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Colonel Quaritch
By
H. Rider Haggard
COLONEL QUARITCH,=
V.C.
A TALE OF COUNTRY=
LIFE
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
VII - EDWARD COSSEY, ESQUIRE
CHAPTER
VIII - MR. QUEST'S WIFE
CHAPTER
IX - THE SHADOW OF RUIN
CHAPTER
XII - GEORGE PROPHESIES
CHAPTER
XIV - THE TIGER SHOWS HER CLAWS
CHAPTER
XVI - THE HOUSE WITH THE RED PILLARS.
CHAPTER
XVII - THE TIGRESS IN HER DEN
CHAPTER
XVIII - "WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET".
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
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
XXXVIII - COLONEL QUARITCH EXPRESSES HIS VIEWS.
CHAPTER
XXXIX - THE COLONEL GOES TO SLEEP.
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
There are things and there are faces which, wh=
en
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 o=
f a
small matter, but they rose up spontaneously in the mind of a soldierly-loo=
king
man who, on the particular evening when this history opens, was leaning ove=
r 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 th=
at
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 sh=
ould
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 Caesa=
r,
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-loo=
king
chin, it had the air of being ludicrously out of place. "Umph," s=
aid
his old aunt, Mrs. Massey (who had just died and left him what she possesse=
d),
on the occasion of her first introduction to him five-and-thirty years befo=
re,
"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 t=
han
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 i=
ts
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 m=
an
who had attained by virtue of thought and struggle that had left their mark=
s 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 Quar=
itch
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, undulati=
ng
like a golden sea beneath the pressure of the wind.
Colonel Quaritch had twice before been at Honh=
am,
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 plac=
e,
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, th=
at
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 thig=
h.
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 w=
ith
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 d=
o,
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 impre=
ssions
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 tal=
e of
its events would furnish a shelf. And yet how small they are to look back u=
pon.
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 honeysuck=
le
thrust in her girdle, and carrying a stick in her hand, was walking leisure=
ly
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 wa=
ving
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 pow=
er
about the broad brow, and a force and solid nobility stamped upon the featu=
res
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 an=
d 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 t=
he
stormy sunset light, and was gone. When he returned to the cottage he had d=
escribed
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 t=
he
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 attr=
act
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 twe=
nty
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, a=
nd
the marriage was broken off almost on the day it should have taken place. A=
nd
after that it leaked out in the neighbourhood that the young lady, who by t=
he
way was a considerable heiress, had gone off her head, presumably with grie=
f,
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 swu=
ng 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 Ho=
nham
Castle, the seat of the ancient and honourable family of de la Molle (somet=
imes
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 f=
rom
Boisingham,[*] the local country town, was a drift or grass lane.
[*] Said to have been so named after the Boiss=
ey
family, whose heiress a de la M=
olle
married in the fourteenth century. As, however, the town of Boisingham is mentioned by on=
e 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 c=
ame
to the high road, and then turned. A few minutes' walk brought him to a dri=
ve
opening out of the main road on the left as he faced towards Boisingham. Th=
is 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 vil=
la
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 w=
as
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 obtai=
ned
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 suppo=
sed
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 magnific=
ently-timbered
piece of ground in the country side. For on the ten acres of grass land the=
re
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 y=
ears
before when she became a widow, and now, together with a modest income of t=
wo
hundred a year, it had passed to him under her will.
Shaking himself clear of his sad thoughts, Har=
old
Quaritch turned round at his own front door to contemplate the scene. The l=
ong,
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 beaut=
iful
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 eve=
n 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 activit=
y.
Behind the house to the north there was no vie=
w,
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 landsc=
ape.
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 on=
e.
Thereon the late Mrs. Massey, who was a British dwellingite, proceeded to s=
how
with much triumph /how/ they had lived in the hole by building a huge mushr=
oom-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 mak=
e a
very good summer house. Indeed it now served as a store place for the
gardener's tools and for rubbish generally.
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 h=
im 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 w=
ho
the owner of the great voice might be, and his eyes lit upon as fine a spec=
imen
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 f=
ace
sharply chiselled, and clean shaved, of the stamp which in novels is genera=
lly
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 specime=
n of
the typical English country gentleman--as the English country gentleman use=
d to
be.
"How do you do, sir, how do you do--my na=
me
is de la Molle. My man George, who knows everybody's business except his ow=
n,
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 uncommo=
nly
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 ro=
lled
the mass of napery into a ball, and cramming it back into the crown, replac=
ed
the hat on his head in such a fashion that about eight inches of white napk=
in
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 ther=
e's
an end of him."
And again the old man sighed, heavily this tim=
e.
"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 te=
lls
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 beli=
eve
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; jus=
t 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 unpack=
ed
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. Al=
so,
he was, like most military men, very punctilious about his dress and person=
al 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 w=
ould
have puzzled even an American novelist to analyse--something between
restlessness and curiosity, with a dash of magnetic attraction thrown in--g=
ot
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 Squ=
ire 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 mo=
und,
and found him standing at the entrance to the mushroom-shaped summer-house,=
contemplating
the view.
"There, Colonel," he said, "the=
re'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 al=
ways
shall so long as I live--look at those oaks, too. There are no such trees i=
n the
county that I know of. The old lady, your aunt, was wonderfully fond of the=
m. I
hope--" he went on in a tone of anxiety--"I hope that you don't m=
ean
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 t=
his,
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 a=
bout
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 th=
eir
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 sh=
all 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 qu=
eer
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, C=
olonel
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 do=
wn 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, whic= h, though somewhat aimless, was by no means without its charm. He made a capit= al companion for a silent man like Harold Quaritch who liked to hear other people talk.<= o:p>
In this way they went down the slope, and cros=
sing
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 gate=
way 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 ances=
tors,
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 yonde=
r 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 t=
he
last. Well, God rest them, they helped to make England, whatever their faul=
ts.
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 comman=
ded,
and their archers could sweep all the plain from the battlements."
"Ah, yes, of course they could. It is eas=
y to
see that you are a soldier. They were no fools, those old crusaders. My wor=
d,
we must be getting on. They are hauling down the Union Jack on the west tow=
er.
I always have it hauled down at sunset," and he began walking briskly =
again.
In another three minutes they had crossed a na=
rrow
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 pollar=
d 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 Castl=
e,
flanked by two great towers, and these, with the exception of some ruins we=
re,
as a matter of fact, all that remained of the ancient building, which had b=
een effectually
demolished in the time of Cromwell. The space within, where the keep had on=
ce
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 s=
ide
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 bee=
n 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.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>CHAPTER III - THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
"Is that you, father?" said a voice,=
a
very sweet voice, but one of which the tones betrayed the irritation natura=
l to
a healthy woman who has been kept waiting for her dinner. The voice came fr=
om
the recesses of the dusky room in which the evening gloom had gathered deep=
ly,
and looking in its direction, Harold Quaritch could see the outline of a ta=
ll
form sitting in an old oak chair with its hands crossed.
"Is that you, father? Really it is too ba=
d 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," sa=
id
the old gentleman apologetically, "but--hullo! I've knocked my head--h=
ere,
Mary, bring me a light!"
"Here is a light," said the voice, a=
nd
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 sam=
e nobility
of look, the same brown eyes and soft waving hair. But the girlhood had gon=
e 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, thou=
gh
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. T=
he
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 w=
omen
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-looki=
ng
woman.
"Why, my dear father," she went on as
she watched the candle burn up, "you made such a fuss this morning abo=
ut
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," s=
aid
Harold, in a somewhat nervous fashion, as he stretched out his hand.
"Yes," answered Ida, taking it, &quo=
t;I
remember. It was in the long drift, five years ago, on a windy afternoon, w=
hen
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, Colo=
nel
Quaritch," was the ready answer. "Besides, one sees so few strang=
ers
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 mi=
nute.
Accordingly she rang the bell, and told the ma=
id
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 fathe=
r;
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 woma= n'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.<= o:p>
"He was my only brother," she contin=
ued;
"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 o=
ff
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 y=
ou
take my daughter? Stop, you don't know the way--perhaps I had better show y=
ou 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 w=
alls
were decorated with family and other portraits, including a very curious pa=
inting
of the Castle itself, as it was before its destruction in the time of Cromw=
ell.
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 be=
en
about half as large as the gateway towers. Evidently, also, it was of an ol=
der
date than the present house, which is Jacobean, having probably been remove=
d 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 Mo=
lles
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 t=
he
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 t=
ime
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 p=
late
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 ric=
h as
Croesus, and abominated alike by his tenants and by the country side, as mi=
ght
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 contra=
ry,
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 baronet=
cy.
Indeed, the best proof of his devotion is, that he on two occasions lent la=
rge
sums of money to the King which were never repaid. On the accession of Char=
les
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 h=
im,
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 la=
nd,
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 i=
ts
height. Sir James had as yet steadily refused to take any share in it. He h=
ad
never forgiven the insult put upon him by the King, for like most of his ra=
ce,
of whom it was said that they never forgave an injury and never forgot a ki=
ndness,
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, Char=
les,
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 mo=
re
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 ra=
ce
from which he sprang, which, unless history doth greatly lie, hath in the p=
ast
been ever found at the side of their kings striking for the right. It is to=
ld
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 ma=
n'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 ne=
ed
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, w=
e 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 s=
how
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 lett=
er
in the Museum. 'My liege,--Of the past I will not speak. It is past. But si=
nce
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 Majest=
y'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 plac=
e,
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 th=
at
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 tenantr=
y,
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. T=
he
messenger was captured and Sir James's incautious letter taken from his boo=
t,
as a result of which within ten days' time he found himself closely besiege=
d by
five hundred Roundheads under the command of one Colonel Playfair. The Cast=
le
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, then Col=
onel
Playfair sent for his prisoner, and to his astonishment produced to Sir Jam=
es'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 mone=
ys
whereof you talk herein? Fain would I be fingering these ten thousand piece=
s 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, S=
ir
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 conf=
ined
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 w=
ith
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 sho=
ot
him they might, but that he consigned his soul to the Devil if he would enr=
ich
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. Ne=
xt
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,' sa=
id
the Roundhead. 'Will you reveal where the treasure lies, or will you choose=
to
die?'
"'I will not reveal,' answered the old ma=
n.
'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 wher=
e I
have hid this gold. Send to him this Bible when I am dead. Nay, search it f=
rom
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 t=
he
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 t=
housand
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 furi=
ous
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 w=
ould
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."
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 th=
an
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 d=
raperies,
the photograph frames, and all the hundred and one knick- knacks and odds a=
nd
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 femi=
nine
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 h=
ad
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 whi=
ch
threw a charm upon the place that added to its natural attractiveness, as t=
he
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 I=
da;
"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.&qu=
ot;
"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, par=
tly
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 us=
e,
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 tha=
t 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 aw=
ay
and was forgotten.
"Meanwhile the son, Sir Edward, who was t=
he
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 tw=
o- 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 presen=
tly
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. B=
ut
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 na=
me
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 appear=
ance
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 succeed=
ed
in obtaining the remains of the Castle and a considerable portion of the la=
nded
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 Mol=
les
are not our direct male ancestors."
"Well," said Harold, "and did
Dofferleigh find the treasure?"
"No, ah, no, nor anybody else; the treasu=
re
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,&qu=
ot;
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 th=
ey
shot him, you remember," and she handed him a small brown book. He too=
k 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 certain=
ty.
"Poor gentleman," said Harold, "=
;he
must have had it in his pocket when he was shot. Where did you find it?&quo=
t;
"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 d=
eath
by rebel murderers, for nought happeneth but according to God's will. And now farewe=
ll,
Edward, till we shall meet in hea=
ven.
My monies have I hid and on account thereof I die unto this world, knowing that not one p=
iece
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? T=
he
Bible, I think, was never sent to his son, but here it is, and in that writ=
ing,
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 express=
ion spread
itself over her handsome face.
"Well," said Harold in a doubtful vo=
ice,
"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 w=
as
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 ev=
idently
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 b=
ad
news or other."
"It is the times, my dear, it is the time=
s;
it isn't George. I really don't know what has come to the country."
"What is it?" said Ida with a deepen=
ing
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; &quo=
t;I
am so pleased that we are going to have you as a neighbour. By-the-way, I h=
ave
a few people coming to play lawn tennis here to-morrow afternoon, will you =
come
too?"
"What," broke in the Squire, in a vo=
ice
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 daughte=
r,
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 pio=
us
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 sho=
wn
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 d=
on'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, throw=
ing
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 y= ou are going home, Quaritch, I will walk with you. I want a little air."<= o:p>
"Colonel Quaritch, you have not said if y=
ou
will come to my party to-morrow, yet," said Ida, as he stretched out h=
is
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, &quo=
t;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,&quo=
t;
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.
"I don't know what is coming to this coun=
try,
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 Mo=
at
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 i=
t 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 th=
at
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. Wha=
t 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 fa=
rm
of a hundred and fifty acres in hand as it is. Do you know what it would co=
st
to take over that farm?" and he stopped in his walk and struck his sti=
ck
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 specula=
tion,
and one which I am too old to look after myself, even if I had the knowledg=
e.
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 t=
his
worry on my hands? Well, good-night, Colonel Quaritch, good-night," an=
d 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 br=
eak
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 h=
im
how present to her mind must be the necessity of money; and he fell to thin=
king
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 fa=
mily.
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 pitifu=
l 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 t=
hey should
be--a frame to show off her worth and state. Well, it was the way of the wo=
rld,
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 accustome=
d 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. Job=
son
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 t=
he consolation
of tobacco more than on this night. A few months ago, when he had retired f=
rom
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 aski=
ng
this question and waiting blankly for an answer which did not come, his aun=
t,
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 li=
ttle
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 l=
ive
the quiet, somewhat aimless, life of a small country gentleman. His reading,
for he was a great reader, especially of scientific works, would, he though=
t,
keep him employed. Moreover, he was a thorough sportsman, and an ardent, th=
ough
owing to the smallness of his means, necessarily not a very extensive, coll=
ector
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 religi=
ous
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 trou=
bles
had arisen. He had seen Ida de la Molle again, and after an interval of bet=
ween
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 lo=
ve
with her for all these years, though he had never looked at the matter in t=
hat
light. At the least the pile had been gathered and laid, and did but requir=
e a
touch of the match to burn up merrily enough. And now this was supplied, an=
d at
the first glance of Ida's eyes the magic flame began to hiss and crackle, a=
nd
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 y=
outh
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 com=
es,
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 po=
rt.
And if it sinks or is driven back by adverse winds and frowning skies, ther=
e 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 t=
he
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 fa=
ir
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 th=
at
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 offi=
cer,
with nothing to recommend him beyond five or six hundred a year and a Victo=
ria
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 famil=
y,
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 r=
ose
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 o=
r New
Zealand, and thus place an impassable barrier between himself and that swee=
t,
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, whith=
er
do you go in the garish light of day? To heaven, perhaps, with the mist wre=
aths
and the dew drops.
When the Squire got back to the castle, he fou=
nd
his daughter still sitting in the drawing room.
"What, not gone to bed, Ida?" he sai=
d.
"No, father, I was going, and then I thou=
ght
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.&qu=
ot;
"That is bad enough in all conscience,&qu=
ot;
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 bor=
row
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 generati=
on
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 wi=
ll not
tell me what we really owe--and I think I have a right to know."
The Squire turned impatiently. "Girls hav=
e no
head for these things," he said, "so what is the use of talking a=
bout
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 interes=
ted
in your affairs as you are yourself," she said with determination. &qu=
ot;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 canno=
t 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 man=
y,
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 t=
hing,
Honham Castle, and could not bear to give her pain.
"Very well," he said, "of cours=
e 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 ha=
ve
changed your mind. Let us have it now. I want to know how much we really ow=
e,
and what we have got to live on."
The old gentleman hummed and hawed a little, a=
nd
after various indications of impatience at last began:
"Well, as you know, our family has for so=
me
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 s=
mall
mortgage. Well, for many years the land brought in about two thousand a yea=
r,
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 t=
he
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 extrava=
gant
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 d=
ied
he left fifteen hundred pounds of debt behind him, and I had to find the mo=
ney,
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 u=
pon
the top of it all, and upon my word, at the present moment I don't know whi=
ch
way to turn," and he paused and drummed his fingers uneasily upon a bo=
ok.
"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 si=
xty
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 gi=
ve
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 bro=
ught
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 nothi=
ng,
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 shi=
rk
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, wh=
ich
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--tha=
t 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 gentlem=
an,
jumping up in his agitation; "what nonsense you talk, Ida. How can I l=
eave
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 trus=
t to
Providence. Things may come round, something may happen, one can never tell=
in
this world."
"If we do not leave Honham, then Honham w=
ill
leave us," answered his daughter, with conviction. "I do not beli=
eve
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.
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 fr=
ont
steps. Presently her father emerged in a brilliant but ancient dressing gow=
n, his
white locks waving on the breeze.
"Here, George, where are you, George?&quo=
t;
"Here I be, sir."
"Ah, yes; then why didn't you say so? I h=
ave
been shouting myself hoarse for you."
"Yis, Squire," replied the imperturb=
able
George, "I hev been a-standing here for the last ten minutes, and I he=
ard
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 af= ter you. Now look here, have you got that fat pony of yours in the yard?"<= o:p>
"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 let=
ter
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 t=
he
Moat Farm."
"Yis, Squire."
"I suppose that you have heard nothing mo=
re
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 lan=
ds
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 h=
im
not a halfpenny, the College must pay him his salary all the same, and he d=
on'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 a=
ll
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 si=
lly
man is a public enemy, and ought to be treated as such, but the times are v=
ery
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 co=
urse
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 t=
en,
you'd find that the bank was paid, the tradesmen were paid, the doctor's pa=
id,
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 fif=
teen
shillings an acre for the Moat Farm, is nonsense. I only wish I had the cap=
ital
to take it at the price, that I du."
"Well, George," said the Squire, &qu=
ot;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 tim=
es
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 mon=
ey 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 alwa=
ys
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 jawi=
ng
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 h=
er
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 ta=
ke
our chance."
Meanwhile George had mounted his cart and depa=
rted
upon the road to Boisingham, urging his fat pony along as though he meant t=
o be
there in twenty minutes. But so soon as he was well out of reach of the Squ=
ire'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 u=
p 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 hi=
s inquiries
informed him that he believed Mr. Quest had just come over to the office.
In another minute he was shown into an inner r=
oom
of the ordinary country lawyer's office stamp, and there at the table sat M=
r.
Quest himself.
Mr. Quest was a man of about forty years of ag=
e,
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 rem=
arkable,
with the exception of his eyes, which seemed to have been set in his head o=
wing
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, will 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 f=
ellow,
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, Ja=
nter
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. Qu=
est.
"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 thous=
and
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 princ=
ipal
about it. But, George, I can't possibly get up to the Castle at eleven. I h=
ave
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 tha=
t 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 gla=
ss
of wine is a good friend to have handy sometimes."
George, who like most men of his stamp could p=
ut
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 m=
ade 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 q=
ueer
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 mo=
re
of his master's affairs than anybody living, unless, perhaps, it was Mr. Qu=
est 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 virt=
ue:
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 s=
aid.
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 lat=
e to
prop up his master's broken fortunes. "Lord, sir," as he once sai=
d to
Harold Quaritch when the Colonel condoled with him after a violent and unju=
st
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 ho=
w as
I wor made for he, like a safety walve for a traction engine."
Indeed, had it not been for George's contrivin=
gs
and procrastinations, Honham Castle and its owner would have parted company
long before.
After George had drunk his glass of wine and g=
iven
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 b=
ack
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 th= at we can see no prospect of any such solution of the matter, at any rate for some years to c= ome. All the information that we are a= ble to gather points to a further decrease in the value of the land rather than to a reco= very. 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 abo= ut 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 ris= ks 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 est= ates, which was undertaken at our insta= nce about twenty years ago on the occasion of the first advance. The only alternative, ho= wever, 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, a= nd what is more, our confidence in the stability of landed property is so utterly shattered= by our recent experiences, that we c= annot burden ourselves by such a course, preferring to run the risk of an immediate loss. This, however, we hope that the histori= cal character of the property and its great natural advantages as a residential estate will avert, or at the least minimise.<= o:p>
"=
;Be so
good as to advise us by an early post of the steps you take in pursuance of these instructions.
&qu=
ot;We
are, dear sir, &quo=
t;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, subje=
ct 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 gentl=
eman
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 i=
t 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 ha=
ve 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.&qu=
ot;
"The Tiger, yes, the Tiger," he gasp=
ed,
his face working with passion and his grey eyes glinting as he tore the epi=
stle
to fragments, threw them down and stamped on them. "Well, be careful t=
hat
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 h=
ave
recovered myself--that devil of a woman might be dead--and I have several i=
rons
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 star=
ed
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 t=
he
office where Mr. Quest was sitting, to all appearance hard at work at his c=
orrespondence.
He was dark in complexion and decidedly distinguished- looking in feature, =
with
large dark eyes, dark moustachios, and a pale, somewhat Spanish-looking ski=
n.
Young as the face was, it had, if observed closely, a somewhat worn and wor=
ried
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 mon=
ey
in hard cash variously estimated at from half a million to a million sterli=
ng.
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 t=
he
house by attending to the working of their branch establishments in the Eas=
tern
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----&quo=
t;
On hearing this intelligence Edward Cossey's w=
hole
demeanour underwent the most startling transformation--his languor vanished,
his eye brightened, and his form became instinct with active life and beaut=
y.
"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 b=
e an
infernal shame to break up that family and sell the house over them. Why th=
ey
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 the=
se 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 interes=
t in
Miss de la Molle," and he glanced up to observe the effect of his shot=
.
Edward Cossey coloured. "I did not mean t=
hat
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 kn=
ow
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 t=
he
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 a=
ged
father about to be sold up and turned out of the estates which have belonge=
d to
her family for generations--why don't you do the generous and graceful thin=
g,
like the hero in a novel, and take up the mortgages?"
Edward Cossey did not reject this suggestion w=
ith
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 f=
our
more, say thirty thousand."
"And where am I going to find thirty thou=
sand
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 w=
ould
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 sai=
d,
as he returned it; "that letter was written by him, and when he has on=
ce
made up his mind it is useless to try and stir him. Did you say that you we=
re
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 g=
et
round there to lunch. It is about this fresh loan that the old gentleman wi=
shes
to negotiate. Of course I shall be obliged to tell him that instead of givi=
ng 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 sha=
ll
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 w=
ay,
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 c=
ountry."
"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 meet=
ing
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 hou=
se.
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 buil=
t. This
house looked out on to the market place, and had a charming old walled gard=
en
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 livin=
g in
a town. The front door, however, was only separated by a little flight of s=
teps
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 throu=
gh
into a charming, modern-looking room, handsomely and even luxuriously furni=
shed,
and lighted by French windows opening on to the walled garden.
A little lady dressed in some black material w=
as
standing at one of these windows, her arms crossed behind her back, and abs=
ently
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/ instantaneousl=
y,
her glance fell upon her husband (for the lady was Mrs. Quest) and her enti=
re
expression changed to one of cold aversion, the light fading out of her fac=
e as
it does from a November sky, and leaving it cold and hard.
Mr. Quest, who was a man who saw everything, s=
aw
this also, and smiled bitterly.
"Don't be alarmed, Belle," he said i=
n 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,&qu=
ot;
she said.
"Yes," said her husband, "but t=
he
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 borr=
owed
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, bec=
ause
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," s=
aid
Mr. Quest, "and now I must get my plans and be off to the vestry meeti=
ng.
I'm late as it is. With your permission, Mr. Cossey, I will order the dogca=
rt
as I pass your rooms."
"Certainly," said Edward, and in ano=
ther
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 ha=
nds
and feet. But her greatest charm lay in the face, which was almost infantil=
e 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 wav=
ing
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, w=
ith
a drunken father who beat you--yes, beat you with a stick--apologised in th=
e 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 marri=
ed,
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 fain=
test
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 ove=
r to
that man. Oh, how I hated him, and what I endured!"
"Yes, it can't have been very pleasant.&q=
uot;
"Pleasant--but there, we have done with e=
ach
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, b=
ut
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 lea=
rnt 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 sh=
all
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 a=
ny
man must, had been much touched by this unexpected outburst. "Look her=
e,
Belle," he blurted out on the impulse of the moment, "I am sick a=
nd
tired of all this sort of thing. For more than a year my life has been noth=
ing
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 f=
or
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 gestur=
e 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 h=
im
like that."
"Oh, yes, he would. I am sure of it. He w=
ould
never forgive the scandal; he has a hatred of that sort of thing. But I cou=
ld
get a few thousands ready money, and we could change our names and go off t=
o 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 i=
t,
too. I am older than you, you know, and a woman; and my husband will make s=
ome
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 la=
st
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 ha=
ve had
enough of this melancholy talk to last me for a month. Why did you come her=
e 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 brin=
ging
you here. He has got some fresh scheme on, I am sure of it from his face. W=
ell,
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 s=
pite
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 probabili=
ty
is that half the old women in Boisingham have got their eyes fixed on the h=
all 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,&quo=
t;
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 ni=
ce
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."
Mr. Quest walked to his vestry meeting with a
smile upon his thin, gentlemanly-looking face, and rage and bitterness in h=
is
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 k=
eep
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. W=
ell!
my fine lady," he went on with an ominous flash of his grey eyes, &quo=
t;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 car=
e.
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 interes=
ts
and sets of ideas, almost, if not entirely, simultaneously. For instance, M=
r. 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 tho=
se
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 do=
wn
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 t=
his
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 an=
d 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 translation=
s 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 respectabil=
ity.
His most burning ambition was to secure a high position in the county in wh=
ich
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. Su=
ch
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, whic=
h he
chiefly owed to his own exertions, but with nothing else. Had his nature be=
en 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 unfortuna=
tely
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 w=
ith
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 d=
ied
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 h=
is
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 fo=
r revenge
upon a woman as Mr. Quest undoubtedly did towards his beautiful wife. It wo=
uld
have seemed more probable that he would have left heroics alone and attempt=
ed
to turn his wife's folly into a means of wealth and self-advancement: and t=
his
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 w=
ill
be remembered, that her husband had married her for her money--the ten thou=
sand
pounds of which he stood so badly in need. Now this was the truth to a cert=
ain
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 n=
ever
known or realised, he had been, and still was, also in love with her. Possi=
bly
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 fist, 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 ac=
tion
for herself. This, considering the position, she was perhaps justified in
doing, but her husband never forgave her for it. More than that, he determi=
ned,
if by any means it were possible, to turn the passion which, although she d=
id
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 whic=
h 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 a=
n 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 reflect=
ed
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 d=
oubt
about it; I could not have done it better myself. I wonder if that place wi=
ll
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, reflec=
ting
on the unpleasant nature of the business before him. Personally he both lik=
ed
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 t=
heir
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 s=
uch
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 ha=
ll
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 shou=
ted,
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 inste=
ad
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 somewher=
e 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,&quo=
t;
said the lawyer, with a faint smile, "it is Mr. Edward Cossey's."=
"Oh! it's Mr. Edward Cossey's, is it?&quo=
t;
answered the old gentleman with a sudden change of voice. "Ah, Mr. Edw=
ard
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 busi=
ness
it was to look after the not extensive Castle stables, emerged in a great h=
eat
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 rea=
lly
to gain another moment for reflection.
"A beautiful suit of the early Stuart per=
iod,
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 t=
hat 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 h=
ad
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 sev=
en or
eight years before I got any return."
The Squire paused and Mr. Quest said nothing.<= o:p>
"Well," he went on, "that being=
so,
the next thing to do is to obtain the necessary cash to pay Janter his valu=
ation
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 l=
and,
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 want=
ed,
and some odds and ends; yes, we had better say five thousand."
Still Mr. Quest made no answer, so once more t=
he
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 connec=
tion
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 th=
em
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, a=
s a
matter of business, require security, and very properly so, but as this est=
ate
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 t=
he
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 possib=
le
under any conceivable circumstances that the farm would not be good for fiv=
e 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 omin=
ous
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 up=
on
the security of the Honham Castle estates. Their opinion of the value of la=
nded
property as security has received so severe a shock, that they are not at a=
ll 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 len=
ders
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 thorough=
ly
repaired since then at a cost of five thousand, and most of the farm buildi=
ngs
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 A=
ustralia
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 mus=
t remind
you is nearly a year overdue, and this step I propose to take to-morrow.&qu=
ot;
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 ad=
mit
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 anyt=
hing
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 ma=
ke
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 righ=
t 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 relationsh=
ip
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 dares=
ay
that the step strikes you as a harsh one. To be perfectly frank with you, M=
r.
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 ge=
ntleman.
"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 ma=
tter
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 k=
ind
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 o=
f 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 m=
ost
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 bank=
ing
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 a=
nd
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 you=
ng
man, and I do not think it has changed much for the better. But you will wa=
nt
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 re=
ad
every change of her dear father's face, "here is Mr. Quest. Take him i=
n 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. Wel=
l, 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 th=
ese generations--after
all these generations!"
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 th=
eir deficiency
in reasoning force. They do not conclude from the premisses of their observ=
ation,
they /know/ that this man is to be feared and that trusted. In fact, they s=
hare
with the rest of breathing creation that self-protective instinct of
instantaneous and almost automatic judgment, given to guard it from the dan=
gers
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 t=
o Mr.
Quest's disadvantage, indeed she always heard him spoken of with great resp=
ect,
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 o=
wn
hidden qualities, but that he was moreover an active personal enemy.
They went into the dining-room, where the lunc=
heon
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 r=
apid
conclusion in her own mind. She had seen clearly enough from her father's f=
ace
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 upsh=
ot
out of him, for the old gentleman had a curious habit of keeping such
unpleasant matters to himself until he was absolutely forced by circumstanc=
es
to reveal them. She also knew that her father's affairs were in a most crit=
ical
condition, for this she had extracted from him on the previous night, and t=
hat
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 y=
ou
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 inv=
olved,
and that he is now anxious to borrow some more money; but I do not know qui=
te
how matters stand, and I want to learn the exact truth."
"I am very glad to hear you speak so, Mis=
s 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 inter=
est
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 t=
heir
money or foreclose."
At this statement, which was almost brutal in =
its
brief comprehensiveness, Ida turned pale as death, as well she might, and d=
ropped
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 foun=
d 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, be=
hind
and about which gleamed the hard wild lights of a March sunset, to seek a p=
lace
to hide themselves. The vivid horror of the phantasy almost overcame her.
"Is there no way of escape?" she ask=
ed
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 l=
and is
so much property and nothing more."
"I know all that," she said impatien=
tly,
"you do not answer my question;" and she leaned towards him, rest=
ing
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 lo=
ok
at things from a business point of view only, you must remember that they a=
re
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 shou=
ld
say, so far as this particular matter is concerned, a benevolently disposed
individual. Now Mr. Edward Cossey is not himself at the present moment actu=
ally
one of the firm of Cossey and Son, but he is the heir of the head of the ho=
use,
and of course has authority, and, what is better still, the command of mone=
y."
"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 n=
ame
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 h=
im
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 catastrop=
he.
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 dreadful=
ly
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 fa=
mily
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 Cos=
sey
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 ca=
nnot
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 le=
ad
your family from a position of the most imminent peril. If you are the woma=
n 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 mo=
st
unclerical eyeglass, came up to consult the Squire upon some matter of pari=
sh
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 t=
hat 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 troub=
le.
To listen to him energetically arguing with the Rev. Mr. Jeffries as to whe=
ther
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 repa=
ir
of the woodwork in the vestry, was under the circumstances most instructive.
The Rev. Mr. Jeffries, who suffered severely from the condition of the vest=
ry,
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 diver=
ge
from that custom, I cannot and will not consent to such a thing in a perman=
ent
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. Ques=
t 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 i=
t on
or if he deceives himself. I suppose he has lived here so long that he cann=
ot 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 rep=
air
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 particu=
lar
and admiring notice in the course of the previous winter. The trees were go=
ne.
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 be=
fore
he consented to part with those oaks."
Then he turned and went back to the house, jus=
t 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 pictu=
resque
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 flan=
nel,
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 s=
tudy
of a perfect English lady of the noblest sort has any charms, he was not wi=
thout
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 mean=
er
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 the=
se
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 natura=
lly
pure and elevated temperament, which makes these ladies conspicuous and fas=
hions
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 t=
hem
an equal mind, and a presence more noble than their own.
Such a woman was Ida de la Molle, and if any o=
ne
doubted it, it was sufficient to compare her in her simplicity to the vario=
us
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 d=
e 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 in=
duce
the latter to stand long near Ida in public. She would tell Edward Cossey t=
hat
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 th=
e youths
and maidens and domesticated clergymen. There was a gravity, almost a
solemnity, about his bronzed countenance and deliberate ordered conversatio=
n,
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.
When Ida saw the Colonel coming, she put on her
sweetest smile and took his outstretched hand.
"How do you do, Colonel Quaritch?" s=
he
said. "It is very good of you to come, especially as you don't play te=
nnis
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 w=
ent
to bed last night, Miss de la Molle, and for the life of me I could not mak=
e anything
out of it, and what's more, I don't think that there is anything to make ou=
t."
"Ah," she answered with a sigh, &quo=
t;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 h=
is
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 pecul=
iar,
for of course he did not know the news that she had just heard from Mr. Que=
st.
Then for the first time for many years, Harold
Quaritch delivered himself of a speech that might have been capable of a te=
nder
and hidden meaning.
"I am afraid," he said, bowing,
"that if I came to claim the reward, I should ask for more even that y=
ou
would be inclined to give."
Ida blushed a little. "We can consider th=
at
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 unreason=
ably
irritated at this interruption to his little advances, and for the first ti=
me
saw Edward Cossey. He was coming along in the wake of Mrs. Quest, looking v=
ery handsome
and rather languid, when their eyes met, and to speak the truth, the Colone=
l'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-hand=
edness
and even of superiority that was rather obnoxious. Thus while Ida was greet=
ing
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 neit=
her
of them any more.
Meanwhile Mr. Quest had emerged from the shelt=
er
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 a=
nd 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 v=
oice
that showed his sympathy to be of a very active order, "and how plucki=
ly
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," answe=
red
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,&quo=
t;
answered Edward Cossey, flinching.
"Yes, but equally striking in their separ=
ate
ways. Well, it can't be helped, but I feel sorry for that poor woman, and t=
he
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.<= o:p>
"Old idiot!" ejaculated Mr. Quest to
himself, "he will put Cossey's back up and spoil the game."
"Well," said Edward aloud and colour=
ing
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 civi=
l.
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 neces=
sary
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 bl=
oom.
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 matte=
rs
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 wou=
ld
never ask it for myself, but it is for my father--he loves this place bette=
r than
his life; it would be much better he should die than that he should be obli=
ged
to leave it; and if this money is called in, that is what must happen, beca=
use
the place will be sold over us. I believe he would go mad, I do indeed,&quo=
t;
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 calli=
ng
in the money."
"It is quite impossible," he answere=
d.
"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 pl=
ace
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. Edwa=
rd, 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 passio=
n,
he came to one of those determinations which so often change the whole cour=
se
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 t=
hat
thirty thousand pounds are required, and I tell you frankly that as times a=
re 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 increa=
ses,
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 i=
t; 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 disinteres=
ted,
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 so=
ld
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 h=
ave
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, "t=
here
is another matter of which I wish to speak to you. Men are sometimes put in=
to
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 turn=
ed
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-natu=
red
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 h=
is
head. I do not wish to retract those words, and I think that in them you wi=
ll
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 b=
een
here some time; Mrs. Quest will wonder what has become of you."
It was a random arrow, but it went straight ho=
me,
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 g=
ave
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, b=
ut
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 whi=
ch
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 prov=
ided
that Mrs. Quest can be disposed of, in consideration of the receipt of a su=
m 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 do=
es.
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.
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'cloc=
k in
the forenoon. First the Squire explained the whole question to George at gr=
eat
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, a=
nd
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 severan=
ce
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 see=
m 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 accou=
nts
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 o=
ut,
and the only thing that remained clear was that the balance was considerabl=
y 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 wh=
at
it is, and the interest and all the rest on it, and though I says it as did=
n'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, Geo=
rge;
I'm ruined, and I suppose that the place will be sold if anybody can be fou=
nd
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 ma=
nufacturer
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 ta=
lk
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 tabl=
e,
"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 whi=
le
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 gentlef=
olk
hev lived all these ginerations, because He ain't. There, and that's the tr=
uth,
because I knaw it and so help me God--and if I'm wrong it's a master one.&q=
uot;
The Squire, who was striding up and down the r=
oom
in his irritation, stopped suddenly in his walk, and looked at his retainer
with a sharp and searching gaze upon his noble features. Notwithstanding hi=
s prejudices,
his simplicity, and his occasional absurdities, he was in his own way an ab=
le
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 exist=
s,
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 fals=
e,
and what is more when the conviction of the true, and the falsity of the fa=
lse,
rested upon a substantial basis of fact or error. Of course the instinct wa=
s 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 observ=
ed
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 w=
ho
his visitor was, "unless I am much mistaken, we shall soon know how mu=
ch
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, tho=
ugh
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 ag=
ain presently.
"Very well, sir," answered George,
"I'll just step up to the Poplars. I told a man to be round there to-d=
ay,
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 Poplar=
s'
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 retir=
ed,
"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, b=
ut
it don't do here. Besides, sir, I shall hear you well enough up there. Sarv=
ant,
sir!" this to Edward Cossey, and he was gone.
Edward burst out laughing, and the Squire look=
ed
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 ide=
a of
hunting a man round the Poplars Farm like--like an Indian squaw! He's a reg=
ular
cadger, that's what he is, and that's all he's fit for. However, it's his w=
ay 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 conce=
rned.
I presume of course that you know of the steps which have been taken by Cos=
sey
and Son to force a foreclosure, for that is what it amounts to, though I ha=
ve
not as yet received the formal notice; indeed, I suppose that those steps h=
ave
been taken under your advice."
"Yes, Mr. de la Molle, I know all about i=
t,
and here is the notice calling in the loans," and he placed a folded p=
aper
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 mus=
t 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 not=
ice
to my lawyers; indeed I think that it might have been sent to them in the f=
irst
instance."
Edward Cossey had all this while been sitting =
on
an old oak chair, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and slowly swinging his h=
at
between his legs. Suddenly he looked up and to the Squire's surprise said
quietly:
"I quite agree with you. I don't think th=
at
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 p=
oint
and prevent misunderstanding, I may as well say at once that with your perm=
ission,
I am anxious to take up these mortgages myself, for two reasons; I regard t=
hem
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 lo=
oked
up with the sharp and searching gaze he occasionally assumed, and for the s=
econd
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 th=
an
those which he had brought forward. He paused to consider what they might b=
e.
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 alterna=
tive
seemed the most probable to him. But whatever the lender's object, the resu=
lt
to him was the same, it gave him a respite. For Mr. de la Molle well knew t=
hat
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 befo=
re
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 prep=
ared
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 on=
e,
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 bette=
r if
the whole affair were carried out in a proper and formal way?"
"Surely, surely, Mr. de la Molle," s=
aid
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 mone=
y 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 i=
t 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 o=
n my
part one condition and one only to attach to this offer of mine, which is t=
hat
my name is not mentioned in connection with it. I do not wish Cossey and So=
n to
know that I have taken up this investment on my own account. In fact, so ne=
cessary
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 transpi=
res
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 m=
ake
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 forthcomi=
ng
to meet their various charges and the overdue interest. And now I think tha=
t 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 hims=
elf
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 s=
he
finds it out I should think that it would go against him. Ida is not the so=
rt
of woman to be won by a money consideration. Well, she can very well look a=
fter
herself, that's certain. Anyway it has been a good morning's work, but some=
how
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 fell=
ow
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 be=
came
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 h=
unt
after him, and I had just happened of him up a tree when you began to hallo=
a 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 wa=
it
there."
"Good heavens! no wonder the place is goi=
ng
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 mortgage=
s.
Of course somebody, a client of Mr. Quest's, has been found without the lea=
st
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, b=
ut
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 beggi=
ng
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, w=
hile
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 d=
id
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 resp=
ect
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 Sab=
bath-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 aff=
airs
and leave me to mind mine."
Edward Cossey drove from the Castle in a far f=
rom
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 wa=
s an
assumption of superiority about the old man, a visible recognition of the g=
ulf
which used to be fixed between the gentleman of family and the man of busin=
ess
who has grown rich by trading in money and money's worth, which was the mor=
e 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 Squ=
ire
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, whi=
ch
is now so rapidly vanishing, and of the class to which to a large extent th=
is
country owes her greatness. His very eccentricities were wandering lights t=
hat 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, kneeli=
ng
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 eas=
ier
to deal with a gentleman like the Squire of this history if we could only r=
each
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 Flo=
dden
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 o=
ur
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 t=
his
polite era of political economy and penny papers?
No wonder that Edward Cossey felt his inferior=
ity
to this symbol and type of the things that no more are, yes even in the sha=
dow
of his thirty thousand pounds. For here we have a different breed. Goldsmit=
hs two
centuries ago, then bankers from generation to generation, money bees seeki=
ng
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 t=
all
hat upon our heads and do homage to the new Democracy.
And yet in the depths of our hearts and the qu=
iet
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 t=
he stones
of yonder church. Hail and farewell to you, our fathers! Perchance a man mi=
ght
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 t=
he
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 himse=
lf
to be guided by the arts of Mr. Quest into the adoption of the idea of obta=
ining
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 pass=
ed
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 clas=
s 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 temptati=
on,
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 kin=
d,
if in short the gentleman does not love the lady quite as warmly as she lov=
es
him, then in course of time the charm is apt to vanish and even the flatter=
y 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 c=
an 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 rat=
her
weak than unprincipled, the dislike is apt to turn to loathing, some portio=
n 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 irritati=
on
as to what the morrow might bring forth. Too sure of her unaltering attachm=
ent
to have any pretext for jealousy, he found it exceedingly irksome to be obl=
iged
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 certai=
nty
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 sha=
me,
or even death. Indeed it was through this great passion of hers, and throug=
h it
only, that he could hope to influence her. If he could persuade her to rele=
ase
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, alarm=
s,
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 m=
ore
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 t=
rue,
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 offerin=
g in
a passing fit of tenderness and remorse to run away with her) became more a=
nd
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 so=
ft
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 val=
ley
and flashing river where cattle red and white stood chewing the still luxur=
iant
aftermath, was none other than Ida herself, and what was more, Ida accompan=
ied
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 performan=
ce,
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. Pain=
ting
together! Ah, I know what that means. Well, I should have thought that if t=
here
was one man more than another whom she would have disliked, it would have b=
een
that battered-looking Colonel."
He pulled up his horse and reflected for a mom=
ent,
then handing the reins to his servant, jumped out, and climbing through a g=
ap
in the fence walked up to the tree. So engrossed were they in their argumen=
t, 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 w=
ith
warmth. "It is all very well for you to complain that my trees are a b=
lur,
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,&qu=
ot;
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 canva=
s,
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 outline=
s,
trees and animals.
Ida shrugged her shoulders, laughed merrily, a=
nd
turned round to find herself face to face with Edward Cossey. She started b=
ack,
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 Har=
old
Quaritch, who returned the bow and went back to his canvas, which was place=
d 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 h=
ave
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 ta=
lk
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 af=
ter
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.
After this very chilling reception at the hand=
s of
the object of his affection, Edward Cossey continued his drive in an even w=
orse
temper than before. He reached his rooms, had some luncheon, and then in pu=
rsuance
of a previous engagement went over to the Oaks to see Mrs. Quest.
He found her waiting for him in the drawing-ro=
om.
She was standing at the window with her hands behind her, a favourite attit=
ude
of hers. As soon as the door was shut, she turned, came up to him, and gras=
ped
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 b=
e 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 s=
aid
defiantly. "What does it matter? My husband is certainly not in a posi=
tion
to make a fuss about other people."
"What does it matter?" he said, stam=
ping
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 al=
l, I
won't have it. If you will not be more careful, I will break with you altog=
ether,
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 ma=
tter
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 yo=
ur
catechism?"
"Yes--and now I am going to preach a homi=
ly
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 rig=
ht
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 warn=
ing
(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 knoc=
k 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 g=
one,
he opened the telegram. It was from his sister in London, and ran as follow=
s:
"Come up to town at once. Father ha=
s had
a stroke of paralysis. Shall expe=
ct 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, bu=
t 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 bei=
ng
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 di=
ed
away, and then flung herself in the chair and rested her head upon her hand=
s.
"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 car=
es
for Ida a great deal more than he does for me, in the end he will break fro=
m 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 s=
ure
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 mu=
st
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.&quo=
t;
She made no answer, and turned her back to hide
the workings of her face. For a few moments her husband stood looking at he=
r, a
gentle smile playing on his refined features. Then remarking that he must g=
o 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 h=
ad
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 f=
irst
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 Boisingh=
am 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 unles=
s 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 f=
olly
haunts my steps and drags me down, and by heaven I believe that it will des=
troy
me after all." With a sigh he lifted his head, and taking a sheet of p=
aper
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 substan=
ce
it announced his acceptance of the arrangement proposed by Mr. Edward Cosse=
y,
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 lo= ve 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 l= ike 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 th= ere at the end of the chain is this female harpy, Edith Jones, otherwise d'Aubi= gne, alias the Tiger, gnawing at my vitals and holding my fortunes in her hand.<= o:p>
"Bah! it's a queer world and full of comb=
inations,
but the worst of it is that plot as we will the solution of them does not r=
est
with us, no --not with us."
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 qui=
te fulfil
all the conditions of ideal happiness, yet go near enough to that end to pe=
rmit
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 pre=
sent
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 liv=
es
against the madhouse bars, or to see their hearts' beloved and their most c=
herished
hope wither towards that cold space from whence no message comes. For such
unfortunates, and for their million-numbered kin upon the globe--the victim=
s 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 for=
tune
or by their native strength and wit above the degradations of the world, th=
is light
of happiness is but as the gleam of stars, uncertain, fitful, and continual=
ly
lost in clouds. Only the utterly selfish or the utterly ignorant can be hap=
py
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 m=
ere
weight of the world's misery pressing round them like an atmosphere, the me=
re
echoes of the groans of the dying and the cries of the children are suffici=
ent,
and more than sufficient, to dull, aye, to destroy the promise of their joy=
s.
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, w=
hen
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 mysterio=
us symbol
of our double nature, that strange tree of life which, with its roots sucki=
ng
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 n=
ever
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 uncha=
nging
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 t=
he
barriers of our individuality and give to the soul something of the power f=
or
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 n=
ear
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 lov=
e 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 s=
et upon
the sky, and though in following our fated orbits we pass and repass, and e=
ach
shine out on each, yet are we the same lonely lights, rolling obedient to l=
aws
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 cle=
ar; When our world-deafened ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caress=
ed A bolt is shot back somewhere in our br=
east And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again=
-- And what we mean we say and what we wou=
ld we
know.
* * *=
* *
And =
then
he thinks he knows The hills wher=
e his
life rose And the sea whereunto it
goes."
Some =
such
Indian summer of delight and forgetfulness of trouble, and the tragic condi=
tion
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 doctrine=
s 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 r=
igid
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 tenaciou=
s.
Like many another man he could do a number of things exceedingly well and o=
ne
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 rega=
rd,
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 thi=
ng
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. Stra=
nge
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. Th=
erefore,
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 be=
ing to
be venerated and almost worshipped, as something better, brighter, purer th=
an
himself, hardly to be won, and when won to be worn like a jewel prized at o=
nce
for value and for beauty.
Now this is a dangerous state of mind for a ma=
n 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 fort=
y a man,
of course, should be hard enough to get the better of other people, as inde=
ed
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 y=
ears
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 aw=
ay,
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 wou=
ld
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 f=
or
the honour of the family and out of respect for his son's memory. This incr=
eased
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, h=
ow
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 wor=
ld.
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 whic=
h is
always growing smaller, and to save my father, poor dear, from as much worr=
y as
I can.
"Don't think that I am complaining,"=
she
went on hurriedly, "or that I want to rush into pleasure-seeking, beca=
use
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 nar=
row
life, just when I feel that I could work in a wide one."
Harold looked up at her face and saw that a te=
ar
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 peo=
ple deserve
it."
Ida shook her head a little doubtfully and sig=
hed.
"Perhaps," she said, "but I sup=
pose
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 effica=
cy
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, an=
d she
was no exception to the rule. Besides, if Ida's society had charms for Colo=
nel
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 pass=
ing
one, and it may be safely said that she had not since entertained any serio=
us
idea of marriage in connection with Colonel Quaritch. The only person whom
there seemed to be the slightest probability of her marrying was Edward Cos=
sey,
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 natu=
re
which was almost poetic, or that he was a ripe and finished scholar, and, w=
hat
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 h=
is
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 m=
ind.
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 pl=
ain,
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 troubl=
ing,
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 comm=
on,
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 t=
hose
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 quic=
kly
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 desir=
able
from his point of view that she should marry the Colonel was a matter on wh=
ich
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 Ed=
ward
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.
Two days after his receipt of the second letter
from the "Tiger," Mr. Quest announced to his wife that he was goi=
ng
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 th=
at
you think it worth while to keep up the farce with me. Well, I hope that Ed=
ith
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.&qu=
ot;
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 wo=
man
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 Ho=
nham
Castle estates. Accordingly Mr. Quest drove on to the old gentleman's mansi=
on
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 te=
ll
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 affec=
ted
by his wife. Listening for a moment to hear if anybody was coming, he stepp=
ed
to the coat and extracted the letter. It /was/ in his wife's handwriting, s=
o he
took the liberty of hastily transferring it to his own pocket.
In another minute Edward Cossey entered, and t=
he
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 ba=
nk
referred to him. I believe that he will last a year yet, but he will scarce=
ly
allow me out of his sight. He preaches away about business the whole day lo=
ng 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.&q=
uot;
Accordingly they went upstairs to a large and
luxurious bedroom on the first floor, where the stricken man lay upon a pat=
ent
couch.
When Mr. Quest and Edward Cossey entered, a la=
dy,
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 h=
igh
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 instruct=
ive,
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 lo=
oked
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 la=
y.
He was a gaunt old man with white hair and a pallid face, which looked almo=
st
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 with=
out
ceasing.
"How do you do, Mr. Quest?" he said;
"sorry that I can't shake hands with you but you see I have been stric=
ken
down, though my brain is clear enough, clearer than ever it was, I think. A=
nd 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 twe=
nty
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 i=
nto
a thin scream that was not pleasant to listen to.
"I am sure I hope you will, sir," sa=
id
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 h=
ad
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 y=
ours,
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 var=
ious
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 fi=
xed
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 t=
he
Victoria Cross. I found it all out the other day."
"That's the man; that's the man," sa=
id
old Mr. Cossey, jerking his head in an excited manner. "He's a blackgu=
ard;
I tell you he's a blackguard; he jilted my wife's sister. She was twenty ye=
ars
younger than my wife--jilted her a week before her marriage, and would neve=
r 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 yo= u 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 e= ver 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!"<= o:p>
"The old gentleman keeps his head for
business pretty well," said Mr. Quest to Edward Cossey as soon as they
were well outside the door.
"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 hea=
ven
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.&quo=
t;
"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 h=
ansom
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 bel=
l.
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 simpe=
r,
"but she will be back from the music hall before long. She does not ap=
pear
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 be=
en 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 e=
mpty
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 sati=
n,
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 l=
ike
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 che=
er
her up a bit," answered the woman, with her abominable simper; "p=
oor
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 b=
id,
for there was a look in Mr. Quest's eye which she did not quite like. So ha=
ving
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 mant=
elpiece--the
room was full of mirrors--and laughed bitterly at the incongruity of his ge=
ntlemanlike,
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 c=
oat.
He drew it out, and throwing the tea gown and the interminable glove off th=
e 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 almo=
st
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 circumstanc=
es
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 p=
lace
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 balc=
ony
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 be=
ing
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 ent=
ered
into his life and corrupted and destroyed him. Next there rose up before hi=
m a
vision of Belle, Belle as he had first seen her, a maid of seventeen, the o=
nly
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 lap=
ses
from the right, till at length he saw himself a hardened schemer, remorsele=
ssly
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 ti=
ll
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.
Presently a hansom cab came rattling down the
street and pulled up at the door.
"Now for it," said Mr. Quest to hims=
elf
as he metaphorically shook himself together.
Next minute he heard a voice, which he knew on=
ly
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," rep=
lied
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 aga=
in,
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 te=
ll
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 w=
as
gone, muttering curses as he went.
The woman, who was none other than Mrs. d'Aubi=
gne,
/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 b=
alcony
and waited. She opened the door, entered, and closed it behind her, and the=
n, 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 fo=
rty
and fifty, with the wrecks of a very fine agile-looking figure. Her face, w=
hich
was plentifully bedaubed with paint and powder, was sharp, fierce, and hand=
some,
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 te=
eth.
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 wi=
cked
ferocity. Such was the outward appearance of the Tiger, and of a truth it j=
ustified
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 sa=
id,
"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 do=
n'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 sai=
d,
"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 f=
eathers
off her, like the monkey did to the parrot."
"Perhaps you had better stop that talk, a=
nd
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-k=
iln,
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 th=
rew herself
on to the sofa. "Now then, tune up as much as you like. How much tin h=
ave
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, ope=
ned
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 ov=
er
it, slipped the key into his pocket.
"What are you at there?" said the wo=
man
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 cau=
ght
her there."
"Just like your nasty low ways again,&quo=
t;
she said. "You've got some game on. I'll be bound that you have got so=
me
game on."
Mr. Quest seated himself again, and without ta=
king
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 f=
or
that if I know it. Why, I owe all that at this moment."
"You had better sit down and be quiet,&qu=
ot;
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 ass=
ociate
of yours out in the street asking you to lend him another 'fiver.' You comp=
lain
of poverty and you have had over four hundred pounds from me this year alon=
e,
and I know that you earn twelve pounds a week at the music hall, and not fi=
ve
as you say. No, do not trouble to lie to me, for I have made enquiries.&quo=
t;
"Spying again," said the woman with a
sneer.
"Yes, spying, if you like; but there it i= s. And now to the point--I am not going on supplying you with money at this ra= te. 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."<= o:p>
Once more she sat up. "You must be mad,&q=
uot;
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 f=
ifty
pounds a year, I, /your legal wife?/ I'll have you in the dock first, in th=
e dock
for bigamy."
"Yes," he answered, "I do belie=
ve
it for a reason that I shall give you presently. But first I want to go tho=
ugh
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 m=
ade
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 witho=
ut a
word as to our marriage, which we both looked on a farce, and for years I l=
ost
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 fe=
ll
in love, and whose fortune, though not large, was enough to help me conside=
rably
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 marri=
ed
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 t=
o the
validity of the former marriage, which, to my horror, I found was undoubted=
ly 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 de=
mand
more. I believe you will admit that this is a truthful statement of the cas=
e,"
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,&q=
uot;
she went on, raising her voice and drawing up her thin lips so as to show t=
he
white teeth beneath. "So you thought that you were going to play it do=
wn
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 l=
ive
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 wel=
l 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 m=
ost
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 l=
ips,
when he sprang upon her, and placing the sharp point of the knife against h=
er
throat, pricked her with it. "Be quiet," he said, "or you ar=
e 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 h=
usky
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 tha=
t.
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 fi=
fty
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 eit=
her
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 hav=
e 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 dr=
iven
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 sw=
ear
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 h=
ave
been from your youth up, and a liar you will be to the end. Do you understa=
nd
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 sup=
port
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 1=
st
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 de=
ad
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 th=
us,
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 a=
s 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 s=
han'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 br=
oke
out into a flood of language such as would neither be pretty to hear nor go=
od
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.
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 th=
ough
ten years had been lifted off his back. He had taken a great and terrible d=
ecision
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 straine=
d as
ever.
Now that the reader is in the secret of Mr.
Quest's life, it will perhaps help him to understand the apparent strangene=
ss
of his conduct with reference to his wife and Edward Cossey. It is quite tr=
ue
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 def=
ence
wherewith she could and would have given blow for blow. This state of affai=
rs
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 wi=
th
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 fa=
ct
which it was impossible for him to explain except by admission of guilt whi=
ch
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 concep=
tion,
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 becaus=
e 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 existe=
nce,
his tiger wife and the fair woman who was his wife in name, constantly marc=
hed
side by side before him, blotting out the beauty from every scene and souri=
ng the
sweetness of every joy. But if in his pain he thirsted for revenge upon Bel=
le,
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 o=
ne
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 inju=
re
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 receive=
d.
Mr. Quest was no doubt a bad man; his whole li=
fe
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 agai=
n.
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 min=
d 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 vario=
us
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 happ=
y 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 g=
reat
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. Eve=
ry
time she saw her father bustling about with his business matters and his
parchments, every time the universal George arrived with an air of melancho=
ly
satisfaction and a long list of the farming stock and implements he had bou=
ght
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 mai=
d,
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 th=
e 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 cha=
ir
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 s=
tare
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 rea=
der
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 h=
ad
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 writt=
en
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 wh=
ereabouts
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 cou=
nty
news--it read that Colonel Quaritch had gone raving mad.
Ten minutes afterwards this raving lunatic arr=
ived
at the Castle in dress clothes and his right mind, whereon Ida promptly
repeated her thrilling history, somewhat to the subsequent discomfort of Mr=
s. 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 produ=
ce.
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 stri=
kes
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 tak=
ing
them off when he went to bed. His love was deep enough and steady enough, b=
ut perhaps
it did not possess that wild impetuosity which carries people so far in the=
ir
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 necessitie=
s of
man. Still, there is something attractive about torrents. There is a grande=
ur
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 lia=
ble
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 enjoy=
ed a
pleasant as well as a good dinner. The Squire, who of late had been cheerfu=
l as
a cricket, was in his best form, and told long stories with an infinitesima=
l 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 a=
bout
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 wel=
l 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 particu=
lar
account of how his deceased aunt, Mrs. Massey, had been persuaded by a lear=
ned 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 expressi=
on
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 wa=
y 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, no=
dded
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 c=
ould
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 o=
wn,
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 th=
at 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 th=
e 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 Quarit=
ch.
Ida went on singing almost without a break--to outward appearance, at any r=
ate,
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 wa=
s 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 gro=
und Not fail beneath my fe=
et Before my life has found=
What some have found so
sweet."
The s=
ong is
a lovely one, nor did it suffer from her rendering, and the effect it produ=
ced
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 unmeas=
ured
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 bu=
ried
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, lea=
ving
him broken.
She turned to him, smiling faintly, for the so=
ng
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 gro=
und Not fail beneath my fe=
et Before my life has found=
What some have found so
sweet;"
and t=
hen
suddenly broke off.
"Why are you looking at me?" she sai=
d.
"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 c=
ould
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.
At last she spoke, apparently with a great eff=
ort.
"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 love=
ly
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 broug=
ht
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 li=
ttle
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 dri=
ft
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 an=
xiously
at her face, which was set and drawn as though with pain.
"I cannot say 'yes,' Colonel Quaritch,&qu=
ot;
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 t=
hat
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 t=
he
heart out of him.
"I do not understand," he went on.
"Why?"
"Why?" she broke in with a bitter li=
ttle
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 wo=
uld
have killed him. So you see I did what unfortunate women have often been dr=
iven
to do, I sold myself body and soul; and I got a good price too--thirty thou=
sand
pounds!" and suddenly she burst into a flood of tears, and began to so=
b as
though her heart would break.
For a moment Harold Quaritch looked on bewilde=
red,
not in the least understanding what Ida meant, and then he followed the imp=
ulse
common to mankind in similar circumstances and took her in his arms. She di=
d 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 sa=
id,
"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 serv=
ing
me in so doing--I can rely upon you never to reveal to anybody, and above a=
ll
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 w=
hat
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 c=
ould
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 wom=
an
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 answe=
red
grimly; "by heaven I honour you for what you have done, for however mu=
ch 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 l=
ike
it; and for money too! The thing is beyond me."
"At any rate," she answered, "t=
here
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 touche=
d it
gently with his lips.
"Meanwhile," she went on, "I ha=
ve
your promise, and I am sure that you will not betray it, come what may.&quo=
t;
"No," he said, "I will not betr=
ay
it."
And they went in.
In the drawing-room they found the Squire puzz=
ling
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 hie=
roglyphics
as they did to those in use to-day.
"Hullo!" he said, "there you ar=
e.
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, "per=
haps
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 th=
is
stupid fellow to do it."
Ida took the sheet of paper and added it up, w=
ith
the result that she discovered both totals to be wrong. Harold, watching he=
r,
wondered at the nerve of a woman who, after going through such a scene as t=
hat 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 succe=
eded.
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 seven=
s,
came the other side of the shield. Of what use to him was it to have won th=
is sweet
woman's love, of what use to have put this pure water of happiness to his l=
ips
in the desert of his lonely life, only to see the cup that held it shattere=
d 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 m=
an 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 fat=
her
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 Coss=
ey came
forward to claim his bond it would be paid down to the last farthing. It wa=
s 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 n=
ot
claim his flesh and blood. But where was it to come from? He himself was wo=
rth
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 he=
avy 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 la=
y 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 bec=
ome
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 ov=
er
her head when she was herself more or less in a passive condition, and ther=
efore
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 g=
reat
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 poun=
ds
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 t=
hat
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 t=
he
wife of Edward Cossey.
It was on the day following the one upon which
Harold proposed to Ida, that Edward Cossey returned to Boisingham. His fath=
er
had so far recovered from his attack as to be at last prevailed upon to all=
ow
his departure, being chiefly moved thereto by the supposition that Cossey a=
nd
Son's branch establishments were suffering from his son's absence.
"Well," he said, in his high, pierci=
ng
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 o=
ne
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-po=
t, 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; y=
ou
go and look after the honey, Edward. Money-- honey, honey--money, they rhym=
e,
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 p=
ay
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 m=
oment
and a constant source of expense to us."
And so Edward bade his estimable parent farewe=
ll
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 oppor=
tunity
should serve. Mrs. Quest, in her numerous affectionate letters, had more th=
an
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 coo=
led
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 pass=
ion
grew, and with it a vigorous undergrowth of jealousy. He had, it is true, I=
da's
implied promise that she would marry him if he chose to ask her, but on thi=
s he
put no great reliance. Hence his hurry to return to Boisingham.
Leaving London by an afternoon train, he reach=
ed
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 Bell=
e alone
in the drawing-room, for her husband, having come in late, was still dressi=
ng,
but somewhat to his relief he had no opportunity of private conversation wi=
th
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 excus=
ed
himself, saying that he had promised to attend a local concert in aid of th=
e 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 b= ut too well accustomed, and, if the truth must be told, heartily tired. His mood w= as an irritable one, and to-night the whole thing wearied him beyond bearing.<= o:p>
"Come, Belle," he said at last,
"for goodness' sake be a little more rational. You are getting too old=
for
this sort of tomfoolery, you know."
She sprang up and faced him, her eyes flashing=
and
her breast heaving with jealous anger. "What do you mean?" she sa=
id.
"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 ag=
ain
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 o=
ur
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 wo=
uld,
a look of relief struggled into his face. She saw it, and it stung her almo=
st
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 /ther=
e/ I
draw the line. You may leave me if you like, but you shall not marry Ida wh=
ile
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 Moll=
e?
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 a=
ll
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 han=
d 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 ti=
ll
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 moa=
ned bitterly,
weeping for the past, and weeping, too, for the long desolate years that we=
re
to come. Poor woman! whatever was the measure of her sin it had assuredly f=
ound
her out, as our sins always do find us out in the end. She had loved this m=
an
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 th=
an
many women do in their whole lives. But the paroxysm passed, and she rose p=
ale
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 positi=
on,
which he did seriously, on the following morning, he did not find it very s=
atisfactory.
To begin with, he was not altogether a heartless man, and such a scene as t=
hat
which he had passed through on the previous evening was in itself quite eno=
ugh
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 suffe=
red,
for neither men nor women who have intentionally or otherwise been the caus=
e of
intense mental anguish to one of the opposite sex ever do quite realise thi=
s.
They, not unnaturally, measure the trouble by the depth of their own, and a=
re
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 wi=
ll
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 man=
ner
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 thr=
eatened
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 oc=
cult
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 a=
ttempt
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 w=
ould
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 awa=
y.
Nor did he seriously believe that she would attempt anything of the sort. I=
t is
one thing for a woman to make such threats in the acute agony of her jealou=
sy,
and quite another for her to carry them out in cold blood. Looking at the m=
atter
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 violen=
tly,
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, conscie=
nce,
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 h=
and.
For day by day the strong desire to make Ida his wife had grown upon him, t=
ill
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 th=
at
Colonel Quaritch had been beforehand with him, had blown it into a flame. I=
da
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, Mr=
s.
Quest or no Mrs. Quest, he would stake his fortune upon the hazard of the d=
ie,
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 win=
dy
day, the rain was on her cheek, and the wind tossed a little lock of her br=
own
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 mig=
ht
have lingered in his mind, vanished. Yes, he would claim her promise and ma=
rry
her.
Presently the pony carriage pulled up at his d=
oor,
and the boy who was sitting behind got down and rang the bell. He stepped b=
ack
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 wan=
ts
me to do a little partridge driving," it ended, "and to brush thr=
ough
one or two of the small coverts. There will only be Colonel Quaritch beside=
s 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.&qu=
ot;
"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."
The next morning was fine and still, one of th=
ose
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 aga=
inst
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 t=
he
pride of the country side, and so quiet was the air that not a leaf upon th=
em
stirred. The only sounds that reached his ears were the tappings of the
nut-hutches 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 th=
ere
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 formatio=
n,
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 peop=
le
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 with=
out
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, witho=
ut
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 y=
oung
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?" s=
he
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 b=
e mistaken.
Sometimes it is only perceptible to the favoured individual himself, but mo=
re
generally is to be discerned by any person of ordinary shrewdness. A very s=
hort
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 u=
nspeakably
happy to see it.
"Are you fond of shooting?" she asked
presently.
"Yes, very, and have been all my life.&qu=
ot;
"Are you a good shot?" she asked aga=
in.
"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 o=
ut
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 y=
ou
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 h=
orse
drew up at the door with a prodigious crunching of gravel, and Edward himse=
lf
entered, looking very handsome and rather pale. He was admirably dressed, t=
hat is
to say, his shooting clothes were beautifully made and very new- looking, a=
nd
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 alwa=
ys
appear to have just walked out of a sporting tailor's shop, and to this cla=
ss
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 ma=
ker,
and the best that could be had for love or money, having cost exactly a hun=
dred
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 tw=
eed
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 t=
he
Colonel was advancing to give him his hand, he turned and spoke to the Squi=
re,
who had at length finished his letter, so that no greeting was passed betwe=
en 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 w=
ork.
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 tal=
ked
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 Frenchm=
an
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 bir=
ds
rose rather awkwardly at about forty paces straight in front of Edward Coss=
ey,
and Harold noticed that he left them alone, never attempting to fire at the=
m.
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 the=
ir
average.
Then George, who was a very fair shot of the
"poking" order, fired both barrels and got a bird, and Edward Cos=
sey
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 bra=
ce
of old birds sprang up out of the turnips in front of him at about thirty y=
ards
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 y=
ards
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 f=
or 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 particul=
arly
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 pheasa=
nt
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 cou=
ld
avoid it. The exception was a woodcock which rose in front of George, who w=
as
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 everybo=
dy
has been popping at?) down it came with a thump almost at his feet.
This was their last beat before lunch, which w=
as
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 sun=
dry
that they were not to shoot in his direction. Edward gave his gun to his be=
arer
and at once walked off to join them, but the Colonel went with George to lo=
ok
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 fo=
und
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 t=
he
luncheon ready, while one of the beaters was laying out the game for the Sq=
uire
to inspect. There were fourteen pheasants, four brace and a half of partrid=
ges,
a hare, three rabbits, and a woodcock.
"Hullo," said the Squire, "who =
shot
the woodcock?"
"Well, sir," said George, "we a=
ll
had a pull at him, but the Colonel wiped our eyes."
"Oh, Mr. Cossey," said Ida, in affec=
ted
surprise, "why, I thought you never missed /anything/."
"Everybody misses sometimes," answer=
ed
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.<= o:p>
"Now, do you hear that, Colonel
Quaritch?" went on Ida. "I have bet Mr. Cossey a pair of gloves t=
hat
you will kill more partridges this afternoon than he will, so I hope you wo=
n't
make me lose them."
"Goodness gracious," said the Colone=
l,
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 anythi=
ng.
Besides," he said with some irritation, "I don't like being set u=
p 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 y=
ou
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 I=
da
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 hav=
en't
got a loader."
"Never mind. I'll do that, I know all abo=
ut
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 posit=
ion,
third position. We used to have regular drills at it," and she sighed.=
The Colonel laughed heartily, for it was a cur=
ious
thing to see this stately woman handling a gun with all the skill and quick=
ness
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 esta=
te, whereon
Ida said that she should stop and see something of the shooting, and the fun
began.
They began the afternoon with several small
drives, but on the whole the birds did very badly. They broke back, went of=
f to
one side or the other, and generally misbehaved themselves. In the first dr=
ive
the Colonel and Edward Cossey got a bird each. In the second drive the latt=
er
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 mus=
t be
told, he was talking to Ida at the moment and did not see them till too lat=
e.
Then came a longer drive, when the birds were
pretty plentiful. The Colonel got one, a low-flying Frenchman, which he kil=
led
as he topped the fence, and after that for the life of him he could not tou=
ch 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 th=
ere
came distant cries of "/Mark! mark over!/" followed by the appari=
tion
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 t=
he
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 h=
eart
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," s=
aid
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 the=
y'll
come of themselves like. You're a better shot than he is a long way; you co=
uld
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 tha=
t he
was not accustomed to partridge-driving, and that one of the guns was new t=
o 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 strai=
ght
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 wa=
s 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 h=
ad
sprung up. One went to the left over Edward Cossey's head, and he shot it v=
ery
neatly, but the other, catching sight of Harold's hat beneath the fence, wh=
ich
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 ha=
nded
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 s=
ent
another barrel after them, hitting a third bird, which did not fall. And th=
en a
noble enthusiasm and certainty possessed him, and he knew that he should mi=
ss
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 dre=
ams,
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 hund=
red
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 I=
da,
kneeling at his side, her lips apart, and her beautiful eyes wide open, wat=
ched
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 somet=
hing
over fifty yards away, and he knows full well that if there is to be a chan=
ce
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 o=
h,
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 pre=
tty
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, whi=
le
something resembling a smile stole over his melancholy countenance, "if
that bean't the masterest bit of shooting that ever I did see. Lord Walsing=
ham
couldn't hardly beat that hisself--fifteen empty cases and twelve birds pic=
ked
up. Why," and he turned to Edward, "bless me, sir, if I don't bel=
ieve
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, y=
es,
he hev seven brace, one bird to the good."
"There, Mr. Cossey," said Ida, smili=
ng
sweetly, "I have won my gloves. Mind you don't forget to pay them.&quo=
t;
"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 bl=
ood
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 be=
aten
by a middle-aged soldier shooting with a strange gun, and totally unaccusto=
med
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.&q=
uot;
"I think that you are rather hard on
him," said the Colonel, for the joke had an unpleasant side which jarr=
ed
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 muc=
h 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 look=
ing
at her handsome face, set just now like steel at the thought of what the fu=
ture
might bring forth, he reflected that if Edward Cossey's turn did come he wa=
s by
no means sure that the ultimate triumph would rest with him. Ida de la Moll=
e,
to whatever extent her sense of honour and money indebtedness might carry h=
er,
was no butterfly to be broken on a wheel, but a woman whose dislike and ang=
er,
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. Th= ey 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--whi= ther 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 pat= h 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.<= o:p>
And so they talked about painting and shooting=
and
what not, till they reached the grey old Castle towers. Here Harold wanted =
to
bid her good-bye, but she persuaded him to come in and have some tea, sayin=
g 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 t=
he
Squire and Ida, and then passed towards the door, where the Colonel was sta=
nding,
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 fluk=
e of
mine killing those four birds."
Edward Cossey took no notice of the friendly w=
ords
or outstretched hand, but came straight on as though he intended to walk pa=
st
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 th= at I have a right to ask the reason for his conduct, which, unless that reason i= s a very sufficient one, is almost as much a slight upon me as upon him."<= o:p>
"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 thi=
s is
not the reason to which I allude," said Edward. "If he consults h=
is
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 y=
ou
leave this room you will be so good as to explain it in the presence of tho=
se
before whom it has been made."
"Certainly, if you wish it," he
answered, with something like a sneer. "The reason why I refused to ta=
ke
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, a= s a consequence of which she went mad, and is to this moment an inmate of an asylum."<= o:p>
Ida gave an exclamation of astonishment, and t=
he
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 J=
ulia
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 t=
hose
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 public=
ly
as you have accused me."
"You may require, but whether I shall com=
ply
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 th=
at apology,
I shall have to consider what course to take. In the meanwhile I can only a=
sk
you to suspend your judgment."
On the following morning, about ten o'clock, w=
hile
Edward Cossey was still at breakfast, a dog-cart drew up at his door and ou=
t of
it stepped Colonel Quaritch.
"Now for the row," said he to himsel=
f.
"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 pou=
red 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 Col=
onel
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 conduc=
t 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 shor=
t of
necessity would force me to tell it. I was, when quite young, engaged to yo=
ur 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 unexpectedl=
y 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 t=
hat
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 u=
p,
got off the sofa, and I saw that she was intoxicated."
"It's a lie!" said Edward excitedly.=
"Be careful what you say, sir," answ=
ered
the Colonel, "and wait to say it till I have done."
"As soon as I realised what was the matte=
r, I
left the room again, and going down to your grandfather's study, where he w=
as
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 wa=
s 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 ap=
peared,
too, that the habit was hereditary, for her mother had died from the effect=
s 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, w=
hich
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 ma=
d,
and now you are trying to shelter yourself behind a tissue of falsehood.&qu=
ot;
"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 clea=
rest
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 ot=
her
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 t=
he
remarks that were freely made upon my behaviour, I kept it, as it was my du=
ty
to do. You, Mr. Cossey, are the first person to whom the story has been tol=
d. And
now that you have thought fit to make accusations against me, which are wit=
hout
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 her=
eby
apologise to Colonel Quaritch for
having made them."
"=
;And
supposing that I refuse to sign," said Edward sulkily.
"I do not think," answered the Colon=
el,
"that you will refuse."
Edward looked at Colonel Quaritch, and the Col=
onel
looked at Edward.
"Well," said the Colonel, "plea=
se
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 enve=
lope
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 caref=
ul,
both of your facts and the manner of your accusations," and with a sli=
ght
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 si=
gn.
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 v=
ery
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 work=
ing,
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 confused=
ly,
"that I should have put myself in such a false position. I hope that y=
ou
will give me credit for having believed my accusation when I made it."=
"Such accusations should not be lightly m=
ade,
Mr. Cossey," was her answer, and, as though to turn the subject, she r=
ose
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 h=
er
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 t=
hing
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 a=
nd
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--a=
bout
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 y=
ou
understood me."
"I understood you perfectly," answer=
ed
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 w=
ere
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 co=
uld
say or do would lessen that dislike by one jot--probably, indeed, it would =
only
intensify it.
Presently he stopped, his breast heaving and h=
is
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 ha=
ve
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 abru=
ptly
and finally refused than one declared chosen. He stood still and looked at =
her.
"I think it right to tell you, however,&q=
uot;
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 fi=
rst time
she looked up at him with more anxiety in her face than she would have care=
d to
show.
But if she hoped that her coldness would repel
him, she was destined to be disappointed. On the contrary, like water throw=
n 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 voi=
ce
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 te=
rms,
and that is the truth. I have, however, one thing to ask of you, Ida, and i=
t is
that you will keep our engagement secret for the present, and get your fath=
er
(I suppose I must speak to him) to do the same. I have reasons," he we=
nt 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 unconne=
cted
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 ta=
lk
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 t=
his
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 y=
ou
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 con=
sent
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 kn=
ow 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 th=
at
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 ti=
me
usually allowed for the redemption of a mortgage."
"You say very hard things," he answe=
red,
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 t=
he
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 mu=
ch
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 hav=
e a
right to dictate to me as to whom I shall associate with. At present you ha=
ve
no such right, and if it pleases me to associate with Colonel Quaritch, I s=
hall
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, f=
or
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 h=
im
and she was left alone.
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 mu=
st
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 happ=
ened
that when she became attached to Colonel Quaritch she had found her heart f=
or
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 bef=
ore 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 w=
ord
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 t=
hus
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 descenda=
nts,
if she had any, and that was all that could be said.
She thought and thought, wishing in the bitter=
ness
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, tho=
ugh 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 w=
est
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 turmoi=
l 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 o=
pen
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 w=
et.
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 ga=
le,
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 a=
cross
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 alabaste=
r, 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, nea=
rly
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 y=
onder
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 to=
mbs.
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 l=
ook
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 wonder=
ful,
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 so=
bbed
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 ratt=
led
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 pessimis=
tic
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 in=
deed
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, beg=
an
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 dece=
ived
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 somebo=
dy
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 fusee=
s,
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 s=
ob;
"it's the rain that has made my face wet."
Just then the light burnt out and he dropped i=
t.
"What is it, dear, what is it?" he s=
aid
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 f=
or
Harold's broad shoulder, and was finishing her "cry" there.
Now to see a young and pretty woman weeping (m=
ore
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, i=
f, as
in the present case, you happen to worship her, more, perhaps, than it is g=
ood
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 sw=
eet
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 sa=
id
in a low voice, "I am engaged to Mr. Cossey."
Then, for about the first time in his life, Ha=
rold
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 t=
he
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 Haro=
ld
again, and groaned in his bitterness and jealousy.
"Is there nothing to be done?" he as=
ked
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 indivi=
dual
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 suffe=
ring
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. Y=
ou
won't forget me, Harold, will you? And though it must be all over between u=
s,
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 ti=
mes,
Ida."
"Yes, indeed I will. We all have our burd=
ens
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 bette=
r go
then. Say that you won't go till then, and you will let me see you sometime=
s;
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 y=
ou
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 fo=
rget
you," he answered. "Good-bye, my love, good-bye!"
In another minute she had vanished into the st=
orm
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 meetin=
g,
and had only just got home.
"Why, Ida," he said, "I could n=
ot
find you anywhere. I met George as I was driving from Boisingham, and he to=
ld
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, speaki=
ng
off-hand, I think that notwithstanding the disparity of age, Quaritch----&q=
uot;
"No, no," she said, wincing visibly,
"I am not engaged to Colonel Quaritch, I am engaged to Mr. Cossey.&quo=
t;
"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,&q=
uot;
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.
Edward Cossey did not come away from the scene=
of
his engagement in a very happy or triumphant tone of mind. Ida's bitter wor=
ds
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 ha=
d 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 lo=
ve,
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 t=
hat
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 rema=
rked,
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 lo=
t 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 th=
ey
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 ca=
me
to the conclusion that Ida would soon get over her repugnance to marrying h=
im, when
she found how many comforts and good things marriage with so rich a man wou=
ld
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, unf=
ortunately
for his reasoning, there exist members of her sex who are by nature of an o=
rder
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 holine=
ss
than anything else about us. Such a woman, more especially if she is alread=
y 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 Id=
a de
la Molle.
Edward Cossey, when he reached Boisingham on t=
he
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 busine=
ss. Accordingly,
at half-past ten o'clock, he arrived and was shown into the vestibule, wher=
e 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 y=
ou,
subject to my consent, of course; but really the whole thing is so sudden t=
hat
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 a=
s 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 d=
eath
of my father, which cannot now be long delayed, to settle two hundred thous=
and
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 offe=
rs
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 mor=
e 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 f=
or
another three months. If the engagement is announced to him now, at the bes=
t I
shall have a great deal of trouble, and at the worst he might make me suffe=
r 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 Mo=
lle
of Honham Castle, being hushed up as though there were something discredita=
ble
about it, but still there may be peculiar circumstances in the case which w=
ould
justify me in consenting to that course. You are both old enough to know yo=
ur
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 be=
ing announced
for the next month or two."
"Thank you for considering me so much,&qu=
ot;
said Edward with a sigh of relief. "Then am I to understand that you g=
ive
your consent to our engagement?"
The Squire reflected for a moment. Everything
seemed quite straight, and yet he suspected crookedness. His latent distrus=
t of
the man, which had not been decreased by the scene of two nights before--fo=
r 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, "h=
ow
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 ma=
n 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 arran=
gements
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 att=
empt
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 thi=
s morning,
and is stopping in bed. It isn't much in her line, but I daresay that she i=
s 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 indifferent=
ly.
"Is Mr. Cossey coming here to dinner?"
"Yes, I asked him. I thought that you wou=
ld
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 sai=
d 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 cau=
ght
by the money, I should think. Well, I know nothing about it; it is no affai=
r of
mine, and I can only take things as I find them."
And then he fell to reflecting that this marri=
age
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 k=
een
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 chang=
ed
as though by magic. On Ida's marriage all the mortgages, those heavy accumu=
lations
of years of growing expenditure and narrowing means, would roll off the bac=
k 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 hi=
m.
"The fact is, Quest," he went on by =
way
of explanation, "that there are--well--family arrangements pending whi=
ch
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 la=
wyer
on a matter of business; I only consented not to trumpet the thing about.&q=
uot;
"Lawyers are confidential agents," s=
aid
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 Cos=
sey
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 h=
ealth.
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 sho=
ne
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 chan=
ce
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."
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 Cas=
tle,
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 wou=
ld,
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 bet=
ter
of her fear and she would recommence her persecutions. This being so, he ca=
me
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 mig=
ht
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 t=
olerate
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-b=
y,
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 fe=
ars.
"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," answ=
ered
Mr. Quest quietly. He rose and locked the door and then came and stood clos=
e to
her and spoke.
"Listen, Belle. I know all about your aff=
air
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 h=
ours."
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 unfaith=
ful
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 w=
ise
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 a=
way
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 ti=
me
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 tr=
uly
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 h=
er. The
other day Cossey and Son were going to foreclose upon the Honham estates, w=
hich
would have ruined the old gentleman. Well, what did your young man do? He w=
ent
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 tho=
se
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 th=
ing.
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;&qu=
ot;
and she got up, and unlocking the door left the room.
"Yes," he said aloud when she had go=
ne,
"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 ra=
ther
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 yar=
ds
before she found herself face to face with Edward Cossey himself. He was co=
ming
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 c=
all
on Miss de la Molle."
"I don't think that you will find her. Sh=
e 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 ey=
es
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 herse=
lf.
"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 lik=
ing
for each other. In a way they were both strong, and strength always recogni=
ses 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?&q=
uot;
"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 re=
ad
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 reques=
ted
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 n=
ever
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, a=
nd
then suddenly learn what a thing it is to fall in love, and for the first t=
ime
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 hou=
rs
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 u=
pon
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 fee=
l a
little of what /I/ have to feel, and because I have said that he should /no=
t/ 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 ha=
te
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. "Wh=
at
is such a promise as that? He cannot force you to marry him, and it is bett=
er
for a woman to die than to marry a man she hates, especially," she add=
ed
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 see=
m 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. Wo=
men
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), &quo=
t;if
you think me capable of such conduct. You have nothing to fear from me.&quo=
t;
She held out her hand, but in her humility and
shame, Belle went without taking it, and through the angry sunset light wal=
ked
slowly back to Boisingham. And as she walked there was a look upon her face=
that
Edward Cossey would scarcely have cared to see.
All that afternoon and far into the evening Mr.
Quest was employed in drafting, and with his own hand engrossing on parchme=
nt
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 Castl=
e 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 conversat=
ion
for her father, who seemed to have caught the contagion of restraint, and w=
as,
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 irresisti=
ble
aversion which chilled him to the marrow.
These qualities were indeed so much more plain=
ly
developed towards himself than they had been before, that at last a convict=
ion
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 strai=
ght
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 ha=
ve
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 contract=
ing 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 fro=
zen
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 perch=
ance
many other delights, and like the explorer again, he was, metaphorically, r=
eady
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 entai=
led,
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 morning=
s 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," t=
he
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 whi=
le
my father lives. They don't entail cash and bank shares, you know, and thou=
gh
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.&q=
uot;
"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 t=
hat
the light, which was to his back, struck full upon Edward Cossey's face, be=
gan
to deliberately untie and sort his bundle of papers. Presently he came to t=
he
one he wanted--a letter. It was not an original letter, but a copy. "W=
ill
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 t=
ook
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 h=
is fingers
to the carpet, where it lay smouldering. Nor was this wonderful, for the le=
tter
was a copy of one of Belle's most passionate epistles to himself. He had ne=
ver
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 origi=
nal
document."
He made no answer.
"Now," went on Mr. Quest, handing hi=
m a
second paper, "here is the copy of another letter, of which the origin=
al
is in your handwriting."
Edward looked at it. It was an intercepted let=
ter
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 t=
he
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 wil=
l,
of course, in accordance with the provisions of the Act, be joined as co-re=
spondent.
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 p=
aper
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 wou=
ld
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 se=
cond
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 therefor=
e 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," answer=
ed
Edward Cossey, "I wish to ask you a question. Is there no way out of t=
his?
Supposing that I have done you a wrong, wrong admits of compensation."=
"Yes, it does, Mr. Cossey, and I have tho=
ught
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 Honh=
am
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 s=
hall
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 poin=
ted
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 beco=
me
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 w=
ould
take money. A little time ago I would not have taken it because I wanted th=
at
property; now I have changed my ideas. But as you yourself said, your credi=
t 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 k=
eep
them. What shall I say to Ida?"
"Say? Say nothing. You can meet them if y=
ou
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 wi=
ll
be ruin. Have you made up your mind? You must take my offer or leave it. Si=
gn 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 sa=
id,
"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 w=
ere
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 con=
tents
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 t=
hat
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 t=
hey had
all done signing.
Then Edward Cossey signed, and placing his thu=
mb
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 th=
at
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 t=
he
letters, and then with a savage oath flung them into the fire and watched t=
hem
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.&quo=
t;
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 b=
een subjected,
he was face to face with a new difficulty. Either he must make a clean brea=
st
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 d=
id
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 wil=
d career.
From dishonour to dishonour shall he go till at length, in due season, he r=
eaps
as he has sown.
Some two or three days before the scene descri=
bed
in the last chapter the faithful George had suddenly announced his desire to
visit London.
"What?" said the Squire in astonishm=
ent,
for George had never been known to go out of his own county before. "W=
hy,
what on earth are you going to do in London?"
"Well, Squire," answered his retaine=
r,
looking marvellously knowing, "I don't rightly know, but there's a che=
ap
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 s=
elf-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 Stre=
et
Station, which he found with the help of a friendly porter. Thence he set o=
ut
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 adventu=
res
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 drea=
d of
having his pocket picked, seeking reaping machines and discovering none, ti=
ll
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 litt=
le
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 fami=
liar
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 lo=
oked
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 th=
e Tiger
herself, and her companion was the coarse, dreadful-looking man called John=
nie,
whom she had sent away in the cab on the night of Mr. Quest's visit.
"Oh," Johnnie was saying, "so Q=
uest
is his name, is it, and he lives in a city called Boisingham, does he? Is h=
e 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 h=
ere,
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 g=
ot
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.&qu=
ot;
"'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 cou=
ld
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.&qu=
ot;
"Well, you may as well stand a drink firs=
t,"
said the adored one. "I'm pretty dry, I can tell you."
"Certainly, with pleasure; I will order o=
ne.
Waiter, a brandy-and-soda for this lady--/six/ of brandy, if you please; sh=
e's
very delicate and wants support."
The waiter grinned and brought the drink and t=
he
man Johnnie turned round as though to pay him, but really he went without d=
oing
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 d=
rew
up like a slug's horns. Hang me if I don't stick to her till I find out a b=
it
more of the tale."
Thus ruminated George, who, be it observed, wa=
s 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 wait=
er
swooped down upon her.
"Money please, miss," he said.
"Money!" she said, "why you're
paid."
"Come, none of that," said the waite=
r.
"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 we=
nt
away."
"Oh, we've had too much of that game,&quo=
t;
said the waiter, beckoning to a constable, to whom, in spite of the "f=
air
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 c=
hance
my name is not Edith d'Aubigne, the nasty mean beast--the----"
"Permit me, marm," said George, putt=
ing
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 n=
ot
far off it.
Shortly after this the building was cleared, a=
nd
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 Geo=
rge,
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 ma=
de 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 hi=
m--and
was ushered by the woman with a simper into the gilded drawing-room.
Here the Tiger had another brandy-and-soda, af=
ter
which George thought that she was about in a fit state for him to prosecute=
his
inquiries.
"Wonderful place this Lunnon, marm; I niv=
er
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----&quo=
t;
"Hullo, what's that?" she said. &quo=
t;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 d=
own
the glass.
"What! Laryer Quest? Well I should say th=
at
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 shil=
ling
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," sa=
id
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?" s=
aid
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. Bartholo=
mew'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 hims=
elf,
"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 d=
euce
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 appropr=
iate
terms, as according to the newspaper reports people whose healths are propo=
sed
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 stat=
e 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 t=
ime
that 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 him=
self
in Honham wood. He seized it. "Now, boar," he said, "I'll te=
ach
you how we do the trick where I come from," and he laid on without mer=
cy.
/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 wa=
s of
no use, the ash came down like fate; never was a Johnnie so bastinadoed bef=
ore.
"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 la=
st,
"I'm thinking I've pretty nigh whacked you to dead. Perhaps you'll lar=
n 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 str=
eet
crossed over and listened.
They were at it again. Seeing her enemy prostr=
ate
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 coul=
d,
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 m=
ade
certain investigations in the registers, the results of which were not unsa=
tisfactory
to him.
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 i=
t is
represented to be in, let us say, the Christmas number of an illustrated pa=
per.
How well we can imagine the thoughtful inhabitant of this country Anno Domi=
ni
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-s=
ixth
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 chil=
d of
light and civilisation, envy you your long-forgotten days! Here in these ru=
de
drawings, which in themselves reveal the extraordinary capacity for pleasure
possessed by the early races, who could look upon them and gather gratifica=
tion
from the sight, may we trace your joyous career from the cradle to the grav=
e.
Here you figure as a babe, at whose appearance everybody seems delighted, e=
ven
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 los=
t 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!&qu=
ot;
So will some unborn /laudator temporis acti/ s=
peak
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 continua=
lly
be, for however apparently happy the lot of individuals, it is not altogeth=
er 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 churchy=
ard,
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 lo=
nger
strives, for a little while he floats, and then at last, morally or physica=
lly,
he vanishes. We struggle for our livelihoods, and for all that makes life w=
orth
living in the material sense, and not the less are we called upon to strugg=
le
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 rec=
all
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 vani=
shed
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 nigh=
t,
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 li=
ght
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 arro=
w so
sharp as that which pierced him now. He was no longer young, it is true, an=
d therefore
did not feel that intense agony of disappointed passion, that sickening sen=
se
of utter loss which in such circumstances sometimes settle on the young. Bu=
t 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 a=
nd
he or she who caused it with wonder, yes even with scorn and bitter laughte=
r.
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 r=
est
of our days we are numb and cold, for Time has no salve to heal us.
These things Harold realised most clearly in t=
he
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 han=
d,
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 th=
ey
had passed from him into the ownership of another man?
On the day following that upon which Edward Co= ssey 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 considera= ble 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, an= d 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 bl= ackbirds 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 someth= ing 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.<= o:p>
It was on this same morning that Edward Cossey=
got
a letter which disturbed him not a little. It was from Belle Quest, and ran
thus:
"Dear Mr. Cossey,--Will you come ov=
er 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 wa=
s 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 wa=
s shown
into the drawing-room at the Oaks. Mrs. Quest was not there; indeed he wait=
ed 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 curi=
ous
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 sile=
nce
before the storm, and when she spoke her words were keen, and quick, and vi=
vid.
She did not shake hands with him, but sat down=
and
looked at him, slowly fanning herself with a painted ivory fan which she to=
ok
up from the table.
"You sent for me, Belle, and here I am,&q=
uot;
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 d=
e 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," s=
he
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 nig=
ht.
You----"
"Then it is true," she broke in cold=
ly.
"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 ha=
ve
no hold over me, and no claim upon me. As it is I have suffered enough at y=
our
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 bre=
ath.
"And now look here," he went on.
"Once and for all, I will not be interfered with by you. I /am/ engage=
d 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 m=
e? I
will not allow it."
She had been holding the fan before her face w=
hile
he spoke. Now she lowered it and looked at him. Her face was paler than eve=
r,
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. &qu=
ot;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 do=
or
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 walke=
d 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 w=
all 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 he=
r 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 s=
nipe
from his capacious coat tails. "I wonder what it is."
Just then Mr. Quest and Edward Cossey passed o=
ut
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 n=
ever
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 d=
ark
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 a=
ngle
of a snipe's wing.
"Is that the new gun, Colonel Quaritch?&q=
uot;
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 t=
o a
little slide above the locks on which the word "safe" was engrave=
d in
gold letters.
"Oh, that's the safety bolt," he sai=
d.
"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 suiti=
ng
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 sh=
oot
with it myself."
Meanwhile Edward Cossey and Mr. Quest, who were
walking up the garden, had separated, Mr. Quest going to the right across t=
he
lawn to pick up a glove which had dropped upon the grass, while Edward Coss=
ey
slowly sauntered towards them. When he was about nine paces off he too halt=
ed and,
stooping a little, looked abstractedly at a white Japanese chrysanthemum wh=
ich
was still in bloom. Mrs. Quest turned, as the Colonel thought, to put the g=
un
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 lea=
pt
from her hands with the recoil, strike against the wall of the house and fa=
ll
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 loo=
ked,
he saw him put his uninjured hand to his head, and, without a word or a sou=
nd,
sink down on the gravel path.
For a second there was silence, and the blue s=
moke
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 ar=
m,
"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.
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, towar=
ds
staunching the bleeding. It soon, however, became evident that Cossey had o=
nly
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 mu=
st,
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 h=
is
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 tor=
n by
the passage of shot.
"By Jove!" said Mr. Quest, "I t=
hink
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 patien=
t'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 loade=
d,
and that she must be careful, and I thought she had put it down. The next t=
hing
that I heard was the report. It is all my cursed fault for leaving the
cartridges in."
"Ah," said Mr. Quest. "She alwa=
ys
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 t=
he throat,
which had been pierced, and through which Edward Cossey was rapidly bleedin=
g to
death. By the time that this was done the other doctor, an older man, put i=
n an
appearance, and together they made a rapid examination of the injuries.
Belle stood by holding a basin of water. She d=
id
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 doct=
ors
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 certain=
ly
lose the hearing of the right ear."
When she heard this Belle sank down upon a cha=
ir
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 coun=
sel
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 nurs=
e 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 w=
ith
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 kin=
dly,
"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 ca=
ught
him by the arm.
"Will he die?" she said almost fierc=
ely.
"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 t=
ell
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 M=
rs.
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, ca=
lls
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&q=
uot;
clearly then was the "only thing she loved," and Edward was secre=
tly
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 t=
he
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 afterno=
on
she and Cossey were alone together, and he had noticed something unusual ab=
out
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 crim=
e?
/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 just=
ice
as we might be, especially when they happen to be young and lovely women. H=
ow
did it go off? She understood guns; he could see that from the way she hand=
led
it. Was it likely that it exploded of itself, or owing to an accidental tou=
ch
of the trigger? It was possible, but not likely. Still, such things have be=
en
known to happen, and it would be very difficult to prove that it had not ha=
ppened
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 Sq=
uire
had gone out but Ida was in, and he was shown into the drawing-room while t=
he
servant went to seek her. Presently he heard her dress rustle upon the stai=
rs, 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 bee=
n an
accident--a very bad accident."
"Who?" she said. "Not my father=
?"
"No, no; Mr. Cossey."
"Oh," she said, with a sigh of relie=
f.
"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 Id=
a,
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 t=
he
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 I=
da
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,&q=
uot;
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 w=
hole
matter would be investigated. Meanwhile one thing was certain, Edward Cosse=
y,
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 h=
eir,
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 litt=
le
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 dou=
bt 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 Har=
old
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. Di=
nner
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 appeti=
te.
As soon as dinner was over the Squire announced
that he should walk into Boisingham to inquire how the wounded man was gett=
ing
on. Shortly afterwards he started, leaving his daughter and Harold alone.
They went into the drawing-room and talked abo=
ut
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 tende=
rness
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 play=
ing
upon her hair, and it was happiness for her to know that he was sitting the=
re and
watching. For the most beautiful aspect of true affection is its accompanyi=
ng
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 jour=
ney
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. "Wil=
l he
live?"
"They cannot say," was the answer.
"But two great doctors have been telegraphed for from London, and will=
be
down to-morrow."
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 bret=
hren
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 n=
ight
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 r=
ung
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 him=
self
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 bega=
n 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 lawye=
r,
and Quest has served a notice on me calling in the money," and he bega=
n 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 di=
d 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 h=
ear
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 f=
ormal
notices calling in the sum of thi=
rty
thousand pounds recently advanced upon the mortgage of the Honham Castle Estates by Edward Cos=
sey,
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 o=
ld
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 a=
m,
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 leavin=
g,
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 accurat=
e, 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 sho=
uld
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 no=
w it
seems that Mr. Cossey has played us false, and that we are to be ruined aft=
er
all. Therefore, the condition upon which I promised to marry him has not be=
en
carried out, and my promise falls to the ground."
"You mean that supposing he lives, you wi=
ll
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 marriag=
e,
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 wil=
l be
possible to raise thirty thousand pounds to pay off the charges unless it i=
s 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 h=
im
we shall be sold up, that is all; for this man Quest, confound him, will sh=
ow
us no mercy."
"I know it, father," answered Ida,
"but I cannot and will not marry him, and I do not think you can expec=
t 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 befo=
re
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 m=
ore,
but I have come to care for some one else who also cares for me, and who th=
erefore
has a right to be considered. Think, father, what it means to a woman to se=
ll
herself into bodily and mental bondage--when she cares for another man.&quo=
t;
"Well, well," said her father with s=
ome
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 l=
ike
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 g=
oing
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 ke=
pt
his word."
"No, no," said her father. "I c=
an't
wonder at it, and certainly I do not ask you to marry a man whom you dislik=
e.
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, d=
idn't
he? I suppose there will not be any public engagement at present, will ther=
e?
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, an=
d 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 h=
ad
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. Nat=
ure
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 promi=
sed
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 t=
hem
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 t=
he
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 conta=
ct
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 y=
outh
has gone.
"Trailing clouds of =
glory
do we come From God, who is our
home."
So sa=
ys the
poet, but alas! the clouds soon melt into the grey air of the world, and so=
me
of us, before our course is finished, forget that they ever were. And yet w=
hich
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 intere=
st
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 dishono=
ur
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 promi=
sed.
The Squire was not in the drawing-room when he was shown in.
Ida rose to greet him with a sweet and happy s=
mile
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," sa=
id
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 litt=
le,
"and now I have a piece of news for you, Colonel Quaritch. My engageme=
nt
with Mr. Edward Cossey is at an end. I shall not marry him."
"Are you sure?" said Harold with a g=
asp.
"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.
Six weeks passed, and in that time several thi=
ngs
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 va=
lue
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 l=
eave
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 fear=
ed 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 fa=
ce
hanging over him, and dimly known that she was ministering to him.
"Have you nursed me ever since the accide=
nt,
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 pass=
ion
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 particula=
r 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 ope=
ned
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 f=
air
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 reme=
mber
that I rightly or wrongly became engaged to you on a certain condition. That condition has n=
ot
been fulfilled, for Mr. Quest, to=
whom
the mortgages on my father's property have been transferred by you, is pressing for the=
ir
payment. Consequently the obligat=
ion 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,
&quo=
t;Very
truly yours, =
"Ida
de la Molle."
He pu=
t down
this uncompromising and crushing epistle and nervously glanced at the Squir=
e's,
which was very short.
"My dear Cossey," it began,--<= o:p>
"=
;Ida
has shown me the inclosed letter. I think that you did unwisely when you entered into what must be call=
ed a
money bargain for my daughter's h=
and.
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 h=
er
life as she thinks fit. This bein=
g 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.
"Believ=
e me,
with kind regards, &=
quot;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 e=
scape,
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 mortga=
ges.
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 i=
s as
good as legions. Money can make most paths smooth to the feet of the travel=
ler,
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 h=
oped
to come and see them as soon as ever the doctor would allow him out of door=
s.
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? T=
hese
be rum times, they be, they fare to puzzle a man, they du."
"Yes," said Mr. Quest, balancing a q=
uill
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. Que=
st
again.
"Well, sir, the fact is that the Squire c=
an't
git the money. It can't be had nohow. Nobody won't take the land as securit=
y.
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 n=
ot
know. If the money is not forthcoming, of course I shall, however unwilling=
ly,
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.&qu=
ot;
"Sir," said George, rising in
indignation, "I don't rightly know how you came by them there mortgage=
s.
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 t=
hat
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 t=
hey fare
as though they were fit to kick the lid off their coffin. That's what I mea=
ns,
sir, and I means that when folk set to work to do a hard and wicked thing t=
hose
dead things sometimes gits up and walks where they is least wanting; and ma=
yhap
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 d=
evil
did he mean?" said Mr. Quest with a gasp as he sat down again.
"Surely," he thought, "that man cannot have got hold of anyt=
hing
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 c=
an
and leave the country; I can't stand the strain, it's like having a sword o=
ver
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 t=
ill
he had taken a couple of glasses of sherry from the decanter in the cupboar=
d.
Even as he did so he wondered if the shadow of the sword disturbed him so m=
uch,
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 t=
he
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 t=
he
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 vestib=
ule
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 he=
lped
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 roo=
m,
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 sai=
d.
"I am glad to see you out, and hope that you are better."
"I beg your pardon, I cannot hear you,&qu=
ot;
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 fir=
st
time since her mental attitude towards him had been one of entire indiffere=
nce,
she looked on him without repugnance.
Meanwhile her father had shaken him by the han=
d,
and led him to an armchair before the fire.
Then after a few questions and answers as to h=
is
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 wou=
ld
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 t=
he
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 d=
e 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 i=
nto
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 offere=
d to
do before, and which, as my father is now dead, I am perfectly in a positio=
n 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 h=
as
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," s=
he
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 statem=
ent.
"Ida," he said, "I make one last
appeal to you. I am devoted to you with all my heart; so devoted that thoug=
h 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," answer=
ed
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 be=
fore
my father."
"Then," he said, rising with difficu=
lty,
"I have said all I have to say, and done all that I can do. I shall st=
ill
hope that you may change your mind. I shall not yet abandon hope.
Good-bye."
She touched his hand, and then the Squire offe=
ring
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 ha=
ve
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 ordi=
nary
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 re=
member
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 char=
acteristic
courage she turned, determined to brave it out.
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 ri=
ght
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 doin=
g.
You are refusing one of the finest matches in England in order to marry a b=
roken-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 mad=
e 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 I=
da,
almost in a cry, "you would not have me marry one man when I love anot=
her.
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 refus= al 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 ther= e was something shameful about it. It is all very well to sneer at 'love,' but, a= fter 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."<= o:p>
"There," said her father, "it i=
s no
good your lecturing to me on marriage, Ida. If you do not want to marry Cos=
sey,
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 wi=
ll
not be for much longer, my house is my own, and I will not have that Colone=
l 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 m=
ight
be sorry for. Of course you can write what you like to Colonel Quaritch, an=
d 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 sor=
ry to
say, ruinous to Ida herself and t=
o 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, <=
/span>"James
de la Molle.
"Colonel Quaritch, V.C."
Ida a=
s soon
as she had sufficiently recovered herself also wrote to the Colonel. She to=
ld
him the whole story, keeping nothing back, and ended her letter thus:
"Never, dear Harold, was a woman in a gre=
ater
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 cou=
rse
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 pre=
fer
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? W=
hat am
I to do? And yet how can I in common fairness ask you to answer that questi=
on?
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 v=
iolence
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 m=
ust
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 sudde=
nly
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 injuncti=
ons;
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 s=
eem
right that a woman should be driven into sacrificing her whole life to secu=
re
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 k=
now
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 n=
ow)
my heart sinks within me as from year to year I struggle on towards a happi=
ness
that ever vanishes when I stretch out my hand to clasp it; but, if I feel t=
hus,
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 spirit=
s.
Evidently her lover saw that there was another side to the question--the si=
de
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 matt=
er
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 ta=
ken
to sell the place?
One bright cold morning she was walking with h=
er
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 m=
iserable.
On the previous day the Squire had seen Mr. Quest and made as much of an ap=
peal
/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 lin=
e 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 fell=
ow,
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 u=
p on
the road in such a position that they could see it without its occupants se=
eing
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--wa=
s 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 Geo=
rge,
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 th=
at
very night she came to a determination, which in due course was communicate=
d to
Harold, and him alone. That determination was to let things be for the pres=
ent,
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 Co=
ssey
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 t=
he
dying.
"Sir," said George presently, "=
it's
Boisingham Quarter Sessions the day after to-morrow, ain't it?" (Mr. d=
e 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 Engla=
nd,
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!"
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 befor=
e it
was light purchasing a third class return ticket to Liverpool Street. Arriv=
ing
there in safety he partook of a second breakfast, for it was ten o'clock, a=
nd
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 Johnn=
ie
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 wh=
ich seemed
to be the litter of a recent removal. Indeed, there on the road were the br=
oad
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 fin=
gers
(for he knew that it must be a bell because there was the word itself writt=
en
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 batter=
y 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. Enter=
ing,
he shut the door and walked up the stairs to the room whence he had fled af=
ter
thrashing Johnnie. Here he paused and listened, thinking that he heard some=
body
in the room. Nor was he mistaken, for presently a well-remembered voice
shrilled out:
"Who's skulking round outside there? If i=
t's
one of those bailiffs he'd better hook it, for there's nothing left here.&q=
uot;
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 wh=
at
he saw. The room, like the rest of the house, had been stripped of everythi=
ng,
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 rece=
nt
heavy drinking and was moreover dirty, haggard and dreadful to look upon; h=
er
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 lin=
en
was open at the neck. On her feet were a filthy pair of white satin slipper=
s,
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 trou=
ble.
There's been an execution in the house, that is, there's been three executi=
ons,
one for rates and taxes, one for a butcher's bill, and one for rent. They a=
ll
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 coll=
ared
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 sh=
e'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. "Sh=
e'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 sha=
ll
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 pa=
rt.'
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 galla=
nt
George, and departed.
In ten minutes he returned with a supply of be=
ef
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 a=
nd 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 ye=
t,
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 ma=
de,
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 sa=
id
he would."
George laughed gently. "Lord! Lord!"=
he
said, "to see how men play it off upon poor weak women, working on the=
ir
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 par=
son 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. We=
ll,
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 te=
a,
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, the=
y would
be found in nine cases out of ten to resolve themselves into a vague concep=
tion
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'l=
l 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 husb=
and
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 e=
ven
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 matr=
imony
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 ta=
ke
me back;' and if he don't, why then you swears an information, and it's a c=
ase
of warrant for bigamy."
The woman chuckled, and then suddenly seized w=
ith
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, workh=
us
and all, marm, which I do according," and he rose from his box with mu=
ch 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 beggar=
ly
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!&qu=
ot;
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 star=
ted,
and drove to Liverpool Street. Such a spectacle as the Tiger upon the platf=
orm
George was wont in after days to declare he never did see. But it can easil=
y be
imagined that a fierce, dissolute, hungry-looking woman, with half-dyed hai=
r,
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 pe=
ople
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 sh=
ould,
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, s=
he
was inflamed into a condition of savage fury against Mr. Quest. When once s=
he
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 wo=
uld
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 yea=
rs
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.
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 comp=
any
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 ye=
r,
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 somebo=
dy
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, beca=
use
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 n=
iver
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 kno=
wn
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 lo=
ng
pull.
"Now," he said, "go for him lik=
e a
wild cat."
"Never you fear," she said.
They got out of the cab and entered the Sessio=
ns
House without attracting any particular notice. The court itself was crowde=
d,
for a case which had excited public interest was coming to a conclusion. Th=
e jury
had given their verdict, and sentence was being pronounced by Mr. de la Mol=
le,
the chairman.
Mr. Quest was sitting at his table below the b=
ench
taking some notes.
"There's your husband," George
whispered, "now do you draw on."
George's part in the drama was played, and wit=
h a
sigh of relief he fell back to watch its final development. He saw the fier=
ce
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. T=
hen
his compunction vanished, and he rejoiced to think that he would be the mea=
ns
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 interw=
oven
for many generations.
By this time the woman had fought her way thro=
ugh
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 ta=
ble
at which Mr. Quest sat. He had been busy writing something all this time, n=
ow
he rose, passed it to Mr. de la Molle, and then turned to sit down again.
Meanwhile his wife had craned her long lithe b=
ody
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 beneat=
h.
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 magistrate=
s.
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 eno=
ugh
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 worship=
s; I
only ask for justice."
"Be silent, woman," said Mr. de la
Molle; "if you have a criminal charge to bring against anybody there i=
s 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 dropp=
ed 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 attenti=
on
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 t=
he intention
of addressing the court. But he said nothing, either because he could not f=
ind
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 l=
eft
the table and hurried from the court. In the passage he found the Tiger, wh=
o,
surrounded by a little crowd, her hat awry and her clothes half torn from h=
er
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 aga=
inst
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 cler=
k,
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, enterin=
g,
lit the gas. Then he went to his safe and sorted some papers, burning a goo=
d 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 alou=
d;
"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 docu=
ment
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 correcti=
on.
Next he glanced at the Statement. It contained a full and fair account of h=
is
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 quit=
e 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 ope=
ned
till my death.--W. Quest." Then he put the envelope away in the safe a=
nd
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 can=
not
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 pap=
er
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 considerat=
ion
upon which he transferred them fails, and you cannot hold them in equity, n=
or I
suppose would you wish to do so.--W. Q."
Having put all the papers away, he shut the sa=
fe
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 stop=
ped
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.'<= o:p>
"'Back to London,' he said, and gave her a
sovereign, and she got up without a word and slunk off to the station follo=
wed
by a mob of people. She is in the refreshment room now, but George sent wor=
d 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 Jon=
es,
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 thin=
k.
So George had loosed this woman on him, and th=
at
was the meaning of his mysterious warnings. How did he find her? That did n=
ot
matter, he had found her, and in revenge for the action taken against the d=
e 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 Engla=
nd
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 institut=
e 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 schem=
ed,
and hardened his heart against the de la Molle family, and fate had made us=
e of
his success to destroy him. In another few months he had expected to be abl=
e 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 see=
ing
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 h=
im
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 woma=
n 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 d=
o?
He can do two things--he can revenge himself u=
pon
the author of his ruin, and 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 where=
with
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 ha=
nds
were not clean, indeed, but at any rate she had no mock marriage in her rec=
ord,
and her dislike of him had been unconcealed throughout. She had never wishe=
d to
marry him, and never for one single day regarded him otherwise than with
aversion.
After reflection he turned and went round by t=
he
back way into the garden. The curtains of the French windows were drawn, bu=
t 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 dimp=
led
chin rested on her hand, her violent eyes were fixed on vacancy, and even f=
rom
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.
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 answer=
ed.
"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 h=
eard
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 beca=
use
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 s=
ame
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 l=
ong
as you get it?"
"I thought so. I do not think so now.&quo=
t;
"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 s=
ome
business."
"Indeed; when are you coming back?"<= o:p>
"I don't quite know--to-morrow, perhaps. I
wonder, Belle," he went on, his voice shaking a little, "if you w=
ill
always think as badly of me as you do now."
"I?" she said, opening her eyes wide=
ly;
"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 sai=
d;
"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 ro=
se, 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 endeav=
our.
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 uls=
ter
with a high collar, and a soft felt hat, the brim of which he turned down o=
ver
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. Q=
uest
reached the station without meeting a living soul. Outside the circle of li=
ght
from a lamp over the doorway he paused, and looked about for the clerk Jone=
s.
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 did=
n't
know you in that get-up. Yes, here it is."
"Is the woman there still?"
"Yes, sir; she's taken a ticket, third-cl=
ass,
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 th=
at
if she stopped here you would murder her--and that you were her lawful husb=
and,
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 wor=
se,
that's what she is, and by this time to-morrow I hope to see her safe in ga=
ol.
Ah! here comes the train. Good-night, Jones. I can manage for myself now.&q=
uot;
"What's his game?" said Jones to him=
self
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 w=
ay,
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 t=
he 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,&qu=
ot;
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 w=
hich
the partitions do not go up to the roof, and, if possible, more vilely ligh=
ted
than usual. Indeed the light which should have illuminated the after-half o=
f 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.&q=
uot;
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 respo= nse. 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, b= ut 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.<= o:p>
Very quietly he rose and climbed over the low
partition which separated his compartment from that in which the woman was.=
She
was seated in the corner, her head leaning back, so that the feeble light f=
rom
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 dri=
nk
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 fraudu=
lent
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 not=
hing
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 nev=
er
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 h=
er
in her sleep. His nature rose up against it.
He placed the pistol on his knee, and as he di=
d 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 he=
r 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 gasp=
ed
at last. "What are you going to do with that pistol? And where do you =
come
from?"
"I come out of the night," he answer= ed, raising the weapon, "out of the night into which you are going."<= o:p>
"You are not going to kill me?" she
moaned, turning up her ghastly face. "I can't die. I'm afraid to die. =
It
will hurt, and I've been wicked. Oh, you are not going to kill me, are
you?"
"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 w=
ith
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, spa=
re
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 le=
ave
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 w=
ho
was writing at his feet.
She caught his eye, and her faculties, sharpen=
ed
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 whe=
els
running over and under bridges.
This was her opportunity. All her natural fero=
city
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; do=
wn
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.
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 th=
e 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 d=
ying
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 sympa=
thy
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 be=
yond
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 wonderin=
g 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 fo=
rego
this new advantage which chance threw in his way. Pressure and pressure alo=
ne
could enable him to attain his end, and he was applying it unmercifully. We=
ll,
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 whi=
ch
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 fortnig=
ht
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 h=
imself
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 Id=
a,
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 instru=
cted
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 writt=
en
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, provi=
ded 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 mat=
ter
stood. Once or twice Edward had met Ida walking or driving. She bowed to hi=
m coldly
and that was all. Indeed he had only one crumb of comfort in his daily brea=
d of
disappointment, and the hope deferred which, where a lady is concerned, mak=
es
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 betwe=
en
him and Ida was practically at an end.
But he was a dogged and persevering man; he kn=
ew
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 wom=
en
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 prop=
erly
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 pou=
nds,
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 st=
ill
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 be=
fore
the fire, his eyes fixed upon the portrait, of which the outline was beginn=
ing
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 gir=
l 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 unle=
ss
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 expres=
sion
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 stand=
ing
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 rou=
nded
form, and where the clustering golden curls? Gone, and in their place a coa=
rse
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 t=
he
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,&qu=
ot;
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, who=
se
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 cli=
mb
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 wh=
at
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 i=
n my
heart I swear I put away all bitterness, and that my most earnest wish is t=
hat you
may be happy, as happiness is to you. The sin was mine; that is it would ha=
ve
been mine were we free agents, which perhaps we are not. I should have love=
d my
husband, or rather the man whom I thought my husband, for with all his faul=
ts
he was of a different clay to you, Edward."
He looked up, but said nothing.
"I know," she went on, pointing to t=
he
picture over the mantelpiece, "that your mind is still set upon her, a=
nd 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 suc=
ceed
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 h=
er
secret heart for another man, and I know no greater penalty than is to be f=
ound
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, unt=
il 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 hav=
e a
right to do that. Ring and send for the policeman, only remember that nothi=
ng
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 t=
o be
mixed up with you any more. You have done me mischief enough; you have fini=
shed
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 i=
s a
cruel world." And she pressed her hands to her heart and stumbled rath=
er
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 doo=
r.
"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 fa=
ce.
Then by way of answer he turned upon his heel.
And so, still holding her hands against her po=
or
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 ag=
ain,
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 t=
here
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 lig=
ht.
There those who would know her must go to seek her.
Poor Belle! Poor shamed, deserted woman! She w=
as
an evil-doer, and the fatality of love and the unbalanced vigour of her min=
d,
which might, had she been more happily placed, have led her to all things t=
hat
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 measur=
e,
pressed down and running over. Few of us need to wait for a place of punish=
ment
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 desp=
air.
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 h=
arpy
who hunted him to his grave.
And so good-bye to Belle. May she find peace in
its season!
Meanwhile things had been going very ill at the
Castle. Edward Cossey's lawyers were carrying out their client's instructio=
ns
to the letter with a perseverance and ingenuity worthy of a County Court so=
licitor.
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 sai=
d,
been improperly thrown upon their client, and they again and again demanded=
, in
language which was almost insolent, the immediate payment of the amount. Th=
en
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 up=
on
his constitution, which, strong as he was, could not at his age withstand s=
uch
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 he=
avy
cold, which she could not throw off, and her face acquired a permanently pa=
ined
and yet listless look.
One day, it was on the 15th of December, thing=
s 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.<= o:p>
"What is it now?" he answered irrita=
bly.
"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 w=
here
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 figu=
res.
I'm an old man now, and all these troubles are too much for me."
"You must not talk like that, father,&quo=
t;
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? Ther=
e is
only one thing that can save us, and you know what it is as well as I do. B=
ut
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 wis=
h me
to marry that man?"
"Wish you to marry him? What do you
mean?" he said, not without irritation, and avoiding her gaze. "I=
t is
no affair of mine. I don't like the man, if that's what you mean. He is act=
ing
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 o=
ut
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 see=
m 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 aimlessl=
y 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 lov=
er well
enough to be aware that he would show no mercy. It was a question of the wo=
man
or the money, and she was the woman. Either she must let him take her or th=
ey
must be destroyed; there was no middle course. And in these circumstances t=
here
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 y=
ield
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 fe=
lt
he had a right to learn it, and so once more she wrote to him. She might ha=
ve
gone to see him or told him to meet her, but she would not. For one thing s=
he
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 mig=
ht 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. Besi=
des,
it was her last chance--she could write him no more letters and she had muc=
h 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 wha=
t is
there left to say to you except good-bye? I love you, Harold, I make no sec=
ret
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 a=
re
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 overwhelme=
d,
my spirit is broken, and I wish to heaven that I were dead. Sometimes I alm=
ost
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 som=
e we
know of? Well, it will come to an end at last, and meanwhile pity me and th=
ink
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 fur=
ther
the better. Yes, go to New Zealand, as you suggested once, and in pity of o=
ur 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 wi=
ll
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 my=
self
(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 al=
ways
wear it in memory of me. It was my mother's. And now it is late and I am ti=
red,
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, n=
one
at all. He could not quarrel with Ida's decision, shocking as it was, for t=
he
simple reason that he knew in his heart she was acting rightly and even nob=
ly.
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 wom=
an,
this one thing for which he would count the world well lost, this light tha=
t 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 rea=
dy
in the future to pin their favours to his breast, life will never be for hi=
m 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, a=
nd 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 o=
nce.
Ringing the bell, he ordered his dog-cart, and drove to Edward Cossey's roo=
ms
with the full intention of giving that gentleman a very unpleasant quarter-=
of-an-hour.
Mr. Cossey was in. Fearing lest he should refu=
se
to see him, the Colonel followed the servant up the stairs, and entered alm=
ost
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 soldi=
erly
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 pe=
rson
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 suc=
h a series
of unpleasant calls that it is not wonderful that he began to dread these
interviews.
"Good-day," he said coldly. "Wi=
ll
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 Mo=
lle
and I are attached to each other, and there has been between us an understa=
nding
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 w=
hat
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 t=
hat
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 no=
w in
a towering passion, "I should have thought that considering the differ=
ence
of age and fortune between us, you might find other reasons than you sugges=
t 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 li=
ps.
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 bringi=
ng
upon him."
"Well, Colonel Quaritch," he answere=
d,
"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, t=
hat
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, a=
nd worse
than a cur, he is a /blackguard/, and /you/ are such a man, Mr. Cossey.&quo=
t;
Edward Cossey's face turned perfectly livid wi=
th
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 m=
e,
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 som=
e cases
it is salutary. If you think yourself aggrieved it does not take long to cr=
oss the
water, Mr. Cossey."
Edward Cossey looked puzzled. "Do you mea=
n 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 all=
ow
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 Cosse=
y in
a curious condition of concentrated rage.
The state of mind is difficult to picture whic=
h could
induce a peaceable christian-natured individual, who had moreover in the co=
urse
of his career been mixed up with enough bloodshed to have acquired a thorou=
gh
horror of it, to offer to fight a duel. Yet this state had been reached by
Harold Quaritch.
Edward Cossey wisely enough declined to entert=
ain
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 giv=
en 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 h=
ave
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 sa=
id,
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 care=
er
with shame not unmingled with amusement, reflecting when he did so on the s=
trange
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 mi=
ght,
it is true, have seen Ida, and working upon her love and natural inclinatio=
ns
have tried to persuade her to cut the knot by marrying him off-hand. Perhap=
s he
would have succeeded, for in these affairs women are apt to find the argume=
nts
advanced by their lovers weighty and well worthy of consideration. But he w=
as
not the man to adopt such a course. He did the only thing he could do--answ=
ered
her letter by saying that what must be must be. He had learnt that on the d=
ay
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 Christm=
as 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 I=
da
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 a=
nd
put Molehill upon their books to be sold or let on lease, and also to vario=
us 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 him=
self
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 a=
lone
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 sing=
ers
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 g=
reat
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 ne=
ed!
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 whe=
n 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 di=
d 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, ind=
eed,
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 sec=
ret
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 sh=
ould
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 murdere=
rs,
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 wh=
om
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 absolut=
ely
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 on=
e 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 n=
ow awakening
to a new state of existence.
This soon passed, however. Evidently he must h=
ave
slept some time, for the lamp was out and the fire dying. He got up and hun=
ted
about in the dark for some matches, which at last he found. He struck a lig=
ht, 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-s=
heet
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, t=
hat
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 lig=
ht
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 r=
est seemed
to him but as a blue 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 awake=
ned
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-dis=
tant
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 lette=
rs
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 fif=
th
word in the message, thus:
Do not grieve for me, Edward my son, th=
at I
am thus suddenly and D E a
wick=
edly
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
shal=
l meet
in heaven. My moneys have I hid, and on account thereof s m o
I di=
e unto
this world, knowing that not one piece shall Cromwell u n
touc=
h. To
whom God shall appoint shall all my treasure be, for t =
a b
noug=
ht can
I communicate. c
When =
he had
done he wrote these initials in a line:
DEadmansmounta=
bc
He st=
ared
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,"
follo=
wed by
the mysterious letters A.B.C.
Breathless with excitement, he checked the let=
ters
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 origi=
n of
so fiercely, and which his aunt, the late Mrs. Massey, had roofed at the co=
st
of two hundred and fifty pounds, in order to prove that the hollow in the t=
op 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 bec=
ome
master of the hidden wealth. What place would be more likely for the old kn=
ight
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 mo=
dern
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 la=
st
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 murder=
ed
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 dec=
lare
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 t=
o Harold's
practical mind.
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 incline=
d 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 D=
ay,
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 plac=
e 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 ima=
gination
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 rou=
gh,
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 throu=
gh
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 Boising=
ham
either, who could have been persuaded to stay half an hour by himself on De=
ad
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 tha=
t 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 ha=
ve
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 mar=
ched
on boldly and unlocked the summer-house door. Now, though this curious edif=
ice
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 fee=
t or
more in diameter, for the top of the mount was hollowed out like one of tho=
se
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 t=
he
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 purpose=
s of
enjoyment. So it had suffered the general fate of disused places, having fa=
llen
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, shutt=
ing
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 cons=
iderable,
and the question at once arose in his mind, what was he to do now that he h=
ad
got there? If the treasure was there at all, probably it was deep down in t=
he
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, advance=
d 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 cent=
re
of the depression. Then having loosened the soil beneath with the pick he t=
ook
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 thr=
own
there.
Presently his spade struck against something h=
ard;
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 hum=
an
he could not at the time determine. This was very interesting, but it was s=
carcely
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 ti=
red.
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 wi=
ld
ways of the wind-torn winter night. He dug on a little more, and then serio=
usly
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 w=
as
haunted. Let him set down the hole to the "spooks" and their
spiritual activity.
Still he dug on at the grave for a little long=
er.
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 scra=
mbled,
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 implem=
ent
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 bega=
n 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 le=
af
basket, which lay handy, and, placing it beside him, put as much of the san=
dy
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 b=
ack
a hollow sound. There was a cavity of some sort underneath.
His excitement and curiosity redoubled. By gre=
at
efforts he widened the spot of stonework already laid bare. Luckily the soi=
l,
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 sha=
rp
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 ai=
r in
the place to sweeten a little. Clearly also he must have assistance if he w=
as
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 Squir=
e?
No, he could not rouse him at this hour, and also, for obvious reasons, the=
y 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 M=
rs.
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 lar=
ge
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 ho=
urs
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 overhea=
d,
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 tr=
ee,
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 h=
owled
in its splendid might as it swept across the ocean from its birthplace in t=
he
distances of air. Even the stiff hawthorn fences bowed before its breath, a=
nd
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 fee=
t 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 nex=
t 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, i=
nto
a fit. Next minute a red nightcap appeared at the window.
"George!" roared the Colonel, in a l=
ull
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 t=
here
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 han=
ds,
and clothes. "Is anything wrong up at the Castle, or is the cottage bl=
own
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 t=
he
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 t=
he
Colonel was in a dangerous condition of lunacy.
"Give me a glass of something to drink, w=
ater
or milk, and I'll tell you. I've been digging all night, and my throat's li=
ke 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 mi=
lk.
Harold drank three glasses of milk, and then s=
at
down to tell as much of his moving tale as he thought desirable.
George sat opposite to him, his hands on his
knees, the red nightcap on his head, and a comical expression of astonishme=
nt
upon his melancholy countenance.
"Well," he said, when Harold had don=
e,
"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; t=
he
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 afte=
r a
fool's arrand, that's all," and he retired to put on his boots. Presen=
tly
he appeared again, his red nightcap still on his head, for he was afraid th=
at
the wind would blow a hat off, and carrying an unlighted lantern in his han=
d.
"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 t=
he
Squire tells us on in the time of King Charles, as blew the top of the chur=
ch
tower off on a Christmas night," shouted George. But Harold made no
answer, and they fought their way onward without speaking any more, for the=
ir
voices were almost inaudible. Once the Colonel stopped and pointed to the s=
ky-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 ente=
red,
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 g=
reat
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 t=
hrough
the hole in the masonry, but the light of the lanterns was not strong enoug=
h to
enable them to make out anything with clearness.
"Well," said George, falling back up=
on
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 retur=
ned
with a long coil of stout rope. It belonged to some men who had been recent=
ly
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 dou=
bled
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 h=
is
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 wi=
th 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 agita=
ted
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 gasp=
ed,
"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 throu=
gh
the hole.
But George would give no answer until he was o=
ut
of the grave. Indeed had it not been for the Colonel's eager entreaties, ba=
cked
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 tho=
ugh
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 airin=
g 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 o=
ne'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 altogethe=
r.
"I'm not going to be scared. Great heavens, what a gust! I'm going dow=
n to
see for myself."
"Very good, Colonel," answered Georg=
e,
"and I'll wait here till you come up again--that is if you iver du.&qu=
ot;
Thrice did Harold look at the hole in the maso=
nry
and thrice did he shrink back.
"Come," he shouted angrily, "do=
n'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 th=
ere
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 c=
old
it was some time before he could get a light. Down in this deep place the r=
ush
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 a=
nd
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 ce=
ntre
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, t=
he
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 tee=
th
clacked gently together.
Terror seized him while he looked, and, as Geo=
rge
had done, he turned to fly. How could that thing move its head? The head ou=
ght
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 co=
uld,
and then setting his teeth, turned and tottered straight at the Horror in t=
he
chest.
He was there now, and holding the lantern agai=
nst
the thing, examined it. It was a skeleton of enormous size, and the skull w=
as
fixed with rusty wire to one of the vertebrae.
At this evidence of the handiwork of man his f=
ears
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 whic=
h to
tie on their skulls.
With a sigh of relief he held up the lantern a=
nd
looked round. He was standing in a good-sized vault or chamber, built of ru=
bble
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 w=
as
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 circl=
e,
of which the stone kist was the centre.[*] One place in the circle was vaca=
nt;
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 o=
f those
rude stone chests in which the very ancient inhabitants of this island buri=
ed
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 windmil=
l. Some
years ago the windmill was pulled down, and the owner of the ground wishing to bu=
ild a
house upon its site, set to wor=
k to
cart away the mound. His astonishment may be conceived when he found in the earth a
great number of skeletons arran=
ged in
circles. These skeletons were of large size, and a gentleman who saw them informed me th=
at he
measured one. It was that of a =
man
who must have been nearly seven feet high. The bones were, unhappily, carted away and thro=
wn
into a dyke. But no house has b=
een
built upon the resting-place of those unknown warriors. --Author.
Perhaps a subsequent race or tribe had found t=
he
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 l=
eft
to his last sleep with his hand resting on the hound's head.
Bending down, Harold examined the seated skele=
ton
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 lon=
g after
the flesh on those mighty bones had crumbled into dust.
But where was the treasure? He saw none. His h=
eart
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 und=
er
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 fear=
s,
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 o=
f 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 tempe=
st
that had visited the country for years sighed away outside.
"Well," he said, his teeth chatterin=
g,
"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 entranc=
e 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 c=
orn
bin," suggested George, whose teeth were still chattering. "It sh=
ould
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 o=
ne
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 bristli=
ng
bony heap. Just as he did so there came so furious a gust of wind that, bur=
ied
as they were in the earth, they literally felt the mound rock beneath it. I=
nstantly
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 f=
irst
cold lights of dawn were quivering. Mrs. Massey's summer-house had been blo=
wn
bodily away, and the "ancient British Dwelling Place" was once mo=
re
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 abo=
ve
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 col=
our
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 str=
ong 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 w=
here
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 kn=
ees
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 sto=
ne
was standing edgeways in the kist. There was something soft beneath it.
"The light, George," he said hoarsel=
y.
Beneath the stone were some layers of rotten
linen.
Was it a shroud, or what?
They pulled the linen out by handfuls. One! tw=
o!
three!
/Oh, great heaven!/
There, under the linen, were row on row of shi=
ning
gold coins set edgeways.
For a moment everything swam before Harold's e=
yes,
and his heart stopped beating. As for George, he muttered something inaudib=
le
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, a=
nd
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 w=
as
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 e=
ach
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 t=
op
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. a=
nd
VIII.; Sovereigns, Half-Sovereigns and gold Crowns of Edward VI.; Sovereign=
s,
Rials, and Angels of Mary; Sovereigns, Double Crowns and Crowns of Elizabet=
h;
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 la=
yer
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 th=
us.
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 summe=
r- house
having been carried away by the gale, which was still blowing, though not w=
ith
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 a=
ll.
Quite a quarter of the great oaks which were the glory of the place were do=
wn,
or splintered and ruined.
But what did he care for the summer-house or t=
he
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 asl=
eep
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 gre=
at
discovery. There was nothing in it, of course, but somehow the sight impres=
sed
him very much. It seemed months since he awoke to find the lamp gone out. H=
ow
much may happen between the lighting of a candle and its burning away! Smil=
ing 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 shou=
ted
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 fu=
ll
of uniforms and old clothes, which he bundled unceremoniously on to the flo=
or.
This done, he shot the bagful of shining gold, as bright and uncorrupted no=
w 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,&qu=
ot;
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 Georg=
e,
as he sent up the last bagful. "If you'll kindly let down that there r=
ope,
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 t=
hink
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 wo=
rld,
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 di=
d I,
George, if that's any comfort to you. Now look here, just cover over this h=
ole with
some boards and earth, and then come in and get some breakfast. It's past e=
ight
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 t=
ear
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 shoulder=
ed
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 ches=
t,
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 fac=
e,
he sat down upon it, and from his heart thanked heaven for the wonderful th=
ing
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 poc=
ket
cut the faded silk with which it was tied and opened it.
On it was a short inscription in the same crab=
bed
writing which he had seen in the old Bible that Ida had found.
It ran as follows:
"Seeing that the times be so troubl=
ous
that no man can be sure of his ow=
n, 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 i=
n this
sepulchre, to which I found the entry by a chance, till such time as peace come ba=
ck 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 hidi=
ng 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 s=
ore
as death.
Most people of a certain age and a certain deg=
ree
of sensitiveness, in looking back down the vista of their lives, whereon
memory's melancholy light plays in fitful flashes like the alternate glow o=
f a censer
swung in the twilight of a tomb, can recall some one night of peculiar ment=
al
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 complet=
ed
beauty and woman's most perfect measure, she who held the chalice of our ho=
pe,
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 anothe=
r it
has been with most of us, that long night of utter woe, and all will own th=
at
it is a ghastly thing to face.
And so Ida de la Molle had found it. The shrie=
k 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 co=
uld
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 fl=
ying
stones seemed to form a fit accompaniment to the turmoil of her mind.
She rose, went to the window, and in the dim l=
ight
watched the trees gigantically tossing in struggle for their life. An oak a=
nd a
birch were within her view. The oak stood the storm out--for a while. Prese=
ntly
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 a=
nd
defy their fate," said Ida to herself with a bitter laugh. "The b=
irch
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 ba=
ck again,
and again back. What could she do? What should she do? Her fate was upon he=
r:
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 some=
body
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 fi=
lled
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 t=
he
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, eve=
n 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, s=
he
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 en=
ough
in shattered trees, unthatched stacks, and ivy torn in knotty sheets from t=
he
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 wait=
ing
for her father to come in, the lovely, passionate, dishevelled woman who so=
me
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 en=
try
about it in the registers the other day, the one signed by the parson and o=
ld
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. W=
hy,
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. T=
here
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 ble=
ss
me, it only seems like yesterday since the big bunch of holly tied to the h=
ook
in the ceiling there fell down on the breakfast table and smashed all the c=
ups,
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 n=
ew
thought had struck him, and she was in no great doubt as to what it was.
"We had better get on with breakfast,&quo=
t;
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 a=
s 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 sh=
all
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 ha=
lf
way to his mouth, while his whole face showed the over-mastering anxiety wi=
th which
he was awaiting her reply.
"Make your mind easy, father," she s=
aid,
"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 h=
ave
been before you, and will be again. But to be frank, Ida, that Quaritch bus=
iness
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, almo=
st
with a cry. "Whatever you do, pray do not congratulate me!"
Her father turned round again and looked at he=
r.
But Ida's face had already recovered its calm, and he could make nothing of=
it.
"I don't quite understand you," he s=
aid;
"these things are generally considered matters for congratulation.&quo=
t;
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 brok=
en
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, a=
nd
when her children came she would grow accustomed to her sorrow, and her tro=
uble
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 ve=
ry cradle
that had nursed them from century to century were now at stake. Was all thi=
s 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 continu=
ally
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, bri=
ng
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 gra=
vel.
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 ope=
ned
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.
Ida and her father reached the vestibule to fi=
nd
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, a=
nd
his face, though white and worn from the effects of agitation of mind, look=
ed
if anything handsomer than ever. As soon as he heard them coming, which owi=
ng
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 so=
rt
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 weathe=
r,
which really for once in a way was equal to the conversational strain put u=
pon
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 marri=
age
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 canno=
t presume
even to seem to interfere. Therefore, I shall without comment leave my daug=
hter
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. Cosse=
y,
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,&quo=
t;
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 moti=
on
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 Squ=
ire,
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, Colon=
el
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 se=
emed
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 voic=
e,
"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 w=
ith
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 Mo=
lle,
it is this, wonderful as it may seem. It has been my fortune to discover th=
e 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 pul=
led
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 hi=
m,
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 l=
eft
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 posi=
tion
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. The=
re
was a dewy look about her eyes, and the last ripples of a happy smile linge=
red
round the corners of her mouth.
"Now that we have heard what Colonel Quar=
itch
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 t=
he 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 t=
hat
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 y=
our bank
was calling in. You then practically made terms that if it should at any ti=
me
be your wish I should become engaged to you; and I, seeing no option, accep=
ted.
Then, in the interval, while it was inconvenient to you to enforce those te=
rms,
I gave my affection elsewhere. But when you, having deserted the lady who s=
tood
in your way--no, do not interrupt me, I know it, I know it all, I know it f=
rom
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 insu=
lted
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 mu=
ch
money as I wished, if only I would sell myself to you. And then you bided y=
our
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 h=
er
feelings and the torrent of her wrath and eloquence had been too much for h=
er. She
would have fallen had not Harold, who had been listening amazed to this ove=
rpowering
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 th=
us.
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-pl=
ace.
"Damn you," he said, "I owe thi=
s to
you--you half-pay adventurer," and he lifted his arm as though to stri=
ke
him.
"Come, none of that," said the Squir=
e,
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 Colo=
nel
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 alwa=
ys
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 t=
his
man to marry your daughter for her money?"
"Mr. Cossey," answered the Squire, w=
ith
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, an=
d 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 yo=
u,
and I will take care that the proper people are informed of it before you c=
an make
away with it. When that is taken from you, if, indeed, the whole thing is n=
ot a
trick, we shall see what will happen to you. I tell you that I will take th=
is
property and I will pull this old place you are so fond of down stone by st=
one
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 stud=
y in
itself. You do not see such bows now-a-days.
"One minute, Mr. Cossey," he said ve=
ry
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 t=
his
painful interview. When first I knew you I did not like you. Afterwards,
through various circumstances, I modified my opinion and set my dislike dow=
n 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 Colo=
nel
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 y=
ou 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 matt=
er
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 alto=
gether
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 marr=
iage
because I believed you to be a better man than you are, also because I thou=
ght
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 Colo=
nel
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 s= hall 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 firs= t 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 anot= her bow he opened the vestibule door and stood holding the handle in his hand.<= o:p>
Edward Cossey looked round with a stare of rag=
e.
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?&qu=
ot;
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! W=
hy,
them old towers will be a-standing there when his beggarly bones is dust, a=
nd
when his name ain't no more a name; and there'll be one of the old blood si=
tting
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 ow=
ing
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/,&q=
uot;
and once more he pointed with unutterable scorn to the road down which Edwa=
rd Cossey
had vanished.
"Now, look here," said the Squire,
"don't you stand talking all day about things you don't understand. Th=
at'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 t=
o 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 aga=
in,
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 o= ut of the place I'm a Dutchman. Why, yes, it's been a bad time and we're a-get= ting 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."<= o:p>
"If you would talk a little less about yo=
ur
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.
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 o=
f 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, &qu=
ot;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 rega=
rds
your means, although they would have been quite insufficient to avert the r=
uin 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 pa=
ssed
away. It is owing to you that this discovery, which by the way I want to he=
ar
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 ma=
rry
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 get=
ting
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 huma=
n 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 t=
hey
were, which I can't, and if so, I apologise to you as a gentleman ought whe=
n 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 m=
e a
kiss. You have been a good daughter all your life, and so Quaritch may be s=
ure
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 h=
ave
perhaps been a little moved by their struggles, hopes, and fears, will sure=
ly
not grudge to re-echo the Squire's old-fashioned prayer, "God bless th=
em 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. Th=
e 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 d=
e 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 beautif=
ul
as we knew her, but of a happier countenance. We see her seated on some Chr=
istmas
Eve to come in the drawing-room of the Castle, telling to the children at h=
er
knees the wonderful tale of how their father and old George on this very ni=
ght,
when the gale blew long years ago, discovered the ruddy pile of gold, hoard=
ed
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 o=
f 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 anoth=
er
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 violenc=
e will
be held, when he is no longer here, to have been endearing qualities. And f=
or
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 t=
he
cosmopolitan Englishmen of the dawning twentieth century. His faults were m=
any,
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 affectio=
n,
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, plantain, grove and wood. It floated d=
own
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 d=
own
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 course=
s,
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 liqu=
id
notes seemed to say to the most happy pair who stood hand in hand in the ve=
stibule
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 mo=
re
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 poin=
ted
out those letters to you. Anyway, I'm off to see the spoil. Run and get you=
r 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<= o:p>
GOOD-BYE
On the following morning such of the inhabitan=
ts
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 le=
d,
by no less a person than George himself, while behind it walked the well-kn=
own
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 percei=
ved
that the cart only contained a few bags, and yet that each of these bags se=
emed
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 mode=
rn
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 trea=
sure
was ultimately sold for fifty-six thousand two hundred and fifty-four pound=
s.
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 wen=
t 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 Doffe=
rleigh,
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 renounc=
ed
its claims, and the property in the gold passed to the Squire, subject to t=
he
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 m=
ore
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 wit=
h 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 lo=
ving
kindness and she does it unflinchingly. Among her sister nuns there is no o=
ne
more beloved than Sister Agnes. So good-bye to her also.
Harold Quaritch and Ida were married in the sp=
ring
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 wre=
ath
is on her brow and the veil about her face, let us bid farewell to Ida and =
her
husband, Harold Quaritch.
THE END