclamation he snatched at the second. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, father?” asked Ida. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? Why it’s just this. Edward Cossey has transferred the +mortgages over this property to Quest, the lawyer, and Quest has served a +notice on me calling in the money,” and he began to walk up and down the +room in a state of great agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite understand,” said Ida, her breast heaving, and +a curious light shining in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you?” said her father, “then perhaps you will +read that,” and he pushed the papers to her. As he did so another letter +which he had not observed fell out of them. +</p> + +<p> +At this point Harold rose to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t go, Quaritch, don’t go,” said the Squire. +“I shall be glad of your advice, and I am sure that what you hear will +not go any further.” +</p> + +<p> +At the same time Ida motioned him to stay, and though somewhat unwillingly he +did so. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Sir,” began the Squire, reading the letter aloud,— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Inclosed you will find the usual formal notices calling in the sum of +thirty thousand pounds recently advanced upon the mortgage of the Honham Castle +Estates by Edward Cossey, Esq. These mortgages have passed into my possession +for value received, and it is now my desire to realise them. I most deeply +regret being forced to press an old client, but my circumstances are such that +I am obliged to do so. If I can in any way facilitate your efforts to raise the +sum I shall be very glad. But in the event of the money not being forthcoming +at the end of six months’ notice the ordinary steps will be taken to +realise by foreclosure. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“I am, dear sir, yours truly,<br /> +“W. Quest. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“James de la Molle, Esq., J.P., D.L.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see now,” said Ida. “Mr. Cossey has no further hold on the +mortgages or on the property.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it,” said the Squire; “he has transferred them +to that rascally lawyer. And yet he told me—I can’t understand it, +I really can’t.” +</p> + +<p> +At this point the Colonel insisted upon leaving, saying he would call in again +that evening to see if he could be of any assistance. When he was gone Ida +spoke in a cold, determined voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Cossey told me that when we married he would put those mortgages in +the fire. It now seems that the mortgages were not his to dispose of, or else +that he has since transferred them to Mr. Quest without informing us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I suppose so,” said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Ida. “And now, father, I will tell you +something. I engaged myself—or, to be more accurate, I promised to engage +myself—to Edward Cossey on the condition that he would take up these +mortgages when Cossey and Son were threatening to foreclose, or whatever it is +called.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens!” said her astonished father, “what an +idea!” +</p> + +<p> +“I did it,” went on Ida, “and he took up the mortgages, and +in due course he claimed my promise, and I became engaged to marry him, though +that engagement was repugnant to me. You will see that having persuaded him to +advance the money I could not refuse to carry out my share of the +bargain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Squire, “this is all new to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, “and I should never have told you of it +had it not been for this sudden change in the position of affairs. What I did, +I did to save our family from ruin. But now it seems that Mr. Cossey has played +us false, and that we are to be ruined after all. Therefore, the condition upon +which I promised to marry him has not been carried out, and my promise falls to +the ground.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that supposing he lives, you will not marry Edward +Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do mean it.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire thought for a minute. “This is a very serious step, +Ida,” he said. “I don’t mean that I think that the man has +behaved well—but still he may have given up the mortgages to Quest under +pressure of some sort and might be willing to find the money to meet +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not care if he finds the money ten times over,” said Ida, +“I will not marry him. He has not kept to the letter of his bond and I +will not keep to mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is all very well, Ida,” said the Squire, “and of course +nobody can force you into a distasteful marriage, but I wish to point out one +thing. You have your family to think of as well as yourself. I tell you frankly +that I do not believe that as times are it will be possible to raise thirty +thousand pounds to pay off the charges unless it is by the help of Edward +Cossey. So if he lives—and as he has lasted so long I expect that he will +live—and you refuse to go on with your engagement to him we shall be sold +up, that is all; for this man Quest, confound him, will show us no +mercy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it, father,” answered Ida, “but I cannot and will not +marry him, and I do not think you can expect me to do so. I became engaged, or +rather promised to become engaged to him, because I thought that one woman had +no right to put her own happiness before the welfare of an old family like +ours, and I would have carried out that engagement at any cost. But since then, +to tell you the truth,” and she blushed deeply, “not only have I +learned to dislike him a great deal more, but I have come to care for some one +else who also cares for me, and who therefore has a right to be considered. +Think, father, what it means to a woman to sell herself into bodily and mental +bondage—when she cares for another man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said her father with some irritation, “I am no +authority upon matters of sentiment; they are not in my line and I know that +women have their prejudices. Still you can’t expect me to look at the +matter in quite the same light as you do. And who is the gentleman? Colonel +Quaritch?” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said the Squire, “I have nothing to say against +Quaritch, indeed I like the man, but I suppose that if he has 600 pounds a +year, it is every sixpence he can count on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had rather marry him upon six hundred a year than Edward Cossey upon +sixty thousand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes, I have heard young women talk like that before, though perhaps +they think differently afterwards. Of course I have no right to obtrude myself, +but when you are comfortably married, what is going to become of Honham I +should like to know, and incidentally of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, father, dear,” she answered, her eyes filling +with tears; “we must trust to Providence, I suppose. I know you think me +very selfish,” she went on, catching him by the arm, “but, oh, +father! there are things that are worse than death to women, or, at least, to +some women. I almost think that I would rather die than marry Edward Cossey, +though I should have gone through with it if he had kept his word.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said her father. “I can’t wonder at it, and +certainly I do not ask you to marry a man whom you dislike. But still it is +hard upon me to have all this trouble at my age, and the old place coming to +the hammer too. It is enough to make a man wish that his worries were over +altogether. However, we must take things as we find them, and we find them +pretty rough. Quaritch said he was coming back this evening, didn’t he? I +suppose there will not be any public engagement at present, will there? And +look here, Ida, I don’t want him to come talking to me about it. I have +got enough things of my own to think of without bothering my head with your +love affairs. Pray let the matter be for the present. And now I am going out to +see that fellow George, who hasn’t been here since he came back from +London, and a nice bit of news it will be that I shall have to tell him.” +</p> + +<p> +When her father had gone Ida did a thing she had not done for some +time—she wept a little. All her fine intentions of self-denial had broken +down, and she felt humiliated at the fact. She had intended to sacrifice +herself upon the altar of her duty and to make herself the wedded wife of a man +whom she disliked, and now on the first opportunity she had thrown up the +contract on a quibble—a point of law as it were. Nature had been too +strong for her, as it often is for people with deep feelings; she could not do +it, no, not to save Honham from the hammer. When she had promised that she +would engage herself to Edward Cossey she had not been in love with Colonel +Quaritch; now she was, and the difference between the two states is +considerable. Still the fall humiliated her pride, and what is more she felt +that her father was disappointed in her. Of course she could not expect him at +his age to enter into her private feelings, for when looked at through the mist +of years sentiment appears more or less foolish. She knew very well that age +often strips men of those finer sympathies and sensibilities which clothe them +in youth, much as the winter frost and wind strip the delicate foliage from the +trees. And to such the music of the world is dead. Love has vanished with the +summer dews, and in its place are cutting blasts and snows and sere memories +rustling like fallen leaves about the feet. As we grow old we are too apt to +grow away from beauty and what is high and pure, our hearts harden by contact +with the hard world. We examine love and find, or believe we find, that it is +nought but a variety of passion; friendship, and think it self-interest; +religion, and name it superstition. The facts of life alone remain clear and +desirable. We know that money means power, and we turn our face to Mammon, and +if he smiles upon us we are content to let our finer visions go where our youth +has gone. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Trailing clouds of glory do we come<br /> +From God, who is our home.” +</p> + +<p> +So says the poet, but alas! the clouds soon melt into the grey air of the +world, and some of us, before our course is finished, forget that they ever +were. And yet which is the shadow of the truth—those dreams, and hopes, +and aspirations of our younger life, or the corruption with which the world +cakes our souls? +</p> + +<p> +Ida knew that she could not expect her father to sympathise with her; she knew +that to his judgment, circumstances being the same, and both suitors being +equally sound in wind and limb, the choice of one of them should, to a large +extent, be a matter to be decided by the exterior considerations of wealth and +general convenience. +</p> + +<p> +However, she had made her choice, made it suddenly, but none the less had made +it. It lay between her father’s interest and the interest of the family +at large and her own honour as a woman—for the mere empty ceremony of +marriage which satisfies society cannot make dishonour an honourable thing. She +had made her choice, and the readers of her history must judge if that choice +was right or wrong. +</p> + +<p> +After dinner Harold came again as he had promised. The Squire was not in the +drawing-room when he was shown in. +</p> + +<p> +Ida rose to greet him with a sweet and happy smile upon her face, for in the +presence of her lover all her doubts and troubles vanished like a mist. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a piece of news for you,” said he, trying to look as though +he was rejoiced to give it. “Edward Cossey has taken a wonderful turn for +the better. They say that he will certainly recover.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she answered, colouring a little, “and now I have a +piece of news for you, Colonel Quaritch. My engagement with Mr. Edward Cossey +is at an end. I shall not marry him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure?” said Harold with a gasp. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite sure. I have made up my mind,” and she held out her hand, as +though to seal her words. +</p> + +<p> +He took it and kissed it. “Thank heaven, Ida,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, “thank heaven;” and at that moment +the Squire came in, looking very miserable and depressed, and of course nothing +more was said about the matter. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br /> +GEORGE PROPHESIES AGAIN</h2> + +<p> +Six weeks passed, and in that time several things happened. In the first place +the miserly old banker, Edward Cossey’s father, had died, his death being +accelerated by the shock of his son’s accident. On his will being opened, +it was found that property and money to no less a value than 600,000 pounds +passed under it to Edward absolutely, the only condition attached being that he +should continue in the house of Cossey and Son and leave a certain share of his +fortune in the business. +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey also, thanks chiefly to Belle’s tender nursing, had almost +recovered, with one exception—he was, and would be for life, stone deaf +in the right ear. The paralysis which the doctors feared had not shown itself. +One of his first questions when he became convalescent was addressed to Belle +Quest. +</p> + +<p> +As in a dream, he had always seen her sweet face hanging over him, and dimly +known that she was ministering to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you nursed me ever since the accident, Belle?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very good of you, considering all things,” he murmured. +“I wonder that you did not let me die.” +</p> + +<p> +But she turned her face to the wall and never said a word, nor did any further +conversation on these matters pass between them. +</p> + +<p> +Then as his strength came back so did his passion for Ida de la Molle revive. +He was not allowed to write or even receive letters, and with this explanation +of her silence he was fain to content himself. But the Squire, he was told, +often called to inquire after him, and once or twice Ida came with him. +</p> + +<p> +At length a time came—it was two days after he had been told of his +father’s death—when he was pronounced fit to be moved into his own +rooms and to receive his correspondence as usual. +</p> + +<p> +The move was effected without any difficulty, and here Belle bade him good-bye. +Even as she did so George drove his fat pony up to the door, and getting down +gave a letter to the landlady, with particular instructions that it was to be +delivered into Mr. Cossey’s own hands. As she passed Belle saw that it +was addressed in the Squire’s handwriting. +</p> + +<p> +When it was delivered to him Edward Cossey opened it with eagerness. It +contained an inclosure in Ida’s writing, and this he read first. It ran +as follows: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dear Mr. Cossey,—<br /> +“I am told that you are now able to read letters, so I hasten to write to +you. First of all, let me say how thankful I am that you are in a fair way to +complete recovery from your dreadful accident. And now I must tell you what I +fear will be almost as painful to you to read as it is for me to write, namely, +that the engagement between us is at an end. To put the matter frankly, you +will remember that I rightly or wrongly became engaged to you on a certain +condition. That condition has not been fulfilled, for Mr. Quest, to whom the +mortgages on my father’s property have been transferred by you, is +pressing for their payment. Consequently the obligation on my part is at an +end, and with it the engagement must end also, for I grieve to tell you that it +is not one which my personal inclination will induce me to carry out. Wishing +you a speedy and complete recovery, and every happiness and prosperity in your +future life, believe me, dear Mr. Cossey, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Very truly yours,<br /> +“Ida de la Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +He put down this uncompromising and crushing epistle and nervously glanced at +the Squire’s, which was very short. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Cossey,” it began,— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Ida has shown me the inclosed letter. I think that you did unwisely when +you entered into what must be called a money bargain for my daughter’s +hand. Whether under all the circumstances she does either well or wisely to +repudiate the engagement after it has once been agreed upon, is not for me to +judge. She is a free agent and has a natural right to dispose of her life as +she thinks fit. This being so I have of course no option but to endorse her +decision, so far as I have anything to do with the matter. It is a decision +which I for some reasons regret, but which I am quite powerless to alter. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Believe me, with kind regards,<br /> +“Truly yours,<br /> +“James de la Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey turned his face to the wall and indulged in such meditations as +the occasion gave rise to, and they were bitter enough. He was as bent upon +this marriage as he had ever been, more so in fact, now that his father was out +of the way. He knew that Ida disliked him, he had known that all along, but he +had trusted to time and marriage to overcome the dislike. And now that accursed +Quest had brought about the ruin of his hopes. Ida had seen her chance of +escape, and, like a bold woman, had seized upon it. There was one ray of hope, +and one only. He knew that the money would not be forthcoming to pay off the +mortgages. He could see too from the tone of the Squire’s letter that he +did not altogether approve of his daughter’s decision. And his father was +dead. Like Caesar, he was the master of many legions, or rather of much money, +which is as good as legions. Money can make most paths smooth to the feet of +the traveller, and why not this? After much thought he came to a conclusion. He +would not trust his chance to paper, he would plead his cause in person. So he +wrote a short note to the Squire acknowledging Ida’s and his letter, and +saying that he hoped to come and see them as soon as ever the doctor would +allow him out of doors. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile George, having delivered his letter, had gone upon another errand. +Pulling up the fat pony in front of Mr. Quest’s office he alighted and +entered. Mr. Quest was disengaged, and he was shown straight into the inner +office, where the lawyer sat, looking more refined and gentlemanlike than ever. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, George?” he said cheerily; “sit down; what is +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” answered that lugubrious worthy, as he awkwardly took +a seat, “the question is what isn’t it? These be rum times, they +be, they fare to puzzle a man, they du.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr. Quest, balancing a quill pen on his finger, +“the times are bad enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Dash it all, sir,” went on George presently, “I may as well +get it out; I hev come to speak to you about the Squire’s +business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr. Quest. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” went on George, “I’m told that these +dratted mortgages hev passed into your hands, and that you hev called in the +money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that is correct,” said Mr. Quest again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, the fact is that the Squire can’t git the money. It +can’t be had nohow. Nobody won’t take the land as security. It +might be so much water for all folk to look at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so. Land is in very bad odour as security now.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that being so, sir, what is to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know. If the money is not +forthcoming, of course I shall, however unwillingly, be forced to take my legal +remedy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meaning, sir——” +</p> + +<p> +“Meaning that I shall bring an action for foreclosure and do what I can +with the lands.” +</p> + +<p> +George’s face darkened. +</p> + +<p> +“And that reads, sir, that the Squire and Miss Ida will be turned out of +Honham, where they and theirs hev been for centuries, and that you will turn +in?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that is what it comes to, George. I am sincerely sorry to press +the Squire, but it’s a matter of thirty thousand pounds, and I am not in +a position to throw away thirty thousand pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said George, rising in indignation, “I don’t +rightly know how you came by them there mortgages. There is some things as +laryers know and honest men don’t know, and that’s one on them. But +it seems that you’ve got ‘em and are a-going to use +‘em—and that being so, Mr. Quest, I have summut to say to +you—and that is that no good won’t come to you from this here +move.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by that, George?” said the lawyer sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Niver you mind what I mean, sir. I means what I says. I means that +sometimes people has things in their lives snugged away where nobody +can’t see ‘em, things as quiet as though they was dead and buried, +and that ain’t dead nor buried neither, things so much alive that they +fare as though they were fit to kick the lid off their coffin. That’s +what I means, sir, and I means that when folk set to work to do a hard and +wicked thing those dead things sometimes gits up and walks where they is least +wanting; and mayhap if you goes on for to turn the old Squire and Miss Ida out +of the Castle, mayhap, sir, summut of that sort will happen to you, for mark my +word, sir, there’s justice in the world, sir, as mebbe you will find out. +And now, sir, begging your pardon, I’ll wish you good-morning, and leave +you to think on what I’ve said,” and he was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“George!” called Mr. Quest after him, rising from his chair, +“George!” but George was out of hearing. +</p> + +<p> +“Now what did he mean by that—what the devil did he mean?” +said Mr. Quest with a gasp as he sat down again. “Surely,” he +thought, “that man cannot have got hold of anything about Edith. +Impossible, impossible; if he had he would have said more, he would not have +confined himself to hinting, that would take a cleverer man, he would have +shown his hand. He must have been speaking at random to frighten me, I suppose. +By heaven! what a thing it would be if he <i>had</i> got hold of something. +Ruin! absolute ruin! I’ll settle up this business as soon as I can and +leave the country; I can’t stand the strain, it’s like having a +sword over one’s head. I’ve half a mind to leave it in somebody +else’s hands and go at once. No, for that would look like running away. +It must be all rubbish; how could he know anything about it?” +</p> + +<p> +So shaken was he, however, that though he tried once and yet again, he found it +impossible to settle himself down to work till he had taken a couple of glasses +of sherry from the decanter in the cupboard. Even as he did so he wondered if +the shadow of the sword disturbed him so much, how he would be affected if it +ever was his lot to face the glimmer of its naked blade. +</p> + +<p> +No further letter came to Edward Cossey from the Castle, but, impatient as he +was to do so, another fortnight elapsed before he was able to see Ida and her +father. At last one fine December morning for the first time since his accident +he was allowed to take carriage exercise, and his first drive was to Honham +Castle. +</p> + +<p> +When the Squire, who was sitting in the vestibule writing letters, saw a poor +pallid man, rolled up in fur, with a white face scarred with shot marks and +black rings round his large dark eyes, being helped from a closed carriage, he +did not know who it was, and called to Ida, who was passing along the passage, +to tell him. +</p> + +<p> +Of course she recognised her admirer instantly, and wished to leave the room, +but her father prevented her. +</p> + +<p> +“You got into this mess,” he said, forgetting how and for whom she +got into it, “and now you must get out of it in your own way.” +</p> + +<p> +When Edward, having been assisted into the room, saw Ida standing there, all +the blood in his wasted body seemed to rush into his pallid face. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Cossey?” she said. “I am glad to see you +out, and hope that you are better.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, I cannot hear you,” he said, turning round; +“I am stone deaf in my right ear.” +</p> + +<p> +A pang of pity shot through her heart. Edward Cossey, feeble, dejected, and +limping from the jaws of Death, was a very different being to Edward Cossey in +the full glow of his youth, health, and strength. Indeed, so much did his +condition appeal to her sympathies that for the first time since her mental +attitude towards him had been one of entire indifference, she looked on him +without repugnance. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile her father had shaken him by the hand, and led him to an armchair +before the fire. +</p> + +<p> +Then after a few questions and answers as to his accident and merciful recovery +there came a pause. +</p> + +<p> +At length he broke it. “I have come to see you both,” he said with +a faint nervous smile, “about the letters you wrote me. If my condition +had allowed I should have come before, but it would not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the Squire attentively, while Ida folded her hands in +her lap and sat still with her eyes fixed upon the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems,” he went on, “that the old proverb has applied to +my case as to so many others—being absent I have suffered. I understand +from these letters that my engagement to you, Miss de la Molle, is broken +off.” +</p> + +<p> +She made a motion of assent. +</p> + +<p> +“And that it is broken off on the ground that having been forced by a +combination of circumstances which I cannot enter into to transfer the +mortgages to Mr. Quest, consequently I broke my bargain with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Ida. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well then, I come to tell you both that I am ready to find the +money to meet those mortgages and to pay them off in full.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +“Also that I am ready to do what I offered to do before, and which, as my +father is now dead, I am perfectly in a position to do, namely, to settle two +hundred thousand pounds absolutely upon Ida, and indeed generally to do +anything else that she or you may wish,” and he looked at the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no use looking to me for an answer,” said he with some +irritation. “I have no voice in the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned to Ida, who put her hand before her face and shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” said Edward, somewhat bitterly, “I should not be +far wrong if I said that Colonel Quaritch has more to do with your change of +mind than the fact of the transfer of these mortgages.” +</p> + +<p> +She dropped her hand and looked him full in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right, Mr. Cossey,” she said boldly. “Colonel +Quaritch and I are attached to each other, and we hope one day to be +married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound that Quaritch,” growled the Squire beneath his breath. +</p> + +<p> +Edward winced visibly at this outspoken statement. +</p> + +<p> +“Ida,” he said, “I make one last appeal to you. I am devoted +to you with all my heart; so devoted that though it may seem foolish to say so, +especially before your father, I really think I would rather not have recovered +from my accident than that I should have recovered for this. I will give you +everything that a woman can want, and my money will make your family what it +was centuries ago, the greatest in the country side. I don’t pretend to +have been a saint—perhaps you may have heard something against me in that +way—or to be anything out of the common. I am only an ordinary every-day +man, but I am devoted to you. Think, then, before you refuse me +altogether.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have thought, Mr. Cossey,” answered Ida almost passionately: +“I have thought until I am tired of thinking, and I do not consider it +fair that you should press me like this, especially before my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” he said, rising with difficulty, “I have said all I +have to say, and done all that I can do. I shall still hope that you may change +your mind. I shall not yet abandon hope. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +She touched his hand, and then the Squire offering him his arm, he went down +the steps to his carriage. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope, Mr. de la Molle,” he said, “that bad as things look +for me, if they should take a turn I shall have your support.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir,” answered the Squire, “I tell you frankly that +I wish my daughter would marry you. As I said before, it would for obvious +reasons be desirable. But Ida is not like ordinary women. When she sets her +mind upon a thing she sets it like a flint. Times may change, however, and that +is all I can say. Yes, if I were you, I should remember that this is a +changeable world, and women are the most changeable things in it.” +</p> + +<p> +When the carriage was gone he re-entered the vestibule. Ida, who was going away +much disturbed in mind, saw him come, and knew from the expression of his face +that there would be trouble. With characteristic courage she turned, determined +to brave it out. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br /> +THE SQUIRE SPEAKS HIS MIND</h2> + +<p> +For a minute or more her father fidgeted about, moving his papers backwards and +forwards but saying nothing. +</p> + +<p> +At last he spoke. “You have taken a most serious and painful step, +Ida,” he said. “Of course you have a right to do as you please, you +are of full age, and I cannot expect that you will consider me or your family +in your matrimonial engagements, but at the same time I think it is my duty to +point out to you what it is that you are doing. You are refusing one of the +finest matches in England in order to marry a broken-down, middle-aged, +half-pay colonel, a man who can hardly support you, whose part in life is +played, or who is apparently too idle to seek another.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Ida’s eyes flashed ominously, but she made no comment, being +apparently afraid to trust herself to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“You are doing this,” went on her father, working himself up as he +spoke, “in the face of my wishes, and with a knowledge that your action +will bring your family, to say nothing of your father, to utter and +irretrievable ruin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, father, surely,” broke in Ida, almost in a cry, “you +would not have me marry one man when I love another. When I made the promise I +had not become attached to Colonel Quaritch.” +</p> + +<p> +“Love! pshaw!” said her father. “Don’t talk to me in +that sentimental and school-girl way—you are too old for it. I am a plain +man, and I believe in family affection and in <i>duty</i>, Ida. <i>Love</i>, as +you call it, is only too often another word for self-will and selfishness and +other things that we are better without.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can understand, father,” answered Ida, struggling to keep her +temper under this jobation, “that my refusal to marry Mr. Cossey is +disagreeable to you for obvious reasons, though it is not so very long since +you detested him yourself. But I do not see why an honest woman’s +affection for another man should be talked of as though there was something +shameful about it. It is all very well to sneer at ‘love,’ but, +after all a woman is flesh and blood; she is not a chattel or a slave girl, and +marriage is not like anything else—it means many things to a woman. There +is no magic about marriage to make that which is unrighteous righteous.” +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said her father, “it is no good your lecturing to me +on marriage, Ida. If you do not want to marry Cossey, I can’t force you +to. If you want to ruin me, your family and yourself, you must do so. But there +is one thing. While it is over me, which I suppose will not be for much longer, +my house is my own, and I will not have that Colonel of yours hanging about it, +and I shall write to him to say so. You are your own mistress, and if you +choose to walk over to church and marry him you can do so, but it will be done +without my consent, which of course, however, is an unnecessary formality. Do +you hear me, Ida?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have quite done, father,” she answered coldly, “I +should like to go before I say something which I might be sorry for. Of course +you can write what you like to Colonel Quaritch, and I shall write to him, +too.” +</p> + +<p> +Her father made no answer beyond sitting down at his table and grabbing +viciously at a pen. So she left the room, indignant, indeed, but with as heavy +a heart as any woman could carry in her breast. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dear Sir,” wrote the not unnaturally indignant Squire, “I +have been informed by my daughter Ida of her entanglement with you. It is one +which, for reasons that I need not enter into, is distasteful to me, as well +as, I am sorry to say, ruinous to Ida herself and to her family. Ida is of full +age, and must, of course, do as she pleases with herself. But I cannot consent +to become a party to what I disapprove of so strongly, and this being the case, +I must beg you to cease your visits to my house. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“I am, sir, your obedient servant,<br /> +“James de la Molle. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Colonel Quaritch, V.C.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida as soon as she had sufficiently recovered herself also wrote to the +Colonel. She told him the whole story, keeping nothing back, and ended her +letter thus: +</p> + +<p> +“Never, dear Harold, was a woman in a greater difficulty and never have I +more needed help and advice. You know and have good reason to know how hateful +this marriage would be to me, loving you as I do entirely and alone, and having +no higher desire than to become your wife. But of course I see the painfulness +of the position. I am not so selfish as my father believes or says that he +believes. I quite understand how great would be the material advantage to my +father if I could bring myself to marry Mr. Cossey. You may remember I told you +once that I thought no woman has a right to prefer her own happiness to the +prosperity of her whole family. But, Harold, it is easy to speak thus, and +very, very hard to act up to it. What am I to do? What am I to do? And yet how +can I in common fairness ask you to answer that question? God help us both, +Harold! Is there <i>no</i> way out of it?” +</p> + +<p> +These letters were both duly received by Harold Quaritch on the following +morning and threw him into a fever of anxiety and doubt. He was a just and +reasonable man, and, knowing something of human nature, under the circumstances +did not altogether wonder at the Squire’s violence and irritation. The +financial position of the de la Molle family was little, if anything, short of +desperate. He could easily understand how maddening it must be to a man like +Mr. de la Molle, who loved Honham, which had for centuries been the home of his +race, better than he loved anything on earth, to suddenly realise that it must +pass away from him and his for ever, merely because a woman happened to prefer +one man to another, and that man, to his view, the less eligible of the two. So +keenly did he realise this, indeed, that he greatly doubted whether or no he +was justified in continuing his advances to Ida. Finally, after much thought, +he wrote to the Squire as follows: +</p> + +<p> +“I have received your letter, and also one from Ida, and I hope you will +believe me when I say that I quite understand and sympathise with the motives +which evidently led you to write it. I am unfortunately—although I never +regretted it till now—a poor man, whereas my rival suitor is a rich one. +I shall, of course, strictly obey your injunctions; and, moreover, I can assure +you that, whatever my own feelings may be in the matter, I shall do nothing, +either directly or indirectly, to influence Ida’s ultimate decision. She +must decide for herself.” +</p> + +<p> +To Ida herself he also wrote at length: +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest Ida,” he ended, “I can say nothing more; you must +judge for yourself; and I shall accept your decision loyally whatever it may +be. It is unnecessary for me to tell you how inextricably my happiness in life +is interwoven with that decision, but at the same time I do not wish to +influence it. It certainly to my mind does not seem right that a woman should +be driven into sacrificing her whole life to secure any monetary advantage +either for herself or for others, but then the world is full of things that are +not right. I can give you no advice, for I do not know what advice I ought to +give. I try to put myself out of the question and to consider you, and you +only; but even then I fear that my judgment is not impartial. At any rate, the +less we see of each other at present the better, for I do not wish to appear to +be taking any undue advantage. If we are destined to pass our lives together, +this temporary estrangement will not matter, and if on the other hand we are +doomed to a life-long separation the sooner we begin the better. It is a hard +world, and sometimes (as it does now) my heart sinks within me as from year to +year I struggle on towards a happiness that ever vanishes when I stretch out my +hand to clasp it; but, if I feel thus, what must you feel who have so much more +to bear? My dearest love, what can I say? I can only say with you, God help +us!” +</p> + +<p> +This letter did not tend to raise Ida’s spirits. Evidently her lover saw +that there was another side to the question—the side of duty, and was too +honest to hide it from her. She had said that she would have nothing to do with +Edward Cossey, but she was well aware that the matter was still an open one. +What should she do, what ought she to do? Abandon her love, desecrate herself +and save her father and her house, or cling to her love and leave the rest to +chance? It was a cruel position, nor did the lapse of time tend to make it less +cruel. Her father went about the place pale and melancholy—all his jovial +manner had vanished beneath the pressure of impending ruin. He treated her with +studious and old-fashioned courtesy, but she could see that he was bitterly +aggrieved by her conduct and that the anxiety of his position was telling on +his health. If this was the case now, what, she wondered, would happen in the +Spring, when steps were actually taken to sell the place? +</p> + +<p> +One bright cold morning she was walking with her father through the fields down +on the foot-path that led to the church, and it would have been hard to say +which of the two looked the paler or the more miserable. On the previous day +the Squire had seen Mr. Quest and made as much of an appeal <i>ad +misericordiam</i> to him as his pride would allow, only to find the lawyer very +courteous, very regretful, but hard as adamant. Also that very morning a letter +had reached him from London announcing that the last hope of raising money to +meet the mortgages had failed. +</p> + +<p> +The path ran along towards the road past a line of oaks. Half-way down this +line they came across George, who, with his marking instrument in his hand, was +contemplating some of the trees which it was proposed to take down. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing there?” said the Squire, in a melancholy voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Marking, Squire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you may as well save yourself the trouble, for the place will +belong to somebody else before the sap is up in those oaks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Squire, don’t you begin to talk like that, for I don’t +believe it. That ain’t a-going to happen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t a-going to happen, you stupid fellow, ain’t a-going to +happen,” answered the Squire with a dreary laugh. “Why, look +there,” and he pointed to a dog-cart which had drawn up on the road in +such a position that they could see it without its occupants seeing them; +“they are taking notes already.” +</p> + +<p> +George looked and so did Ida. Mr. Quest was the driver of the dog-cart, which +he had pulled up in such a position as to command a view of the Castle, and his +companion—in whom George recognised a well-known London auctioneer who +sometimes did business in these parts—was standing up, an open notebook +in his hand, alternately looking at the noble towers of the gateway and jotting +down memoranda. +</p> + +<p> +“Damn ‘em, and so they be,” said George, utterly forgetting +his manners. +</p> + +<p> +Ida looked up and saw her father’s eyes fixed firmly upon her with an +expression that seemed to say, “See, you wilful woman, see the ruin that +you have brought upon us!” +</p> + +<p> +She turned away; she could not bear it, and that very night she came to a +determination, which in due course was communicated to Harold, and him alone. +That determination was to let things be for the present, upon the chance of +something happening by means of which the dilemma might be solved. But if +nothing happened—and indeed it did not seem probable to her that anything +would happen—then she would sacrifice herself at the last moment. She +believed, indeed she knew, that she could always call Edward Cossey back to her +if she liked. It was a compromise, and like all compromises had an element of +weakness; but it gave time, and time to her was like breath to the dying. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said George presently, “it’s Boisingham Quarter +Sessions the day after to-morrow, ain’t it?” (Mr. de la Molle was +chairman of Quarter Sessions.) +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course, it is.” +</p> + +<p> +George thought for a minute. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a-thinking, Squire, that if I arn’t wanting that day I +want to go up to Lunnon about a bit of business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go up to London!” said the Squire; “why what are you going +to do there? You were in London the other day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Squire,” he answered, looking inexpressibly sly, “that +ain’t no matter of nobody’s. It’s a bit of private +affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, all right,” said the Squire, his interest dying out. +“You are always full of twopenny-halfpenny mysteries,” and he +continued his walk. +</p> + +<p> +But George shook his fist in the direction of the road down which the dog-cart +had driven. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you laryer devil,” he said, alluding to Mr. Quest. “If I +don’t make Boisingham, yes, and all England, too hot to hold you, my +mother never christened me and my name ain’t George. I’ll give you +what for, my cuckoo, that I will!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br /> +GEORGE’S DIPLOMATIC ERRAND</h2> + +<p> +George carried out his intention of going to London. On the second morning +after the day when Mr. Quest had driven the auctioneer in the dog-cart to +Honham, he might have been seen an hour before it was light purchasing a third +class return ticket to Liverpool Street. Arriving there in safety he partook of +a second breakfast, for it was ten o’clock, and then hiring a cab caused +himself to be driven to the end of that street in Pimlico where he had gone +with the fair “Edithia” and where Johnnie had made acquaintance +with his ash stick. +</p> + +<p> +Dismissing the cab he made his way to the house with the red pillars, but on +arriving was considerably taken aback, for the place had every appearance of +being deserted. There were no blinds to the windows, and on the steps were +muddy footmarks and bits of rag and straw which seemed to be the litter of a +recent removal. Indeed, there on the road were the broad wheelmarks of the van +which had carted off the furniture. He stared at this sight in dismay. The bird +had apparently flown, leaving no address, and he had taken his trip for +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +He pressed upon the electric bell; that is, he did this ultimately. George was +not accustomed to electric bells, indeed he had never seen one before, and +after attempting in vain to pull it with his fingers (for he knew that it must +be a bell because there was the word itself written on it), as a last resource +he condescended to try his teeth. Ultimately, however, he discovered how to use +it, but without result. Either the battery had been taken away, or it was out +of gear. Just as he was wondering what to do next he made a discovery—the +door was slightly ajar. He pushed it and it opened—revealing a dirty +hall, stripped of every scrap of furniture. Entering, he shut the door and +walked up the stairs to the room whence he had fled after thrashing Johnnie. +Here he paused and listened, thinking that he heard somebody in the room. Nor +was he mistaken, for presently a well-remembered voice shrilled out: +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s skulking round outside there? If it’s one of those +bailiffs he’d better hook it, for there’s nothing left here.” +</p> + +<p> +George’s countenance positively beamed at the sound. +</p> + +<p> +“Bailiffs, marm?” he called through the door—“it +ain’t no varminty bailiffs, it’s a friend, and just when +you’re a-wanting one seemingly. Can I come in?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, come in, whoever you are,” said the voice. Accordingly he +opened the door and entered, and this was what he saw. The room, like the rest +of the house, had been stripped of everything, with the solitary exceptions of +a box and a mattress, beside which were an empty bottle and a dirty glass. On +the mattress sat the fair Edithia, <i>alias</i> Mrs. d’Aubigne, +<i>alias</i> the Tiger, <i>alias</i> Mrs. Quest, and such a sight as she +presented George had never seen before. Her fierce face bore traces of recent +heavy drinking and was moreover dirty, haggard and dreadful to look upon; her +hair was a frowsy mat, on some patches of which the golden dye had faded, +leaving it its natural hue of doubtful grey. She wore no collar and her linen +was open at the neck. On her feet were a filthy pair of white satin slippers, +and on her back that same gorgeous pink satin tea-gown which Mr. Quest had +observed on the occasion of his visit, now however soiled and torn. Anything +more squalid or repulsive than the whole picture cannot be imagined, and though +his nerves were pretty strong, and in the course of his life he had seen many a +sight of utter destitution, George literally recoiled from it. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” said the hag sharply, “and who the +dickens are you? Ah, I know now; you’re the chap who whacked +Johnnie,” and she burst into a hoarse scream of laughter at the +recollection. “It was mean of you though to hook it and leave me. He +pulled me, and I was fined two pounds by the beak.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mean of <i>him</i>, marm, not me, but he was a mean varmint altogether +he was; to go and pull a lady too, I niver heard of such a thing. But, marm, if +I might say so, you seem to be in trouble here,” and he took a seat upon +the deal box. +</p> + +<p> +“In trouble, I should think I was in trouble. There’s been an +execution in the house, that is, there’s been three executions, one for +rates and taxes, one for a butcher’s bill, and one for rent. They all +came together, and fought like wild cats for the things. That was yesterday, +and you see all they have left me; cleaned out everything down to my new yellow +satin, and then asked for more. They wanted to know where my jewellery was, but +I did them, hee, hee!” +</p> + +<p> +“Meaning, marm?” +</p> + +<p> +“Meaning that I hid it, that is, what was left of it, under a board. But +that ain’t the worst. When I was asleep that devil Ellen, who’s had +her share all these years, got to the board and collared the things and bolted +with them, and look what she’s left me instead,” and she held up a +scrap of paper, “a receipt for five years’ wages, and she’s +had them over and over again. Ah, if ever I get a chance at her,” and she +doubled her long hand and made a motion as of a person scratching. +“She’s bolted and left me here to starve. I haven’t had a bit +since yesterday, nor a drink either, and that’s worse. What’s to +become of me? I’m starving. I shall have to go to the workhouse. Yes, +me,” she added in a scream, “me, who have spent thousands; I shall +have to go to a workhouse like a common woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s cruel, marm, cruel,” said the sympathetic George, +“and you a lawful wedded wife ‘till death do us part.’ But, +marm, I saw a public over the way. Now, no offence, but you’ll let me +just go over and fetch a bite and a sup.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she answered hungrily, “you’re a gent, you are, +though you’re a country one. You go, while I just make a little toilette, +and as for the drink, why let it be brandy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Brandy it shall be,” said the gallant George, and departed. +</p> + +<p> +In ten minutes he returned with a supply of beef patties, and a bottle of good, +strong “British Brown,” which as everybody knows is a sufficient +quantity to render three privates or two blue-jackets drunk and incapable. +</p> + +<p> +The woman, who now presented a slightly more respectable appearance, seized the +bottle, and pouring about a wine-glass and a half of its contents into a +tumbler mixed it with an equal quantity of water and drank it off at a draught. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s better,” she said, “and now for a patty. +It’s a real picnic, this is.” +</p> + +<p> +He handed her one, but she could not eat more than half of it, for alcohol +destroys the healthier appetites, and she soon went back to the brandy bottle. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, marm, that you are a little more comfortable, perhaps you will tell +me how as you got into this way, and you with a rich husband, as I well knows, +to love and cherish you.” +</p> + +<p> +“A husband to love and cherish me?” she said; “why, I have +written to him three times to tell him that I’m starving, and never a +cent has he given me—and there’s no allowance due yet, and when +there is they’ll take it, for I owe hundreds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said George, “I call it cruel—cruel, and he +rolling in gold. Thirty thousand pounds he hev just made, that I knows on. You +must be an angel, marm, to stand it, an angel without wings. If it were my +husband, now I’d know the reason why.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but I daren’t. He’d murder me. He said he would.” +</p> + +<p> +George laughed gently. “Lord! Lord!” he said, “to see how men +play it off upon poor weak women, working on their narves and that like. He +kill you! Laryer Quest kill you, and he the biggest coward in Boisingham; but +there it is. This is a world of wrong, as the parson says, and the poor shorn +lambs must jamb their tails down and turn their backs to the wind, and so must +you, marm. So it’s the workhus you’ll be in to-morrow. Well, +you’ll find it a poor place; the skilly is that rough it do fare to take +the skin off your throat, and not a drop of liquor, not even of a cup of hot +tea, and work too, lots of it —scrubbing, marm, scrubbing!” +</p> + +<p> +This vivid picture of miseries to come drew something between a sob and a howl +from the woman. There is nothing more horrible to the imagination of such +people than the idea of being forced to work. If their notions of a future +state of punishment could be got at, they would be found in nine cases out of +ten to resolve themselves into a vague conception of hard labour in a hot +climate. It was the idea of the scrubbing that particularly affected the Tiger. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t do it,” she said, “I’ll go to chokey +first——” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, marm,” said George, in a persuasive voice, and pushing +the brandy bottle towards her, “where’s the need for you to go to +the workhus or to chokey either—you with a rich husband as is bound by +law to support you as becomes a lady? And, marm, mind another thing, a husband +as hev wickedly deserted you—which how he could do so it ain’t for +me to say—and is living along of another young party.” +</p> + +<p> +She took some more brandy before she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all very well, you duffer,” she said; “but how +am I to get at him? I tell you I’m afraid of him, and even if I +weren’t, I haven’t a cent to travel with, and if I got there what +am I to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“As for being afeard, marm,” he answered, “I’ve told +you Laryer Quest is a long sight more frightened of you than you are of him. +Then as for money, why, marm, I’m a-going down to Boisingham myself by +the train as leaves Liverpool Street at half-past one, and that’s an hour +and a bit from now, and it’s proud and pleased I should be to take a lady +down and be the means of bringing them as has been in holy matrimony togither +again. And as to what you should do when you gets there, why, you should just +walk up with your marriage lines and say, ‘You are my lawful husband, and +I calls on you to cease living as you didn’t oughter and to take me +back;’ and if he don’t, why then you swears an information, and +it’s a case of warrant for bigamy.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman chuckled, and then suddenly seized with suspicion looked at her +visitor sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want me to blow the gaff for?” she said; +“you’re a leery old hand, you are, for all your simple ways, and +you’ve got some game on, I’ll take my davy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I a game—I——!” answered George, an expression of +the deepest pain spreading itself over his ugly features. “No, +marm—and when one hev wanted to help a friend too. Well, if you think +that—and no doubt misfortune hev made you doubtful-like—the best I +can do is to bid you good-day, and to wish you well out of your troubles, +workhus and all, marm, which I do according,” and he rose from his box +with much dignity, politely bowed to the hag on the mattress, and then turning +walked towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +She sprung up with an oath. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go,” she said. “I’ll take the change out of +him; I’ll teach him to let his lawful wife starve on a beggarly pittance. +I don’t care if he does try to kill me. I’ll ruin him,” and +she stamped upon the floor and screamed, “I’ll ruin him, I’ll +ruin him!” presenting such a picture of abandoned rage and wickedness +that even George, whose feelings were not finely strung, inwardly shrank from +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, marm,” he said, “no wonder you’re put about. When +I think of what you’ve had to suffer, I own it makes my blood go a-biling +through my veins. But if you is a-coming, mayhap it would be as well to stop +cursing of and put your hat on, and we hev got to catch the train.” And +he pointed to a head-gear chiefly made of somewhat dilapidated peacock +feathers, and an ulster which the bailiffs had either overlooked or left +through pity. +</p> + +<p> +She put on the hat and cloak. Then going to the hole beneath the board, out of +which she said the woman Ellen had stolen her jewellery, she extracted the copy +of the certificate of marriage which that lady had not apparently thought worth +taking, and placed it in the pocket of her pink silk <i>peignoir</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Then George having first secured the remainder of the bottle of brandy, which +he slipped into his capacious pocket, they started, and drove to Liverpool +Street. Such a spectacle as the Tiger upon the platform George was wont in +after days to declare he never did see. But it can easily be imagined that a +fierce, dissolute, hungry-looking woman, with half-dyed hair, who had drunk as +much as was good for her, dressed in a hat made of shabby peacock feathers, +dirty white shoes, an ulster with some buttons off, and a gorgeous but filthy +pink silk tea-gown, presented a sufficiently curious appearance. Nor did it +lose strength by contrast with that of her companion, the sober and +melancholy-looking George, who was arrayed in his pepper-and-salt Sunday suit. +</p> + +<p> +So curious indeed was their aspect that the people loitering about the platform +collected round them, and George, who felt heartily ashamed of the position, +was thankful enough when once the train started. From motives of economy he had +taken her a third-class ticket, and at this she grumbled, saying that she was +accustomed to travel, like a lady should, first; but he appeased her with the +brandy bottle. +</p> + +<p> +All the journey through he talked to her about her wrongs, till at last, what +between the liquor and his artful incitements, she was inflamed into a +condition of savage fury against Mr. Quest. When once she got to this point he +would let her have no more brandy, seeing that she was now ripe for his +purpose, which was of course to use her to ruin the man who would ruin the +house he served. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest, sitting in state as Clerk to the Magistrates assembled in Quarter +Sessions at the Court House, Boisingham, little guessed that the sword at whose +shadow he had trembled all these years was even now falling on his head. Still +less did he dream that the hand to cut the thread which held it was that of the +stupid bumpkin whose warning he had despised. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.<br /> +THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES</h2> + +<p> +At last the weary journey was over, and to George’s intense relief he +found himself upon the platform at Boisingham. He was a pretty tough subject, +but he felt that a very little more of the company of the fair Edithia would be +too much for him. As it happened, the station-master was a particular friend of +his, and the astonishment of that worthy when he saw the respectable George in +such company could scarcely be expressed in words. +</p> + +<p> +“Why boar! Well I never! Is she a furriner?” he ejaculated in +astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean me,” said Edithia, who was by now in fine bellicose +condition, “I’m no more foreign than you are. Shut up, can’t +you? or——” and she took a step towards the stout +station-master. He retreated precipitately, caught his heel against the +threshold of the booking office and vanished backwards with a crash. +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, marm, steady,” said George. “Save it up now, do, and +as for you, don’t you irritate her none of yer, or I won’t answer +for the consequences, for she’s an injured woman she is, and injured +women is apt to be dangerous.” +</p> + +<p> +It chanced that a fly which had brought somebody to the station was still +standing there. George bundled his fair charge into it, telling the driver to +go to the Sessions House. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, marm,” he said, “listen to me; I’m a-going to +take you to the man as hev wronged you. He’s sitting as clerk to the +magistrates. Do you go up and call him your husband. Thin he’ll tell the +policeman to take you away. Thin do you sing out for justice, because when +people sings out for justice everybody’s bound to hearken, and say how as +you wants a warrant agin him for bigamy, and show them the marriage lines. +Don’t you be put down, and don’t you spare him. If you don’t +startle him you’ll niver get northing out of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Spare him,” she snarled; “not I. I’ll have his blood. +But look here, if he’s put in chokey, where’s the tin to come +from?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, marm,” answered George with splendid mendacity, +“it’s the best thing that can happen for you, for if they collar +him you git the property, and that’s law.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she answered, “if I’d known that he’d have +been collared long ago, I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said George, seeing that they were nearing their +destination. “Hev one more nip just to keep your spirits up,” and +he produced the brandy bottle, at which she took a long pull. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” he said, “go for him like a wild cat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never you fear,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +They got out of the cab and entered the Sessions House without attracting any +particular notice. The court itself was crowded, for a case which had excited +public interest was coming to a conclusion. The jury had given their verdict, +and sentence was being pronounced by Mr. de la Molle, the chairman. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest was sitting at his table below the bench taking some notes. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s your husband,” George whispered, “now do you +draw on.” +</p> + +<p> +George’s part in the drama was played, and with a sigh of relief he fell +back to watch its final development. He saw the fierce tall woman slip through +the crowd like a snake or a panther to its prey, and some compunction touched +him when he thought of the prey. He glanced at the elderly respectable-looking +gentleman by the table, and reflected that he too was stalking <i>his</i> +prey—the old Squire and the ancient house of de la Molle. Then his +compunction vanished, and he rejoiced to think that he would be the means of +destroying a man who, to fill his pockets, did not hesitate to ruin the family +with which his life and the lives of his forefathers had been interwoven for +many generations. +</p> + +<p> +By this time the woman had fought her way through the press, bursting the +remaining buttons off her ulster in so doing, and reached the bar which +separated spectators from the space reserved for the officials. On the further +side of the bar was a gangway, and beyond it a table at which Mr. Quest sat. He +had been busy writing something all this time, now he rose, passed it to Mr. de +la Molle, and then turned to sit down again. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile his wife had craned her long lithe body forward over the bar till her +head was almost level with the hither edge of the table. There she stood +glaring at him, her wicked face alive with fury and malice, for the brandy she +had drunk had caused her to forget her fears. +</p> + +<p> +As Mr. Quest turned, his eye caught the flash of colour from the peacock +feather hat. Thence it travelled to the face beneath. +</p> + +<p> +He gave a gasp, and the court seemed to whirl round him. The sword had fallen +indeed! +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Billy!” whispered the hateful voice, “you see +I’ve come to look you up.” +</p> + +<p> +With a desperate effort he recovered himself. A policeman was standing near. He +beckoned to him, and told him to remove the woman, who was drunk. The policeman +advanced and touched her on the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, you be off,” he said, “you’re drunk.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Mr. de la Molle ceased giving judgment. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t drunk,” said the woman, loud enough to attract the +attention of the whole court, which now for the first time observed her +extraordinary attire, “and I’ve a right to be in the public +court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come on,” said the policeman, “the clerk says you’re +to go.” +</p> + +<p> +“The clerk says so, does he?” she answered, “and do you know +who the clerk is? I’ll tell you all,” and she raised her voice to a +scream; “he’s my husband, my lawful wedded husband, and +here’s proof of it,” and she took the folded certificate from her +pocket and flung it so that it struck the desk of one of the magistrates. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest sank into his chair, and a silence of astonishment fell upon the +court. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was the first to recover himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Silence,” he said, addressing her. “Silence. This cannot go +on here.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I want justice,” she shrieked. “I want justice; I want a +warrant against that man for <i>bigamy</i>.” (Sensation.) +“He’s left me to starve; me, his lawful wife. Look here,” and +she tore open the pink satin tea-gown, “I haven’t enough clothes on +me; the bailiffs took all my clothes; I have suffered his cruelty for years, +and borne it, and I can bear it no longer. Justice, your worships; I only ask +for justice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be silent, woman,” said Mr. de la Molle; “if you have a +criminal charge to bring against anybody there is a proper way to make it. Be +silent or leave this court.” +</p> + +<p> +But she only screamed the more for <i>justice</i>, and loudly detailed +fragments of her woes to the eagerly listening crowd. +</p> + +<p> +Then policemen were ordered to remove her, and there followed a frightful +scene. She shrieked and fought in such a fashion that it took four men to drag +her to the door of the court, where she dropped exhausted against the wall in +the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the observant George to himself, “she hev done +the trick proper, and no mistake. Couldn’t have been better. That’s +a master one, that is.” Then he turned his attention to the stricken man +before him. Mr. Quest was sitting there, his face ashen, his eyes wide open, +and his hands placed flat on the table before him. When silence had been +restored he rose and turned to the bench apparently with the intention of +addressing the court. But he said nothing, either because he could not find the +words or because his courage failed him. There was a moment’s intense +silence, for every one in the crowded court was watching him, and the sense of +it seemed to take what resolution he had left out of him. At any rate, he left +the table and hurried from the court. In the passage he found the Tiger, who, +surrounded by a little crowd, her hat awry and her clothes half torn from her +back, was huddled gasping against the wall. +</p> + +<p> +She saw him and began to speak, but he stopped and faced her. He faced her, +grinding his teeth, and with such an awful fire of fury in his eyes that she +shrank from him in terror, flattening herself against the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“What did I tell you?” he said in a choked voice, and then passed +on. A few paces down the passage he met one of his own clerks, a sharp fellow +enough. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Jones,” he said, “you see that woman there. She has +made a charge against me. Watch her. See where she goes to, and find out what +she is going to do. Then come and tell me at the office. If you lose sight of +her, you lose your place too. Do you understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said the astonished clerk, and Mr. Quest was gone. +</p> + +<p> +He made his way direct to the office. It was closed, for he had told his clerks +he should not come back after court, and that they could go at half-past four. +He had his key, however, and, entering, lit the gas. Then he went to his safe +and sorted some papers, burning a good number of them. Two large documents, +however, he put by his side to read. One was his will, the other was endorsed +“Statement of the circumstances connected with Edith.” +</p> + +<p> +First he looked through his will. It had been made some years ago, and was +entirely in favour of his wife, or, rather, of his reputed wife, Belle. +</p> + +<p> +“It may as well stand,” he said aloud; “if anything happens +to me she’ll take about ten thousand under it, and that was what she +brought me.” Taking the pen he went through the document carefully, and +wherever the name of “Belle Quest” occurred he put a X, and +inserted these words, “Gennett, commonly known as Belle Quest,” +Gennett being Belle’s maiden name, and initialled the correction. Next he +glanced at the Statement. It contained a full and fair account of his +connection with the woman who had ruined his life. “I may as well leave +it,” he thought; “some day it will show Belle that I was not quite +so bad as I seemed.” +</p> + +<p> +He replaced the statement in a brief envelope, sealed and directed it to Belle, +and finally marked it, “Not to be opened till my death.—W. +Quest.” Then he put the envelope away in the safe and took up the will +for the same purpose. Next it on the table lay the deeds executed by Edward +Cossey transferring the Honham mortgages to Mr. Quest in consideration of his +abstaining from the commencement of a suit for divorce in which he proposed to +join Edward Cossey as co-respondent. “Ah!” he thought to himself, +“that game is up. Belle is not my legal wife, therefore I cannot commence +a suit against her in which Cossey would figure as co-respondent, and so the +consideration fails. I am sorry, for I should have liked him to lose his thirty +thousand pounds as well as his wife, but it can’t be helped. It was a +game of bluff, and now that the bladder has been pricked I haven’t a leg +to stand on.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, taking a pen, he wrote on a sheet of paper which he inserted in the will, +“Dear B.,—You must return the Honham mortgages to Mr. Edward +Cossey. As you are not my legal wife the consideration upon which he +transferred them fails, and you cannot hold them in equity, nor I suppose would +you wish to do so.—W. Q.” +</p> + +<p> +Having put all the papers away, he shut the safe at the moment that the clerk +whom he had deputed to watch his wife knocked at the door and entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said his master. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I watched the woman. She stopped in the passage for a minute, +and then George, Squire de la Molle’s man, came out and spoke to her. I +got quite close so as to hear, and he said, ‘You’d better get out +of this.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Where to?’ she answered. ‘I’m afraid.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Back to London,’ he said, and gave her a sovereign, and she +got up without a word and slunk off to the station followed by a mob of people. +She is in the refreshment room now, but George sent word to say that they ought +not to serve her with any drink.” +</p> + +<p> +“What time does the next train go—7.15, does it not?” said +Mr. Quest. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, go back to the station and keep an eye upon that woman, and when +the time comes get me a first-class return ticket to London. I shall go up +myself and give her in charge there. Here is some money,” and he gave him +a five-pound note, “and look here, Jones, you need not trouble about the +change.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, sir, I’m sure,” said Jones, to whom, his salary +being a guinea a week, on which he supported a wife and family, a gift of four +pounds was sudden wealth. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t thank me, but do as I tell you. I will be down at the +station at 7.10. Meet me outside and give me the ticket. That will do.” +</p> + +<p> +When Jones had gone Mr. Quest sat down to think. +</p> + +<p> +So George had loosed this woman on him, and that was the meaning of his +mysterious warnings. How did he find her? That did not matter, he had found +her, and in revenge for the action taken against the de la Molle family had +brought her here to denounce him. It was cleverly managed, too. Mr. Quest +reflected to himself that he should never have given the man credit for the +brains. Well, that was what came of underrating people. +</p> + +<p> +And so this was the end of all his hopes, ambitions, shifts and struggles! The +story would be in every paper in England before another twenty-four hours were +over, headed, “<i>Remarkable occurrence at Boisingham Quarter +Sessions.—Alleged bigamy of a solicitor.</i>” No doubt, too, the +Treasury would take it up and institute a prosecution. This was the end of his +strivings after respectability and the wealth that brings it. He had +overreached himself. He had plotted and schemed, and hardened his heart against +the de la Molle family, and fate had made use of his success to destroy him. In +another few months he had expected to be able to leave this place a wealthy and +respected man—and now? He laid his hand upon the table and reviewed his +past life—tracing it from year to year, and seeing how the shadow of this +accursed woman had haunted him, bringing disgrace and terror and mental agony +with it—making his life a misery. And now what was to be done? He was +ruined. Let him fly to the utmost parts of the earth, let him burrow in the +recesses of the cities of the earth, and his shame would find him out. He was +an impostor, a bigamist; one who had seduced an innocent woman into a mock +marriage and then taken her fortune to buy the silence of his lawful wife. +More, he had threatened to bring an action for divorce against a woman to whom +he knew he was not really married and made it a lever to extort large sums of +money or their value. +</p> + +<p> +What is there that a man in his position can do? +</p> + +<p> +He can do two things—he can revenge himself upon the author of his ruin, +and if he be bold enough, he can put an end to his existence and his sorrows at +a blow. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quest rose and walked to the door. Halting there, he turned and looked +round the office in that peculiar fashion wherewith the eyes take their adieu. +Then with a sigh he went. +</p> + +<p> +Reaching his own house he hesitated whether or not to enter. Had the news +reached Belle? If so, how was he to face her? Her hands were not clean, indeed, +but at any rate she had no mock marriage in her record, and her dislike of him +had been unconcealed throughout. She had never wished to marry him, and never +for one single day regarded him otherwise than with aversion. +</p> + +<p> +After reflection he turned and went round by the back way into the garden. The +curtains of the French windows were drawn, but it was a wet and windy night, +and the draught occasionally lifted the edge of one of them. He crept like a +thief up to his own window and looked in. The drawing-room was lighted, and in +a low chair by the fire sat Belle. She was as usual dressed in black, and to +Mr. Quest, who loved her, and who knew that he was about to bid farewell to the +sight of her, she looked more beautiful now than ever she had before. A book +lay open on her knee, and he noticed, not without surprise, that it was a +Bible. But she was not reading it; her dimpled chin rested on her hand, her +violent eyes were fixed on vacancy, and even from where he was he thought that +he could see the tears in them. +</p> + +<p> +She had heard nothing; he was sure of that from the expression of her face; she +was thinking of her own sorrows, not of his shame. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, he would go in. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.<br /> +HOW THE GAME ENDED</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Quest entered the house by a side door, and having taken off his hat and +coat went into the drawing-room. He had still half an hour to spare before +starting to catch the train. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Belle, looking up. “Why are you looking so +pale?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have had a trying day,” he answered. “What have you been +doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing in particular.” +</p> + +<p> +“Reading the Bible, I see.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that?” she asked, colouring a little, for she had +thrown a newspaper over the book when she heard him coming in. “Yes, I +have been reading the Bible. Don’t you know that when everything else in +life has failed them women generally take to religion?” +</p> + +<p> +“Or drink,” he put in, with a touch of his old bitterness. +“Have you seen Mr. Cossey lately?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Why do you ask that? I thought we had agreed to drop that +subject.” +</p> + +<p> +As a matter of fact it had not been alluded to since Edward left the house. +</p> + +<p> +“You know that Miss de la Molle will not marry him after all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know. She will not marry him because you forced him to give up +the mortgages.” +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to be much obliged to me. Are you not pleased?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I no longer care about anything. I am tired of passion, and sin and +failure. I care for nothing any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems that we have both reached the same goal, but by different +roads.” +</p> + +<p> +“You?” she answered, looking up; “at any rate you are not +tired of money, or you would not do what you have done to get it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never cared for money itself,” he said. “I only wanted +money that I might be rich and, therefore, respected.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think any means justifiable so long as you get it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought so. I do not think so now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand you to-night, William. It is time for me to go +to dress for dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t go just yet. I’m leaving in a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leaving? Where for?” +</p> + +<p> +“London; I have to go up to-night about some business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed; when are you coming back?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite know—to-morrow, perhaps. I wonder, +Belle,” he went on, his voice shaking a little, “if you will always +think as badly of me as you do now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I?” she said, opening her eyes widely; “who am I that I +should judge you? However bad you may be, I am worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps there are excuses to be made for both of us,” he said; +“perhaps, after all, there is no such thing as free will, and we are +nothing but pawns moved by a higher power. Who knows? But I will not keep you +any longer. Good-bye—Belle!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I kiss you before I go?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him in astonishment. Her first impulse was to refuse. He had not +kissed her for years. But something in the man’s face touched her. It was +always a refined and melancholy face, but to-night it wore a look which to her +seemed almost unearthly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, William, if you wish,” she said; “but I wonder that you +care to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let the dead bury their dead,” he answered, and stooping he put +his arm round her delicate waist and drawing her to him kissed her tenderly but +without passion on her forehead. “There, good-night,” he said; +“I wish that I had been a better husband to you. Good-night,” and +he was gone. +</p> + +<p> +When he reached his room he flung himself for a few moments face downwards upon +the bed, and from the convulsive motion of his back an observer might almost +have believed that he was sobbing. When he rose, there was no trace of tears or +tenderness upon his features. On the contrary, they were stern and set, like +the features of one bent upon some terrible endeavour. Going to a drawer, he +unlocked it and took from it a Colt’s revolver of the small pattern. It +was loaded, but he extracted the cartridges and replaced them with fresh ones +from a tin box. Then he went downstairs, put on a large ulster with a high +collar, and a soft felt hat, the brim of which he turned down over his face, +placed the pistol in the pocket of his ulster, and started. +</p> + +<p> +It was a dreadful night, the wind was blowing a heavy gale, and between the +gusts the rain came down in sheets of driving spray. Nobody was about the +streets—the weather was far too bad; and Mr. Quest reached the station +without meeting a living soul. Outside the circle of light from a lamp over the +doorway he paused, and looked about for the clerk Jones. Presently, he saw him +walking backwards and forwards under the shelter of a lean-to, and going up, +touched him on the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +The man started back. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got the ticket, Jones?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, sir,” said Jones, “I didn’t know you in that +get-up. Yes, here it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is the woman there still?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; she’s taken a ticket, third-class, to town. She has been +going on like a wild thing because they would not give her any liquor at the +refreshment bar, till at last she frightened them into letting her have six of +brandy. Then she began and told the girl all sorts of tales about you, +sir—said she was going back to London because she was afraid that if she +stopped here you would murder her—and that you were her lawful husband, +and she would have a warrant out against you, and I don’t know what all. +I sat by and heard her with my own ears.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she—did she indeed?” said Mr. Quest, with an attempt at +a laugh. “Well, she’s a common thief and worse, that’s what +she is, and by this time to-morrow I hope to see her safe in gaol. Ah! here +comes the train. Good-night, Jones. I can manage for myself now.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s his game?” said Jones to himself as he watched his +master slip on to the platform by a gate instead of going through the booking +office. “Well, I’ve had four quid out of it, any way, and +it’s no affair of mine.” And Jones went home to tea. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Mr. Quest was standing on the wet and desolate platform quite away +from the lamps, watching the white lights of the approaching train rushing on +through the storm and night. Presently it drew up. No passengers got out. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, mam, look sharp if you’re going,” cried the porter, and +the woman Edith came out of the refreshment room. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s the third, forrard there,” said the porter, running +to the van to see about the packing of the mails. +</p> + +<p> +On she came, passing quite close to Mr. Quest, so close that he could hear her +swearing at the incivility of the porter. There was a third-class compartment +just opposite, and this she entered. It was one of those carriages that are +still often to be seen on provincial lines in which the partitions do not go up +to the roof, and, if possible, more vilely lighted than usual. Indeed the light +which should have illuminated the after-half of it had either never been lit or +had gone out. There was not a soul in the whole length of the compartment. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as his wife was in, Mr. Quest watched his opportunity. Slipping up to +the dark carriage, he opened and shut the door as quietly as possible and took +his seat in the gloom. +</p> + +<p> +The engine whistled, there was a cry of “right forrard,” and they +were off. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he saw the woman stand up in her division of the compartment and peep +over into the gloom. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a blessed soul,” he heard her mutter, “and yet I feel as +though that devil Billy was creeping about after me. Ugh! it must be the +horrors. I can see the look he gave me now.” +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later the train stopped at a station, but nobody got in, and +presently it moved on again. “Any passengers for Effry?” shouted +the porter, and there had been no response. If they did not stop at Effry there +would be no halt for forty minutes. Now was his time. He waited a little till +they had got up the speed. The line here ran through miles and miles of fen +country, more or less drained by dykes and rivers, but still wild and desolate +enough. Over this great flat the storm was sweeping furiously—even +drowning in its turmoil the noise of the travelling train. +</p> + +<p> +Very quietly he rose and climbed over the low partition which separated his +compartment from that in which the woman was. She was seated in the corner, her +head leaning back, so that the feeble light from the lamp fell on it, and her +eyes were closed. She was asleep. +</p> + +<p> +He slid himself along the seat till he was opposite to her, then paused to look +at the fierce wicked face on which drink and paint and years of evil-thinking +and living had left their marks, and looking shuddered. There was his bad +genius, there was the creature who had driven him from evil to evil and finally +destroyed him. Had it not been for her he might have been a good and respected +man, and not what he was now, a fraudulent ruined outcast. All his life seemed +to flash before his inner eye in those few seconds of contemplation, all the +long weary years of struggle, crime, and deceit. And this was the end of it, +and <i>there</i> was the cause of it. Well, she should not escape him; he would +be revenged upon her at last. There was nothing but death before <i>him</i>, +she should die too. +</p> + +<p> +He set his teeth, drew the loaded pistol from his pocket, cocked it and lifted +it to her breast. +</p> + +<p> +What was the matter with the thing? He had never known the pull of a pistol to +be so heavy before. +</p> + +<p> +No, it was not <i>that</i>. He could not do it. He could not shoot a sleeping +woman, devil though she was; he could not kill her in her sleep. His nature +rose up against it. +</p> + +<p> +He placed the pistol on his knee, and as he did so she opened her eyes. He saw +the look of wonder gather in them and grow to a stare of agonised terror. Her +face became rigid like a dead person’s and her lips opened to scream, but +no cry came. She could only point to the pistol. +</p> + +<p> +“Make a sound and you are dead,” he said fiercely. “Not that +it matters though,” he added, as he remembered that the scream must be +loud which could be heard in that raging gale. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do?” she gasped at last. “What are you +going to do with that pistol? And where do you come from?” +</p> + +<p> +“I come out of the night,” he answered, raising the weapon, +“out of the night into which you are going.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not going to kill me?” she moaned, turning up her ghastly +face. “I can’t die. I’m afraid to die. It will hurt, and +I’ve been wicked. Oh, you are not going to kill me, are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am going to kill you,” he answered. “I told you +months ago that I would kill you if you molested me. You have ruined me now, +there is nothing but death left for <i>me</i>, and <i>you</i> shall die too, +you fiend.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no! no! no! anything but that. I was drunk when I did it; that man +brought me there, and they had taken all my things, and I was starving,” +and she glanced wildly round the empty carriage to see if help could be found, +but there was none. She was alone with her fate. +</p> + +<p> +She slipped down upon the floor of the carriage and clasped his knees. Writhing +in her terror upon the ground, in hoarse accents she prayed for mercy. +</p> + +<p> +“You used to kiss me,” she said; “you cannot kill a woman you +used to kiss years ago. Oh, spare me, spare me!” +</p> + +<p> +He set his lips and placed the muzzle of the pistol against her head. She +shivered at the contact, and her teeth began to chatter. +</p> + +<p> +He could not do it. He must let her go, and leave her to fate. After all, she +could hurt him no more, for before another sun had set he would be beyond her +reach. +</p> + +<p> +His pistol hand fell against his side, and he looked down with loathing not +unmixed with pity at the abject human snake who was writhing at his feet. +</p> + +<p> +She caught his eye, and her faculties, sharpened by the imminent peril, read +relentment there. For the moment, at any rate, he was softened. If she could +master him now while he was off his guard—he was not a very strong man! +But the pistol—— Slowly, still groaning out supplications, she rose +to her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “be quiet while I think if I can spare +you,” and he half turned his head away from her. For a moment nothing was +heard but the rush of the gale and the roll of the wheels running over and +under bridges. +</p> + +<p> +This was her opportunity. All her natural ferocity arose within her, +intensified a hundred times by the instinct of self-protection. With a sudden +blow she struck the pistol from his hand; it fell upon the floor of the +carriage. And then with a scream she sprang like a wild cat straight at his +throat. So sudden was the attack that the long lean hands were gripping his +windpipe before he knew it had been made. Back she bore him, though he seized +her round the waist. She was the heavier of the two, and back they went, +<i>crash</i> against the carriage door. +</p> + +<p> +It gave! Oh, God, the worn catch gave! Out together, out with a yell of despair +into the night and the raging gale; down together through sixty feet of space +into the black river beneath. Down together, deep into the watery +depths—into the abyss of Death. +</p> + +<p> +The train rushed on, the wild winds blew, and the night was as the night had +been. But there in the black water, though there was never a star to see them, +there, locked together in death as they had been locked together in life, the +fierce glare of hate and terror yet staring from their glazed eyes, two bodies +rolled over and over as they sped silently towards the sea. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.<br /> +SISTER AGNES</h2> + +<p> +Ten days had passed. The tragedy had echoed through all the land. Numberless +articles and paragraphs had been written in numberless papers, and numberless +theories had been built upon them. But the echoes were already beginning to die +away. Both actors in the dim event were dead, and there was no pending trial to +keep the public interest alive. +</p> + +<p> +The two corpses, still linked in that fierce dying grip, had been picked up on +a mudbank. An inquest had been held, at which an open verdict was returned, and +they were buried. Other events had occurred, the papers were filled with the +reports of new tragedies, and the affair of the country lawyer who committed +bigamy and together with his lawful wife came to a tragic and mysterious end +began to be forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +In Boisingham and its neighbourhood much sympathy was shown with Belle, whom +people still called Mrs. Quest, though she had no title to that name. But she +received it coldly and kept herself secluded. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as her supposed husband’s death was beyond a doubt Belle had +opened his safe (for he had left the keys on his dressing-table), and found +therein his will and other papers, including the mortgage deeds, to which, as +Mr. Quest’s memorandum advised her, she had no claim. Nor, indeed, had +her right to them been good in law, would she have retained them, seeing that +they were a price wrung from her late lover under threat of an action that +could not be brought. +</p> + +<p> +So she made them into a parcel and sent them to Edward Cossey, together with a +formal note of explanation, greatly wondering in her heart what course he would +take with reference to them. She was not left long in doubt. The receipt of the +deeds was acknowledged, and three days afterwards she heard that a notice +calling in the borrowed money had been served upon Mr. de la Molle on behalf of +Edward Cossey. +</p> + +<p> +So he had evidently made up his mind not to forego this new advantage which +chance threw in his way. Pressure and pressure alone could enable him to attain +his end, and he was applying it unmercifully. Well, she had done with him now, +it did not matter to her; but she could not help faintly wondering at the +extraordinary tenacity and hardness of purpose which his action showed. Then +she turned her mind to the consideration of another matter, in connection with +which her plans were approaching maturity. +</p> + +<p> +It was some days after this, exactly a fortnight from the date of Mr. +Quest’s death, that Edward Cossey was sitting one afternoon brooding over +the fire in his rooms. He had much business awaiting his attention in London, +but he would not go to London. He could not tear himself away from Boisingham, +and such of the matters as could be attended to there were left without +attention. He was still as determined as ever to marry Ida, more determined if +possible, for from constant brooding on the matter he had arrived at a +condition approaching monomania. He had been quick to see the advantage +resulting to him from Mr. Quest’s tragic death and the return of the +deeds, and though he knew that Ida would hate him the more for doing it, he +instructed his lawyers to call in the money and make use of every possible +legal means to harass and put pressure upon Mr. de la Molle. At the same time +he had written privately to the Squire, calling his attention to the fact that +matters were now once more as they had been at the beginning, but that he was +as before willing to carry out the arrangements which he had already specified, +provided that Ida could be persuaded to consent to marry him. To this Mr. de la +Molle had answered courteously enough, notwithstanding his grief and irritation +at the course his would-be son-in-law had taken about the mortgages on the +death of Mr. Quest, and the suspicion (it was nothing more) that he now had as +to the original cause of their transfer to the lawyer. He said what he had said +before, that he could not force his daughter into a marriage with him, but that +if she chose to agree to it he should offer no objection. And there the matter +stood. Once or twice Edward had met Ida walking or driving. She bowed to him +coldly and that was all. Indeed he had only one crumb of comfort in his daily +bread of disappointment, and the hope deferred which, where a lady is +concerned, makes the heart more than normally sick, and it was that he knew his +hated rival, Colonel Quaritch, had been forbidden the Castle, and that +intercourse between him and Ida was practically at an end. +</p> + +<p> +But he was a dogged and persevering man; he knew the power of money and the +shifts to which people can be driven who are made desperate by the want of it. +He knew, too, that it is no rare thing for women who are attached to one man to +sell themselves to another of their own free will, realising that love may +pass, but wealth (if the settlements are properly drawn) does not. Therefore he +still hoped that with so many circumstances bringing an ever-increasing +pressure upon her, Ida’s spirit would in time be broken, her resistance +would collapse, and he would have his will. Nor, as the sequel will show, was +that hope a baseless one. +</p> + +<p> +As for his infatuation there was literally no limit to it. It broke out in all +sorts of ways, and for miles round was a matter of public notoriety and gossip. +Over the mantelpiece in his sitting-room was a fresh example of it. By one +means and another he had obtained several photographs of Ida, notably one of +her in a court dress which she had worn two or three years before, when her +brother James had insisted upon her being presented. These photographs he +caused to be enlarged and then, at the cost of 500 pounds, commissioned a +well-known artist to paint from them a full-length life-size portrait of Ida in +her court dress. This order had been executed, and the portrait, which although +the colouring was not entirely satisfactory was still an effective likeness and +a fine piece of work, now hung in a splendid frame over his mantelpiece. +</p> + +<p> +There, on the afternoon in question, he sat before the fire, his eyes fixed +upon the portrait, of which the outline was beginning to grow dim in the waning +December light, when the servant girl came in and announced that a lady wished +to speak to him. He asked what her name was, and the girl said that she did not +know, because she had her veil down and was wrapped up in a big cloak. +</p> + +<p> +In due course the lady was shown up. He had relapsed into his reverie, for +nothing seemed to interest him much now unless it had to do with Ida—and +he knew that the lady could not be Ida, because the girl said that she was +short. As it happened, he sat with his right ear, in which he was deaf, towards +the door, so that between his infirmity and his dreams he never heard +Belle—for it was she—enter the room. +</p> + +<p> +For a minute or more she stood looking at him as he sat with his eyes fixed +upon the picture, and while she looked an expression of pity stole across her +sweet pale face. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder what curse there is laid upon us that we should be always +doomed to seek what we cannot find?” she said aloud. +</p> + +<p> +He heard her now, and looking up saw her standing in the glow and flicker of +the firelight, which played upon her white face and black-draped form. He +started violently; as he did so she loosed the heavy cloak and hood that she +wore and it fell behind her. But where was the lovely rounded form, and where +the clustering golden curls? Gone, and in their place a coarse robe of blue +serge, on which hung a crucifix, and the white hood of the nun. +</p> + +<p> +He sprang from his chair with an exclamation, not knowing if he dreamed or if +he really saw the woman who stood there like a ghost in the firelight. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, Edward,” she said presently, in her sweet low voice. +“I daresay that this all looks theatrical enough—but I have put on +this dress for two reasons: firstly, because I must leave this town in an +hour’s time and wish to do so unknown; and secondly, to show that you +need not fear that I have come to be troublesome. Will you light the +candles?” +</p> + +<p> +He did so mechanically, and then pulled down the blinds. Meanwhile Belle had +seated herself near the table, her face buried in her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the meaning of all this, Belle?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Sister Agnes,’ you must call me now,” she said, +taking her hands from her face. “The meaning of it is that I have left +the world and entered a sisterhood which works among the poor in London, and I +have come to bid you farewell, a last farewell.” +</p> + +<p> +He stared at her in amazement. He did not find it easy to connect the idea of +this beautiful, human, loving creature with the cold sanctuary of a sisterhood. +He did not know that natures like this, whose very intensity is often the cause +of their destruction, are most capable of these strange developments. The man +or woman who can really love and endure—and they are rare—can also, +when their passion has utterly broken them, turn to climb the stony paths that +lead to love’s antipodes. +</p> + +<p> +“Edward,” she went on, speaking very slowly, “you know in +what relation we have stood to each other, and what that relationship means to +woman. You know this—I have loved you with all my heart, and all my +strength, and all my soul——” Here she trembled and broke +down. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, too,” she continued presently, “what has been the +end of all this, the shameful end. I am not come to blame you. I do not blame +you, for the fault was mine, and if I have anything to forgive I forgive it +freely. Whatever memories may still live in my heart I swear I put away all +bitterness, and that my most earnest wish is that you may be happy, as +happiness is to you. The sin was mine; that is it would have been mine were we +free agents, which perhaps we are not. I should have loved my husband, or +rather the man whom I thought my husband, for with all his faults he was of a +different clay to you, Edward.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked up, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” she went on, pointing to the picture over the +mantelpiece, “that your mind is still set upon her, and I am nothing, and +less than nothing, to you. When I am gone you will scarcely give me a thought. +I cannot tell you if you will succeed in your end, and I think the methods you +are adopting wicked and shameful. But whether you succeed or not, your fate +also will be what my fate is—to love a person who is not only indifferent +to you but who positively dislikes you, and reserves all her secret heart for +another man, and I know no greater penalty than is to be found in that daily +misery.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very consoling,” he said sulkily. +</p> + +<p> +“I only tell you the truth,” she answered. “What sort of life +do you suppose mine has been when I am so utterly broken, so entirely robbed of +hope, that I have determined to leave the world and hide myself and my shame in +a sisterhood? And now, Edward,” she went on, after a pause, “I have +something to tell you, for I will not go away, if indeed you allow me to go +away at all after you have heard it, until I have confessed.” And she +leant forward and looked him full in the face, whispering—“<i>I +shot you on purpose, Edward!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” he said, springing from his chair; “you tried to +murder me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; but don’t think too hardly of me. I am only flesh and +blood, and you drove me wild with jealousy—you taunted me with having +been your mistress and said that I was not fit to associate with the lady whom +you were going to marry. It made me mad, and the opportunity offered—the +gun was there, and I shot you. God forgive me, I think that I have suffered +more than you did. Oh! when day after day I saw you lying there and did not +know if you would live or die, I thought that I should have gone mad with +remorse and agony!” +</p> + +<p> +He listened so far, and then suddenly walked across the room towards the bell. +She placed herself between him and it. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Going to do? I am going to send for a policeman and give you into +custody for attempted murder, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +She caught his arm and looked him in the face. In another second she had loosed +it. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” she said, “you have a right to do that. Ring and +send for the policeman, only remember that nothing is known now, but the whole +truth will come out at the trial.” +</p> + +<p> +This checked him, and he stood thinking. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, “why don’t you ring?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not ring,” he answered, “because on the whole I think I +had better let you go. I do not wish to be mixed up with you any more. You have +done me mischief enough; you have finished by attempting to murder me. Go; I +think that a convent is the best place for you; you are too bad and too +dangerous to be left at large.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Oh!</i>” she said, like one in pain. “<i>Oh!</i> and you +are the man for whom I have come to this! Oh, God! it is a cruel world.” +And she pressed her hands to her heart and stumbled rather than walked to the +door. +</p> + +<p> +Reaching it she turned, and her hands still pressing the coarse blue gown +against her heart, she leaned against the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Edward,” she said, in a strained whisper, for her breath came +thick, “Edward—I am going for ever—have you <i>no</i> kind +word—to say to me?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her, a scowl upon his handsome face. Then by way of answer he +turned upon his heel. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +And so, still holding her hands against her poor broken heart, she went out of +the house, out of Boisingham and of touch and knowledge of the world. In after +years these two were fated to meet once again, and under circumstances +sufficiently tragic; but the story of that meeting does not lie within the +scope of this history. To the world Belle is dead, but there is another world +of sickness, and sordid unchanging misery and shame, where the lovely face of +Sister Agnes moves to and fro like a ray of heaven’s own light. There +those who would know her must go to seek her. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Belle! Poor shamed, deserted woman! She was an evil-doer, and the fatality +of love and the unbalanced vigour of her mind, which might, had she been more +happily placed, have led her to all things that are pure, and true, and of good +report, combined to drag her into shame and wretchedness. But the evil that she +did was paid back to her in full measure, pressed down and running over. Few of +us need to wait for a place of punishment to get the due of our follies and our +sins. <i>Here</i> we expiate them. They are with us day and night, about our +path and about our bed, scourging us with the whips of memory, mocking us with +empty longing and the hopelessness of despair. Who can escape the consequence +of sin, or even of the misfortune which led to sin? Certainly Belle did not, +nor Mr. Quest, nor even that fierce-hearted harpy who hunted him to his grave. +</p> + +<p> +And so good-bye to Belle. May she find peace in its season! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br /> +COLONEL QUARITCH EXPRESSES HIS VIEWS</h2> + +<p> +Meanwhile things had been going very ill at the Castle. Edward Cossey’s +lawyers were carrying out their client’s instructions to the letter with +a perseverance and ingenuity worthy of a County Court solicitor. Day by day +they found a new point upon which to harass the wretched Squire. Some share of +the first expenses connected with the mortgages had, they said, been improperly +thrown upon their client, and they again and again demanded, in language which +was almost insolent, the immediate payment of the amount. Then there was three +months’ interest overdue, and this also they pressed and clamoured for, +till the old gentleman was nearly driven out of his senses, and as a +consequence drove everybody about the place out of theirs. +</p> + +<p> +At last this state of affairs began to tell upon his constitution, which, +strong as he was, could not at his age withstand such constant worry. He grew +to look years older, his shoulders acquired a stoop, and his memory began to +fail him, especially on matters connected with the mortgages and farm accounts. +Ida, too, became pale and ill; she caught a heavy cold, which she could not +throw off, and her face acquired a permanently pained and yet listless look. +</p> + +<p> +One day, it was on the 15th of December, things reached a climax. When Ida came +down to breakfast she found her father busy poring over some more letters from +the lawyers. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it now, father?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it now?” he answered irritably. “What, it’s +another claim for two hundred, that’s what it is. I keep telling them to +write to my lawyers, but they won’t, at least they write to me too. +There, I can’t make head or tail of it. Look here,” and he showed +her two sides of a big sheet of paper covered with statements of accounts. +“Anyhow, I have not got two hundred, that’s clear. I don’t +even know where we are going to find the money to pay the three months’ +interest. I’m worn out, Ida, I’m worn out! There is only one thing +left for me to do, and that is to die, and that’s the long and short of +it. I get so confused with these figures. I’m an old man now, and all +these troubles are too much for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not talk like that, father,” she answered, not knowing +what to say, for affairs were indeed desperate. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, it’s all very well to talk so, but facts are stubborn. +Our family is ruined, and we must accept it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cannot the money be got anyhow? Is there <i>nothing</i> to be +done?” she said in despair. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the good of asking me that? There is only one thing that can +save us, and you know what it is as well as I do. But you are your own +mistress. I have no right to put pressure on you. I don’t wish to put +pressure on you. You must please yourself. Meanwhile I think we had better +leave this place at once, and go and live in a cottage somewhere, if we can get +enough to support us; if not we must starve, I suppose. I cannot keep up +appearances any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida rose, and with a strange sad light of resolution shining in her eyes, came +to where her father was sitting, and putting her hands upon his shoulders, +looked him in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” she said, “do you wish me to marry that man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wish you to marry him? What do you mean?” he said, not without +irritation, and avoiding her gaze. “It is no affair of mine. I +don’t like the man, if that’s what you mean. He is acting +like—well, like the cur that he is, in putting on the screw as he is +doing; but, of course, that is the way out of it, and the only way, and there +you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” she said again, “will you give me ten days, that +is, until Christmas Day? If nothing happens between this and then I will marry +Mr. Edward Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden light of hope shone in his eyes. She saw it, though he tried to hide +it by turning his head away. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” he answered, “as you wish; settle it one way or +the other on Christmas Day, and then we can go out with the new year. You see +your brother James is dead, I have no one left to advise me now, and I suppose +that I am getting old. At any rate, things seem to be too much for me. Settle +it as you like; settle it as you like,” and he got up, leaving his +breakfast half swallowed, and went off to moon aimlessly about the park. +</p> + +<p> +So she made up her mind at last. This was the end of her struggling. She could +not let her old father be turned out of house and home to starve, for +practically they would starve. She knew her hateful lover well enough to be +aware that he would show no mercy. It was a question of the woman or the money, +and she was the woman. Either she must let him take her or they must be +destroyed; there was no middle course. And in these circumstances there was no +room for hesitation. Once more her duty became clear to her. She must give up +her life, she must give up her love, she must give up herself. Well, so be it. +She was weary of the long endeavour against fortune, now she would yield and +let the tide of utter misery sweep over her like a sea—to bear her away +till at last it brought her to that oblivion in which perchance all things come +right or are as though they had never been. +</p> + +<p> +She had scarcely spoken to her lover, Harold Quaritch, for some weeks. She had +as she understood it entered into a kind of unspoken agreement with her father +not to do so, and that agreement Harold had realised and respected. Since their +last letters to each other they had met once or twice casually or at church, +interchanged a few indifferent words, though their eyes spoke another story, +touched each other’s hands and parted. That was absolutely all. But now +that Ida had come to this momentous decision she felt he had a right to learn +it, and so once more she wrote to him. She might have gone to see him or told +him to meet her, but she would not. For one thing she did not dare to trust +herself on such an errand in his dear company, for another she was too proud, +thinking if her father came to hear of it he might consider that it had a +clandestine and underhand appearance. +</p> + +<p> +And so she wrote. With all she said we need not concern ourselves. The letter +was loving, even passionate, more passionate perhaps than one would have +expected from a woman of Ida’s calm and stately sort. But a mountain may +have a heart of fire although it is clad in snows, and so it sometimes is with +women who seem cold and unemotional as marble. Besides, it was her last +chance—she could write him no more letters and she had much to say. +</p> + +<p> +“And so I have decided, Harold,” she said after telling him of all +her doubts and troubles. “I must do it, there is no help for it, as I +think you will see. I have asked for ten days’ respite. I really hardly +know why, except that it is a respite. And now what is there left to say to you +except good-bye? I love you, Harold, I make no secret of it, and I shall never +love any other. Remember all your life that I love you and have not forgotten +you, and never can forget. For people placed as we are there is but one +hope—the grave. In the grave earthly considerations fail and earthly +contracts end, and there I trust and believe we shall find each other—or +at the least forgetfulness. My heart is so sore I know not what to say to you, +for it is difficult to put all I feel in words. I am overwhelmed, my spirit is +broken, and I wish to heaven that I were dead. Sometimes I almost cease to +believe in a God who can allow His creatures to be so tormented and give us +love only that it may be daily dishonoured in our sight; but who am I that I +should complain, and after all what are our troubles compared to some we know +of? Well, it will come to an end at last, and meanwhile pity me and think of +me. +</p> + +<p> +“Pity me and think of me; yes, but never see me more. As soon as this +engagement is publicly announced, go away, the further the better. Yes, go to +New Zealand, as you suggested once, and in pity of our human weakness never let +me see your face again. Perhaps you may write to me sometimes—if Mr. +Cossey will allow it. Go there and occupy yourself, it will divert your +mind—you are still too young a man to lay yourself upon the +shelf—mix yourself up with the politics of the place, take to writing; +anything, so long as you can absorb yourself. I sent you a photograph of myself +(I have nothing better) and a ring which I have worn night and day since I was +a child. I think that it will fit your little finger and I hope you will always +wear it in memory of me. It was my mother’s. And now it is late and I am +tired, and what is there more that a woman can say to the man she +loves—and whom she must leave for ever? Only one word—Good-bye. +Ida.” +</p> + +<p> +When Harold got this letter it fairly broke him down. His hopes had been +revived when he thought that all was lost, and now again they were utterly +dashed and broken. He could see no way out of it, none at all. He could not +quarrel with Ida’s decision, shocking as it was, for the simple reason +that he knew in his heart she was acting rightly and even nobly. But, oh, the +thought of it made him mad. It is probable that to a man of imagination and +deep feeling hell itself can invent no more hideous torture than he must +undergo in the position in which Harold Quaritch found himself. To truly love +some good woman or some woman whom he thinks good—for it comes to the +same thing—to love her more than life, to hold her dearer even than his +honour, to be, like Harold, beloved in turn; and then to know that this woman, +this one thing for which he would count the world well lost, this light that +makes his days beautiful, has been taken from him by the bitterness of Fate +(not by Death, for that he could bear), taken from him, and given —for +money or money’s worth—to some other man! It is, perhaps, better +that a man should die than that he should pass through such an experience as +that which threatened Harold Quaritch now: for though the man die not, yet will +it kill all that is best in him; and whatever triumphs may await him, whatever +women may be ready in the future to pin their favours to his breast, life will +never be for him what it might have been, because his lost love took its glory +with her. +</p> + +<p> +No wonder, then, that he despaired. No wonder, too, that there rose up in his +breast a great anger and indignation against the man who had brought this last +extremity of misery upon them. He was just, and could make allowances for his +rival’s infatuation—which, indeed, Ida being concerned, it was not +difficult for him to understand. But he was also, and above all things, a +gentleman; and the spectacle of a woman being inexorably driven into a +distasteful marriage by money pressure, put on by the man who wished to gain +her, revolted him beyond measure, and, though he was slow to wrath, moved him +to fiery indignation. So much did it move him that he took a resolution; Mr. +Cossey should know his mind about the matter, and that at once. Ringing the +bell, he ordered his dog-cart, and drove to Edward Cossey’s rooms with +the full intention of giving that gentleman a very unpleasant +quarter-of-an-hour. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cossey was in. Fearing lest he should refuse to see him, the Colonel +followed the servant up the stairs, and entered almost as she announced his +name. There was a grim and even a formidable look upon his plain but manly +face, and something of menace, too, in his formal and soldierly bearing; nor +did his aspect soften when his eyes fell upon the full-length picture of Ida +over the mantelpiece. +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey rose with astonishment and irritation, not unmixed with +nervousness, depicted on his face. The last person whom he wished to see and +expected a visit from was Colonel Quaritch, whom in his heart he held in +considerable awe. Besides, he had of late received such a series of unpleasant +calls that it is not wonderful that he began to dread these interviews. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day,” he said coldly. “Will you be seated?” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel bowed his head slightly, but he did not sit down. +</p> + +<p> +“To what am I indebted for the pleasure?” began Edward Cossey with +much politeness. +</p> + +<p> +“Last time I was here, Mr. Cossey,” said the Colonel in his deep +voice, speaking very deliberately, “I came to give an explanation; now I +come to ask one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. To come to the point, Miss de la Molle and I are attached to each +other, and there has been between us an understanding that this attachment +might end in marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! has there?” said the younger man with a sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered the Colonel, keeping down his rising temper as well +as he could. “But now I am told, upon what appears to be good authority, +that you have actually condescended to bring, directly and indirectly, pressure +of a monetary sort to bear upon Miss de la Molle and her father in order to +force her into a distasteful marriage with yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what the devil business of yours is it, sir,” asked Cossey, +“what I have or have not done? Making every allowance for the +disappointment of an unsuccessful suitor, for I presume that you appear in that +character,” and again he sneered, “I ask, what business is it of +yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is every business of mine, Mr. Cossey, because if Miss de la Molle is +forced into this marriage, I shall lose my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will certainly lose her. Do you suppose that I am going to +consider you? Indeed,” he went on, being now in a towering passion, +“I should have thought that considering the difference of age and fortune +between us, you might find other reasons than you suggest to account for my +being preferred, if I should be so preferred. Ladies are apt to choose the +better man, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite know what you mean by the ‘better man,’ +Mr. Cossey,” said the Colonel quietly. “Comparisons are odious, and +I will make none, though I admit that you have the advantage of me in money and +in years. However, that is not the point; the point is that I have had the +fortune to be preferred to <i>you</i> by the lady in question, and <i>not</i> +you to me. I happen to know that the idea of her marriage with you is as +distasteful to Miss de la Molle as it is to me. This I know from her own lips. +She will only marry you, if she does so at all, under the pressure of direst +necessity, and to save her father from the ruin you are deliberately bringing +upon him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Colonel Quaritch,” he answered, “have you quite done +lecturing me? If you have, let me tell you, as you seem anxious to know my +mind, that if by any legal means I can marry Ida de la Molle I certainly intend +to marry her. And let me tell you another thing, that when once I am married it +will be the last that you shall see of her, if I can prevent it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you for your admissions,” said Harold, still more quietly. +“So it seems that it is all true; it seems that you are using your wealth +to harass this unfortunate gentleman and his daughter until you drive them into +consenting to this marriage. That being so, I wish to tell you privately what I +shall probably take some opportunity of telling you in public, namely, that a +man who does these things is a cur, and worse than a cur, he is a +<i>blackguard</i>, and <i>you</i> are such a man, Mr. Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey’s face turned perfectly livid with fury, and he drew +himself up as though to spring at his adversary’s throat. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel held up his hand. “Don’t try that on with me,” he +said. “In the first place it is vulgar, and in the second you have only +just recovered from an accident and are no match for me, though I am over forty +years old. Listen, our fathers had a way of settling their troubles; I +don’t approve of that sort of thing as a rule, but in some cases it is +salutary. If you think yourself aggrieved it does not take long to cross the +water, Mr. Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey looked puzzled. “Do you mean to suggest that I should fight +a duel with you?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“To challenge a man to fight a duel,” answered the Colonel with +deliberation, “is an indictable offence, therefore I make no such +challenge. I have made a suggestion, and if that suggestion falls in with your +views as,” and he bowed, “I hope it may, we might perhaps meet +accidentally abroad in a few days’ time, when we could talk this matter +over further.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see you hanged first,” answered Cossey. “What +have I to gain by fighting you except a very good chance of being shot? I have +had enough of being shot as it is, and we will play this game out upon the old +lines, until I win it.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you like,” said Harold. “I have made a suggestion to you +which you do not see fit to accept. As to the end of the game, it is not +finished yet, and therefore it is impossible to say who will win it. Perhaps +you will be checkmated after all. In the meanwhile allow me again to assure you +that I consider you both a cur and a blackguard, and to wish you +good-morning.” And he bowed himself out, leaving Edward Cossey in a +curious condition of concentrated rage. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.<br /> +THE COLONEL GOES TO SLEEP</h2> + +<p> +The state of mind is difficult to picture which could induce a peaceable +christian-natured individual, who had moreover in the course of his career been +mixed up with enough bloodshed to have acquired a thorough horror of it, to +offer to fight a duel. Yet this state had been reached by Harold Quaritch. +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey wisely enough declined to entertain the idea, but the Colonel had +been perfectly in earnest about it. Odd as it may appear in the latter end of +this nineteenth century, nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to +put his life against that of his unworthy rival. Of course, it was foolish and +wrong, but human nature is the same in all ages, and in the last extremity we +fall back by instinct on those methods which men have from the beginning +adopted to save themselves from intolerable wrong and dishonour, or, be it +admitted, to bring the same upon others. +</p> + +<p> +But Cossey utterly declined to fight. As he said, he had had enough of being +shot, and so there was an end of it. Indeed, in after days the Colonel +frequently looked back upon this episode in his career with shame not unmingled +with amusement, reflecting when he did so on the strange potency of that +passion which can bring men to seriously entertain the idea of such +extravagances. +</p> + +<p> +Well, there was nothing more to be done. He might, it is true, have seen Ida, +and working upon her love and natural inclinations have tried to persuade her +to cut the knot by marrying him off-hand. Perhaps he would have succeeded, for +in these affairs women are apt to find the arguments advanced by their lovers +weighty and well worthy of consideration. But he was not the man to adopt such +a course. He did the only thing he could do—answered her letter by saying +that what must be must be. He had learnt that on the day subsequent to his +interview with his rival the Squire had written to Edward Cossey informing him +that a decided answer would be given to him on Christmas Day, and that thereon +all vexatious proceedings on the part of that gentleman’s lawyers had +been stayed for the time. He could now no longer doubt what the answer would +be. There was only one way out of the trouble, the way which Ida had made up +her mind to adopt. +</p> + +<p> +So he set to work to make his preparations for leaving Honham and this country +for good and all. He wrote to land agents and put Molehill upon their books to +be sold or let on lease, and also to various influential friends to obtain +introductions to the leading men in New Zealand. But these matters did not take +up all his time, and the rest of it hung heavily on his hands. He mooned about +the place until he was tired. He tried to occupy himself in his garden, but it +was weary work sowing crops for strange hands to reap, and so he gave it up. +</p> + +<p> +Somehow the time wore on until at last it was Christmas Eve; the eve, too, of +the fatal day of Ida’s decision. He dined alone that night as usual, and +shortly after dinner some waits came to the house and began to sing their +cheerful carols outside. The carols did not chime in at all well with his +condition of mind, and he sent five shillings out to the singers with a request +that they would go away as he had a headache. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly they went; and shortly after their departure the great gale for +which that night is still famous began to rise. Then he fell to pacing up and +down the quaint old oak-panelled parlour, thinking until his brain ached. The +hour was at hand, the evil was upon him and her whom he loved. Was there no way +out of it, no possible way? Alas! there was but one way and that a golden one; +but where was the money to come from? He had it not, and as land stood it was +impossible to raise it. Ah, if only that great treasure which old Sir James de +la Molle had hid away and died rather than reveal, could be brought to light, +now in the hour of his house’s sorest need! But the treasure was very +mythical, and if it had ever really existed it was not now to be found. He went +to his dispatch box and took from it the copy he had made of the entry in the +Bible which had been in Sir James’s pocket when he was murdered in the +courtyard. The whole story was a very strange one. Why did the brave old man +wish that his Bible should be sent to his son, and why did he write that +somewhat peculiar message in it? +</p> + +<p> +Suppose Ida was right and that it contained a cypher or cryptograph which would +give a clue to the whereabouts of the treasure? If so it was obvious that it +would be one of the simplest nature. A man confined by himself in a dungeon and +under sentence of immediate death would not have been likely to pause to invent +anything complicated. It would, indeed, be curious that he should have invented +anything at all under such circumstances, and when he could have so little hope +that the riddle would be solved. But, on the other hand, his position was +desperate; he was quite surrounded by foes; there was no chance of his being +able to convey the secret in any other way, and he <i>might</i> have done so. +</p> + +<p> +Harold placed the piece of paper upon the mantelpiece, and sitting down in an +arm-chair opposite began to contemplate it earnestly, as indeed he had often +done before. In case its exact wording should not be remembered, it is repeated +here. It ran: “<i>Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus +suddenly and wickedly done to death by rebel murderers, for nought happeneth +but according to God’s will. And now farewell, Edward, till we shall meet +in heaven. My moneys have I hid, and on account thereof I die unto this world, +knowing that not one piece shall Cromwell touch. To whom God shall appoint +shall all my treasure be, for nought can I communicate.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Harold stared and stared at this inscription. He read it forwards, backwards, +crossways, and in every other way, but absolutely without result. At last, +wearied out with misery of mind and the pursuit of a futile occupation, he +dropped off sound asleep in his chair. This happened about a quarter to eleven +o’clock. The next thing he knew was that he suddenly woke up; woke up +completely, passing as quickly from a condition of deep sleep to one of +wakefulness as though he had never shut his eyes. He used to say afterwards +that he felt as though somebody had come and aroused him; it was not like a +natural waking. Indeed, so unaccustomed was the sensation, that for a moment +the idea flashed through his brain that he had died in his sleep, and was now +awakening to a new state of existence. +</p> + +<p> +This soon passed, however. Evidently he must have slept some time, for the lamp +was out and the fire dying. He got up and hunted about in the dark for some +matches, which at last he found. He struck a light, standing exactly opposite +to the bit of paper with the copy of Sir James de la Molle’s dying +message on it. This message was neatly copied long-ways upon a half-sheet of +large writing paper, such as the Squire generally used. It’s first line +ran as it was copied: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly and +wickedly done.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Now, as the match burnt up, by some curious chance, connected probably with the +darkness and the sudden striking of light upon his eyeballs, it came to pass +that Harold, happening to glance thereon, was only able to read four letters of +this first line of writing. All the rest seemed to him but as a blur connecting +those four letters. They were: +</p> + +<p> +D...............E...............a...............d +</p> + +<p> +being respectively the initials of the first, the sixth, the eleventh, and the +sixteenth words of the line given above. +</p> + +<p> +The match burnt out, and he began to hunt about for another. +</p> + +<p> +“D-E-A-D,” he said aloud, repeating the letters almost +automatically. “Why it spells ‘<i>Dead</i>.’ That is rather +curious.” +</p> + +<p> +Something about this accidental spelling awakened his interest very +sharply—it was an odd coincidence. He lit some candles, and hurriedly +examined the line. The first thing which struck him was that the four letters +which went to make up the word “dead” were about equi-distant in +the line of writing. Could it be? He hurriedly counted the words in the line. +There were sixteen of them. That is after the first, one of the letters +occurred at the commencement of every fifth word. +</p> + +<p> +This was certainly curious. Trembling with nervousness he took a pencil and +wrote down the initial letter of every fifth word in the message, thus: +</p> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Do not grieve for me, Edward my son, that I am thus suddenly and + D E a + + wickedly done to death by rebel murderers, for naught happeneth + d m + + but according to God’s will. And now farewell, Edward, till we + a n + + shall meet in heaven. My moneys have I hid, and on account thereof + s m o + + I die unto this world, knowing that not one piece shall Cromwell + u n + + touch. To whom God shall appoint shall all my treasure be, for + t a b + + nought can I communicate. + c +</pre> + + +<p> +When he had done he wrote these initials in a line: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +DEadmansmountabc +</p> + +<p> +He stared at them for a little—then he saw. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Great heaven! he had hit upon the reading of the riddle.</i> +</p> + +<p> +The answer was: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“<i>Dead Man’s Mount</i>,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +followed by the mysterious letters A.B.C. +</p> + +<p> +Breathless with excitement, he checked the letters again to see if by any +chance he had made an error. No, it was perfectly correct. +</p> + +<p> +“Dead Man’s Mount.” That was and had been for centuries the +name of the curious tumulus or mound in his own back garden. It was this mount +that learned antiquarians had discussed the origin of so fiercely, and which +his aunt, the late Mrs. Massey, had roofed at the cost of two hundred and fifty +pounds, in order to prove that the hollow in the top had once been the +agreeable country seat of an ancient British family. +</p> + +<p> +Could it then be but a coincidence that after the first word the initial of +every fifth word in the message should spell out the name of this remarkable +place, or was it so arranged? He sat down to think it over, trembling like a +frightened child. Obviously, it was <i>not</i> accident; obviously, the +prisoner of more than two centuries ago had, in his helplessness, invented this +simple cryptograph in the hope that his son or, if not his son, some one of his +descendants would discover it, and thereby become master of the hidden wealth. +What place would be more likely for the old knight to have chosen to secrete +the gold than one that even in those days had the uncanny reputation of being +haunted? Who would ever think of looking for modern treasure in the burying +place of the ancient dead? In those days, too, Molehill, or Dead Man’s +Mount, belonged to the de la Molle family, who had re-acquired it on the break +up of the Abbey. It was only at the Restoration, when the Dofferleigh branch +came into possession under the will of the second and last baronet, Edward de +la Molle, who died in exile, that they failed to recover this portion of the +property. And if this was so, and Sir James, the murdered man, had buried his +treasure in the mount, what did the mysterious letters A.B.C. mean? Were they, +perhaps, directions as to the line to be taken to discover it? Harold could not +imagine, nor, as a matter of fact, did he or anybody else ever find out either +then or thereafter. +</p> + +<p> +Ida, indeed, used afterwards to laughingly declare that old Sir James meant to +indicate that he considered the whole thing as plain as A.B.C., but this was an +explanation which did not commend itself to Harold’s practical mind. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a>CHAPTER XL.<br /> +BUT NOT TO BED</h2> + +<p> +Harold glanced at the clock; it was nearly one in the morning, time to go to +bed if he was going. But he did not feel inclined to go to bed. If he did, with +this great discovery on his mind he should not sleep. There was another thing; +it was Christmas Eve, or rather Christmas Day, the day of Ida’s answer. +If any succour was to be given at all, it must be given at once, before the +fortress had capitulated. Once let the engagement be renewed, and even if the +money should subsequently be forthcoming, the difficulties would be doubled. +But he was building his hopes upon sand, and he knew it. Even supposing that he +held in his hand the key to the hiding place of the long-lost treasure, who +knew whether it would still be there, or whether rumour had not enormously +added to its proportions? He was allowing his imagination to carry him away. +</p> + +<p> +Still he could not sleep, and he had a mind to see if anything could be made of +it. Going to the gun-room he put on a pair of shooting-boots, an old coat, and +an ulster. Next he provided himself with a dark lantern and the key of the +summer-house at the top of Dead Man’s Mount, and silently unlocking the +back door started out into the garden. The night was very rough, for the great +gale was now rising fast, and bitterly cold, so cold that he hesitated for a +moment before making up his mind to go on. However, he did go on, and in +another two minutes was climbing the steep sides of the tumulus. There was a +wan moon in the cold sky—the wind whistled most drearily through the +naked boughs of the great oaks, which groaned in answer like things in pain. +Harold was not a nervous or impressionable man, but the place had a spectral +look about it, and he could not help thinking of the evil reputation it had +borne for all those ages. There was scarcely a man in Honham, or in Boisingham +either, who could have been persuaded to stay half an hour by himself on Dead +Man’s Mount after the sun was well down. Harold had at different times +asked one or two of them what they saw to be afraid of, and they had answered +that it was not what they saw so much as what they felt. He had laughed at the +time, but now he admitted to himself that he was anything but comfortable, +though if he had been obliged to put his feelings into words he could probably +not have described them better than by saying that he had a general impression +of somebody being behind him. +</p> + +<p> +However, he was not going to be frightened by this nonsense, so consigning all +superstitions to their father the Devil, he marched on boldly and unlocked the +summer-house door. Now, though this curious edifice had been designed for a +summer-house, and for that purpose lined throughout with encaustic tiles, +nobody as a matter of fact had ever dreamed of using it to sit in. To begin +with, it roofed over a great depression some thirty feet or more in diameter, +for the top of the mount was hollowed out like one of those wooden cups in +which jugglers catch balls. But notwithstanding all the encaustic tiles in the +world, damp will gather in a hollow like this, and the damp alone was an +objection. The real fact was, however, that the spot had an evil reputation, +and even those who were sufficiently well educated to know the folly of this +sort of thing would not willingly have gone there for purposes of enjoyment. So +it had suffered the general fate of disused places, having fallen more or less +out of repair and become a receptacle for garden tools, broken cucumber frames +and lumber of various sorts. +</p> + +<p> +Harold pushed the door open and entered, shutting it behind him. It was, if +anything, more disagreeable in the empty silence of the wide place than it had +been outside, for the space roofed over was considerable, and the question at +once arose in his mind, what was he to do now that he had got there? If the +treasure was there at all, probably it was deep down in the bowels of the great +mound. Well, as he was on the spot, he thought that he might as well try to +dig, though probably nothing would come of it. In the corner were a pickaxe and +some spades and shovels. Harold got them, advanced to the centre of the space +and, half laughing at his own folly, set to work. First, having lit another +lantern which was kept there, he removed with the sharp end of the pickaxe a +large patch of the encaustic tiles exactly in the centre of the depression. +Then having loosened the soil beneath with the pick he took off his ulster and +fell to digging with a will. The soil proved to be very sandy and easy to work. +Indeed, from its appearance, he soon came to the conclusion that it was not +virgin earth, but worked soil which had been thrown there. +</p> + +<p> +Presently his spade struck against something hard; he picked it up and held it +to the lantern. It proved to be an ancient spear-head, and near it were some +bones, though whether or no they were human he could not at the time determine. +This was very interesting, but it was scarcely what he wanted, so he dug on +manfully until he found himself chest deep in a kind of grave. He had been +digging for an hour now, and was getting very tired. Cold as it was the +perspiration poured from him. As he paused for breath he heard the church clock +strike two, and very solemnly it sounded down the wild ways of the wind-torn +winter night. He dug on a little more, and then seriously thought of giving up +what he was somewhat ashamed of having undertaken. How was he to account for +this great hole to his gardener on the following morning? Then and there he +made up his mind that he would not account for it. The gardener, in common with +the rest of the village, believed that the place was haunted. Let him set down +the hole to the “spooks” and their spiritual activity. +</p> + +<p> +Still he dug on at the grave for a little longer. It was by now becoming a +matter of exceeding labour to throw the shovelfuls of soil clear of the hole. +Then he determined to stop, and with this view scrambled, not without +difficulty, out of the amateur tomb. Once out, his eyes fell on a stout iron +crowbar which was standing among the other tools, such an implement as is used +to make holes in the earth wherein to set hurdles and stakes. It occurred to +him that it would not be a bad idea to drive this crowbar into the bottom of +the grave which he had dug, in order to ascertain if there was anything within +its reach. So he once more descended into the hole and began to work with the +iron crow, driving it down with all his strength. When he had got it almost as +deep as it would go, that is about two feet, it struck +something—something hard—there was no doubt of it. He worked away +in great excitement, widening the hole as much as he could. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, it was masonry, or if it was not masonry it was something uncommonly like +it. He drew the crow out of the hole, and, seizing the shovel, commenced to dig +again with renewed vigour. As he could no longer conveniently throw the earth +from the hole he took a “skep” or leaf basket, which lay handy, +and, placing it beside him, put as much of the sandy soil as he could carry +into it, and then lifting shot it on the edge of the pit. For three-quarters of +an hour he laboured thus most manfully, till at last he came down on the +stonework. He cleared a patch of it and examined it attentively, by the light +of the dark lantern. It appeared to be rubble work built in the form of an +arch. He struck it with the iron crow and it gave back a hollow sound. There +was a cavity of some sort underneath. +</p> + +<p> +His excitement and curiosity redoubled. By great efforts he widened the spot of +stonework already laid bare. Luckily the soil, or rather sand, was so friable +that there was very little exertion required to loosen it. This done he took +the iron crow, and inserting it beneath a loose flat stone levered it up. Here +was a beginning, and having got rid of the large flat stone he struck down +again and again with all his strength, driving the sharp point of the heavy +crow into the rubble work beneath. It began to give, he could hear bits of it +falling into the cavity below. There! it went with a crash, more than a square +foot of it. +</p> + +<p> +He leant over the hole at his feet, devoutly hoping that the ground on which he +was standing would not give way also, and tried to look down. Next second he +threw his head back coughing and gasping. The foul air rushing up from the +cavity or chamber, or whatever it was, had half poisoned him. Then not without +difficulty he climbed out of the grave and sat down on the pile of sand he had +thrown up. Clearly he must allow the air in the place to sweeten a little. +Clearly also he must have assistance if he was to descend into the great hole. +He could not undertake this by himself. +</p> + +<p> +He sat upon the edge of the pit wondering who there was that he might trust. +Not his own gardener. To begin with he would never come near the place at +night, and besides such people talk. The Squire? No, he could not rouse him at +this hour, and also, for obvious reasons, they had not met lately. Ah, he had +it. George was the man! To begin with he could be relied upon to hold his +tongue. The episode of the production of the real Mrs. Quest had taught him +that George was a person of no common powers. He could think and he could act +also. +</p> + +<p> +Harold threw on his coat, extinguished the large stable lantern, and passing +out, locked the door of the summer-house and started down the mount at a trot. +The wind had risen steadily during his hours of work, and was now blowing a +furious gale. It was about a quarter to four in the morning and the stars shone +brightly in the hard clean-blown sky. By their light and that of the waning +moon he struggled on in the teeth of the raging tempest. As he passed under one +of the oaks he heard a mighty crack overhead, and guessing what it was ran like +a hare. He was none too soon. A circular gust of more than usual fierceness had +twisted the top right out of the great tree, and down it came upon the turf +with a rending crashing sound that made his blood turn cold. After this escape +he avoided the neighbourhood of the groaning trees. +</p> + +<p> +George lived in a neat little farmhouse about a quarter of a mile away. There +was a short cut to it across the fields, and this he took, breathlessly +fighting his way against the gale, which roared and howled in its splendid +might as it swept across the ocean from its birthplace in the distances of air. +Even the stiff hawthorn fences bowed before its breath, and the tall poplars on +the skyline bent like a rod beneath the first rush of a salmon. +</p> + +<p> +Excited as he was, the immensity and grandeur of the sight and sounds struck +upon him with a strange force. Never before had he felt so far apart from man +and so near to that dread Spirit round Whose feet thousands of rolling worlds +rush on, at Whose word they are, endure, and are not. +</p> + +<p> +He struggled forward until at last he reached the house. It was quite silent, +but in one of the windows a light was burning. No doubt its occupants found it +impossible to sleep in that wild gale. The next thing to consider was how to +make himself heard. To knock at the door would be useless in that turmoil. +There was only one thing to be done —throw stones at the window. He found +a good-sized pebble, and standing underneath, threw it with such goodwill that +it went right through the glass. It lit, as he afterwards heard, full upon the +sleeping Mrs. George’s nose, and nearly frightened that good woman, whose +nerves were already shaken by the gale, into a fit. Next minute a red nightcap +appeared at the window. +</p> + +<p> +“George!” roared the Colonel, in a lull of the gale. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s there?” came the faint answer. +</p> + +<p> +“I—Colonel Quaritch. Come down. I want to speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +The head was withdrawn and a couple of minutes afterwards Harold saw the front +door begin to open slowly. He waited till there was space enough, and then +slipped in, and together they forced it to. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop a bit, sir,” said George; “I’ll light the +lamp;” and he did. +</p> + +<p> +Next minute he stepped back in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what on arth hev you bin after, Colonel?” he said, +contemplating Harold’s filth-begrimed face, and hands, and clothes. +“Is anything wrong up at the Castle, or is the cottage blown down?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Harold; “listen. You’ve heard tell of +the treasure that old Sir James de la Molle buried in the time of the +Roundheads?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes. I’ve heard tell of that. Hev the gale blown it +up?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but by heaven I believe that I am in a fair way to find it.” +</p> + +<p> +George took another step back, remembering the tales that Mrs. Jobson had told, +and not being by any means sure but that the Colonel was in a dangerous +condition of lunacy. +</p> + +<p> +“Give me a glass of something to drink, water or milk, and I’ll +tell you. I’ve been digging all night, and my throat’s like a +limeskin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Digging, why where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where? In Dead Man’s Mount!” +</p> + +<p> +“In Dead Man’s Mount?” said George. “Well, blow me, if +that ain’t a funny place to dig at on a night like this,” and, too +amazed to say anything more, he went off to get the milk. +</p> + +<p> +Harold drank three glasses of milk, and then sat down to tell as much of his +moving tale as he thought desirable. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap41"></a>CHAPTER XLI.<br /> +HOW THE NIGHT WENT</h2> + +<p> +George sat opposite to him, his hands on his knees, the red nightcap on his +head, and a comical expression of astonishment upon his melancholy countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, when Harold had done, “blow me if that +ain’t a master one. And yet there’s folks who say that there +ain’t no such thing as Providence—not that there’s anything +prowided yet—p’raps there ain’t nawthing there after +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know if there is or not, but I’m going back to see, +and I want you to come with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now?” said George rather uneasily. “Why, Colonel, that +bain’t a very nice spot to go digging about in on a night like this. I +niver heard no good of that there place—not as I holds by sich talk +myself,” he added apologetically. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Colonel, “you can do as you like, but +I’m going back at once, and going down the hole, too; the gas must be out +of it by now. There are reasons,” he added, “why, if this money is +to be found at all, it should be found this morning. To-day is Christmas Day, +you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, Colonel; I knows what you mean. Bless you, I know all about +it; the old Squire must talk to somebody; if he don’t he’d bust, so +he talks to me. That Cossey’s coming for his answer from Miss Ida this +morning. Poor young lady, I saw her yesterday, and she looks like a ghost, she +du. Ah, he’s a mean one, that Cossey. Laryer Quest warn’t in it +with him after all. Well, I cooked his goose for him, and I’d give summut +to have a hand in cooking that banker chap’s too. You wait a minute, +Colonel, and I’ll come along, gale and ghostesses and all. I only hope it +mayn’t be after a fool’s arrand, that’s all,” and he +retired to put on his boots. Presently he appeared again, his red nightcap +still on his head, for he was afraid that the wind would blow a hat off, and +carrying an unlighted lantern in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Colonel, I’m ready, sir, if you be;” and they started. +</p> + +<p> +The gale was, if anything, fiercer than ever. Indeed, there had been no such +wind in those parts for years, or rather centuries, as the condition of the +timber by ten o’clock that morning amply testified. +</p> + +<p> +“This here timpest must be like that as the Squire tells us on in the +time of King Charles, as blew the top of the church tower off on a Christmas +night,” shouted George. But Harold made no answer, and they fought their +way onward without speaking any more, for their voices were almost inaudible. +Once the Colonel stopped and pointed to the sky-line. Of all the row of tall +poplars which he had seen bending like whips before the wind as he came along +but one remained standing now, and as he pointed that vanished also. +</p> + +<p> +Reaching the summer house in safety, they entered, and the Colonel shut and +locked the door behind them. The frail building was literally rocking in the +fury of the storm. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope the roof will hold,” shouted George, but Harold took no +heed. He was thinking of other things. They lit the lanterns, of which they now +had three, and the Colonel slid down into the great grave he had so +industriously dug, motioning to George to follow. This that worthy did, not +without trepidation. Then they both knelt and stared down through the hole in +the masonry, but the light of the lanterns was not strong enough to enable them +to make out anything with clearness. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said George, falling back upon his favourite expression in +his amazement, as he drew his nightcapped head from the hole, “if that +ain’t a master one, I niver saw a masterer, that’s all. +</p> + +<p> +“What be you a-going to du now, Colonel? Hev you a ladder here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” answered Harold, “I never thought of that, but +I’ve a good rope: I’ll get it.” +</p> + +<p> +Scrambling out of the hole, he presently returned with a long coil of stout +rope. It belonged to some men who had been recently employed in cutting boughs +off such of the oaks that needed attention. +</p> + +<p> +They undid the rope and let the end down to see how deep the pit was. When they +felt that the end lay upon the floor they pulled it up. The depth from the hole +to the bottom of the pit appeared to be about sixteen feet or a trifle more. +</p> + +<p> +Harold took the iron crow, and having made the rope fast to it fixed the bar +across the mouth of the aperture. Then he doubled the rope, tied some knots in +it, and let it fall into the pit, preparatory to climbing down it. +</p> + +<p> +But George was too quick for him. Forgetting his doubts as to the wisdom of +groping about Dead Man’s Mount at night, in the ardour of his burning +curiosity he took the dark lantern, and holding it with his teeth passed his +body through the hole in the masonry, and cautiously slid down the rope. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you all right?” asked Harold in a voice tremulous with +excitement, for was not his life’s fortune trembling on the turn? +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered George doubtfully. Harold looking down could see +that he was holding the lantern above his head and staring at something very +hard. +</p> + +<p> +Next moment a howl of terror echoed up from the pit, the lantern was dropped +upon the ground and the rope began to be agitated with the utmost violence. +</p> + +<p> +In another two seconds George’s red nightcap appeared followed by a face +that was literally livid with terror. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me up for Goad’s sake,” he gasped, “or he’ll +hev me by the leg!” +</p> + +<p> +“He! who?” asked the Colonel, not without a thrill of superstitious +fear, as he dragged the panting man through the hole. +</p> + +<p> +But George would give no answer until he was out of the grave. Indeed had it +not been for the Colonel’s eager entreaties, backed to some extent by +actual force, he would by this time have been out of the summer-house also, and +half-way down the mount. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” roared the Colonel in the pit to George, who +shivering with terror was standing on its edge. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a blessed ghost, that’s what it is, Colonel,” +answered George, keeping his eyes fixed upon the hole as though he momentarily +expected to see the object of his fears emerge. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” said Harold doubtfully. “What rubbish you talk. +What sort of a ghost?” +</p> + +<p> +“A white un,” said George, “all bones like.” +</p> + +<p> +“All bones?” answered the Colonel, “why it must be a +skeleton.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t say that he ain’t,” was the answer, “but +if he be, he’s nigh on seven foot high, and sitting airing of hissel in a +stone bath.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, rubbish,” said the Colonel. “How can a skeleton sit and +air himself? He would tumble to bits.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, but there he be, and they don’t call this here +place 'Dead Man’s Mount’ for nawthing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Colonel argumentatively, “a skeleton is a +perfectly harmless thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if he’s dead maybe, sir, but this one’s alive, I saw +him nod his head at me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, George,” answered Harold, feeling that if this went on +much longer he should lose his nerve altogether. “I’m not going to +be scared. Great heavens, what a gust! I’m going down to see for +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, Colonel,” answered George, “and I’ll wait +here till you come up again—that is if you iver du.” +</p> + +<p> +Thrice did Harold look at the hole in the masonry and thrice did he shrink +back. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he shouted angrily, “don’t be a fool; get down +here and hand me the lantern.” +</p> + +<p> +George obeyed with evident trepidation. Then Harold scrambled through the +opening and with many an inward tremor, for there is scarcely a man on the +earth who is really free from supernatural fears, descended hand over hand. But +in so doing he managed to let the lantern fall and it went out. Now as any one +will admit this was exceedingly trying. It is not pleasant to be left alone in +the dark and underground in the company of an unknown “spook.” He +had some matches, but what between fear and cold it was some time before he +could get a light. Down in this deep place the rush of the great gale reached +his ears like a faint and melancholy sighing, and he heard other tapping +noises, too, or he thought he did, noises of a creepy and unpleasant nature. +Would the matches never light? The chill and death-like damp of the place +struck to his marrow and the cold sweat poured from his brow. Ah! at last! He +kept his eyes steadily fixed upon the lantern till he had lit it and the flame +was burning brightly. Then with an effort he turned and looked round him. +</p> + +<p> +And this is what he saw. +</p> + +<p> +There, three or four paces from him, in the centre of the chamber of Death sat +or rather lay a figure of Death. It reclined in a stone chest or coffin, like a +man in a hip bath which is too small for him. The bony arms hung down on either +side, the bony limbs projected towards him, the great white skull hung forward +over the massive breast bone. It moved, too, of itself, and as it moved, the +jaw-bone tapped against the breast and the teeth clacked gently together. +</p> + +<p> +Terror seized him while he looked, and, as George had done, he turned to fly. +How could that thing move its head? The head ought to fall off. +</p> + +<p> +Seizing the rope, he jerked it violently in the first effort of mounting. +</p> + +<p> +“Hev he got yew, Colonel?” sung out George above; and the sound of +a human voice brought him back to his sense. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered as boldly as he could, and then setting his +teeth, turned and tottered straight at the Horror in the chest. +</p> + +<p> +He was there now, and holding the lantern against the thing, examined it. It +was a skeleton of enormous size, and the skull was fixed with rusty wire to one +of the vertebrae. +</p> + +<p> +At this evidence of the handiwork of man his fears almost vanished. Even in +that company he could not help remembering that it is scarcely to be supposed +that spiritual skeletons carry about wire with which to tie on their skulls. +</p> + +<p> +With a sigh of relief he held up the lantern and looked round. He was standing +in a good-sized vault or chamber, built of rubble stone. Some of this rubble +had fallen in to his left; but otherwise, though the workmanship showed that it +must be of extreme antiquity, the stone lining was still strong and good. He +looked upon the floor, and then for the first time saw that the nodding +skeleton before him was not the only one. All round lay remnants of the dead. +There they were, stretched out in the form of a circle, of which the stone kist +was the centre.[*] One place in the circle was vacant; evidently it had once +been occupied by the giant frame which now sat within the kist. Next he looked +at the kist itself. It had all the appearance of one of those rude stone chests +in which the very ancient inhabitants of this island buried the ashes of their +cremated dead. But, if this was so, whence came the un-cremated skeletons? +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +[*] At Bungay, in Suffolk, there stood a mound or tumulus, on which was a +windmill. Some years ago the windmill was pulled down, and the owner of the +ground wishing to build a house upon its site, set to work to cart away the +mound. His astonishment may be conceived when he found in the earth a great +number of skeletons arranged in circles. These skeletons were of large size, +and a gentleman who saw them informed me that he measured one. It was that of a +man who must have been nearly seven feet high. The bones were, unhappily, +carted away and thrown into a dyke. But no house has been built upon the +resting-place of those unknown warriors. —Author. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps a subsequent race or tribe had found the chamber ready prepared, and +used it to bury some among them who had fallen in battle. It was impossible to +say more, especially as with one exception there was nothing buried with the +skeletons which would assist to identify their race or age. That exception was +a dog. A dog had been placed by one of the bodies. Evidently from the position +of the bones of its master’s arms he had been left to his last sleep with +his hand resting on the hound’s head. +</p> + +<p> +Bending down, Harold examined the seated skeleton more closely. It was, he +discovered, accurately jointed together with strong wire. Clearly this was the +work of hands which were born into the world long after the flesh on those +mighty bones had crumbled into dust. +</p> + +<p> +But where was the treasure? He saw none. His heart sank as the idea struck him +that he had made an interesting archaeological discovery, and that was all. +Before undertaking a closer search he went under the hole and halloaed to +George to come down as there was nothing but some bones to frighten him. +</p> + +<p> +This the worthy George was at length with much difficulty persuaded to do. +</p> + +<p> +When at last he stood beside him in the vault, Harold explained to him what the +place was and how ridiculous were his fears, without however succeeding in +allaying them to any considerable extent. +</p> + +<p> +And really when one considers the position it is not wonderful that George was +scared. For they were shut up in the bowels of a place which had for centuries +owned the reputation of being haunted, faced by a nodding skeleton of almost +superhuman size, and surrounded by various other skeletons all “very fine +and large,” while the most violent tempest that had visited the country +for years sighed away outside. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, his teeth chattering, “if this ain’t +the masterest one that iver I did see.” But here he stopped, language was +not equal to the expression of his feelings. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Harold, with a heart full of anxiety, was turning the lantern this +way and that in the hope of discovering some traces of Sir James’s +treasure, but naught could he see. There to the left the masonry had fallen in. +He went to it and pulled aside some of the stones. There was a cavity behind, +apparently a passage, leading no doubt to the secret entrance to the vault, but +he could see nothing in it. Once more he searched. There was nothing. Unless +the treasure was buried somewhere, or hidden away in the passage, it was +non-existent. +</p> + +<p> +And yet what was the meaning of that jointed skeleton sitting in the stone +bath? It must have been put there for some purpose, probably to frighten +would-be plunderers away. Could he be sitting on the money? He rushed to the +chest and looked through the bony legs. No, his pelvis rested on the stone +bottom of the kist. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, George, it seems we’re done,” said Harold, with a +ghastly attempt at a laugh. “There’s no treasure here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe it’s underneath that there stone corn bin,” suggested +George, whose teeth were still chattering. “It should be here or +hereabouts, surely.” +</p> + +<p> +This was an idea. Helping himself to the shoulder-blade of some deceased hero, +Harold, using it as a trowel, began to scoop away the soft sand upon which the +stone chest stood. He scooped and scooped manfully, but he could not come to +the bottom of the kist. +</p> + +<p> +He stepped back and looked at it. It must be one of two things—either the +hollow at the top was but a shallow cutting in a great block of stone, or the +kist had a false bottom. +</p> + +<p> +He sprang at it. Seizing the giant skeleton by the spine, he jerked it out of +the kist and dropped it on one side in a bristling bony heap. Just as he did so +there came so furious a gust of wind that, buried as they were in the earth, +they literally felt the mound rock beneath it. Instantly it was followed by a +frightful crash overhead. +</p> + +<p> +George collapsed in terror, and for a moment Harold could not for the life of +him think what had happened. He ran to the hole and looked up. Straight above +him he could see the sky, in which the first cold lights of dawn were +quivering. Mrs. Massey’s summer-house had been blown bodily away, and the +“ancient British Dwelling Place” was once more open to the sky, as +it had been for centuries. +</p> + +<p> +“The summer-house has gone, George,” he said. “Thank goodness +that we were not in it, or we should have gone too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lord, sir,” groaned the unhappy George, “this is an +awful business. It’s like a judgment.” +</p> + +<p> +“It might have been if we had been up above instead of safe down +here,” he answered. “Come, bring that other lantern.” +</p> + +<p> +George roused himself, and together they bent over the now empty kist, +examining it closely. +</p> + +<p> +The stone bottom was not of quite the same colour as the walls of the chest, +and there was a crack across it. Harold felt in his pocket and drew out his +knife, which had at the back of it one of those strong iron hooks that are used +to extract stones from the hoofs of horses. This hook he worked into the crack +and managed before it broke to pull up a fragment of stone. Then, looking +round, he found a long sharp flint among the rubbish where the wall had fallen +in. This he inserted in the hole and they both levered away at it. +</p> + +<p> +Half of the cracked stone came up a few inches, far enough to allow them to get +their fingers underneath it. So it <i>was</i> a false bottom. +</p> + +<p> +“Catch hold,” gasped the Colonel, “and pull for your +life.” +</p> + +<p> +George did as he was bid, and setting their knees against the hollowed stone, +they tugged till their muscles cracked. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a-moving,” said George. “Now thin, +Colonel.” +</p> + +<p> +Next second they both found themselves on the flat of their backs. The stone +had given with a run. +</p> + +<p> +Up sprang Harold like a kitten. The broken stone was standing edgeways in the +kist. There was something soft beneath it. +</p> + +<p> +“The light, George,” he said hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +Beneath the stone were some layers of rotten linen. +</p> + +<p> +Was it a shroud, or what? +</p> + +<p> +They pulled the linen out by handfuls. One! two! three! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Oh, great heaven!</i> +</p> + +<p> +There, under the linen, were row on row of shining gold coins set edgeways. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment everything swam before Harold’s eyes, and his heart stopped +beating. As for George, he muttered something inaudible about its being a +“master one,” and collapsed. +</p> + +<p> +With trembling fingers Harold managed to pick out two pieces of gold which had +been disturbed by the upheaval of the stone, and held them to the light. He was +a skilled numismatist, and had no difficulty in recognising them. One was a +beautiful three-pound piece of Charles I., and the other a Spur Rial of James +I. +</p> + +<p> +That proved it. There was no doubt that this was the treasure hidden by Sir +James de la Molle. He it must have been also who had conceived the idea of +putting a false bottom to the kist and setting up the skeleton to frighten +marauders from the treasure, if by any chance they should enter. +</p> + +<p> +For a minute or two the men stood staring at each other over the great treasure +which they had unearthed in that dread place, shaking with the reaction of +their first excitement, and scarcely able to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“How deep du it go?” said George at length. +</p> + +<p> +Harold took his knife and loosed some of the top coins, which were very tightly +packed, till he could move his hand in them freely. Then he pulled out handful +after handful of every sort of gold coin. There were Rose Nobles of Edward IV.; +Sovereigns and Angels of Henry VII. and VIII.; Sovereigns, Half-Sovereigns and +gold Crowns of Edward VI.; Sovereigns, Rials, and Angels of Mary; Sovereigns, +Double Crowns and Crowns of Elizabeth; Thirty-shilling pieces, Spur Rials, +Angels, Unites and Laurels of James I.; Three-pound pieces, Broads, and Half +Broads of Charles I.; some in greater quantity and some in less; all were +represented. Handful after handful did he pull out, and yet the bottom was not +reached. At last he came to it. The layer of gold pieces was about twenty +inches broad by three feet six long. +</p> + +<p> +“We must get this into the house, George, before any one is about,” +gasped the Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, yes, for sure we must; but how be we a-going to carry +it?” +</p> + +<p> +Harold thought for a minute, and then acted thus. Bidding George stay in the +vault with the treasure, which he was with difficulty persuaded to do, he +climbed the improvised rope ladder, and got in safety through the hole. In his +excitement he had forgotten about the summer-house having been carried away by +the gale, which was still blowing, though not with so much fury as before. The +wind-swept desolation that met his view as he emerged into the dawning light +broke upon him with a shock. The summer-house was clean gone, nothing but a few +uprights remained of it; and fifty yards away he thought he could make out the +crumpled shape of the roof. Nor was that all. Quite a quarter of the great oaks +which were the glory of the place were down, or splintered and ruined. +</p> + +<p> +But what did he care for the summer-house or the oaks now? Forgetting his +exhaustion, he ran down the slope and reached the house, which he entered as +softly as he could by the side door. Nobody was about yet, or would be for +another hour. It was Christmas Day, and not a pleasant morning to get up on, so +the servants would be sure to lie a-bed. On his way to his bed-room he peeped +into the dining-room, where he had fallen asleep on the previous evening. When +he had woke up, it may be remembered, he lit a candle. This candle was now +flaring itself to death, for he had forgotten to extinguish it, and by its side +lay the paper from which he had made the great discovery. There was nothing in +it, of course, but somehow the sight impressed him very much. It seemed months +since he awoke to find the lamp gone out. How much may happen between the +lighting of a candle and its burning away! Smiling at this trite reflection, he +blew that light out, and, taking another, went to his room. Here he found a +stout hand-bag, with which he made haste to return to the Mount. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you all right, George?” he shouted down the hole. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Colonel, yes, but not sorry to see you back. It’s lonesome +like down here with these deaders.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Look out! There’s a bag. Put as much gold in it as you +can lift comfortably, and then make it fast to the rope.” +</p> + +<p> +Some three minutes passed, and then George announced that the bagful of gold +was ready. Harold hauled away, and with a considerable effort brought it to the +surface. Then, lifting the bag on his shoulder he staggered with it to the +house. In his room stood a massive sea-going chest, the companion of his many +wanderings. It was about half full of uniforms and old clothes, which he +bundled unceremoniously on to the floor. This done, he shot the bagful of +shining gold, as bright and uncorrupted now as when it was packed away two and +a half centuries ago, into the chest, and returned for another load. +</p> + +<p> +About twenty times did he make this journey. At the tenth something happened. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s a writing, sir, with this lot,” shouted George. +“It was packed away in the money.” +</p> + +<p> +He took the “writing,” or rather parchment, out of the mouth of the +bag, and put it in his pocket unread. +</p> + +<p> +At length the store, enormous as it was, was exhausted. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the lot, sir,” shouted George, as he sent up the last +bagful. “If you’ll kindly let down that there rope, I’ll come +up too.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said the Colonel, “put the skeleton back +first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” answered George, “he looks wonderful comfortable +where he lay, he du, so if you’re agreeable I think I’ll let him +be.” +</p> + +<p> +Harold chuckled, and presently George arrived, covered with filth and +perspiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” he said, “I never did think that I should get +dead tired of handling gold coin, but it’s a rum world, and that’s +a fact. Well, I niver, and the summer-house gone, and jist look at thim there +oaks. Well, if that beant a master one.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never saw a masterer, that’s what you were going to say, +wasn’t it? Well, and take one thing with another, nor did I, George, if +that’s any comfort to you. Now look here, just cover over this hole with +some boards and earth, and then come in and get some breakfast. It’s past +eight o’clock and the gale is blowing itself out. A merry Christmas to +you, George!” and he held out his hand, covered with cuts, grime and +blood. +</p> + +<p> +George shook it. “Same to you, Colonel, I’m sure. And a merry +Christmas it is. God bless you, sir, for what you’ve done to-night. +You’ve saved the old place from that banker chap, that’s what +you’ve done; and you’ll hev Miss Ida, and I’m durned glad on +it, that I am. Lord! won’t this make the Squire open his eyes,” and +the honest fellow brushed away a tear and fairly capered with joy, his red +nightcap waving on the wind. +</p> + +<p> +It was a strange and beautiful sight to see the solemn George capering thus in +the midst of that storm-swept desolation. +</p> + +<p> +Harold was too moved to answer, so he shouldered his last load of treasure and +limped off with it to the house. Mrs. Jobson and her talkative niece were up +now, but they did not happen to see him, and he reached his room unnoticed. He +poured the last bagful of gold into the chest, smoothed it down, shut the lid +and locked it. Then as he was, covered with filth and grime, bruised and +bleeding, his hair flying wildly about his face, he sat down upon it, and from +his heart thanked heaven for the wonderful thing that had happened to him. +</p> + +<p> +So exhausted was he that he nearly fell asleep as he sat, but remembering +himself rose, and taking the parchment from his pocket cut the faded silk with +which it was tied and opened it. +</p> + +<p> +On it was a short inscription in the same crabbed writing which he had seen in +the old Bible that Ida had found. +</p> + +<p> +It ran as follows: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Seeing that the times be so troublous that no man can be sure of his +own, I, Sir James de la Molle, have brought together all my substance in money +from wheresoever it lay at interest, and have hid the same in this sepulchre, +to which I found the entry by a chance, till such time as peace come back to +this unhappy England. This have I done on the early morn of Christmas Day, in +the year of our Lord 1642, having ended the hiding of the gold while the great +gale was blowing. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“James de la Molle.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus on a long gone Christmas Day, in the hour of a great wind, was the gold +hid, and now on this Christmas Day, when another great wind raged overhead, it +was found again, in time to save a daughter of the house of de la Molle from a +fate sore as death. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap42"></a>CHAPTER XLII.<br /> +IDA GOES TO MEET HER FATE</h2> + +<p> +Most people of a certain age and a certain degree of sensitiveness, in looking +back down the vista of their lives, whereon memory’s melancholy light +plays in fitful flashes like the alternate glow of a censer swung in the +twilight of a tomb, can recall some one night of peculiar mental agony. It may +have come when first we found ourselves face to face with the chill and +hopeless horror of departed life; when, in our soul’s despair, we +stretched out vain hands and wept, called and no answer came; when we kissed +those beloved lips and shrunk aghast at contact with their clay, those lips +more eloquent now in the rich pomp of their unutterable silence than in the +brightest hour of their unsealing. It may have come when our honour and the +hope of all our days lay at our feet shattered like a sherd on the +world’s hard road. It may have come when she, the star of our youth, the +type of completed beauty and woman’s most perfect measure, she who held +the chalice of our hope, ruthlessly emptied and crushed it, and, as became a +star, passed down our horizon’s ways to rise upon some other sky. It may +have come when Brutus stabbed us, or when a child whom we had cherished struck +us with a serpent-fang of treachery and left the poison to creep upon our +heart. One way or another it has been with most of us, that long night of utter +woe, and all will own that it is a ghastly thing to face. +</p> + +<p> +And so Ida de la Molle had found it. The shriek of the great gale rushing on +that Christmas Eve round the stout Norman towers was not more strong than the +breath of the despair which shook her life. She could not sleep—who could +sleep on such a night, the herald of such a morrow? The wail and roar of the +wind, the crash of falling trees, and the rattle of flying stones seemed to +form a fit accompaniment to the turmoil of her mind. +</p> + +<p> +She rose, went to the window, and in the dim light watched the trees +gigantically tossing in struggle for their life. An oak and a birch were within +her view. The oak stood the storm out—for a while. Presently there came +an awful gust and beat upon it. It would not bend, and the tough roots would +not give, so beneath the weight of the gale the big tree broke in two like a +straw, and its spreading top was whirled into the moat. But the birch gave and +bent; it bent till its delicate filaments lay upon the wind like a +woman’s streaming hair, and the fierceness of the blast wore itself away +and spared it. +</p> + +<p> +“See what happens to those who stand up and defy their fate,” said +Ida to herself with a bitter laugh. “The birch has the best of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida turned and closed the shutters; the sight of the tempest affected her +strained nerves almost beyond bearing. She began to walk up and down the big +room, flitting like a ghost from end to end and back again, and again back. +What could she do? What should she do? Her fate was upon her: she could no +longer resist the inevitable—she must marry him. And yet her whole soul +revolted from the act with an overwhelming fierceness which astonished even +herself. She had known two girls who had married people whom they did not like, +being at the time, or pretending to be, attached to somebody else, and she had +observed that they accommodated themselves to their fate with considerable +ease. But it was not so with her; she was fashioned of another clay, and it +made her faint to think of what was before her. And yet the prospect was one on +which she could expect little sympathy. Her own father, although personally he +disliked the man whom she must marry, was clearly filled with amazement that +she should prefer Colonel Quaritch, middle-aged, poor, and plain, to Edward +Cossey—handsome, young, and rich as Croesus. He could not comprehend or +measure the extraordinary gulf which her love dug between the two. If, +therefore, this was so with her own father, how would it be with the rest of +the world? +</p> + +<p> +She paced her bedroom till she was tired; then, in an access of despair, which +was sufficiently distressing in a person of her reserved and stately manner, +flung herself, weeping and sobbing, upon her knees, and resting her aching head +upon the bed, prayed as she had never prayed before that this cup might pass +from her. +</p> + +<p> +She did not know—how should she?—that at this very moment her +prayer was being answered, and that her lover was then, even as she prayed, +lifting the broken stone and revealing the hoard of ruddy gold. But so it was; +she prayed in despair and agony of mind, and the prayer carried on the wild +wings of the night brought a fulfilment with it. Not in vain were her tears and +supplications, for even now the deliverer delved among +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“The dust and awful treasures of the dead,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and even now the light of her happiness was breaking on her tortured night as +the cold gleams of the Christmas morning were breaking over the fury of the +storm without. +</p> + +<p> +And then, chilled and numb in body and mind, she crept into her bed again and +at last lost herself in sleep. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +By half-past nine o’clock, when Ida came down to breakfast, the gale had +utterly gone, though its footprints were visible enough in shattered trees, +unthatched stacks, and ivy torn in knotty sheets from the old walls it clothed. +It would have been difficult to recognise in the cold and stately lady who +stood at the dining-room window, noting the havoc and waiting for her father to +come in, the lovely, passionate, dishevelled woman who some few hours before +had thrown herself upon her knees praying to God for the succour she could not +win from man. Women, like nature, have many moods and many aspects to express +them. The hot fit had passed, and the cold fit was on her now. Her face, except +for the dark hollows round the eyes, was white as winter, and her heart was +cold as winter’s ice. +</p> + +<p> +Presently her father came in. +</p> + +<p> +“What a gale,” he said, “what a gale! Upon my word I began to +think that the old place was coming down about our ears, and the wreck among +the trees is dreadful. I don’t think there can have been such a wind +since the time of King Charles I., when the top of the tower was blown right +off the church. You remember I was showing you the entry about it in the +registers the other day, the one signed by the parson and old Sir James de la +Molle. The boy who has just come up with the letters tells me he hears that +poor old Mrs. Massey’s summer-house on the top of Dead Man’s Mount +has been blown away, which is a good riddance for Colonel Quaritch. Why, +what’s the matter with you, dear? How pale you look!” +</p> + +<p> +“The gale kept me awake. I got very little sleep,” answered Ida. +</p> + +<p> +“And no wonder. Well, my love, you haven’t wished me a merry +Christmas yet. Goodness knows we want one badly enough. There has not been much +merriment at Honham of late years.” +</p> + +<p> +“A merry Christmas to you, father,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Ida, the same to you; you have got most of your Christmases +before you, which is more than I have. God bless me, it only seems like +yesterday since the big bunch of holly tied to the hook in the ceiling there +fell down on the breakfast table and smashed all the cups, and yet it is more +than sixty years ago. Dear me! how angry my poor mother was. She never could +bear the crockery to be broken—it was a little failing of your +grandmother’s,” and he laughed more heartily than Ida had heard him +do for some weeks. +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer but busied herself about the tea. Presently, glancing up she +saw her father’s face change. The worn expression came back upon it and +he lost his buoyant bearing. Evidently a new thought had struck him, and she +was in no great doubt as to what it was. +</p> + +<p> +“We had better get on with breakfast,” he said. “You know +that Cossey is coming up at ten o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ten o’clock?” she said faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I told him ten so that we could go to church afterwards if we +wished to. Of course, Ida, I am still in the dark as to what you have made up +your mind to do, but whatever it is I thought that he had better once and for +all hear your final decision from your own lips. If, however, you feel yourself +at liberty to tell it to me as your father, I shall be glad to hear it.” +</p> + +<p> +She lifted her head and looked him full in the face, and then paused. He had a +cup of tea in his hand, and held it in the air half way to his mouth, while his +whole face showed the over-mastering anxiety with which he was awaiting her +reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Make your mind easy, father,” she said, “I am going to marry +Mr. Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +He put the cup down in such a fashion that he spilt half the tea, most of it +over his own clothes, without even noticing it, and then turned away his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “of course it is not my affair, or at least +only indirectly so, but I must say, my love, I congratulate you on the decision +which you have come to. I quite understand that you have been in some +difficulty about the matter; young women often have been before you, and will +be again. But to be frank, Ida, that Quaritch business was not at all suitable, +either in age, fortune, or in anything else. Yes, although Cossey is not +everything that one might wish, on the whole I congratulate you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, pray don’t,” broke in Ida, almost with a cry. +“Whatever you do, pray do not congratulate me!” +</p> + +<p> +Her father turned round again and looked at her. But Ida’s face had +already recovered its calm, and he could make nothing of it. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite understand you,” he said; “these things +are generally considered matters for congratulation.” +</p> + +<p> +But for all he might say and all that he might urge in his mind to the +contrary, he did more or less understand what her outburst meant. He could not +but know that it was the last outcry of a broken spirit. In his heart he +realised then, if he had never clearly realised it before, that this proposed +marriage was a thing hateful to his daughter, and his conscience pricked him +sorely. And yet—and yet—it was but a woman’s fancy—a +passing fancy. She would become reconciled to the inevitable as women do, and +when her children came she would grow accustomed to her sorrow, and her trouble +would be forgotten in their laughter. And if not, well it was but one +woman’s life which would be affected, and the very existence of his race +and the very cradle that had nursed them from century to century were now at +stake. Was all this to be at the mercy of a girl’s whim? No! let the +individual suffer. +</p> + +<p> +So he argued. And so at his age and in his circumstances most of us would argue +also, and, perhaps, considering all things, we should be right. For in this +world personal desires must continually give way to the welfare of others. Did +they not do so our system of society could not endure. +</p> + +<p> +No more was said upon the subject. Ida made pretence of eating a piece of +toast; the Squire mopped up the tea upon his clothes, and then drank some more. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the remorseless seconds crept on. It wanted but five minutes to the +hour, and the hour would, she well knew, bring the man with it. +</p> + +<p> +The five minutes passed slowly and in silence. Both her father and herself +realised the nature of the impending situation, but neither of them spoke of +it. Ah! there was the sound of wheels upon the gravel. So it had come. +</p> + +<p> +Ida felt like death itself. Her pulse sunk and fluttered; her vital forces +seemed to cease their work. +</p> + +<p> +Another two minutes went by, then the door opened and the parlour-maid came in. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Cossey, if you please, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said the Squire. “Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the vestibule, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Tell him I will be there in a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +The maid went. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Ida,” said her father, “I suppose that we had better +get this business over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, rising; “I am ready.” +</p> + +<p> +And gathering up her energies, she passed out to meet her fate. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap43"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.<br /> +GEORGE IS SEEN TO LAUGH</h2> + +<p> +Ida and her father reached the vestibule to find Edward Cossey standing with +his face to the mantelpiece and nervously toying with some curiosities upon it. +He was, as usual, dressed with great care, and his face, though white and worn +from the effects of agitation of mind, looked if anything handsomer than ever. +As soon as he heard them coming, which owing to his partial deafness he did not +do till they were quite close to him, he turned round with a start, and a +sudden flush of colour came upon his pale face. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire shook hands with him in a solemn sort of way, as people do when they +meet at a funeral, but Ida barely touched his outstretched fingers with her +own. +</p> + +<p> +A few random remarks followed about the weather, which really for once in a way +was equal to the conversational strain put upon it. At length these died away +and there came an awful pause. It was broken by the Squire, who, standing with +his back to the fire, his eyes fixed upon the wall opposite, after much humming +and hawing, delivered himself thus: +</p> + +<p> +“I understand, Mr. Cossey, that you have come to hear my daughter’s +final decision on the matter of the proposal of marriage which you have made +and renewed to her. Now, of course, this is a very important question, very +important indeed, and it is one with which I cannot presume even to seem to +interfere. Therefore, I shall without comment leave my daughter to speak for +herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“One moment before she does so,” Mr. Cossey interrupted, drawing +indeed but a poor augury of success from Ida’s icy looks. “I have +come to renew my offer and to take my final answer, and I beg Miss de la Molle +to consider how deep and sincere must be that affection which has endured +through so many rebuffs. I know, or at least I fear, that I do not occupy the +place in her feelings that I should wish to, but I look to time to change this; +at any rate I am willing to take my chance. As regards money, I repeat the +offer which I have already made.” +</p> + +<p> +“There, I should not say too much about that,” broke in the Squire +impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, why not?” said Ida, in bitter sarcasm. “Mr. Cossey knows +it is a good argument. I presume, Mr. Cossey, that as a preliminary to the +renewal of our engagement, the persecution of my father which is being carried +on by your lawyers will cease?” +</p> + +<p> +“Absolutely.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if the engagement is not renewed the money will of course be called +in?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lawyers advise that it should be,” he answered sullenly; +“but see here, Ida, you may make your own terms about money. Marriage, +after all, is very much a matter of bargaining, and I am not going to stand out +about the price.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are really most generous,” went on Ida in the same bitter +tone, the irony of which made her father wince, for he understood her mood +better than did her lover. “I only regret that I cannot appreciate such +generosity more than I do. But it is at least in my power to give you the +return which you deserve. So I can no longer hesitate, but once and for +all——” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped dead, and stared at the glass door as though she saw a ghost. Both +her father and Edward Cossey followed the motion of her eyes, and this was what +they saw. Up the steps came Colonel Quaritch and George. Both were pale and +weary-looking, but the former was at least clean. As for George, this could not +be said. His head was still adorned with the red nightcap, his hands were cut +and dirty, and on his clothes was an unlimited quantity of encrusted filth. +</p> + +<p> +“What the dickens——” began the Squire, and at that +moment George, who was leading, knocked at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t come in now,” roared the Squire; +“don’t you see that we are engaged?” +</p> + +<p> +“But we must come in, Squire, begging your pardon,” answered +George, with determination, as he opened the door; “we’ve got that +to say as won’t keep.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you that it must keep, sir,” said the old gentleman, +working himself into a rage. “Am I not to be allowed a moment’s +privacy in my own house? I wonder at your conduct, Colonel Quaritch, in forcing +your presence upon me when I tell you that it is not wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure that I apologise, Mr. de la Molle,” began the Colonel, +utterly taken aback, “but what I have to say is——” +</p> + +<p> +“The best way that you can apologise is by withdrawing,” answered +the Squire with majesty. “I shall be most happy to hear what you have to +say on another occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Squire, Squire, don’t be such a fule, begging your pardon for +the word,” said George, in exasperation. “Don’t you go +a-knocking of your head agin a brick wall.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you be off, sir?” roared his master in a voice that made the +walls shake. +</p> + +<p> +By this time Ida had recovered herself. She seemed to feel that her lover had +something to say which concerned her deeply—probably she read it in his +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” she said, raising her voice, “I won’t have +Colonel Quaritch turned away from the door like this. If you will not admit him +I will go outside and hear what it is that he has to say.” +</p> + +<p> +In his heart the Squire held Ida in some awe. He looked at her, and saw that +her eyes were flashing and her breast heaving. Then he gave way. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well, since my daughter insists on it, pray come in,” and +he bowed. “If such an intrusion falls in with your ideas of decency it is +not for me to complain.” +</p> + +<p> +“I accept your invitation,” answered Harold, looking very angry, +“because I have something to say which you must hear, and hear at once. +No, thank you, I will stand. Now, Mr. de la Molle, it is this, wonderful as it +may seem. It has been my fortune to discover the treasure hidden by Sir James +de la Molle in the year 1643!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a general gasp of astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>What!</i>” exclaimed the Squire. “Why, I thought that the +whole thing was a myth.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, that it ain’t, sir,” said George with a melancholy +smile, “cos I’ve seen it.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida had sunk into a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the amount?” she asked in a low eager voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been unable to calculate exactly, but, speaking roughly, it +cannot be under fifty thousand pounds, estimated on the value of the gold +alone. Here is a specimen of it,” and Harold pulled out a handful of +rials and other coins, and poured them on to the table. +</p> + +<p> +Ida hid her face in her hand, and Edward Cossey realising what this most +unexpected development of events might mean for him, began to tremble. +</p> + +<p> +“I should not allow myself to be too much elated, Mr. de la Molle,” +he said with a sneer, “for even if this tale be true, it is treasure +trove, and belongs to the Crown.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the Squire, “I never thought of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have,” answered the Colonel quietly. “If I remember +right, the last of the original de la Molles left a will in which he especially +devised this treasure, hidden by his father, to your ancestor. That it is the +identical treasure I am fortunately in a position to prove by this +parchment,” and he laid upon the table the writing he had found with the +gold. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right—quite right,” said the Squire, “that will +take it out of the custom.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps the Solicitor to the Treasury may hold a different +opinion,” said Cossey, with another sneer. +</p> + +<p> +Just then Ida took her hand from her face. There was a dewy look about her +eyes, and the last ripples of a happy smile lingered round the corners of her +mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Now that we have heard what Colonel Quaritch had to say,” she said +in her softest voice, and addressing her father, “there is no reason why +we should not finish our business with Mr. Cossey.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Harold and George turned to go. She waved them back imperiously, and began +speaking before any one could interfere, taking up her speech where she had +broken it off when she caught sight of the Colonel and George coming up the +steps. +</p> + +<p> +“I can no longer hesitate,” she said, “but once and for all I +decline to marry you, Mr. Cossey, and I hope that I shall never see your face +again.” +</p> + +<p> +At this announcement the bewildered Squire put his hand to his head. Edward +Cossey staggered visibly and rested himself against the table, while George +murmured audibly, “That’s a good job.” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” said Ida, rising from her chair, her dark eyes flashing +as the shadow of all the shame and agony that she had undergone rose up within +her mind. “Listen, Mr. Cossey,” and she pointed her finger at him; +“this is the history of our connection. Some months ago I was so foolish +as to ask your help in the matter of the mortgages which your bank was calling +in. You then practically made terms that if it should at any time be your wish +I should become engaged to you; and I, seeing no option, accepted. Then, in the +interval, while it was inconvenient to you to enforce those terms, I gave my +affection elsewhere. But when you, having deserted the lady who stood in your +way—no, do not interrupt me, I know it, I know it all, I know it from her +own lips—came forward and claimed my promise, I was forced to consent. +But a loophole of escape presented itself and I availed myself of it. What +followed? You again became possessed of power over my father and this place, +you insulted the man I loved, you resorted to every expedient that the law +would allow to torture my father and myself. You set your lawyers upon us like +dogs upon a hare, you held ruin over us and again and again you offered me +money, as much money as I wished, if only I would sell myself to you. And then +you bided your time, leaving despair to do its work. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw the toils closing round us. I knew that if I did not yield my +father would be driven from his home in his old age, and that the place he +loved would pass to strangers—would pass to you. No, father, do not stop +me, I <i>will</i> speak my mind! +</p> + +<p> +“And at last I determined that cost what it might I would yield. Whether +I could have carried out my determination God only knows. I almost think that I +should have killed myself upon my marriage day. I made up my mind. Not five +minutes ago the very words were upon my lips that would have sealed my fate, +when deliverance came. And now <i>go</i>. I have done with you. Your money +shall be paid to you, capital and interest, down to the last farthing. I tender +back my price, and knowing you for what you are, I—I despise you. That is +all I have to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if that beant a master one,” ejaculated George aloud. +</p> + +<p> +Ida, who had never looked more beautiful than she did in this moment of +passion, turned to seat herself, but the tension of her feelings and the +torrent of her wrath and eloquence had been too much for her. She would have +fallen had not Harold, who had been listening amazed to this overpowering +outburst of nature, run up and caught her in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +As for Edward Cossey, he had shrunk back involuntarily beneath the volume of +her scorn, till he stood with his back against the panelled wall. His face was +white as a sheet; despair and fury shone in his dark eyes. Never had he desired +this woman more fiercely than he did now, in the moment when he knew that she +had escaped him for ever. In a sense he was to be pitied, for passion tore his +heart in twain. For a moment he stood thus. Then with a spring rather than a +step, he advanced across the room till he was face to face with Harold, who, +with Ida still half fainting in his arms, and her head upon his shoulder, was +standing on the further side of the fire-place. +</p> + +<p> +“Damn you,” he said, “I owe this to you—you half-pay +adventurer,” and he lifted his arm as though to strike him. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, none of that,” said the Squire, speaking for the first time. +“I will have no brawling here.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” put in George, edging his long form between the two, +“and begging your pardon, sir, don’t you go a-calling of better men +than yourself adwenturers. At any rate, if the Colonel is an adwenturer, he hev +adwentured to some purpose, as is easy for to see,” and he pointed to +Ida. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue, sir,” roared the Squire, as usual relieving his +feelings on his retainer. “You are always shoving your oar in where it +isn’t wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Squire, all right,” said George the imperturbable; +“thin his manners shouldn’t be sich.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to allow this?” said Cossey, turning fiercely to the +old gentleman. “Do you mean to allow this man to marry your daughter for +her money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Cossey,” answered the Squire, with his politest and most +old-fashioned bow, “whatever sympathy I may have felt for you is being +rapidly alienated by your manner. I told you that my daughter must speak for +herself. She has spoken very clearly indeed, and, in short, I have absolutely +nothing to add to her words.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you what it is,” Cossey said, shaking with fury, “I +have been tricked and fooled and played with, and so surely as there is a +heaven above us I will have my revenge on you all. The money which this man +says that he has found belongs to the Queen, not to you, and I will take care +that the proper people are informed of it before you can make away with it. +When that is taken from you, if, indeed, the whole thing is not a trick, we +shall see what will happen to you. I tell you that I will take this property +and I will pull this old place you are so fond of down stone by stone and throw +it into the moat, and send the plough over the site. I will sell the estate +piecemeal and blot it out. I tell you I have been tricked—you encouraged +the marriage yourself, you know you did, and forbade that man the house,” +and he paused for breath and to collect his words. +</p> + +<p> +Again the Squire bowed, and his bow was a study in itself. You do not see such +bows now-a-days. +</p> + +<p> +“One minute, Mr. Cossey,” he said very quietly, for it was one of +his peculiarities to become abnormally quiet in circumstances of real +emergency, “and then I think that we may close this painful interview. +When first I knew you I did not like you. Afterwards, through various +circumstances, I modified my opinion and set my dislike down to prejudice. You +are quite right in saying that I encouraged the idea of a marriage between you +and my daughter, also that I forbade the house to Colonel Quaritch. I did so +because, to be honest, I saw no other way of avoiding the utter ruin of my +family; but perhaps I was wrong in so doing. I hope that you may never be +placed in a position which will force you to such a decision. Also at the time, +indeed never till this moment, have I quite realised how the matter really +stood. I did not understand how strongly my daughter was attached in another +direction, perhaps I was unwilling to understand it. Nor did I altogether +understand the course of action by which it seems you obtained a promise of +marriage from my daughter in the first instance. I was anxious for the marriage +because I believed you to be a better man than you are, also because I thought +that it would place my daughter and her descendants in a much improved +position, and that she would in time become attached to you. I forbade Colonel +Quaritch the house because I considered that an alliance with him would be +undesirable for everybody concerned. I find that in all this I was acting +wrongly, and I frankly admit it. Perhaps as we grow old we grow worldly also, +and you and your agents pressed me very hard, Mr. Cossey. Still I have always +told you that my daughter was a free agent and must decide for herself, and +therefore I owe you no apology on this score. So much then for the question of +your engagement to Miss de la Molle. It is done with. +</p> + +<p> +“Now as regards the threats you make. I shall try to meet them as +occasion arises, and if I cannot do so it will be my misfortune. But one thing +they show me, though I am sorry to have to say it to any man in a house which I +can still call my own—they show me that my first impressions of you were +the correct ones. <i>You are not a gentleman</i>, Mr. Cossey, and I must beg to +decline the honour of your further acquaintance,” and with another bow he +opened the vestibule door and stood holding the handle in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +Edward Cossey looked round with a stare of rage. Then muttering one most +comprehensive curse he stalked from the room, and in another minute was driving +fast through the ancient gateway. +</p> + +<p> +Let us pity him, for he also certainly received his due. +</p> + +<p> +George followed him to the outer door and then did a thing that nobody had seen +him do before; he burst out into a loud laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you making that noise about?” asked his master sternly. +“This is no laughing matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Him!</i>” replied George, pointing to the retreating +dog-cart—“<i>he’s</i> a-going to pull down the Castle and +throw it into the moat and to send the plough over it, is he? +<i>Him</i>—that varmint! Why, them old towers will be a-standing there +when his beggarly bones is dust, and when his name ain’t no more a name; +and there’ll be one of the old blood sitting in them too. I knaw it, and +I hev allus knawed it. Come, Squire, though you allus du say how as I’m a +fule, what did I tell yer? Didn’t I tell yer that Prowidence +weren’t a-going to let this place go to any laryers or bankers or thim +sort? Why, in course I did. And now you see. Not but what it is all owing to +the Colonel. He was the man as found it, but then God Almighty taught him where +to dig. But he’s a good un, he is; and a gintleman, not like +<i>him</i>,” and once more he pointed with unutterable scorn to the road +down which Edward Cossey had vanished. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, look here,” said the Squire, “don’t you stand +talking all day about things you don’t understand. That’s the way +you waste time. You be off and look after this gold; it should not be left +alone, you know. We will come down presently to Molehill, for I suppose that is +where it is. No, I can’t stop to hear the story now, and besides I want +Colonel Quaritch to tell it to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Squire,” said George, touching his red nightcap, +“I’ll be off,” and he started. +</p> + +<p> +“George,” halloaed his master after him, but George did not stop. +He had a trick of deafness when the Squire was calling, that is if he wanted to +go somewhere else. +</p> + +<p> +“Confound you,” roared the old gentleman, “why don’t +you stop when I call you?” +</p> + +<p> +This time George brought his long lank frame to a standstill. +</p> + +<p> +“Beg pardon, Squire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beg pardon, yes—you’re always begging pardon. Look here, you +had better bring your wife and have dinner in the servants’ hall to-day, +and drink a glass of port.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Squire,” said George again, touching his red nightcap. +</p> + +<p> +“And look here, George. Give me your hand, man. Here’s a merry +Christmas to you. We’ve gone through some queerish times about this place +together, but now it almost looks as though we were going to end our days in +peace and plenty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Same to you, Squire, I’m sure, same to you,” said George, +pulling off his cap. “Yes, yes, we’ve had some bad years, what with +poor Mr. James and that Quest and Cossey (he’s the master varmint of the +lot he is), and the bad times, and Janter, and the Moat Farm and all. But, +bless you, Squire, now that there’ll be some ready money and no debts, +why, if I don’t make out somehow so that you all get a good living out of +the place I’m a Dutchman. Why, yes, it’s been a bad time and +we’re a-getting old, but there, that’s how it is, the sky almost +allus clears toward night-fall. God Almighty hev a mind to let one down easy, I +suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you would talk a little less about your Maker, and come to church a +little more, it would be a good thing, as I’ve told you before,” +said the Squire; “but there, go along with you.” +</p> + +<p> +And the honest fellow went. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap44"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.<br /> +CHRISTMAS CHIMES</h2> + +<p> +The Squire turned and entered the house. He generally was fairly noisy in his +movements, but on this occasion he was exceptionally so. Possibly he had a +reason for it. +</p> + +<p> +On reaching the vestibule he found Harold and Ida standing side by side as +though they were being drilled. It was impossible to resist the conclusion that +they had suddenly assumed that attitude because it happened to be the first +position into which they could conveniently fall. +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment’s silence, then Harold took Ida’s hand and led +her up to where her father was standing. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. de la Molle,” he said simply, “once more I ask you for +your daughter in marriage. I am quite aware of my many disqualifications, +especially those of my age and the smallness of my means; but Ida and myself +hope and believe that under all the circumstances you will no longer withhold +your consent,” and he paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Quaritch,” answered the Squire, “I have already in your +presence told Mr. Cossey under what circumstances I was favourably inclined to +his proposal, so I need not repeat all that. As regards your means, although +they would have been quite insufficient to avert the ruin which threatened us, +still you have, I believe, a competence, and owing to your wonderful and most +providential discovery the fear of ruin seems to have passed away. It is owing +to you that this discovery, which by the way I want to hear all about, has been +made; had it not been for you it never would have been made at all, and +therefore I certainly have no right to say anything more about your means. As +to your age, well, after all forty-four is not the limit of life, and if Ida +does not object to marrying a man of those years, I cannot object to her doing +so. With reference to your want of occupation, I think that if you marry Ida +this place will, as times are, keep your hands pretty full, especially when you +have an obstinate donkey like that fellow George to deal with. I am getting too +old and stupid to look after it myself, and besides things are so topsy-turvy +that I can’t understand them. There is one thing more that I want to say: +I forbade you the house. Well, you are a generous-minded man, and it is human +to err, so I think that perhaps you will understand my action and not bear me a +grudge on that account. Also, I dare say that at the time, and possibly at +other times, I said things I should be sorry for if I could remember what they +were, which I can’t, and if so, I apologise to you as a gentleman ought +when he finds himself in the wrong. And so I say God bless you both, and I hope +you will be happy in life together; and now come here, Ida, my love, and give +me a kiss. You have been a good daughter all your life, and so Quaritch may be +sure that you will be a good wife too.” +</p> + +<p> +Ida did as she was bid. Then she went over to her lover and took him by his +hand, and he kissed her on the forehead. And thus after all their troubles they +finally ratified the contract. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +And we, who have followed them thus far, and have perhaps been a little moved +by their struggles, hopes, and fears, will surely not grudge to re-echo the +Squire’s old-fashioned prayer, “God bless them both.” +</p> + +<p> +God bless them both. Long may they live, and happily. +</p> + +<p> +Long may they live, and for very long may their children’s children of +the race, if not of the name of de la Molle, pass in and out through the old +Norman gateway and by the sturdy Norman towers. The Boisseys, who built them, +here had their habitation for six generations. The de la Molles who wedded the +heiress of the Boisseys lived here for thirteen generations. May the Quaritchs +whose ancestor married Ida, heiress of the de la Molles, endure as long! +</p> + +<p> +Surely it is permitted to us to lift a corner of the curtain of futurity and in +spirit see Ida Quaritch, stately and beautiful as we knew her, but of a happier +countenance. We see her seated on some Christmas Eve to come in the +drawing-room of the Castle, telling to the children at her knees the wonderful +tale of how their father and old George on this very night, when the gale blew +long years ago, discovered the ruddy pile of gold, hoarded in that awful +storehouse amid the bones of Saxon or Danish heroes, and thus saved her to be +their mother. We can see their wide wondering eyes and fixed faces, as for the +tenth time they listen to a story before which the joys of Crusoe will grow +pale. We can hear the eager appeal for details made to the military-looking +gentleman, very grizzled now, but grown better-looking with the advancing +years, who is standing before the fire, the best, most beloved husband and +father in all that country side. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps there may be a vacant chair, and another tomb among the ranks of the +departed de la Molles; perhaps the ancient walls will no longer echo to the +sound of the Squire’s stentorian voice. And what of that? It is our +common lot. +</p> + +<p> +But when he goes the country side will lose a man of whom they will not see the +like again, for the breed is dead or dying; a man whose very prejudices, +inconsistencies, and occasional wrong-headed violence will be held, when he is +no longer here, to have been endearing qualities. And for manliness, for +downright English God-fearing virtues, for love of Queen, country, family and +home, they may search in vain to find his equal among the cosmopolitan +Englishmen of the dawning twentieth century. His faults were many, and at one +time he went near to sacrificing his daughter to save his house, but he would +not have been the man he was without them. +</p> + +<p> +And so to him, too, farewell. Perchance he will find himself better placed in +the Valhalla of his forefathers, surrounded by those stout old de la Molles +whose memory he regarded with so much affection, than here in this thin-blooded +Victorian era. For as has been said elsewhere the old Squire would undoubtedly +have looked better in a chain shirt and bearing a battle axe than ever he did +in a frock coat, especially with his retainer George armed to the teeth behind +him. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +They kissed, and it was done. +</p> + +<p> +Out from the church tower in the meadows broke with clash and clangour a glad +sound of Christmas bells. Out it swept over layer, pitle and fallow, over +river, olland, grove and wood. It floated down the valley of the Ell, it beat +against Dead Man’s Mount (henceforth to the vulgar mind more haunted than +ever), it echoed up the Castle’s Norman towers and down the oak-clad +vestibule. Away over the common went the glad message of Earth’s Saviour, +away high into the air, startling the rooks upon their airy courses, as though +the iron notes of the World’s rejoicing would fain float to the throned +feet of the World’s Everlasting King. +</p> + +<p> +Peace and goodwill! Ay and happiness to the children of men while their span +is, and hope for the Beyond, and heaven’s blessing on holy love and all +good things that are. This is what those liquid notes seemed to say to the most +happy pair who stood hand in hand in the vestibule and thought on all they had +escaped and all that they had won. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +“Well, Quaritch, if you and Ida have quite done staring at each other, +which isn’t very interesting to a third party, perhaps you will not mind +telling us how you happened on old Sir James de la Molle’s hoard.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus adjured, Harold began his thrilling story, telling the whole history of +the night in detail, and if his hearers had expected to be astonished certainly +their expectations were considerably more than fulfilled. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word,” said the Squire when he had done, “I think I +am beginning to grow superstitious in my old age. Hang me if I don’t +believe it was the finger of Providence itself that pointed out those letters +to you. Anyway, I’m off to see the spoil. Run and get your hat, Ida, my +dear, and we will all go together.” +</p> + +<p> +And they went and looked at the chest full of red gold, yes, and passed down, +all three of them, into those chill presences in the bowels of the Mount. Then +coming thence awed and silent they sealed up the place for ever. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap45"></a>CONCLUSION<br /> +GOOD-BYE</h2> + +<p> +On the following morning such of the inhabitants of Boisingham as chanced to be +about were much interested to see an ordinary farm tumbrel coming down the main +street. It was being driven, or rather led, by no less a person than George +himself, while behind it walked the well-known form of the old Squire, +arm-in-arm with Colonel Quaritch. +</p> + +<p> +They were still more interested, however, when the tumbrel drew up at the door +of the bank—not Cossey’s, but the opposition bank—where, +although it was Boxing Day, the manager and the clerk were apparently waiting +for its arrival. +</p> + +<p> +But their interest culminated when they perceived that the cart only contained +a few bags, and yet that each of these bags seemed to require three or four men +to lift it with any comfort. +</p> + +<p> +Thus was the gold safely housed. Upon being weighed its value was found to be +about fifty-three thousand pounds of modern money. But as some of the coins +were exceedingly rare, and of great worth to museums and collectors, this value +was considerably increased, and the treasure was ultimately sold for fifty-six +thousand two hundred and fifty-four pounds. Only Ida kept back enough of the +choicest coins to make a gold waistband or girdle and a necklace for herself, +destined no doubt in future days to form the most cherished heirloom of the +Quaritch family. +</p> + +<p> +On that same evening the Squire and Harold went to London and opened up +communications with the Solicitor to the Treasury. Fortunately they were able +to refer to the will of Sir Edward de la Molle, the second baronet, in which he +specially devised to his cousin, Geoffrey Dofferleigh, and his heirs for ever, +not only his estates, but his lands, “together with the treasure hid +thereon or elsewhere by my late murdered father, Sir James de la Molle.” +Also they produced the writing which Ida had found in the old Bible, and the +parchment discovered by George among the coin. These three documents formed a +chain of evidence which even officials interested for the Treasury could not +refuse to admit, and in the upshot the Crown renounced its claims, and the +property in the gold passed to the Squire, subject to the payment of the same +succession duty which he would have been called upon to meet had he inherited a +like sum from a cousin at the present time. +</p> + +<p> +And so it came to pass that when the mortgage money was due it was paid to the +last farthing, capital and interest, and Edward Cossey lost his hold upon +Honham for ever. +</p> + +<p> +As for Edward Cossey himself, we may say one more word about him. In the course +of time he sufficiently recovered from his violent passion for Ida to allow him +to make a brilliant marriage with the only daughter of an impecunious peer. She +keeps her name and title and he plays the part of the necessary husband. +Anyhow, my reader, if it is your fortune to frequent the gilded saloons of the +great, you may meet Lady Honoria Tallton and Mr. Cossey. If you do meet him, +however, it may be as well to avoid him, for the events of his life have not +been of a nature to improve his temper. This much then of Edward Cossey. +</p> + +<p> +If after leaving the gilded saloons aforesaid you should happen to wander +through the London streets, you may meet another character in this history. You +may see a sweet pale face, still stamped with a child-like roundness and +simplicity, but half hidden in the coarse hood of the nun. You may see her, and +if you care to follow you may find what is the work wherein she seeks her +peace. It would shock you; but it is her work of mercy and loving kindness and +she does it unflinchingly. Among her sister nuns there is no one more beloved +than Sister Agnes. So good-bye to her also. +</p> + +<p> +Harold Quaritch and Ida were married in the spring and the village children +strewed the churchyard path with primroses and violets—the same path +where in anguish of soul they had met and parted on that dreary winter’s +night. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +And there at the old church door, when the wreath is on her brow and the veil +about her face, let us bid farewell to Ida and her husband, Harold Quaritch. +</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11882 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + |