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diff --git a/old/11882-0.txt b/old/11882-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff4fca1 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11882-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13286 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Colonel Quaritch, V.C., A Tale of Country Life, by H. Rider Haggard + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Colonel Quaritch, V.C., + A Tale of Country Life + +Author: H. Rider Haggard + +Release Date: April 3, 2004 [eBook #11882] +[Most recently updated: April 15, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: John Bickers and Dagny + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. *** + + + + +Colonel Quaritch, V.C + +A Tale of Country Life + +by H. Rider Haggard + +First Published 1888. + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. HAROLD QUARITCH MEDITATES + CHAPTER II. THE COLONEL MEETS THE SQUIRE + CHAPTER III. THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE + CHAPTER IV. THE END OF THE TALE + CHAPTER V. THE SQUIRE EXPLAINS THE POSITION + CHAPTER VI. LAWYER QUEST + CHAPTER VII. EDWARD COSSEY, ESQUIRE + CHAPTER VIII. MR. QUEST’S WIFE + CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW OF RUIN + CHAPTER X. THE TENNIS PARTY + CHAPTER XI. IDA’S BARGAIN + CHAPTER XII. GEORGE PROPHESIES + CHAPTER XIII. ABOUT ART + CHAPTER XIV. THE TIGER SHOWS HER CLAWS + CHAPTER XV. THE HAPPY DAYS + CHAPTER XVI. THE HOUSE WITH THE RED PILLARS + CHAPTER XVII. THE TIGRESS IN HER DEN + CHAPTER XVIII. “WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET” + CHAPTER XIX. IN PAWN + CHAPTER XX. “GOOD-BYE TO YOU, EDWARD” + CHAPTER XXI. THE COLONEL GOES OUT SHOOTING + CHAPTER XXII. THE END OF THE MATCH + CHAPTER XXIII. THE BLOW FALLS + CHAPTER XXIV. “GOOD-BYE, MY DEAR, GOOD-BYE!” + CHAPTER XXV. THE SQUIRE GIVES HIS CONSENT + CHAPTER XXVI. BELLE PAYS A VISIT + CHAPTER XXVII. MR. QUEST HAS HIS INNINGS + CHAPTER XXVIII. HOW GEORGE TREATED JOHNNIE + CHAPTER XXIX. EDWARD COSSEY MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT + CHAPTER XXX. HAROLD TAKES THE NEWS + CHAPTER XXXI. IDA RECANTS + CHAPTER XXXII. GEORGE PROPHESIES AGAIN + CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SQUIRE SPEAKS HIS MIND + CHAPTER XXXIV. GEORGE’S DIPLOMATIC ERRAND + CHAPTER XXXV. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES + CHAPTER XXXVI. HOW THE GAME ENDED + CHAPTER XXXVII. SISTER AGNES + CHAPTER XXXVIII. COLONEL QUARITCH EXPRESSES HIS VIEWS + CHAPTER XXXIX. THE COLONEL GOES TO SLEEP + CHAPTER XL. BUT NOT TO BED + CHAPTER XLI. HOW THE NIGHT WENT + CHAPTER XLII. IDA GOES TO MEET HER FATE + CHAPTER XLIII. GEORGE IS SEEN TO LAUGH + CHAPTER XLIV. CHRISTMAS CHIMES + CONCLUSION + + + + +I DEDICATE +THIS TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE +TO +MY FRIEND AND FELLOW-SPORTSMAN, +CHARLES J. LONGMAN + + +PREPARER’S NOTE + +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. + + + +COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. + +A TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE + + + + +CHAPTER I. +HAROLD QUARITCH MEDITATES + + +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 _first_ 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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +[*] 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. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _how_ 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. + + + + +CHAPTER II. +THE COLONEL MEETS THE SQUIRE + + +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. + +“Colonel Quaritch, I believe,” said, or rather shouted, the voice from +somewhere down the drive. + +“Yes,” answered the Colonel mildly, “here I am.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“That is very kind of you,” said the Colonel. + +“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. + +“You have dropped some—some linen,” he said, stooping down to pick the +mysterious articles up. + +“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. + +“Ah, I see,” he said, “I suppose that you have had a loss.” + +“Yes, sir, a very heavy loss.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +And again the old man sighed, heavily this time. + +“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.” + +“Well, really,” said the Colonel, “you are very kind; but I don’t think +that my dress clothes are unpacked yet.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Oh no,” said the Colonel, “I should never think of such a thing.” + +“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. + +“Yes,” he answered, “it is a queer spot. I think that I must have a dig +at it one day.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +And here it was that Harold Quaritch once more beheld the face which +had haunted his memory for so many months. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE + + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“Here is a light,” said the voice, and at the same moment there was a +sound of a match being struck. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“I think that we have met before,” said Harold, in a somewhat nervous +fashion, as he stretched out his hand. + +“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.” + +“You have a good memory, Miss de la Molle,” said he, feeling not a +little pleased that she should have recollected the incident. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Not at all—not at all,” he answered hurriedly. “It is I who ought to +apologise, coming down on you like—like——” + +“A wolf on the fold,” suggested Ida. + +“Yes, exactly,” he went on earnestly, looking at his coat, “but not in +purple and gold.” + +“Well,” she went on laughing, “you will get very little to eat for your +pains, and I know that soldiers always like good dinners.” + +“How do you know that, Miss de la Molle?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +At this moment the Squire was heard advancing down the stairs, shouting +to the servants as he came. + +“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.” + +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. + +On this sideboard were placed several pieces of old and massive plate, +each of which was rudely engraved with three falcons _or_, 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. + +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. + +“It is very curious,” he said; “have you much of this, Mr. de la +Molle?” + +“No indeed,” he said; “I wish I had. It all vanished in the time of +Charles the First.” + +“Melted down, I suppose,” said the Colonel. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘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.’ + +“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.’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘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.’ + +“‘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.’ + +“‘I shall find it by to-morrow’s light, Sir James, or otherwise—or +otherwise you die.’ + +“‘I must die—all men do, Colonel, but if I die, the secret dies with +me.’ + +“‘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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘Now, Sir James, for your last word,’ said the Roundhead. ‘Will you +reveal where the treasure lies, or will you choose to die?’ + +“‘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.’ + +“‘Bethink you,’ said the Colonel. + +“‘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.’ + +“‘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.’ + +“‘I refuse,’ he answered. + +“‘Musqueteers, make ready,’ shouted the Colonel, and the file of men +stepped forward. + +“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. + +“They called to him to stand up, but he would not, and continued +praying. So they shot him on his knees.” + +“Well,” said Colonel Quaritch, “at any rate he died like a gallant +gentleman.” + +At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the servant came in. + +“What is it?” asked the Squire. + +“George is here, please, sir,” said the girl, “and says that he would +like to see you.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +THE END OF THE TALE + + +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. + +“What a charming room,” he said, as he entered it. + +“I am glad you think so,” answered Ida; “because it is my own +territory, and I arrange it.” + +“Yes,” he said, “it is easy to see that.” + +“Well, would you like to hear the end of the story about Sir James and +his treasure?” + +“Certainly; it interests me very much.” + +“It positively _fascinates_ me,” said Ida with emphasis. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Well,” said Harold, “and did Dofferleigh find the treasure?” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps the whole thing was nonsense,” said Harold reflectively. + +“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_ found +something.” + +“You, what?” + +“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. + +“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. + +“Poor gentleman,” said Harold, “he must have had it in his pocket when +he was shot. Where did you find it?” + +“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: + +“_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._” + + +“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.” + +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!” + +“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. + +“Well,” said Harold in a doubtful voice, “there may be something in it. +May I take a copy of that writing?” + +“Certainly,” said Ida laughing, “and if you find the treasure we will +go shares. Stop, I will dictate it to you.” + +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. + +“Well, father, what is the matter?” asked his daughter. + +“Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing,” he answered in melancholy tones. +“George has been here, that is all.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What is it?” said Ida with a deepening expression of anxiety. +“Something wrong with the Moat Farm?” + +“Yes; Janter has thrown it up after all, and I am sure I don’t know +where I am to find another tenant.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +The old gentleman collapsed with an air of pious resignation, and +meekly asked who was coming. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Oh, thank you, Miss de la Molle; yes, I think I can come, though I +play tennis atrociously.” + +“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. + +“Yes,” said the Colonel grimly, “we are almost of an age—good-night.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +THE SQUIRE EXPLAINS THE POSITION + + +“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?” + +“Can’t you take it in hand and farm it yourself?” asked Harold. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +When the Squire got back to the castle, he found his daughter still +sitting in the drawing room. + +“What, not gone to bed, Ida?” he said. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“That is bad enough in all conscience,” said Ida, pushing at the +fireirons with her foot. “What is to be done?” + +“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.” + +“Yes, but that costs money, does it not?” + +“Of course it does, it costs about four thousand pounds.” + +“Well,” said Ida, looking up, “and where is all that sum to come from? +We have not got four thousand pounds in the world.” + +“Come from? Why I suppose that I must borrow it on the security of the +land.” + +“Would it not be better to let the place go out of cultivation, rather +than risk so much money?” she answered. + +“Go out of cultivation! Nonsense, Ida, how can you talk like that? Why +that strong land would be ruined for a generation to come.” + +“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.” + +The Squire turned impatiently. “Girls have no head for these things,” +he said, “so what is the use of talking about it?” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +The old gentleman hummed and hawed a little, and after various +indications of impatience at last began: + +“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. + +“Yes, father, but you have not told me yet what it is that we owe.” + +“Well, it is difficult to answer that all in a minute. Perhaps +twenty-five thousand on mortgage, and a few floating debts.” + +“And what is the place worth?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Her father winced at this cruel and convincing logic. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +LAWYER QUEST + + +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.” + +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. + +“Here, George, where are you, George?” + +“Here I be, sir.” + +“Ah, yes; then why didn’t you say so? I have been shouting myself +hoarse for you.” + +“Yis, Squire,” replied the imperturbable George, “I hev been a-standing +here for the last ten minutes, and I heard you.” + +“You heard me, then why the dickens didn’t you answer?” + +“Because I didn’t think as you wanted me, sir. I saw that you hadn’t +finished your letter.” + +“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?” + +“Yis, Squire, the pony is here, and if so be as it is fat it bean’t for +the want of movement.” + +“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.” + +“Yis, Squire.” + +“I suppose that you have heard nothing more from Janter, have you?” + +“No, Squire, nawthing. He means to git the place at his own price or +chuck it.” + +“And what is his price?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Then what does the Squire propose to do—take the land in hand?” + +“Yes, sir, that’s it; and that’s what he wants to see you about.” + +“More money, I suppose,” said Mr. Quest. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +Indeed, had it not been for George’s contrivings and procrastinations, +Honham Castle and its owner would have parted company long before. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +EDWARD COSSEY, ESQUIRE + + +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. + +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: + +“Private and confidential. + + +“Dear Sir,— +“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. + “Be so good as to advise us by an early post of the steps you take + in pursuance of these instructions. + + +“We are, dear sir, +“Your obedient servants, +“Cossey & Son. + + +“W. Quest, Esq. + + +“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.” + + +“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.” + +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. + +“Here we are,” and he drew a letter from his pocket written in a bold, +but somewhat uneducated, woman’s hand. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“How do you do, Quest?” said Edward Cossey, nodding somewhat coldly to +the lawyer and sitting down. “Any business?” + +“Well, yes, Mr. Cossey,” answered the lawyer, rising respectfully, +“there is some business, some very serious business.” + +“Indeed,” said Edward indifferently, “what is it?” + +“Well, it is this, the house has ordered a foreclosure on the Honham +Castle estates—at least it comes to that——” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“What is the sum?” he said presently. + +“Five-and-twenty thousand, and he wants four more, say thirty +thousand.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Let me see the letter,” said Edward. + +Mr. Quest handed him the document conveying the commands of Cossey and +Son, and he read it through twice. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Very well, Mr. Cossey. And now, by the way, are you going to the +Castle this afternoon?” + +“Yes, I believe so. Why?” + +“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.” + +“Very well,” answered Edward, “that is if it suits Mrs. Quest. Perhaps +she may object to carting me about the country.” + +“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?” + +“Oh yes,” he answered. “I have nothing particular to do.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +MR. QUEST’S WIFE + + +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. + +Entering a large, cool-looking hall, Mr. Quest paused and asked a +servant who was passing there where her mistress was. + +“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. + +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 _how_ 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. + +Mr. Quest, who was a man who saw everything, saw this also, and smiled +bitterly. + +“Don’t be alarmed, Belle,” he said in a low voice; “I have brought Mr. +Cossey with me.” + +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. + +“You are an early visitor, Mr. Cossey,” she said. + +“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.” + +“Oh yes, with pleasure. But why can’t the dogcart come back for Mr. +Cossey?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I shall be very happy,” said he. + +“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.” + +“Certainly,” said Edward, and in another moment the lawyer was gone. + +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. + +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. + +Presently she spoke. + +“Has my husband gone?” she said. + +“I suppose so. Why do you ask?” + +“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. + +“You seem to have a good opinion of him.” + +“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.” + +“If he is behind the door he will enjoy that,” said Edward Cossey. +“Well, if he is all this, why did you marry him?” + +“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.” + +“Well, and what did he marry you for—your pretty face?” + +“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.” + +“And what did he do with it?” + +“Spent it upon some other woman in London—most of it. I found him out; +he gave her thousands of pounds at once.” + +“Well, I should not have thought that he was so generous,” he said with +a laugh. + +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!” + +“Yes, it can’t have been very pleasant.” + +“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.” + +He turned slightly away and said nothing. + +“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. + +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.” + +She stopped crying. “Do you really care for me enough for that, +Edward?” she said. + +“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.” + +She thought for a moment, and then looked up again. “No,” she said, +“no, Edward.” + +“Why?” he asked. “Are you afraid?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +THE SHADOW OF RUIN + + +Mr. Quest walked to his vestry meeting with a smile upon his thin, +gentlemanly-looking face, and rage and bitterness in his heart. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +Such, put as briefly as possible, were the outlines of the character +and aims of this remarkable and contradictory man. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“It is not my horse, Mr. de la Molle,” said the lawyer, with a faint +smile, “it is Mr. Edward Cossey’s.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Now, where on earth have you been?” began the Squire, in a stentorian +tone. + +“If you please, sir, Mr. George——” + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +“A beautiful suit of the early Stuart period, Mr. de la Molle,” he +said; “I never saw a better.” + +“Yes, yes, that belonged to old Sir James, the one whom the Roundheads +shot.” + +“What! the Sir James who hid the treasure?” + +“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.” + +“I wonder what he did with it,” said Mr. Quest. + +“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.” + +The Squire paused and Mr. Quest said nothing. + +“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.” + +Still Mr. Quest made no answer, so once more the Squire went on. + +“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.” + +Then at last Mr. Quest broke his somewhat ominous silence. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _Times_. + +“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.” + +Then he returned to the vestibule and sat down in his favourite old oak +chair. + +“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!” + + + + +CHAPTER X. +THE TENNIS PARTY + + +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 _know_ 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. + +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 _bete noire_, +Mr. Quest, what the truth might be. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“When will that be?” she asked. + +“In about six or nine months’ time.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +Mr. Quest drank a little claret before he answered. “Yes,” he said, “I +think that there is, if only you will take it.” + +“What way?” she asked eagerly. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _you_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +It is no wonder, then, that a woman like Ida de la Molle was _facile +princeps_ 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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +IDA’S BARGAIN + + +When Ida saw the Colonel coming, she put on her sweetest smile and took +his outstretched hand. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Ah,” she answered with a sigh, “I wish there was.” + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, Quest,” said the latter, “have you told the old man?” + +“Yes, I told him.” + +“How did he take it?” + +“Oh, talked it off and said that of course other arrangements must be +made. I spoke to Miss de la Molle too.” + +“Indeed,” said Edward, in a changed tone, “and how did she take it?” + +“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.” + +“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 +_versus_ single. + +“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.” + +“There are different types of beauty,” answered Edward Cossey, +flinching. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Old idiot!” ejaculated Mr. Quest to himself, “he will put Cossey’s +back up and spoil the game.” + +“Well,” said Edward aloud and colouring almost to his eyes. “That old +gentleman knows how to be insolent.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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 _ad misericordiam_, 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. + +“I can’t imagine, Miss de la Molle,” he said, “what I have done to +offend your father—he almost cut me just now.” + +“Are you sure that he saw you, Mr. Cossey; he is very absent-minded +sometimes?” + +“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.” + +Ida broke off a Scarlet Turk from its stem, and nervously began to pick +the bloom to pieces. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _how_ 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. + +“What do you suggest should be done, Miss de la Molle?” said Edward +Cossey gently. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Miss de la Molle,” he said rapidly, “there may be a way found out of +it.” + +She looked up enquiringly, and there were the tear stains on her face. + +“Somebody might take up the mortgages and pay off Cossey and Son.” + +“Can you find anyone who will?” she asked eagerly. + +“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.” + +“Then how can money be got if nobody will advance it?” + +“I did not say that nobody will advance it; I said that nobody would +advance it as an investment—a friend might advance it.” + +“And where is such a friend to be found? He must be a very +disinterested friend who would advance thirty thousand pounds.” + +“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?” + +“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. + +Edward Cossey laughed a little. “That is a large order,” he said. “Miss +de la Molle, _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.” + +“It is very good of you,” said Ida faintly, “I don’t know what to say.” + +For a moment he made no reply, and looking at him, Ida saw that his +hand was trembling. + +“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——” + +Ida began to understand now and once more turned aside. + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +He coloured. “You put the matter in a very business-like way,” he said. + +“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?” + +“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. + +“Yes,” she answered, “we have been here some time; Mrs. Quest will +wonder what has become of you.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +GEORGE PROPHESIES + + +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.” + +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. + +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: + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What do you mean by that?” asked the old gentleman sharply. “It _is_ +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.’” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +Edward burst out laughing, and the Squire looked after his retainer +with a comical air. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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: + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +“Well!” said his master, who was in high good humour, “did you find +your man?” + +“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.” + +“You happened of him up a tree. Why what the deuce was the man doing up +a tree—measuring it?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well that’s a good job at any rate,” answered George with a sigh of +relief. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Give him _what?_” + +“Why, kick him out, sir, for good and all, begging your pardon, sir.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +ABOUT ART + + +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 “_a +Delamol—a Delamol_” 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? + +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. + +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. + +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 “_Ave atque vale_,—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. + +And the upshot of all this is that the Squire was not altogether wrong +when he declared in the silence of _his_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Colonel Quaritch shook his head and sighed. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“He is an acquaintance of mine,” answered Ida with emphasis. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +THE TIGER SHOWS HER CLAWS + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“What does it matter?” he said, stamping his foot. “What does it _not_ +matter? If you have no care for your good name, do you suppose that I +am indifferent to mine?” + +Mrs. Quest opened her large violet eyes to the fullest extent, and a +curious light was reflected from them. + +“You have grown wonderfully cautious all of a sudden, Edward,” she said +meaningly. + +“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.” + +“Where have you been this morning?” she asked in the same ominously +calm voice. + +“I have been to Honham Castle on a matter of business.” + +“Oh, and yesterday you were there on a matter of pleasure. Now did you +happen to see Ida in the course of your business?” + +“Yes,” he answered, looking her full in the face, “I did see her, what +about it?” + +“By appointment, I suppose.” + +“No, not by appointment. Have you done your catechism?” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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: + +“Come up to town at once. Father has had a stroke of paralysis. Shall +expect you by the seven o’clock train.” + +“What is it?” said Mrs. Quest, noting the alarm on his face. + +“Why, my father is very ill. He has had a stroke of paralysis, and I +must go to town by the next train.” + +“Shall you be long away?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No, no, of course not—but I must say, I wish that you would not make +such shocking scenes—good-bye.” + +“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.” + +Half-an-hour later, Mr. Quest came in. + +“Where is Cossey?” he asked. + +“Mr. Cossey’s father has had a stroke of paralysis and he has gone up +to London to look after him.” + +“Oh,” said Mr. Quest. “Well, if the old gentleman dies, your friend +will be one of the wealthiest men in England.” + +“Well, so much the better for him. I am sure money is a great blessing. +It protects one from so much.” + +“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?” + +“How do you know that I have been crying? If I have, it’s my affair. At +any rate my tears are my own.” + +“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.” + +“What does he want money for?” + +“Because he has undertaken to pay off the mortgages on the Castle +estates.” + +“Why has he done that, as an investment?” + +“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?” + +“It is not true,” she answered, her lips quivering with pain. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +THE HAPPY DAYS + + +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. + +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? + +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. + +Only, as says the poet in words of truth and beauty: + +“Only but this is rare— +When a beloved hand is laid in ours, +When jaded with the rush and glare +Of the interminable hours, +Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear; +When our world-deafened ear +Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed +A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast +And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again— +And what we mean we say and what we would we know. + + + +And then he thinks he knows +The hills where his life rose +And the sea whereunto it goes.” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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: + +“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.” + +Ida shook her head a little doubtfully and sighed. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +THE HOUSE WITH THE RED PILLARS + + +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. + +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.” + +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! + +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 _was_ in +his wife’s handwriting, so he took the liberty of hastily transferring +it to his own pocket. + +In another minute Edward Cossey entered, and the two men shook hands. + +“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.” + +Accordingly they went upstairs to a large and luxurious bedroom on the +first floor, where the stricken man lay upon a patent couch. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“I am sure I hope you will, sir,” said Mr. Quest politely. + +“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. + +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. + +“Quaritch?” said the old man eagerly, “I know that name. Was he ever in +the 105th Foot?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Mr. Quest and Edward looked at each other, and the old man let his head +fall back exhausted. + +“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!” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Quest, “it is a curious thing to think of, but, you +see, money _is_ his heaven.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Is Mrs. d’Aubigne at home, Ellen?” he said. + +“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.” + +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 _debris_, 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. + +“I see that your mistress has been having company, Ellen,” he said +coldly. + +“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——” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +For his chance was gone and his fate fixed. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +THE TIGRESS IN HER DEN + + +Presently a hansom cab came rattling down the street and pulled up at +the door. + +“Now for it,” said Mr. Quest to himself as he metaphorically shook +himself together. + +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?” + +“Certainly, my lady fair,” replied another voice—a coarse, somewhat +husky male voice—“adored Edithia, in one moment.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“Now stop that noise and be off. He’s a lawyer and he might not freeze +on to you; don’t you understand?” + +“Well I’m a lawyer too and a pretty sharp one—_arcades ambo_,” 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.” + +“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. + +In another moment the cab had turned, and he was gone, muttering curses +as he went. + +The woman, who was none other than Mrs. d’Aubigne, _alias_ Edith Jones, +_alias_ 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?” + +“Here I am, Edith,” said Mr. Quest quietly, as he stepped from the +balcony into the room. + +“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. + +Mr. Quest shivered visibly, and stretching out his hand, stopped her +from coming near him. + +“No, thank you,” he said; “I don’t like paint.” + +The taunt stopped her, and for a moment an evil light shone in her cold +eyes. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“What are you at there?” said the woman suspiciously. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Mr. Quest seated himself again, and without taking any notice of this +last remark began the conversation. + +“I have brought you two hundred and fifty pounds,” he said. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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 +_debris_ 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.” + +“Spying again,” said the woman with a sneer. + +“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.” + +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, _your legal wife?_ I’ll have you in the dock first, in the +dock for bigamy.” + +“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.” + +“Yes,” she put in with a laugh, “and a rare time I had with that seven +thousand too.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“If you make a sound I will kill you at once,” he said, speaking in a +low and husky voice. + +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.” + +She stopped screaming and lay there, her face twitching, and her eyes +bright with terror. + +“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 _kill_ +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. + +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.” + +“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?” + +“Yes, yes, I understand. Ah! put away that knife, I can’t bear it! It +makes me sick.” + +“Very well then, get up.” + +She tried to rise, but her knees would not support her, so she sat upon +the floor. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. +“WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET” + + +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. + +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 _his_ heart’s affections to strike him as mortal a +blow as he had himself received. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“O let the solid ground + Not fail beneath my feet +Before my life has found + What some have found so sweet.” + + +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. + +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. + +She turned to him, smiling faintly, for the song had moved her also, +and he felt that he must speak. + +“That is a beautiful song,” he said; “sing it again if you do not +mind.” + +She made no answer, but once more she sang: + +“O let the solid ground + Not fail beneath my feet +Before my life has found + What some have found so sweet;” + + +and then suddenly broke off. + +“Why are you looking at me?” she said. “I can feel you looking at me +and it makes me nervous.” + +He bent towards her and looked her in the eyes. + +“I love you, Ida,” he said, “I love you with all my heart,” and he +stopped suddenly. + +She turned quite pale, even in that light he could see her pallor, and +her hands fell heavily on the keys. + +The echo of the crashing notes rolled round the room and slowly died +away—but still she said nothing. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +IN PAWN + + +At last she spoke, apparently with a great effort. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“I suppose,” he stammered, “I suppose that you do not care for me? Of +course, I have no right to expect that you would.” + +“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. + +“I do not understand,” he went on. “Why?” + +“Why?” she broke in with a bitter little laugh, “shall I tell you why? +Because I am _in pawn!_ Look,” she went on, pointing to the stately +towers and the broad lands beyond. “You see this place. _I_ am security +for it, I _myself_ 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. + +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. + +Almost instantly, however, she raised it, freed herself from his +embrace and ceased weeping. + +“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. + +“Of course, you can rely on me,” he said. + +“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.” + +Harold Quaritch took a step back and looked at her in horrified +astonishment. + +“_What?_” he asked. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +He spoke clearly and with a voice full of authority, but his bearing +did not seem to jar upon Ida. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +She thought for a moment, and then rising from the seat, gave him her +hand and said simply: + +“Yes, I _will_ marry you.” + +He made no answer, but lifting her hand touched it gently with his +lips. + +“Meanwhile,” she went on, “I have your promise, and I am sure that you +will not betray it, come what may.” + +“No,” he said, “I will not betray it.” + +And they went in. + +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. + +“Hullo!” he said, “there you are. Where on earth have you been?” + +“We have been looking at the Castle in the moonlight,” answered Ida +coolly. “It is beautiful.” + +“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.” + +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. + +And this money which her father was expending so cheerfully was part of +the price for which she had bound herself. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +“GOOD-BYE TO YOU, EDWARD” + + +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. + +“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.” + +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 _resume_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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 _are_ 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.” + +“Well, well,” he said impatiently, “what of it?” + +“Only this, Edward. I have still a little pride left, and as you are +tired of me, why—_go_.” + +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. + +“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 _there_ 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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +He held out his hand. “Come, Belle,” he said, “don’t let us part like +this.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +THE COLONEL GOES OUT SHOOTING + + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +“Are you fond of shooting?” she asked presently. + +“Yes, very, and have been all my life.” + +“Are you a good shot?” she asked again. + +“I call that a rude question,” he answered smiling. + +“Yes, it is, but I want to know.” + +“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.” + +“I am glad of it.” + +“Why, it does not much matter. One goes out shooting for the sport of +the thing.” + +“Yes, I know, but Mr. Edward Cossey,” and she shrank visibly as she +uttered the name, “is coming, and he is a _very_ good shot and _very_ +conceited about it. I want you to beat him if you can—will you try?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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 _him_; +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. + +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. + +Presently they started, Edward Cossey attended by his man with the +second gun. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“All right,” said the Squire. “Ida and I will come down with the +luncheon to the grove. Good-bye.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Accordingly they started down the field, the Colonel on the right, +George in the middle and Edward Cossey on the left. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Hullo,” said the Squire, “who shot the woodcock?” + +“Well, sir,” said George, “we all had a pull at him, but the Colonel +wiped our eyes.” + +“Oh, Mr. Cossey,” said Ida, in affected surprise, “why, I thought you +never missed _anything_.” + +“Everybody misses sometimes,” answered that gentleman, looking +uncommonly sulky. “I shall do better this afternoon when it comes to +the driven partridges.” + +“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.” + +“Done,” said Edward Cossey sharply. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Oh, of course,” said Edward loftily, “if Colonel Quaritch does not +like to take it up there’s an end of it.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Yes,” he said, “but then I haven’t got a loader.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. +THE END OF THE MATCH + + +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. + +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 “_Mark! mark over!_” followed +by the apparition of half-a-dozen brown balls showing clearly against +the grey autumn sky and sweeping down towards him like lightning. +_Whizz_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +Only Edward Cossey smiled grimly as he told his bearer to give the two +and a half brace which he had shot to George. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“That’s better,” said Ida, as she handed him the second gun. + +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. + +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. + +“I think that is the lot,” he said; “I’m afraid you have lost your +gloves, Ida.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Bang!” down comes the old cock bird; “bang!” and his mate follows him, +falling with a smash into the fence. + +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. + +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. + +“Bravo!” said Ida, “I was sure that you could shoot if you chose.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“There, Mr. Cossey,” said Ida, smiling sweetly, “I have won my gloves. +Mind you don’t forget to pay them.” + +“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.” + +“No,” he answered quietly, “all four were clear shots.” + +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. + +Ida looked after him and smiled. “He is so conceited,” she said; “he +cannot bear to be beaten at anything.” + +“I think that you are rather hard on him,” said the Colonel, for the +joke had an unpleasant side which jarred upon his taste. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +Edward Cossey took no notice of the friendly words or outstretched +hand, but came straight on as though he intended to walk past him. + +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. + +“Mr. Cossey,” he said, “Colonel Quaritch is offering you his hand.” + +“I observe that he is,” he answered, setting his handsome face, “but I +do not wish to take Colonel Quaritch’s hand.” + +Then came a moment’s silence, which the Squire again broke. + +“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.” + +“I think that Colonel Quaritch must know the reason, and will not press +me to explain,” said Edward Cossey. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Most certainly you will go on,” answered the Colonel. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“You may require, but whether I shall comply is another matter,” said +Edward Cossey, and he passed out. + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. +THE BLOW FALLS + + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Yes,” said Edward coolly. + +“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.” + +“It’s a lie!” said Edward excitedly. + +“Be careful what you say, sir,” answered the Colonel, “and wait to say +it till I have done.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Are you acquainted with your grandfather’s handwriting?” asked the +Colonel quietly. + +“Yes.” + +“Is that it?” he went on, producing a yellow-looking letter and showing +it to him. + +“I believe so—at least it looks like it.” + +“Then read the letter.” + +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. + +“Are you satisfied, Mr. Cossey? I have other letters, if you wish to +see them.” + +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: + +“Dear Mr. de la Molle,— +“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.” + + +“And supposing that I refuse to sign,” said Edward sulkily. + +“I do not think,” answered the Colonel, “that you will refuse.” + +Edward looked at Colonel Quaritch, and the Colonel looked at Edward. + +“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.” + +Then very slowly and unwillingly, Edward Cossey took up a pen, affixed +his signature to the letter, blotted it, and pushed it from him. + +The Colonel folded it up, placed it in an envelope which he had ready, +and put it in his pocket. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +She rose to greet him coldly enough, and he sat down, and then came a +pause which she did not seem inclined to break. + +At last he spoke. “Did the Squire get my letter, Miss de la Molle?” he +asked. + +“Yes,” she answered, rather icily. “Colonel Quaritch sent it up.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Miss de la Molle,” he repeated, “perhaps you will remember a +conversation that passed between us some weeks ago in the +conservatory?” + +“Yes,” she said, “I remember—about the money.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +Presently he stopped, his breast heaving and his face broken with +emotion, and tried to take her hand. + +She withdrew it sharply. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“The love will come, Ida,” he said, and once more he tried to take her +hand. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I do not see why I should keep it secret,” she said; “but it does not +matter to me.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“You say very hard things,” he answered, wincing. + +“Do I? I daresay. I am hard by nature. I wonder that you can wish to +marry me.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +She touched his outstretched hand with her fingers, and then fearing +lest he should change his mind, promptly rang the bell. + +In another minute the door had closed behind him and she was left +alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. +“GOOD-BYE, MY DEAR, GOOD-BYE!” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Why, Ida,” he said in amaze, “what are you doing here, crying too?” + +“I’m not crying,” she said, with a sob; “it’s the rain that has made my +face wet.” + +Just then the light burnt out and he dropped it. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“What is it, darling?” he said, “what is the matter?” + +“Leave go of me and I will tell you,” she answered. + +He obeyed, though with some unwillingness. + +She hunted for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, and then at last +she spoke: + +“I am engaged to be married,” she said in a low voice, “I am engaged to +Mr. Cossey.” + +Then, for about the first time in his life, Harold Quaritch swore +violently in the presence of a lady. + +“Oh, damn it all!” he said. + +She took no notice of the strength of the language, perhaps indeed she +re-echoed it in some feminine equivalent. + +“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.” + +“Curse him for a Shylock,” said Harold again, and groaned in his +bitterness and jealousy. + +“Is there nothing to be done?” he asked presently in a harsh voice, for +he was very hard hit. + +“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.” + +He groaned again, but said nothing. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I should have gone, certainly,” he said; “to New Zealand probably, but +if you wish it I will stop for the present.” + +“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.” + +“I shall never marry and I shall never forget you,” he answered. +“Good-bye, my love, good-bye!” + +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. + +He, too, turned and went his way into the wild and lonely night. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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——” + +“No, no,” she said, wincing visibly, “I am not engaged to Colonel +Quaritch, I am engaged to Mr. Cossey.” + +“Oh,” he said, “oh, indeed! I thought from what I saw, that—that——” + +At this moment the servant announced dinner. + +“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.” + +And though the Squire thought a good deal, he made no further allusion +to the subject that night. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. +THE SQUIRE GIVES HIS CONSENT + + +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. + +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 _not_ 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +As soon as he had gone, Ida herself came down. + +“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——” + +Here Ida made a movement of impatience, but remembered herself and said +nothing. + +“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.” + +“Are they?” answered Ida indifferently. “Is Mr. Cossey coming here to +dinner?” + +“Yes, I asked him. I thought that you would like to see him.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The lawyer mentioned a certain date. + +“Ah,” said the Squire, “then it will have to be met; but it does not +matter, it will be for the last time.” + +Mr. Quest pricked up his ears and looked at him. + +“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.” + +“Indeed,” said Mr. Quest, “I am very glad to hear it.” + +“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.” + +“Lawyers are confidential agents,” said Mr. Quest quietly. + +“Of course they are. Of course, and it is their business to hold their +tongues. I may rely upon your discretion, may I not?” + +“Certainly,” said Mr. Quest. + +“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.” + +During this announcement Mr. Quest had remained perfectly quiet, his +face showing no signs of excitement, only his eyes shone with a curious +light. + +“Indeed,” he said, “this is very interesting news.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, yes, don’t say anything about it at present. Well, good-bye.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. +BELLE PAYS A VISIT + + +Mr. Quest got into his dog-cart and drove homewards, full of feelings +which it would be difficult to describe. + +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. + +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. + +“I did not know that you were coming back to luncheon,” she said; “I am +afraid there is not much to eat.” + +“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.” + +“What is it?” she asked, looking up sharply, for something in his tone +attracted her attention and awoke her fears. + +“Your friend, Edward Cossey, is going to be married to Ida de la +Molle.” + +She blanched till she looked like death itself, and put her hands to +her heart as though she had been stabbed. + +“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. + +“I expected it,” she said in a low voice. + +“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. + +“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.” + +She put her hands back over her heart but said no word and he went on. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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, _bought_ 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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“How do you do, Belle?” he said, colouring and lifting his hat. + +“How do you do, Mr. Cossey?” she answered, coming to a stop and looking +him straight in the face. + +“Where are you going?” he asked, not knowing what to say. + +“I am going to walk up to the Castle to call on Miss de la Molle.” + +“I don’t think that you will find her. She is in bed with a headache.” + +“Oh! So you have been up there this morning?” + +“Yes, I had to see the Squire about some business.” + +“Indeed.” Then looking him in the eyes again, “Are you engaged to be +married to Ida?” + +He coloured once more, he could not prevent himself from doing so. + +“No,” he answered; “what makes you ask such a question?” + +“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. + +“What a coward!” said Belle to herself. “He does not even dare to tell +me the truth.” + +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. + +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. + +“Have you walked up?” asked Ida. + +“Yes, I came on the chance of finding you. I want to speak to you.” + +“Yes,” said Ida, “what is it?” + +“This. Forgive me, but are you engaged to be married to Edward Cossey?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Belle’s beautiful face turned a shade paler, if that was possible, and +her eyes hardened. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Hush,” said Ida gently, “what right have I to judge you?” + +“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.” + +“Yes,” said Ida, moving impatiently, “but why do you tell me all this? +It is very painful and I had rather not hear it.” + +“Why do I tell you? I tell you because I do not wish you to marry +Edward Cossey. I tell you because I wish _him_ to feel a little of what +_I_ have to feel, and because I have said that he should _not_ marry +you.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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 _must_. 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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _must_ +marry Mr. Cossey, so I do not think that we need discuss the subject +any more.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. +MR. QUEST HAS HIS INNINGS + + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“It is some business, Mr. Cossey,” the lawyer answered in his usual +quiet tones. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“All right. Just ring the bell, will you, and take a cigarette?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You will observe, Mr. Cossey, that this is a copy,” said Mr. Quest, +“but if you like you can inspect the original document.” + +He made no answer. + +“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.” + +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. + +He put it down upon the table by the side of the first and waited for +Mr. Quest to go on. + +“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. + +Edward Cossey turned his back to his tormentor and resting his head +upon his hand tried to think. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“How do you know that I am engaged?” asked Edward in surprise. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“At what price will you agree to stay the action for ever?” he asked. + +“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. + +“Great heavens!” said Edward, “why that is a matter of thirty thousand +pounds.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“But about the mortgages? I promised to keep them. What shall I say to +Ida?” + +“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.” + +Edward Cossey thought for a moment and then said, “I will sign. Let me +see the papers.” + +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. + +“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. + +“Stop,” said Edward presently. “Where are the original letters?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Now give Mr. Cossey the packet, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said, as he blotted +the signatures, “and you can go.” She did so and went. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +_Facilis est descensus Averni_. 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +HOW GEORGE TREATED JOHNNIE + + +Some two or three days before the scene described in the last chapter +the faithful George had suddenly announced his desire to visit London. + +“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?” + +“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 +_Chronicle_, 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.” + +“All right,” said the Squire; “are you going to take your wife with +you?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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) + +“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.” + +“‘Wife!’ Oh, yes, we know all about that,” said the gentleman called +Johnnie. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Well, you may as well stand a drink first,” said the adored one. “I’m +pretty dry, I can tell you.” + +“Certainly, with pleasure; I will order one. Waiter, a brandy-and-soda +for this lady—_six_ of brandy, if you please; she’s very delicate and +wants support.” + +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. + +George watched him go, and then looked again at the lady, whose +appearance seemed to fascinate him. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Money please, miss,” he said. + +“Money!” she said, “why you’re paid.” + +“Come, none of that,” said the waiter. “I want a shilling for the +brandy-and-soda.” + +“A shilling, do you? Then you’ll have to want, you cheating white-faced +rascal you; my friend paid you before he went away.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“Well, you are a gentleman, you are,” she said. + +“Not at all, marm. That’s my way. And now, marm, won’t you have +another?” + +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. + +Shortly after this the building was cleared, and George found himself +standing in Exhibition Road with the woman on his arm. + +“You’re going to give me a lift home, ain’t you?” she said. + +“Yes, marm, for sure I am,” said George, sighing as he thought of the +cab fare. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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——” + +“Hullo, what’s that?” she said. “Do you know the old man?” + +“If you means Laryer Quest, why in course I do, and Mrs. Quest too. Ah! +she’s a pretty one, she is.” + +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. + +“Is he rich?” she asked as she put down the glass. + +“What! Laryer Quest? Well I should say that he is about the warmest man +in our part of the county.” + +“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.” + +“I don’t quite understand, marm,” said George; “there’s a lady down in +Boisingham as is the real Mrs. Quest.” + +“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.” + +“Come, marm, come,” said George, “draw it mild from that tap.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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——” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“You would, you lubber! would you?” he said, and sprang at him. + +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. _Whack! whack! whack!_ 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. + +“Give it the brute, give it him,” shrilled the fair Edithia, bethinking +her of her wrongs, and he did till he was tired. + +“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. + +They were at it again. Seeing her enemy prostrate the Tiger had fallen +on him, with the fire-irons to judge from the noise. + +Just then a policeman hurried up. + +“I say, master,” said George, “the folk in that there house with the +red pillars do fare to be a murdering of each other.” + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. +EDWARD COSSEY MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT + + +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 _Illustrated London News_ or +the _Graphic_. 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!” + +So will some unborn _laudator temporis acti_ speak in some dim century +to be, when our sorrows have faded and are not. + +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. + +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 _do_ 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. + +These things Harold realised most clearly in the heavy days which +followed that churchyard separation. + +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? + +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. + +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: + +“Dear Mr. Cossey,—Will you come over and see me this afternoon about +three o’clock? I shall _expect_ you, so I am sure you will not +disappoint me.—B.Q.” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You sent for me, Belle, and here I am,” he said, breaking the silence. + +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.” + +“Who said so?” he asked defiantly. “Quest, I suppose?” + +“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 _not_ marry +Ida de la Molle. Do you still intend to marry her?” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“_Ah!_” she said, drawing a long breath. + +“And now look here,” he went on. “Once and for all, I will not be +interfered with by you. I _am_ 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.” + +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. + +“Why not?” she said quietly. + +“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.” + +“_Ah!_” she said again, “I understand now.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“That is very kind of you, Colonel Quaritch,” said she with a sweet +smile (for she had the sweetest smile imaginable). + +He looked at her. There was something about her face which attracted +his attention, something unusual. + +“What are you looking at?” she asked. + +“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.” + +“Do I?” she answered, laughing. “Well, that is curious, because I feel +like Comedy herself.” + +“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.” + +Just then Mr. Quest and Edward Cossey passed out into the garden +talking. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Is that the new gun, Colonel Quaritch?” said Mrs. Quest presently; +“what a beautiful one!” + +“Be careful,” he said, “I haven’t taken the cartridges out.” + +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. + +“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. + +“What is this?” she said, pointing to a little slide above the locks on +which the word “safe” was engraved in gold letters. + +“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.” + +“So?” she said carelessly, and suiting the action to the word. + +“Yes, so, but please be careful, the gun is loaded.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +All this he saw in a flash, and then ran to the bleeding heap upon the +gravel. + +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. + +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. + +“He is dead,” she wailed; “he is dead, and I have killed him! Oh, +Edward! Edward!” + +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. + +“Stop that,” he said, seizing her arm, “and go for the doctor, for if +he is not dead he will soon bleed to death.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. +HAROLD TAKES THE NEWS + + +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. + +“By Jove!” said Mr. Quest, “I think he is done for.” + +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. + +“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Quest presently, as he mopped up the +streaming blood with a sponge. + +“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.” + +“Ah,” said Mr. Quest. “She always thought she understood guns. It is a +shocking accident.” + +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. + +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. + +When the examination was finished the two doctors whispered together +for a few seconds. + +“Will he live?” asked Mr. Quest. + +“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.” + +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. + +He came, stood in front of her, looked her in the face, and then +laughed. + +“Upon my word,” he said, “we men are bad enough, but you women beat us +in wickedness.” + +“What do you mean?” she said faintly. + +“I mean that you are a murderess, Belle,” he said solemnly. “And you +are a bungler, too. You could not hold the gun straight.” + +“I deny it,” she said, “the gun went off——” + +“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.” + +“What do you take me for?” she asked, with some return of spirit; “do +you think that I would injure a wounded man?” + +“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. + +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. + +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.” + +She made no answer. + +“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.” + +“God’s will!” she said, looking up, and then once more relapsed into +silence. + +He turned to go, when suddenly she rose and caught him by the arm. + +“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.” + +“I cannot say,” he answered, shaking his head. + +Apparently she interpreted his answer in the affirmative. At any rate +she covered her face with her hands. + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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? _How did that gun go off?_ 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. + +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? + +“Why, what is the matter?” she said, noticing the disturbed expression +on his face. + +“Well,” he said, “there has been an accident—a very bad accident.” + +“Who?” she said. “Not my father?” + +“No, no; Mr. Cossey.” + +“Oh,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “Why did you frighten me so?” + +The Colonel smiled grimly at this unconscious exhibition of the +relative state of her affections. + +“What has happened to him?” asked Ida, this time with a suitable +expression of concern. + +“He has been accidentally shot.” + +“Who by?” + +“Mrs. Quest.” + +“Then she did it on purpose—I mean—is he dead?” + +“No, but I believe that he will die.” + +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. + +“You must not think that,” she said, “it is very wrong.” + +“It is wrong,” answered the Colonel, apparently in no way surprised at +her interpretation of his thoughts, “but unfortunately human nature is +human nature.” + +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. + +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. + +“Stop and dine, won’t you, Quaritch?” said the Squire. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And so the evening wore away till at last they heard the Squire’s loud +voice talking to somebody outside. Presently he came in. + +“How is he?” asked Harold. “Will he live?” + +“They cannot say,” was the answer. “But two great doctors have been +telegraphed for from London, and will be down to-morrow.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. +IDA RECANTS + + +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. + +A week had passed, and Edward Cossey, nursed night and day by Belle +Quest, still hovered between life and death. + +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. + +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. + +“What is it, father?” asked Ida. + +“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. + +“I don’t quite understand,” said Ida, her breast heaving, and a curious +light shining in her eyes. + +“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. + +At this point Harold rose to go. + +“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.” + +At the same time Ida motioned him to stay, and though somewhat +unwillingly he did so. + +“Dear Sir,” began the Squire, reading the letter aloud,— + +“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. + + +“I am, dear sir, yours truly, +“W. Quest. + + +“James de la Molle, Esq., J.P., D.L.” + + +“I see now,” said Ida. “Mr. Cossey has no further hold on the mortgages +or on the property.” + +“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.” + +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: + +“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.” + +“Yes, I suppose so,” said the Squire. + +“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.” + +“Good heavens!” said her astonished father, “what an idea!” + +“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.” + +“Well,” said the Squire, “this is all new to me.” + +“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.” + +“You mean that supposing he lives, you will not marry Edward Cossey.” + +“Yes, I do mean it.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +She nodded her head. + +“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.” + +“I had rather marry him upon six hundred a year than Edward Cossey upon +sixty thousand.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Trailing clouds of glory do we come +From God, who is our home.” + + +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? + +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. + +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. + +After dinner Harold came again as he had promised. The Squire was not +in the drawing-room when he was shown in. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Are you sure?” said Harold with a gasp. + +“Quite sure. I have made up my mind,” and she held out her hand, as +though to seal her words. + +He took it and kissed it. “Thank heaven, Ida,” he said. + +“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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. +GEORGE PROPHESIES AGAIN + + +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. + +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. + +As in a dream, he had always seen her sweet face hanging over him, and +dimly known that she was ministering to him. + +“Have you nursed me ever since the accident, Belle?” he said. + +“Yes,” she answered. + +“It is very good of you, considering all things,” he murmured. “I +wonder that you did not let me die.” + +But she turned her face to the wall and never said a word, nor did any +further conversation on these matters pass between them. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Dear Mr. Cossey,— +“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, + + +“Very truly yours, +“Ida de la Molle.” + + +He put down this uncompromising and crushing epistle and nervously +glanced at the Squire’s, which was very short. + +“My dear Cossey,” it began,— + +“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. + + +“Believe me, with kind regards, +“Truly yours, +“James de la Molle.” + + +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. + +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. + +“How do you do, George?” he said cheerily; “sit down; what is it?” + +“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.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Quest, balancing a quill pen on his finger, “the times +are bad enough.” + +Then came a pause. + +“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.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Quest. + +“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.” + +“Yes, that is correct,” said Mr. Quest again. + +“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.” + +“Quite so. Land is in very bad odour as security now.” + +“And that being so, sir, what is to be done?” + +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.” + +“Meaning, sir——” + +“Meaning that I shall bring an action for foreclosure and do what I can +with the lands.” + +George’s face darkened. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What do you mean by that, George?” said the lawyer sharply. + +“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. + +“George!” called Mr. Quest after him, rising from his chair, “George!” +but George was out of hearing. + +“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 _had_ 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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Of course she recognised her admirer instantly, and wished to leave the +room, but her father prevented her. + +“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.” + +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. + +“How do you do, Mr. Cossey?” she said. “I am glad to see you out, and +hope that you are better.” + +“I beg your pardon, I cannot hear you,” he said, turning round; “I am +stone deaf in my right ear.” + +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. + +Meanwhile her father had shaken him by the hand, and led him to an +armchair before the fire. + +Then after a few questions and answers as to his accident and merciful +recovery there came a pause. + +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.” + +“Yes,” said the Squire attentively, while Ida folded her hands in her +lap and sat still with her eyes fixed upon the fire. + +“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.” + +She made a motion of assent. + +“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?” + +“Yes,” said Ida. + +“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.” + +“Ah!” said the Squire. + +“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. + +“It is no use looking to me for an answer,” said he with some +irritation. “I have no voice in the matter.” + +He turned to Ida, who put her hand before her face and shook her head. + +“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.” + +She dropped her hand and looked him full in the face. + +“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.” + +“Confound that Quaritch,” growled the Squire beneath his breath. + +Edward winced visibly at this outspoken statement. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +She touched his hand, and then the Squire offering him his arm, he went +down the steps to his carriage. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. +THE SQUIRE SPEAKS HIS MIND + + +For a minute or more her father fidgeted about, moving his papers +backwards and forwards but saying nothing. + +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.” + +Here Ida’s eyes flashed ominously, but she made no comment, being +apparently afraid to trust herself to speak. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _duty_, Ida. _Love_, as you call it, +is only too often another word for self-will and selfishness and other +things that we are better without.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + + +“I am, sir, your obedient servant, +“James de la Molle. + + +“Colonel Quaritch, V.C.” + + +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: + +“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 _no_ way out of it?” + +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: + +“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.” + +To Ida herself he also wrote at length: + +“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!” + +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? + +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 _ad misericordiam_ 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. + +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. + +“What are you doing there?” said the Squire, in a melancholy voice. + +“Marking, Squire.” + +“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.” + +“Now, Squire, don’t you begin to talk like that, for I don’t believe +it. That ain’t a-going to happen.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Damn ‘em, and so they be,” said George, utterly forgetting his +manners. + +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!” + +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. + +“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.) + +“Yes, of course, it is.” + +George thought for a minute. + +“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.” + +“Go up to London!” said the Squire; “why what are you going to do +there? You were in London the other day.” + +“Well, Squire,” he answered, looking inexpressibly sly, “that ain’t no +matter of nobody’s. It’s a bit of private affairs.” + +“Oh, all right,” said the Squire, his interest dying out. “You are +always full of twopenny-halfpenny mysteries,” and he continued his +walk. + +But George shook his fist in the direction of the road down which the +dog-cart had driven. + +“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!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. +GEORGE’S DIPLOMATIC ERRAND + + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Who’s skulking round outside there? If it’s one of those bailiffs he’d +better hook it, for there’s nothing left here.” + +George’s countenance positively beamed at the sound. + +“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?” + +“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, _alias_ +Mrs. d’Aubigne, _alias_ the Tiger, _alias_ 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. + +“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.” + +“Mean of _him_, 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. + +“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!” + +“Meaning, marm?” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Brandy it shall be,” said the gallant George, and departed. + +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. + +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. + +“That’s better,” she said, “and now for a patty. It’s a real picnic, +this is.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Ay, but I daren’t. He’d murder me. He said he would.” + +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!” + +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. + +“I won’t do it,” she said, “I’ll go to chokey first——” + +“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.” + +She took some more brandy before she answered. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +The woman chuckled, and then suddenly seized with suspicion looked at +her visitor sharply. + +“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.” + +“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. + +She sprung up with an oath. + +“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. + +“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. + +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 _peignoir_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. +THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES + + +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. + +“Why boar! Well I never! Is she a furriner?” he ejaculated in +astonishment. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Oh,” she answered, “if I’d known that he’d have been collared long +ago, I can tell you.” + +“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. + +“Now,” he said, “go for him like a wild cat.” + +“Never you fear,” she said. + +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. + +Mr. Quest was sitting at his table below the bench taking some notes. + +“There’s your husband,” George whispered, “now do you draw on.” + +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 _his_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +As Mr. Quest turned, his eye caught the flash of colour from the +peacock feather hat. Thence it travelled to the face beneath. + +He gave a gasp, and the court seemed to whirl round him. The sword had +fallen indeed! + +“Well, Billy!” whispered the hateful voice, “you see I’ve come to look +you up.” + +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. + +“Come, you be off,” he said, “you’re drunk.” + +At that moment Mr. de la Molle ceased giving judgment. + +“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.” + +“Come on,” said the policeman, “the clerk says you’re to go.” + +“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. + +Mr. Quest sank into his chair, and a silence of astonishment fell upon +the court. + +The Squire was the first to recover himself. + +“Silence,” he said, addressing her. “Silence. This cannot go on here.” + +“But I want justice,” she shrieked. “I want justice; I want a warrant +against that man for _bigamy_.” (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.” + +“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.” + +But she only screamed the more for _justice_, and loudly detailed +fragments of her woes to the eagerly listening crowd. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“Yes, sir,” said the astonished clerk, and Mr. Quest was gone. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“Well?” said his master. + +“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.’ + +“‘Where to?’ she answered. ‘I’m afraid.’ + +“‘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.” + +“What time does the next train go—7.15, does it not?” said Mr. Quest. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +When Jones had gone Mr. Quest sat down to think. + +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. + +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, “_Remarkable occurrence at +Boisingham Quarter Sessions.—Alleged bigamy of a solicitor._” 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. + +What is there that a man in his position can do? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Yes, he would go in. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. +HOW THE GAME ENDED + + +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. + +“Well,” said Belle, looking up. “Why are you looking so pale?” + +“I have had a trying day,” he answered. “What have you been doing?” + +“Nothing in particular.” + +“Reading the Bible, I see.” + +“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?” + +“Or drink,” he put in, with a touch of his old bitterness. “Have you +seen Mr. Cossey lately?” + +“No. Why do you ask that? I thought we had agreed to drop that +subject.” + +As a matter of fact it had not been alluded to since Edward left the +house. + +“You know that Miss de la Molle will not marry him after all?” + +“Yes, I know. She will not marry him because you forced him to give up +the mortgages.” + +“You ought to be much obliged to me. Are you not pleased?” + +“No. I no longer care about anything. I am tired of passion, and sin +and failure. I care for nothing any more.” + +“It seems that we have both reached the same goal, but by different +roads.” + +“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.” + +“I never cared for money itself,” he said. “I only wanted money that I +might be rich and, therefore, respected.” + +“And you think any means justifiable so long as you get it?” + +“I thought so. I do not think so now.” + +“I don’t understand you to-night, William. It is time for me to go to +dress for dinner.” + +“Don’t go just yet. I’m leaving in a minute.” + +“Leaving? Where for?” + +“London; I have to go up to-night about some business.” + +“Indeed; when are you coming back?” + +“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.” + +“I?” she said, opening her eyes widely; “who am I that I should judge +you? However bad you may be, I am worse.” + +“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!” + +“Yes.” + +“May I kiss you before I go?” + +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. + +“Yes, William, if you wish,” she said; “but I wonder that you care to.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +The man started back. + +“Have you got the ticket, Jones?” he asked. + +“Lord, sir,” said Jones, “I didn’t know you in that get-up. Yes, here +it is.” + +“Is the woman there still?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“Now, mam, look sharp if you’re going,” cried the porter, and the woman +Edith came out of the refreshment room. + +“There’s the third, forrard there,” said the porter, running to the van +to see about the packing of the mails. + +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. + +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. + +The engine whistled, there was a cry of “right forrard,” and they were +off. + +Presently he saw the woman stand up in her division of the compartment +and peep over into the gloom. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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 +_there_ 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 _him_, +she should die too. + +He set his teeth, drew the loaded pistol from his pocket, cocked it and +lifted it to her breast. + +What was the matter with the thing? He had never known the pull of a +pistol to be so heavy before. + +No, it was not _that_. 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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“I come out of the night,” he answered, raising the weapon, “out of the +night into which you are going.” + +“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?” + +“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 _me_, and _you_ shall die too, you fiend.” + +“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. + +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. + +“You used to kiss me,” she said; “you cannot kill a woman you used to +kiss years ago. Oh, spare me, spare me!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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, _crash_ against the carriage door. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. +SISTER AGNES + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I wonder what curse there is laid upon us that we should be always +doomed to seek what we cannot find?” she said aloud. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +He did so mechanically, and then pulled down the blinds. Meanwhile +Belle had seated herself near the table, her face buried in her hands. + +“What is the meaning of all this, Belle?” he said. + +“‘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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +He looked up, but said nothing. + +“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.” + +“You are very consoling,” he said sulkily. + +“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 shot you on purpose, Edward!_” + +“What!” he said, springing from his chair; “you tried to murder me?” + +“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!” + +He listened so far, and then suddenly walked across the room towards +the bell. She placed herself between him and it. + +“What are you going to do?” she said. + +“Going to do? I am going to send for a policeman and give you into +custody for attempted murder, that is all.” + +She caught his arm and looked him in the face. In another second she +had loosed it. + +“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.” + +This checked him, and he stood thinking. + +“Well,” she said, “why don’t you ring?” + +“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.” + +“_Oh!_” she said, like one in pain. “_Oh!_ 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. + +Reaching it she turned, and her hands still pressing the coarse blue +gown against her heart, she leaned against the door. + +“Edward,” she said, in a strained whisper, for her breath came thick, +“Edward—I am going for ever—have you _no_ kind word—to say to me?” + +He looked at her, a scowl upon his handsome face. Then by way of answer +he turned upon his heel. + +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. + +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. _Here_ +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. + +And so good-bye to Belle. May she find peace in its season! + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. +COLONEL QUARITCH EXPRESSES HIS VIEWS + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What is it now, father?” she said. + +“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.” + +“You must not talk like that, father,” she answered, not knowing what +to say, for affairs were indeed desperate. + +“Yes, yes, it’s all very well to talk so, but facts are stubborn. Our +family is ruined, and we must accept it.” + +“Cannot the money be got anyhow? Is there _nothing_ to be done?” she +said in despair. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Father,” she said, “do you wish me to marry that man?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +A sudden light of hope shone in his eyes. She saw it, though he tried +to hide it by turning his head away. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Good-day,” he said coldly. “Will you be seated?” + +The Colonel bowed his head slightly, but he did not sit down. + +“To what am I indebted for the pleasure?” began Edward Cossey with much +politeness. + +“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.” + +“Indeed!” + +“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.” + +“Oh! has there?” said the younger man with a sneer. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“It is every business of mine, Mr. Cossey, because if Miss de la Molle +is forced into this marriage, I shall lose my wife.” + +“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.” + +“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 _you_ by the lady in question, and _not_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _blackguard_, and _you_ are such a man, Mr. +Cossey.” + +Edward Cossey’s face turned perfectly livid with fury, and he drew +himself up as though to spring at his adversary’s throat. + +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.” + +Edward Cossey looked puzzled. “Do you mean to suggest that I should +fight a duel with you?” he said. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. +THE COLONEL GOES TO SLEEP + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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 _might_ have +done so. + +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: “_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._” + +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. + +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: + +“_Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly and +wickedly done._” + +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: + +D...............E...............a...............d + +being respectively the initials of the first, the sixth, the eleventh, +and the sixteenth words of the line given above. + +The match burnt out, and he began to hunt about for another. + +“D-E-A-D,” he said aloud, repeating the letters almost automatically. +“Why it spells ‘_Dead_.’ That is rather curious.” + +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. + +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: + + 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 + + +When he had done he wrote these initials in a line: + +DEadmansmountabc + + +He stared at them for a little—then he saw. + +_Great heaven! he had hit upon the reading of the riddle._ + +The answer was: + +“_Dead Man’s Mount_,” + + +followed by the mysterious letters A.B.C. + +Breathless with excitement, he checked the letters again to see if by +any chance he had made an error. No, it was perfectly correct. + +“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. + +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 _not_ +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. +BUT NOT TO BED + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“George!” roared the Colonel, in a lull of the gale. + +“Who’s there?” came the faint answer. + +“I—Colonel Quaritch. Come down. I want to speak to you.” + +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. + +“Stop a bit, sir,” said George; “I’ll light the lamp;” and he did. + +Next minute he stepped back in amazement. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“Yes, yes. I’ve heard tell of that. Hev the gale blown it up?” + +“No, but by heaven I believe that I am in a fair way to find it.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Digging, why where?” + +“Where? In Dead Man’s Mount!” + +“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. + +Harold drank three glasses of milk, and then sat down to tell as much +of his moving tale as he thought desirable. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. +HOW THE NIGHT WENT + + +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. + +“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.” + +“I don’t know if there is or not, but I’m going back to see, and I want +you to come with me.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Now, Colonel, I’m ready, sir, if you be;” and they started. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“What be you a-going to du now, Colonel? Hev you a ladder here?” + +“No,” answered Harold, “I never thought of that, but I’ve a good rope: +I’ll get it.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Are you all right?” asked Harold in a voice tremulous with excitement, +for was not his life’s fortune trembling on the turn? + +“Yes,” answered George doubtfully. Harold looking down could see that +he was holding the lantern above his head and staring at something very +hard. + +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. + +In another two seconds George’s red nightcap appeared followed by a +face that was literally livid with terror. + +“Let me up for Goad’s sake,” he gasped, “or he’ll hev me by the leg!” + +“He! who?” asked the Colonel, not without a thrill of superstitious +fear, as he dragged the panting man through the hole. + +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. + +“What is it?” roared the Colonel in the pit to George, who shivering +with terror was standing on its edge. + +“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. + +“Nonsense,” said Harold doubtfully. “What rubbish you talk. What sort +of a ghost?” + +“A white un,” said George, “all bones like.” + +“All bones?” answered the Colonel, “why it must be a skeleton.” + +“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.” + +“Oh, rubbish,” said the Colonel. “How can a skeleton sit and air +himself? He would tumble to bits.” + +“I don’t know, but there he be, and they don’t call this here place +'Dead Man’s Mount’ for nawthing.” + +“Well,” said the Colonel argumentatively, “a skeleton is a perfectly +harmless thing.” + +“Yes, if he’s dead maybe, sir, but this one’s alive, I saw him nod his +head at me.” + +“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.” + +“Very good, Colonel,” answered George, “and I’ll wait here till you +come up again—that is if you iver du.” + +Thrice did Harold look at the hole in the masonry and thrice did he +shrink back. + +“Come,” he shouted angrily, “don’t be a fool; get down here and hand me +the lantern.” + +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. + +And this is what he saw. + +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. + +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. + +Seizing the rope, he jerked it violently in the first effort of +mounting. + +“Hev he got yew, Colonel?” sung out George above; and the sound of a +human voice brought him back to his sense. + +“No,” he answered as boldly as he could, and then setting his teeth, +turned and tottered straight at the Horror in the chest. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +[*] 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. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This the worthy George was at length with much difficulty persuaded to +do. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, George, it seems we’re done,” said Harold, with a ghastly +attempt at a laugh. “There’s no treasure here.” + +“Maybe it’s underneath that there stone corn bin,” suggested George, +whose teeth were still chattering. “It should be here or hereabouts, +surely.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“The summer-house has gone, George,” he said. “Thank goodness that we +were not in it, or we should have gone too.” + +“Oh, Lord, sir,” groaned the unhappy George, “this is an awful +business. It’s like a judgment.” + +“It might have been if we had been up above instead of safe down here,” +he answered. “Come, bring that other lantern.” + +George roused himself, and together they bent over the now empty kist, +examining it closely. + +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. + +Half of the cracked stone came up a few inches, far enough to allow +them to get their fingers underneath it. So it _was_ a false bottom. + +“Catch hold,” gasped the Colonel, “and pull for your life.” + +George did as he was bid, and setting their knees against the hollowed +stone, they tugged till their muscles cracked. + +“It’s a-moving,” said George. “Now thin, Colonel.” + +Next second they both found themselves on the flat of their backs. The +stone had given with a run. + +Up sprang Harold like a kitten. The broken stone was standing edgeways +in the kist. There was something soft beneath it. + +“The light, George,” he said hoarsely. + +Beneath the stone were some layers of rotten linen. + +Was it a shroud, or what? + +They pulled the linen out by handfuls. One! two! three! + +_Oh, great heaven!_ + +There, under the linen, were row on row of shining gold coins set +edgeways. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“How deep du it go?” said George at length. + +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. + +“We must get this into the house, George, before any one is about,” +gasped the Colonel. + +“Yes, sir, yes, for sure we must; but how be we a-going to carry it?” + +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. + +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. + +“Are you all right, George?” he shouted down the hole. + +“Well, Colonel, yes, but not sorry to see you back. It’s lonesome like +down here with these deaders.” + +“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.” + +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. + +About twenty times did he make this journey. At the tenth something +happened. + +“Here’s a writing, sir, with this lot,” shouted George. “It was packed +away in the money.” + +He took the “writing,” or rather parchment, out of the mouth of the +bag, and put it in his pocket unread. + +At length the store, enormous as it was, was exhausted. + +“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.” + +“All right,” said the Colonel, “put the skeleton back first.” + +“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.” + +Harold chuckled, and presently George arrived, covered with filth and +perspiration. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +It was a strange and beautiful sight to see the solemn George capering +thus in the midst of that storm-swept desolation. + +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. + +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. + +On it was a short inscription in the same crabbed writing which he had +seen in the old Bible that Ida had found. + +It ran as follows: + +“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. + + +“James de la Molle.” + + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. +IDA GOES TO MEET HER FATE + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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? + +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. + +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 + +“The dust and awful treasures of the dead,” + + +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. + +And then, chilled and numb in body and mind, she crept into her bed +again and at last lost herself in sleep. + +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. + +Presently her father came in. + +“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!” + +“The gale kept me awake. I got very little sleep,” answered Ida. + +“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.” + +“A merry Christmas to you, father,” she said. + +“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. + +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. + +“We had better get on with breakfast,” he said. “You know that Cossey +is coming up at ten o’clock.” + +“Ten o’clock?” she said faintly. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Make your mind easy, father,” she said, “I am going to marry Mr. +Cossey.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Oh, pray don’t,” broke in Ida, almost with a cry. “Whatever you do, +pray do not congratulate me!” + +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. + +“I don’t quite understand you,” he said; “these things are generally +considered matters for congratulation.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Ida felt like death itself. Her pulse sunk and fluttered; her vital +forces seemed to cease their work. + +Another two minutes went by, then the door opened and the parlour-maid +came in. + +“Mr. Cossey, if you please, sir.” + +“Oh,” said the Squire. “Where is he?” + +“In the vestibule, sir.” + +“Very good. Tell him I will be there in a minute.” + +The maid went. + +“Now, Ida,” said her father, “I suppose that we had better get this +business over.” + +“Yes,” she answered, rising; “I am ready.” + +And gathering up her energies, she passed out to meet her fate. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. +GEORGE IS SEEN TO LAUGH + + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“There, I should not say too much about that,” broke in the Squire +impatiently. + +“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?” + +“Absolutely.” + +“And if the engagement is not renewed the money will of course be +called in?” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +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. + +“What the dickens——” began the Squire, and at that moment George, who +was leading, knocked at the door. + +“You can’t come in now,” roared the Squire; “don’t you see that we are +engaged?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I am sure that I apologise, Mr. de la Molle,” began the Colonel, +utterly taken aback, “but what I have to say is——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Will you be off, sir?” roared his master in a voice that made the +walls shake. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +There was a general gasp of astonishment. + +“_What!_” exclaimed the Squire. “Why, I thought that the whole thing +was a myth.” + +“No, that it ain’t, sir,” said George with a melancholy smile, “cos +I’ve seen it.” + +Ida had sunk into a chair. + +“What is the amount?” she asked in a low eager voice. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Ah,” said the Squire, “I never thought of that.” + +“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. + +“Quite right—quite right,” said the Squire, “that will take it out of +the custom.” + +“Perhaps the Solicitor to the Treasury may hold a different opinion,” +said Cossey, with another sneer. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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. + +“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 _will_ speak my mind! + +“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 _go_. 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.” + +“Well, if that beant a master one,” ejaculated George aloud. + +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. + +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. + +“Damn you,” he said, “I owe this to you—you half-pay adventurer,” and +he lifted his arm as though to strike him. + +“Come, none of that,” said the Squire, speaking for the first time. “I +will have no brawling here.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“All right, Squire, all right,” said George the imperturbable; “thin +his manners shouldn’t be sich.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +Again the Squire bowed, and his bow was a study in itself. You do not +see such bows now-a-days. + +“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. + +“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. _You are not a gentleman_, +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. + +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. + +Let us pity him, for he also certainly received his due. + +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. + +“What are you making that noise about?” asked his master sternly. “This +is no laughing matter.” + +“_Him!_” replied George, pointing to the retreating dog-cart—“_he’s_ +a-going to pull down the Castle and throw it into the moat and to send +the plough over it, is he? _Him_—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 _him_,” and once more he pointed with +unutterable scorn to the road down which Edward Cossey had vanished. + +“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.” + +“All right, Squire,” said George, touching his red nightcap, “I’ll be +off,” and he started. + +“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. + +“Confound you,” roared the old gentleman, “why don’t you stop when I +call you?” + +This time George brought his long lank frame to a standstill. + +“Beg pardon, Squire.” + +“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.” + +“Thank you, Squire,” said George again, touching his red nightcap. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +And the honest fellow went. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. +CHRISTMAS CHIMES + + +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. + +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. + +There was a moment’s silence, then Harold took Ida’s hand and led her +up to where her father was standing. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + + +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.” + +God bless them both. Long may they live, and happily. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + +They kissed, and it was done. + +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. + +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. + + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + + + +CONCLUSION +GOOD-BYE + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. *** + +***** This file should be named 11882-0.txt or 11882-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/8/8/11882/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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