“Let me see the letter,” said Edward.
Mr. Quest handed him the document conveying the commands of Cossey and Son, and he read it through twice.
“The old man means business,” he said, as he returned it; “that letter was written by him, and when he has once made up his mind it is useless to try and stir him. Did you say that you were going to see the Squire to-day?”
“No, I did not say so, but as a matter of fact I am. His man, George– a shrewd fellow, by the way, for one of these bumpkins–came with a letter asking me to go up to the Castle, so I shall get round there to lunch. It is about this fresh loan that the old gentleman wishes to negotiate. Of course I shall be obliged to tell him that instead of giving a fresh loan we have orders to serve a notice on him.”
“Don’t do that just yet,” said Edward with decision. “Write to the house and say that their instructions shall be attended to. There is no hurry about the notice, though I don’t see how I am to help in the matter. Indeed there is no call upon me.”
“Very well, Mr. Cossey. And now, by the way, are you going to the Castle this afternoon?”
“Yes, I believe so. Why?”
“Well, I want to get up there to luncheon, and I am in a fix. Mrs. Quest will want the trap to go there this afternoon. Can you lend me your dogcart to drive up in? and then perhaps you would not mind if she gave you a lift this afternoon.”
“Very well,” answered Edward, “that is if it suits Mrs. Quest. Perhaps she may object to carting me about the country.”
“I have not observed any such reluctance on her part,” said the lawyer dryly, “but we can easily settle the question. I must go home and get some plans before I attend the vestry meeting about that pinnacle. Will you step across with me and we can ask her?”
“Oh yes,” he answered. “I have nothing particular to do.”
And accordingly, so soon as Mr. Quest had made some small arrangements and given particular directions to his clerks as to his whereabouts for the day, they set off together for the lawyer’s private house.
CHAPTER VIII
MR. QUEST’S WIFE
Mr. Quest lived in one of those ugly but comfortably-built old red brick houses which abound in almost every country town, and which give us the clearest possible idea of the want of taste and love of material comfort that characterised the age in which they were built. This house looked out on to the market place, and had a charming old walled garden at the back, famous for its nectarines, which, together with the lawn tennis court, was, as Mrs. Quest would say, almost enough to console her for living in a town. The front door, however, was only separated by a little flight of steps from the pavement upon which the house abutted.
Entering a large, cool-looking hall, Mr. Quest paused and asked a servant who was passing there where her mistress was.
“In the drawing-room, sir,” said the girl; and, followed by Edward Cossey, he walked down a long panelled passage till he reached a door on the left. This he opened quickly and passed through into a charming, modern-looking room, handsomely and even luxuriously furnished, and lighted by French windows opening on to the walled garden.
A little lady dressed in some black material was standing at one of these windows, her arms crossed behind her back, and absently gazing out of it. At the sound of the opening door she turned swiftly, her whole delicate and lovely face lighting up like a flower in a ray of sunshine, the lips slightly parted, and a deep and happy light shining in her violet eyes. Then, all in an instant, it was instructive to observe /how/ instantaneously, her glance fell upon her husband (for the lady was Mrs. Quest) and her entire expression changed to one of cold aversion, the light fading out of her face as it does from a November sky, and leaving it cold and hard.
Mr. Quest, who was a man who saw everything, saw this also, and smiled bitterly.
“Don’t be alarmed, Belle,” he said in a low voice; “I have brought Mr. Cossey with me.”
She flushed up to the eyes, a great wave of colour, and her breast heaved; but before she could answer, Edward Cossey, who had stopped behind to wipe some mud off his shoes, entered the room, and politely offered his hand to Mrs. Quest, who took it coldly enough.
“You are an early visitor, Mr. Cossey,” she said.
“Yes,” said her husband, “but the fault is mine. I have brought Mr. Cossey over to ask if you can give him a lift up to the Castle this afternoon. I have to go there to lunch, and have borrowed his dogcart.”
“Oh yes, with pleasure. But why can’t the dogcart come back for Mr. Cossey?”
“Well, you see,” put in Edward, “there is a little difficulty; my groom is ill. But there is really no reason why you should be bothered. I have no doubt that a man can be found to bring it back.”
“Oh no,” she said, with a shrug, “it will be all right; only you had better lunch here, that’s all, because I want to start early, and go to an old woman’s at the other end of Honham about some fuchsia cuttings.”
“I shall be very happy,” said he.
“Very well then, that is settled,” said Mr. Quest, “and now I must get my plans and be off to the vestry meeting. I’m late as it is. With your permission, Mr. Cossey, I will order the dogcart as I pass your rooms.”
“Certainly,” said Edward, and in another moment the lawyer was gone.
Mrs. Quest watched the door close and then sat down in a low armchair, and resting her head upon the back, looked up with a steady, enquiring gaze, full into Edward Cossey’s face.
And he too looked at her and thought what a beautiful woman she was, in her own way. She was very small, rounded in her figure almost to stoutness, and possessed the tiniest and most beautiful hands and feet. But her greatest charm lay in the face, which was almost infantile in its shape, and delicate as a moss rose. She was exquisitely fair in colouring–indeed, the darkest things about her were her violet eyes, which in some lights looked almost black by contrast with her white forehead and waving auburn hair.
Presently she spoke.
“Has my husband gone?” she said.
“I suppose so. Why do you ask?”
“Because from what I know of his habits I should think it very likely that he is listening behind the door,” and she laughed faintly.
“You seem to have a good opinion of him.”
“I have exactly the opinion of him which he deserves,” she said bitterly; “and my opinion of him is that he is one of the wickedest men in England.”
“If he is behind the door he will enjoy that,” said Edward Cossey. “Well, if he is all this, why did you marry him?”
“Why did I marry him?” she answered with passion, “because I was forced into it, bullied into it, starved into it. What would you do if you were a defenceless, motherless girl of eighteen, with a drunken father who beat you–yes, beat you with a stick–apologised in the most gentlemanlike way next morning and then went and got drunk again? And what would you do if that father were in the hands of a man like my husband, body and soul in his hands, and if between them pressure was brought to bear, and brought to bear, until at last–there, what is the good of going on it with–you can guess the rest.”
“Well, and what did he marry you for–your pretty face?”
“I don’t know; he said so; it may have had something to do with it. I think it was my ten thousand pounds, for once I had a whole ten thousand pounds of my own, my poor mother left it me, and it was tied up so that my father could not touch it. Well, of course, when I married, my husband would not have any settlements, and so he took it, every farthing.”
“And what did he do with it?”
“Spent it upon some other woman in London–most of it. I found him out; he gave her thousands of pounds at once.”
“Well, I should not have thought that he was so generous,” he said with a laugh.
She paused a moment and covered her face with her hand, and then went on: “If you only knew, Edward, if you had the faintest idea what my life was till a year and a half ago, when I first saw you, you would pity me and understand why I am bad, and passionate, and jealous, and everything that I ought not to be. I never had any happiness as a girl –how could I in such a home as ours?–and then almost before I was a woman I was handed over to that man. Oh, how I hated him, and what I endured!”
“Yes, it can’t have been very pleasant.”
“Pleasant–but there, we have done with each other now–we don’t even speak much except in public, that’s my price for holding my tongue about the lady in London and one or two other little things–so what is the use of talking of it? It was a horrible nightmare, but it has gone. And then,” she went on, fixing her beautiful eyes upon his face, “then I saw you, Edward, and for the first time in my life I learnt what love was, and I think that no woman ever loved like that before. Other women have had something to care for in their lives, I never had anything till I saw you. It may be wicked, but it’s true.”
He turned slightly away and said nothing.
“And yet, dear,” she went on in a low voice, “I think it has been one of the hardest things of all–my love for you. For, Edward,” and she rose and took his hand and looked into his face with her soft full eyes full of tears, “I should have liked to be a blessing to you, and not a curse, and–and–a cause of sin. Oh, Edward, I should have made you such a good wife, no man could have had a better, and I would have helped you too, for I am not such a fool as I seem, and now I shall do nothing but bring trouble upon you; I know I shall. And it was my fault too, at least most of it; don’t ever think that I deceive myself, for I don’t; I led you on, I know I did, I meant to–there! Think me as shameless as you like, I meant to from the first. And no good can come of it, I know that, although I would not have it undone. No good can ever come of what is wrong. I may be very wicked, but I know that—-” and she began to cry outright.
This was too much for Edward Cossey, who, as any man must, had been much touched by this unexpected outburst. “Look here, Belle,” he blurted out on the impulse of the moment, “I am sick and tired of all this sort of thing. For more than a year my life has been nothing but a living lie, and I can’t stand it, and that’s a fact. I tell you what it is: I think we had better just take the train to Paris and go off at once, or else give it all up. It is impossible to go on living in this atmosphere of continual falsehood.”
She stopped crying. “Do you really care for me enough for that, Edward?” she said.
“Yes, yes,” he said, somewhat impatiently, “you can see I do or I should not make the offer. Say the word and I’ll do it.”
She thought for a moment, and then looked up again. “No,” she said, “no, Edward.”
“Why?” he asked. “Are you afraid?”
“Afraid!” she answered with a gesture of contempt, “what have I to be afraid of? Do you suppose such women as I am have any care for consequences? We have got beyond that–that is, for ourselves. But we can still feel a little for others. It would ruin you to do such a thing, socially and in every other way. You know you have often said that your father would cut you out of his will if you compromised yourself and him like that.”
“Oh, yes, he would. I am sure of it. He would never forgive the scandal; he has a hatred of that sort of thing. But I could get a few thousands ready money, and we could change our names and go off to a colony or something.”
“It is very good of you to say so,” she said humbly. “I don’t deserve it, and I will not take advantage of you. You will be sorry that you made the offer by to-morrow. Ah, yes, I know it is only because I cried. No, we must go on as we are until the end comes, and then you can discard me; for all the blame will follow me, and I shall deserve it, too. I am older than you, you know, and a woman; and my husband will make some money out of you, and then it will all be forgotten, and I shall have had my day and go my own way to oblivion, like thousands of other unfortunate women before me, and it will be all the same a hundred years hence, don’t you see? But, Edward, remember one thing. Don’t play me any tricks, for I am not of the sort to bear it. Have patience and wait for the end; these things cannot last very long, and I shall never be a burden on you. Don’t desert me or make me jealous, for I cannot bear it, I cannot, indeed, and I do not know what I might do–make a scandal or kill myself or you, I’m sure I can’t say what. You nearly sent me wild the other day when you were carrying on with Miss de la Molle–ah, yes, I saw it all–I have suspected you for a long time, and sometimes I think that you are really in love with her. And now, sir, I tell you what it is, we have had enough of this melancholy talk to last me for a month. Why did you come here at all this morning, just when I wanted to get you out of my head for an hour or two and think about my garden? I suppose it was a trick of Mr. Quest’s bringing you here. He has got some fresh scheme on, I am sure of it from his face. Well, it can’t be helped, and, since you are here, Mr. Edward Cossey, tell me how you like my new dress,” and she posed herself and courtesied before him. “Black, you see, to match my sins and show off my complexion. Doesn’t it fit well?”
“Charmingly,” he said, laughing in spite of himself, for he felt in no laughing mood, “and now I tell you what it is, Belle, I am not going to stop here all the morning, and lunch, and that sort of thing. It does not look well, to say the least of it. The probability is that half the old women in Boisingham have got their eyes fixed on the hall door to see how long I stay. I shall go down to the office and come back at half-past two.”
“A very nice excuse to get rid of me,” she said, “but I daresay you are right, and I want to see about the garden. There, good-bye, and mind you are not late, for I want to have a nice drive round to the Castle. Not that there is much need to warn you to be in time when you are going to see Miss de la Molle, is there? Good-bye, good-bye.”
CHAPTER IX
THE SHADOW OF RUIN
Mr. Quest walked to his vestry meeting with a smile upon his thin, gentlemanly-looking face, and rage and bitterness in his heart.
“I caught her that time,” he said to himself; “she can do a good deal in the way of deceit, but she can’t keep the blood out of her cheeks when she hears that fellow’s name. But she is a clever woman, Belle is –how well she managed that little business of the luncheon, and how well she fought her case when once she got me in a cleft stick about Edith and that money of hers, and made good terms too. Ah! that’s the worst of it, she has the whip hand of me there; if I could ruin her she could ruin me, and it’s no use cutting off one’s nose to spite your face. Well! my fine lady,” he went on with an ominous flash of his grey eyes, “I shall be even with you yet. Give you enough rope and you will hang yourself. You love this fellow, I know that, and it will go hard if I can’t make him break your heart for you. Bah! you don’t know the sort of stuff men are made of. If only I did not happen to be in love with you myself I should not care. If—-Ah! here I am at the church.”
The human animal is a very complicated machine, and can conduct the working of an extraordinary number of different interests and sets of ideas, almost, if not entirely, simultaneously. For instance, Mr. Quest–seated at the right hand of the rector in the vestry room of the beautiful old Boisingham Church, and engaged in an animated and even warm discussion with the senior curate on the details of fourteenth century Church work, in which he clearly took a lively interest and understood far better than did the curate–would have been exceedingly difficult to identify with the scheming, vindictive creature whom we have just followed up the church path. But after all, that is the way of human nature, although it may not be the way of those who try to draw it and who love to paint the villain black as the Evil One and the virtuous heroine so radiant that we begin to fancy we can hear the whispering of her wings. Few people are altogether good or altogether bad; indeed it is probable that the vast majority are neither good nor bad–they have not the strength to be the one or the other. Here and there, however, we do meet a spirit with sufficient will and originality to press the scale down this way or that, though even then the opposing force, be it good or evil, is constantly striving to bring the balance equal. Even the most wicked men have their redeeming points and righteous instincts, nor are their thoughts continually fixed upon iniquity. Mr. Quest, for instance, one of the evil geniuses of this history, was, where his plots and passions were not immediately concerned, a man of eminently generous and refined tendencies. Many were the good turns, contradictory as it may seem, that he had done to his poorer neighbours; he had even been known to forego his bills of costs, which is about the highest and rarest exhibition of earthly virtue that can be expected from a lawyer. He was moreover eminently a cultured man, a reader of the classics, in translations if not in the originals, a man with a fine taste in fiction and poetry, and a really sound and ripe archaeological knowledge, especially where sacred buildings were concerned. All his instincts, also, were towards respectability. His most burning ambition was to secure a high position in the county in which he lived, and to be classed among the resident gentry. He hated his lawyer’s work, and longed to accumulate sufficient means to be able to give it the good-bye and to indulge himself in an existence of luxurious and learned leisure. Such as he was he had made himself, for he was the son of a poor and inferior country dentist, and had begun life with a good education, it is true, which he chiefly owed to his own exertions, but with nothing else. Had his nature been a temperate nature with a balance of good to its credit to draw upon instead of a balance of evil, he was a man who might have gone very far indeed, for in addition to his natural ability he had a great power of work. But unfortunately this was not the case; his instincts on the whole were evil instincts, and his passions–whether of hate, or love, or greed, when they seized him did so with extraordinary violence, rendering him for the time being utterly callous to the rights or feelings of others, provided that he attained his end. In short, had he been born to a good position and a large fortune, it is quite possible, providing always that his strong passions had not at some period of his life led him irremediably astray, that he would have lived virtuous and respected, and died in good odour, leaving behind him a happy memory. But fate had placed him in antagonism with the world, and yet had endowed him with a gnawing desire to be of the world, as it appeared most desirable to him; and then, to complete his ruin circumstances had thrown him into temptations from which inexperience and the headlong strength of his passions gave him no opportunity to escape.
It may at first appear strange that a man so calculating and whose desires seemed to be fixed upon such a material end as the acquirement by artifice or even fraud of the wealth which he coveted, should also nourish in his heart so bitter a hatred and so keen a thirst for revenge upon a woman as Mr. Quest undoubtedly did towards his beautiful wife. It would have seemed more probable that he would have left heroics alone and attempted to turn his wife’s folly into a means of wealth and self-advancement: and this would not doubt have been so had Mrs. Quest’s estimate of his motives in marrying her been an entirely correct one. She had told Edward Cossey, it will be remembered, that her husband had married her for her money–the ten thousand pounds of which he stood so badly in need. Now this was the truth to a certain extent, and a certain extent only. He had wanted the ten thousand pounds, in fact at the moment money was necessary to him. But, and this his wife had never known or realised, he had been, and still was, also in love with her. Possibly the ten thousand pounds would have proved a sufficient inducement to him without the love, but the love was none the less there. Their relations, however, had never been happy ones. She had detested him from the 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 action for herself. This, considering the position, she was perhaps justified in doing, but her husband never forgave her for it. More than that, he determined, if by any means it were possible, to turn the passion which, although she did not know it, he was perfectly aware she bore towards his business superior, Edward Cossey, to a refined instrument of vengeance against her, with what success it will be one of the purposes of this history to show.
Such, put as briefly as possible, were the outlines of the character and aims of this remarkable and contradictory man.
Within an hour and a half of leaving his own house, “The Oaks,” as it was called, although the trees from which it had been so named had long since vanished from the garden, Mr. Quest was bowling swiftly along behind Edward Cossey’s powerful bay horse towards the towering gateway of Honham Castle. When he was within three hundred yards an idea struck him; he pulled the horse up sharply, for he was alone in the dogcart, and paused to admire the view.
“What a beautiful place!” he reflected to himself with enthusiasm, “and how grandly those old towers stand out against the sky. The Squire has restored them very well, too, there is no doubt about it; I could not have done it better myself. I wonder if that place will ever be mine. Things look black now, but they may come round, and I think I am beginning to see my way.”
And then he started the horse on again, reflecting on the unpleasant nature of the business before him. Personally he both liked and respected the old Squire, and he certainly pitied him, though he would no more have dreamed of allowing his liking and pity to interfere with the prosecution of his schemes, than an ardent sportsman would dream of not shooting pheasants because he had happened to take a friendly interest in their nurture. He had also a certain gentlemanlike distaste to being the bearer of crushing bad news, for Mr. Quest disliked scenes, possibly because he had such an intimate personal acquaintance with them. Whilst he was still wondering how he might best deal with the matter, he passed over the moat and through the ancient gateway which he admired so fervently, and found himself in front of the hall door. Here he pulled up, looking about for somebody to take his horse, when suddenly the Squire himself emerged upon him with a rush.
“Hullo, Quest, is that you?” he shouted, as though his visitor had been fifty yards off instead of five. “I have been looking out for you. Here, William! William!” (crescendo), “William!” (fortissimo), “where on earth is the boy? I expect that idle fellow, George, has been sending him on some of his errands instead of attending to them himself. Whenever he is wanted to take a horse he is nowhere to be found, and then it is ‘Please, sir, Mr. George,’ that’s what he calls him, ‘Please, sir, Mr. George sent me up to the Moat Farm or somewhere to see how many eggs the hens laid last week,’ or something of the sort. That’s a very nice horse you have got there, by the way, very nice indeed.”
“It is not my horse, Mr. de la Molle,” said the lawyer, with a faint smile, “it is Mr. Edward Cossey’s.”
“Oh! it’s Mr. Edward Cossey’s, is it?” answered the old gentleman with a sudden change of voice. “Ah, Mr. Edward Cossey’s? Well, it’s a very good horse anyhow, and I suppose that Mr. Cossey can afford to buy good horses.”
Just then a faint cry of “Coming, sir, coming,” was heard, and a long hobble-de-hoy kind of youth, whose business it was to look after the not extensive Castle stables, emerged in a great heat from round the corner of the house.
“Now, where on earth have you been?” began the Squire, in a stentorian tone.
“If you please, sir, Mr. George—-”
“There, what did I tell you?” broke in the Squire. “Have I not told you time after time that you are to mind your own business, and leave ‘Mr. George’ to mind his? Now take that horse round to the stables, and see that it is properly fed.
“Come, Quest, come in. We have a quarter of an hour before luncheon, and can get our business over,” and he led the way through the passage into the tapestried and panelled vestibule, where he took his stand before the empty fireplace.
Mr. Quest followed him, stopping, ostensibly to admire a particularly fine suit of armour which hung upon the wall, but really to gain another moment for reflection.
“A beautiful suit of the early Stuart period, Mr. de la Molle,” he said; “I never saw a better.”
“Yes, yes, that belonged to old Sir James, the one whom the Roundheads shot.”
“What! the Sir James who hid the treasure?”
“Yes. I was telling that story to our new neighbour, Colonel Quaritch, last night–a very nice fellow, by the way; you should go and call upon him.”
“I wonder what he did with it,” said Mr. Quest.
“Ah, so do I, and so will many another, I dare say. I wish that I could find it, I’m sure. It’s wanted badly enough now-a-days. But that reminds me, Quest. You will have gathered my difficulty from my note and what George told you. You see this man Janter–thanks to that confounded fellow, Major Boston, and his action about those College Lands–has thrown up the Moat Farm, and George tells me that there is not another tenant to be had for love or money. In fact, you know what it is, one can’t get tenants now-a-days, they simply are not to be had. Well, under these circumstances, there is, of course, only one thing to be done that I know of, and that is to take the farm in hand and farm it myself. It is quite impossible to let the place fall out of cultivation–and that is what would happen otherwise, for if I were to lay it down in grass it would cost a considerable sum, and be seven or eight years before I got any return.”
The Squire paused and Mr. Quest said nothing.
“Well,” he went on, “that being so, the next thing to do is to obtain the necessary cash to pay Janter his valuation and stock the place– about four thousand would do it, or perhaps,” he added, with an access of generous confidence, “we had better say five. There are about fifty acres of those low-lying meadows which want to be thoroughly bush drained–bushes are quite as good as pipes for that stiff land, if they put in the right sort of stuff, and it don’t cost half so much– but still it can’t be done for nothing, and then there is a new wagon shed wanted, and some odds and ends; yes, we had better say five thousand.”
Still Mr. Quest made no answer, so once more the Squire went on.
“Well, you see, under these circumstances–not being able to lay hands upon the necessary capital from my private resources, of course I have made up my mind to apply to Cossey and Son for the loan. Indeed, considering how long and intimate has been the connection between their house and the de la Molle family, I think it right and proper to do so; indeed, I should consider it very wrong of me if I neglected to give them the opportunity of the investment”–here a faint smile flickered for an instant on Mr. Quest’s face and then went out–“of course they will, as a matter of business, require security, and very properly so, but as this estate is unentailed, there will fortunately be very little difficulty about that. You can draw up the necessary deeds, and I think that under the circumstances the right thing to do would be to charge the Moat Farm specifically with the amount. Things are bad enough, no doubt, but I can hardly suppose it possible under any conceivable circumstances that the farm would not be good for five thousand pounds. However, they might perhaps prefer to have a general clause as well, and if it is so, although I consider it quite unnecessary, I shall raise no objection to that course.”
Then at last Mr. Quest broke his somewhat ominous silence.
“I am very sorry to say, Mr. de la Molle,” he said gently, “that I can hold out no prospect of Cossey and Son being induced, under any circumstances, to advance another pound upon the security of the Honham Castle estates. Their opinion of the value of landed property as security has received so severe a shock, that they are not at all comfortable as to the safety of the amount already invested.”
Mr. de la Molle started when he heard this most unexpected bit of news, for which he was totally unprepared. He had always found it possible to borrow money, and it had never occurred to him that a time might perhaps come in this country, when the land, which he held in almost superstitious veneration, would be so valueless a form of property that lenders would refuse it as security.
“Why,” he said, recovering himself, “the total encumbrances on the property do not amount to more than twenty-five thousand pounds, and when I succeeded to my father, forty years ago, it was valued at fifty, and the Castle and premises have been thoroughly repaired since then at a cost of five thousand, and most of the farm buildings too.”
“Very possibly, de la Molle, but to be honest, I very much doubt if Honham Castle and the lands round it would now fetch twenty-five thousand pounds on a forced sale. Competition and Radical agitation have brought estates down more than people realise, and land in Australia and New Zealand is now worth almost as much per acre as cultivated lands in England. Perhaps as a residential property and on account of its historical interest it might fetch more, but I doubt it. In short, Mr. de la Molle, so anxious are Cossey and Son in the matter, that I regret to have to tell you that so far from being willing to make a further advance, the firm have formally instructed me to serve the usual six months’ notice on you, calling in the money already advanced on mortgage, together with the interest, which I must remind you is nearly a year overdue, and this step I propose to take to-morrow.”
The old gentleman staggered for a moment, and caught at the mantelpiece, for the blow was a heavy one, and as unexpected as it was heavy. But he recovered himself in an instant, for it was one of the peculiarities of his character that his spirits always seemed to rise to the occasion in the face of urgent adversity–in short, he possessed an extraordinary share of moral courage.
“Indeed,” he said indignantly, “indeed, it is a pity that you did not tell me that at once, Mr. Quest; it would have saved me from putting myself in a false position by proposing a business arrangement which is not acceptable. As regards the interest, I admit that it is as you say, and I very much regret it. That stupid fellow George is always so dreadfully behindhand with his accounts that I can never get anything settled.” (He did not state, and indeed did not know, that the reason that the unfortunate George was behindhand was that there were no accounts to make up, or rather that they were all on the wrong side of the ledger). “I will have that matter seen to at once. Of course, business people are quite right to consider their due, and I do not blame Messrs. Cossey in the matter, not in the least. Still, I must say that, considering the long and intimate relationship that has for nearly two centuries existed between their house and my family, they might–well–have shown a little more consideration.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Quest, “I daresay that the step strikes you as a harsh one. To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. de la Molle, it struck me as a very harsh one; but, of course, I am only a servant, and bound to carry out my instructions. I sympathise with you very much–very much indeed.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” said the old gentleman. “Of course, other arrangements must be made; and, much as it will pain me to terminate my connection with Messrs. Cossey, they shall be made.”
“But I think,” went on the lawyer, without any notice of his interruption, “that you misunderstand the matter a little. Cossey and Son are only a trading corporation, whose object is to make money by lending it, or otherwise–at all hazards to make money. The kind of feeling that you allude to, and that might induce them, in consideration of long intimacy and close connection in the past, to forego the opportunity of so doing and even to run a risk of loss, is a thing which belongs to former generations. But the present is a strictly commercial age, and we are the most commercial of the trading nations. Cossey and Son move with the times, that is all, and they would rather sell up a dozen families who had dealt with them for two centuries than lose five hundred pounds, provided, of course, that they could do so without scandal and loss of public respect, which, where a banking house is concerned, also means a loss of custom. I am a great lover of the past myself, and believe that our ancestors’ ways of doing business were, on the whole, better and more charitable than ours, but I have to make my living and take the world as I find it, Mr. de la Molle.”
“Quite so, Quest; quite so,” answered the Squire quietly. “I had no idea that you looked at these matters in such a light. Certainly the world has changed a good deal since I was a young man, and I do not think it has changed much for the better. But you will want your luncheon; it is hungry work talking about foreclosures.” Mr. Quest had not used this unpleasant word, but the Squire had seen his drift. “Come into the next room,” and he led the way to the drawing-room, where Ida was sitting reading the /Times/.
“Ida,” he said, with an affectation of heartiness which did not, however, deceive his daughter, who knew how to read every change of her dear father’s face, “here is Mr. Quest. Take him in to luncheon, my love. I will come presently. I want to finish a note.”
Then he returned to the vestibule and sat down in his favourite old oak chair.
“Ruined,” he said to himself. “I can never get the money as things are, and there will be a foreclosure. Well, I am an old man and I hope that I shall not live to see it. But there is Ida. Poor Ida! I cannot bear to think of it, and the old place too, after all these generations–after all these generations!”
CHAPTER X
THE TENNIS PARTY
Ida shook hands coldly enough with the lawyer, for whom she cherished a dislike not unmixed with fear. Many women are by nature gifted with an extraordinary power of intuition which fully makes up for their deficiency in reasoning force. They do not conclude from the premisses of their observation, they /know/ that this man is to be feared and that trusted. In fact, they share with the rest of breathing creation that self-protective instinct of instantaneous and almost automatic judgment, given to guard it from the dangers with which it is continually threatened at the hands of man’s over-mastering strength and ordered intelligence. Ida was one of these. She knew nothing to Mr. Quest’s disadvantage, indeed she always heard him spoken of with great respect, and curiously enough she liked his wife. But she could not bear the man, feeling in her heart that he was not only to be avoided on account of his own hidden qualities, but that he was moreover an active personal enemy.
They went into the dining-room, where the luncheon was set, and while Ida allowed Mr. Quest to cut her some cold boiled beef, an operation in which he did not seem to be very much at home, she came to a rapid conclusion in her own mind. She had seen clearly enough from her father’s face that his interview with the lawyer had been of a most serious character, but she knew that the chances were that she would never be able to get its upshot out of him, for the old gentleman had a curious habit of keeping such unpleasant matters to himself until he was absolutely forced by circumstances to reveal them. She also knew that her father’s affairs were in a most critical condition, for this she had extracted from him on the previous night, and that if any remedy was to be attempted it must be attempted at once, and on some heroic scale. Therefore, she made up her mind to ask her /bete noire/, Mr. Quest, what the truth might be.
“Mr. Quest,” she said, with some trepidation, as he at last triumphantly handed her the beef, “I hope you will forgive me for asking you a plain question, and that, if you can, you will favour me with a plain answer. I know my father’s affairs are very much involved, and that he is now anxious to borrow some more money; but I do not know quite how matters stand, and I want to learn the exact truth.”
“I am very glad to hear you speak so, Miss de la Molle,” answered the lawyer, “because I was trying to make up my mind to broach the subject, which is a painful one to me. Frankly, then–forgive me for saying it, your father is absolutely ruined. The interest on the mortgages is a year in arrear, his largest farm has just been thrown upon his hands, and, to complete the tale, the mortgagees are going to call in their money or foreclose.”
At this statement, which was almost brutal in its brief comprehensiveness, Ida turned pale as death, as well she might, and dropped her fork with a clatter upon the plate.
“I did not realise that things were quite so bad,” she murmured. “Then I suppose that the place will be taken from us, and we shall–shall have to go away.”
“Yes, certainly, unless money can be found to take up the mortgages, of which I see no chance. The place will be sold for what it will fetch, and that now-a-days will be no great sum.”
“When will that be?” she asked.
“In about six or nine months’ time.”
Ida’s lips trembled, and the sight of the food upon her plate became nauseous to her. A vision arose before her mind’s eye of herself and her old father departing hand in hand from the Castle gates, behind and about which gleamed the hard wild lights of a March sunset, to seek a place to hide themselves. The vivid horror of the phantasy almost overcame her.
“Is there no way of escape?” she asked hoarsely. “To lose this place would kill my father. He loves it better than anything in the world; his whole life is wrapped up in it.”
“I can quite understand that, Miss de la Molle; it is a most charming old place, especially to anybody interested in the past. But unfortunately mortgagees are no respecters of feelings. To them land is so much property and nothing more.”
“I know all that,” she said impatiently, “you do not answer my question;” and she leaned towards him, resting her hand upon the table. “Is there no way out of it?”
Mr. Quest drank a little claret before he answered. “Yes,” he said, “I think that there is, if only you will take it.”
“What way?” she asked eagerly.
“Well, though as I said just now, the mortgagees of an estate as a body are merely a business corporation, and look at things from a business point of view only, you must remember that they are composed of individuals, and that individuals can be influenced if they can be got at. For instance, Cossey and Son are an abstraction and harshly disposed in their abstract capacity, but Mr. Edward Cossey is an individual, and I should say, so far as this particular matter is concerned, a benevolently disposed individual. Now Mr. Edward Cossey is not himself at the present moment actually one of the firm of Cossey and Son, but he is the hair of the head of the house, and of course has authority, and, what is better still, the command of money.”
“I understand,” said Ida. “You mean that my father should try to win over Mr. Edward Cossey. Unfortunately, to be frank, he dislikes him, and my father is not a man to keep his dislikes to himself.”
“People generally do dislike those to whom they are crushingly indebted; your father dislikes Mr. Cossey because his name is Cossey, and for no other reason. But that is not quite what I meant–I do not think that the Squire is the right person to undertake a negotiation of the sort. He is a little too outspoken and incautious. No, Miss de la Molle, if it is to be done at all /you/ must do it. You must put the whole case before him at once–this very afternoon, there is no time for delay; you need not enter into details, he knows all about them–only ask him to avert this catastrophe. He can do so if he likes, how he does it is his own affair.”
“But, Mr. Quest,” said Ida, “how can I ask such a favour of any man? I shall be putting myself in a dreadfully false position.”
“I do not pretend, Miss de la Molle, that it is a pleasant task for any young lady to undertake. I quite understand your shrinking from it. But sometimes one has to do unpleasant things and make compromises with one’s self-respect. It is a question whether or no your family shall be utterly ruined and destroyed. There is, as I honestly believe, no prospect whatever of your father being able to get the money to pay off Cossey and Son, and if he did, it would not help him, because he could not pay the interest on it. Under these circumstances you have to choose between putting yourself in an equivocal position and letting events take their course. It would be useless for anybody else to undertake the task, and of course I cannot guarantee that even you will succeed, but I will not mince matters–as you doubtless know, any man would find it hard to refuse a favour asked by such a suppliant. And now you must make up your own mind. I have shown you a path that may lead your family from a position of the most imminent peril. If you are the woman I take you for, you will not shrink from following it.”
Ida made no reply, and in another moment the Squire came in to take a couple of glasses of sherry and a biscuit. But Mr. Quest, furtively watching her face, said to himself that she had taken the bait and that she would do it. Shortly after this a diversion occurred, for the clergyman, Mr. Jeffries, a pleasant little man, with a round and shining face and a most unclerical eyeglass, came up to consult the Squire upon some matter of parish business, and was shown into the dining-room. Ida took advantage of his appearance to effect a retreat to her own room, and there for the present we may leave her to her meditations.
No more business was discussed by the Squire that afternoon. Indeed it interested Mr. Quest, who was above all things a student of character, to observe how wonderfully the old gentleman threw off his trouble. To listen to him energetically arguing with the Rev. Mr. Jeffries as to whether or no it would be proper, as had hitherto been the custom, to devote the proceeds of the harvest festival collection (1 pound 18s. 3d. and a brass button) to the county hospital, or whether it should be applied to the repair of the woodwork in the vestry, was under the circumstances most instructive. The Rev. Mr. Jeffries, who suffered severely from the condition of the vestry, at last gained his point by triumphantly showing that no patient from Honham had been admitted to the hospital for fifteen months, and that therefore the hospital had no claim on this particular year, whereas the draught in the vestry was enough to cut any clergyman in two.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, “I will consent for this year, and this year only. I have been churchwarden of this parish for between forty and fifty years, and we have always given the harvest festival collection to the hospital, and although under these exceptional circumstances it may possibly be desirable to diverge from that custom, I cannot and will not consent to such a thing in a permanent way. So I shall write to the secretary and explain the matter, and tell him that next year and in the future generally the collection will be devoted to its original purpose.”
“Great heavens!” ejaculated Mr. Quest to himself. “And the man must know that in all human probability the place will be sold over his head before he is a year older. I wonder if he puts it on or if he deceives himself. I suppose he has lived here so long that he cannot realise a condition of things under which he will cease to live here and the place will belong to somebody else. Or perhaps he is only brazening it out.” And then he strolled away to the back of the house and had a look at the condition of the outhouses, reflecting that some of them would be sadly expensive to repair for whoever came into possession here. After that he crossed the moat and walked through the somewhat extensive plantations at the back of the house, wondering if it would not be possible to get enough timber out of them, if one went to work judiciously, to pay for putting the place in order. Presently he came to a hedgerow where a row of very fine timber oaks had stood, of which the Squire had been notoriously fond, and of which he had himself taken particular and admiring notice in the course of the previous winter. The trees were gone. In the hedge where they had grown were a series of gaps like those in an old woman’s jaw, and the ground was still littered with remains of bark and branches and of faggots that had been made up from the brushwood.
“Cut down this spring fell,” was Mr. Quest’s ejaculation. “Poor old gentleman, he must have been pinched before he consented to part with those oaks.”
Then he turned and went back to the house, just in time to see Ida’s guests arriving for the lawn tennis party. Ida herself was standing on the lawn behind the house, which, bordered as it was by the moat and at the further end by a row of ruined arches, was one of the most picturesque in the country and a very effective setting to any young lady. As the people came they were shown through the house on to the lawn, and here she was receiving them. She was dressed in a plain, tight-fitting gown of blue flannel, which showed off her perfect figure to great advantage, and a broad-brimmed hat, that shaded her fine and dignified face. Mr. Quest sat down on a bench beneath the shade of an arbutus, watching her closely, and indeed, if the study of a perfect English lady of the noblest sort has any charms, he was not without his reward. There are some women–most of us know one or two– who are born to hold a great position and to sail across the world like a swan through meaner fowl. It would be very hard to say to what their peculiar charm and dignity is owing. It is not to beauty only, for though they have presence, many of these women are not beautiful, while some are even plain. Nor does it spring from native grace and tact alone; though these things must be present. Rather perhaps it is the reflection of a cultivated intellect acting upon a naturally pure and elevated temperament, which makes these ladies conspicuous and fashions them in such kind that all men, putting aside the mere charm of beauty and the natural softening of judgment in the atmosphere of sex, must recognise in them an equal mind, and a presence more noble than their own.
Such a woman was Ida de la Molle, and if any one doubted it, it was sufficient to compare her in her simplicity to the various human items by whom she was surrounded. They were a typical county society gathering, such as needs no description, and would not greatly interest if described; neither very good nor very bad, very handsome nor very plain, but moving religiously within the lines of custom and on the ground of commonplace.
It is no wonder, then, that a woman like Ida de la Molle was /facile princeps/ among such company, or that Harold Quaritch, who was somewhat poetically inclined for a man of his age, at any rate where the lady in question was concerned, should in his heart have compared her to a queen. Even Belle Quest, lovely as she undoubtedly was in her own way, paled and looked shopgirlish in face of that gentle dignity, a fact of which she was evidently aware, for although the two women were friendly, nothing would induce the latter to stand long near Ida in public. She would tell Edward Cossey that it made her look like a wax doll beside a live child.
While Mr. Quest was still watching Ida with complete satisfaction, for she appealed to the artistic side of his nature, Colonel Quaritch arrived upon the scene, looking, Mr. Quest thought, particularly plain with his solid form, his long thin nose, light whiskers, and square massive chin. Also he looked particularly imposing in contrast to the youths and maidens and domesticated clergymen. There was a gravity, almost a solemnity, about his bronzed countenance and deliberate ordered conversation, which did not, however, favourably impress the aforesaid youths and maidens, if a judgment might be formed from such samples of conversational criticism as Mr. Quest heard going on on the further side of his arbutus.
CHAPTER XI
IDA’S BARGAIN
When Ida saw the Colonel coming, she put on her sweetest smile and took his outstretched hand.
“How do you do, Colonel Quaritch?” she said. “It is very good of you to come, especially as you don’t play tennis much–by the way, I hope you have been studying that cypher, for I am sure it is a cypher.”
“I studied it for half-an-hour before I went to bed last night, Miss de la Molle, and for the life of me I could not make anything out of it, and what’s more, I don’t think that there is anything to make out.”
“Ah,” she answered with a sigh, “I wish there was.”
“Well, I’ll have another try at it. What will you give me if I find it out?” he said with a smile which lighted up his rugged face most pleasantly.
“Anything you like to ask and that I can give,” she answered in a tone of earnestness which struck him as peculiar, for of course he did not know the news that she had just heard from Mr. Quest.
Then for the first time for many years, Harold Quaritch delivered himself of a speech that might have been capable of a tender and hidden meaning.
“I am afraid,” he said, bowing, “that if I came to claim the reward, I should ask for more even that you would be inclined to give.”
Ida blushed a little. “We can consider that when you do come, Colonel Quaritch–excuse me, but here are Mrs. Quest and Mr. Cossey, and I must go and say how do you do.”
Harold Quaritch looked round, feeling unreasonably irritated at this interruption to his little advances, and for the first time saw Edward Cossey. He was coming along in the wake of Mrs. Quest, looking very handsome and rather languid, when their eyes met, and to speak the truth, the Colonel’s first impression was not a complimentary one. Edward Cossey was in some ways not a bad fellow, but like a great many young men who are born with silver spoons in their mouths, he had many airs and graces, one of which was the affectation of treating older and better men with an assumption of off-handedness and even of superiority that was rather obnoxious. Thus while Ida was greeting Mr. Quest, he was engaged in taking in the Colonel in a way which irritated that gentleman considerably.
Presently Ida turned and introduced Colonel Quaritch, first to Mrs. Quest and then to Mr. Cossey. Harold bowed to each, and then strolled off to meet the Squire, whom he noted advancing with his usual array of protective towels hanging out of his hat, and for a while saw neither of them any more.
Meanwhile Mr. Quest had emerged from the shelter of his arbutus, and going from one person to another, said some pleasant and appropriate word to each, till at last he reached the spot where his wife and Edward Cossey were standing. Nodding affectionately at the former, he asked her if she was not going to play tennis, and then drew Cossey aside.
“Well, Quest,” said the latter, “have you told the old man?”
“Yes, I told him.”
“How did he take it?”
“Oh, talked it off and said that of course other arrangements must be made. I spoke to Miss de la Molle too.”
“Indeed,” said Edward, in a changed tone, “and how did she take it?”
“Well,” answered the lawyer, putting on an air of deep concern (and as a matter of fact he really did feel sorry for her), “I think it was the most painful professional experience that I ever had. The poor woman was utterly crushed. She said that it would kill her father.”
“Poor girl!” said Mr. Cossey, in a voice that showed his sympathy to be of a very active order, “and how pluckily she is carrying it off too–look at her,” and he pointed to where Ida was standing, a lawn tennis bat in her hand and laughingly arranging a “set” of married /versus/ single.
“Yes, she is a spirited girl,” answered Mr. Quest, “and what a splendid woman she looks, doesn’t she? I never saw anybody who was so perfect a lady–there is nobody to touch her round here, unless,” he added meditatively, “perhaps it is Belle.”
“There are different types of beauty,” answered Edward Cossey, flinching.
“Yes, but equally striking in their separate ways. Well, it can’t be helped, but I feel sorry for that poor woman, and the old gentleman too–ah, there he is.”
As he was speaking the Squire, who was walking past with Colonel Quaritch, with the object of showing him the view from the end of the moat, suddenly came face to face with Edward Cossey. He at once stepped forward to greet him, but to his surprise was met by a cold and most stately bow from Mr. de la Molle, who passed on without vouchsafing a single word.
“Old idiot!” ejaculated Mr. Quest to himself, “he will put Cossey’s back up and spoil the game.”
“Well,” said Edward aloud and colouring almost to his eyes. “That old gentleman knows how to be insolent.”
“You must not mind him, Mr. Cossey,” answered Quest hastily. “The poor old boy has a very good idea of himself–he is dreadfully injured because Cossey and Son are calling in the mortgages after the family has dealt with them for so many generations; and he thinks that you have something to do with it.”
“Well if he does he might as well be civil. It does not particularly incline a fellow to go aside to pull him out of the ditch, just to be cut in that fashion–I have half a mind to order my trap and go.”
“No, no, don’t do that–you must make allowances, you must indeed– look, here is Miss de la Molle coming to ask you to play tennis.”
At this moment Ida arrived and took off Edward Cossey with her, not a little to the relief of Mr. Quest, who began to fear that the whole scheme was spoiled by the Squire’s unfortunate magnificence of manner.
Edward played his game, having Ida herself as his partner. It cannot be said that the set was a pleasant one for the latter, who, poor woman, was doing her utmost to bring up her courage to the point necessary to the carrying out of the appeal /ad misericordiam/, which she had decided to make as soon as the game was over. However, chance put an opportunity in her way, for Edward Cossey, who had a curious weakness for flowers, asked her if she would show him her chrysanthemums, of which she was very proud. She consented readily enough. They crossed the lawn, and passing through some shrubbery reached the greenhouse, which was placed at the end of the Castle itself. Here for some minutes they looked at the flowers, just now bursting into bloom. Ida, who felt exceedingly nervous, was all the while wondering how on earth she could broach so delicate a subject, when fortunately Mr. Cossey himself gave her the necessary opening.
“I can’t imagine, Miss de la Molle,” he said, “what I have done to offend your father–he almost cut me just now.”
“Are you sure that he saw you, Mr. Cossey; he is very absent-minded sometimes?”
“Oh yes, he saw me, but when I offered to shake hands with him he only bowed in rather a crushing way and passed on.”
Ida broke off a Scarlet Turk from its stem, and nervously began to pick the bloom to pieces.
“The fact is, Mr. Cossey–the fact is, my father, and indeed I also, are in great trouble just now, about money matters you know, and my father is very apt to be prejudiced,–in short, I rather believe that he thinks you may have something to do with his difficulties–but perhaps you know all about it.”
“I know something, Miss de la Molle,” said he gravely, “and I hope and trust you do not believe that I have anything to do with the action which Cossey and Son have thought fit to take.”
“No, no,” she said hastily. “I never thought anything of the sort–but I know that you have influence–and, well, to be plain, Mr. Cossey, I implore of you to use it. Perhaps you will understand that this is very humiliating for me to be obliged to ask this, though you can never guess /how/ humiliating. Believe me, Mr. Cossey, I would never ask it for myself, but it is for my father–he loves this place better than his life; it would be much better he should die than that he should be obliged to leave it; and if this money is called in, that is what must happen, because the place will be sold over us. I believe he would go mad, I do indeed,” and she stopped speaking and stood before him, the fragment of the flower in her hand, her breast heaving with emotion.
“What do you suggest should be done, Miss de la Molle?” said Edward Cossey gently.
“I suggest that–that–if you will be so kind, you should persuade Cossey and Son to forego their intention of calling in the money.”
“It is quite impossible,” he answered. “My father ordered the step himself, and he is a hard man. It is impossible to turn him if he thinks he will lose money by turning. You see he is a banker, and has been handling money all his life, till it has become a sort of god to him. Really I do believe that he would rather beggar every friend he has than lose five thousand pounds.”
“Then there is no more to be said. The place must go, that’s all,” replied Ida, turning away her head and affecting to busy herself in removing some dried leaves from a chrysanthemum plant. Edward, watching her however, saw her shoulders shake and a big tear fall like a raindrop on the pavement, and the sight, strongly attracted as he was and had for some time been towards the young lady, was altogether too much for him. In an instant, moved by an overwhelming impulse, and something not unlike a gust of passion, he came to one of those determinations which so often change the whole course and tenour of men’s lives.
“Miss de la Molle,” he said rapidly, “there may be a way found out of it.”
She looked up enquiringly, and there were the tear stains on her face.
“Somebody might take up the mortgages and pay off Cossey and Son.”
“Can you find anyone who will?” she asked eagerly.
“No, not as an investment. I understand that thirty thousand pounds are required, and I tell you frankly that as times are I do not for one moment believe the place to be worth that amount. It is all very well for your father to talk about land recovering itself, but at present, at any rate, nobody can see the faintest chance of anything of the sort. The probabilities are, on the contrary, that as the American competition increases, land will gradually sink to something like a prairie value.”
“Then how can money be got if nobody will advance it?”
“I did not say that nobody will advance it; I said that nobody would advance it as an investment–a friend might advance it.”
“And where is such a friend to be found? He must be a very disinterested friend who would advance thirty thousand pounds.”
“Nobody in this world is quite disinterested, Miss de la Molle; or at any rate very few are. What would you give to such a friend?”
“I would give anything and everything over which I have control in this world, to save my father from seeing Honham sold over his head,” she answered simply.
Edward Cossey laughed a little. “That is a large order,” he said. “Miss de la Molle, /I/ am disposed to try and find the money to take up these mortgages. I have not got it, and I shall have to borrow it, and what is more, I shall have to keep the fact that I have borrowed it a secret from my father.”
“It is very good of you,” said Ida faintly, “I don’t know what to say.”
For a moment he made no reply, and looking at him, Ida saw that his hand was trembling.
“Miss de la Molle,” he said, “there is another matter of which I wish to speak to you. Men are sometimes put into strange positions, partly through their own fault, partly by force of circumstances, and when in those positions, are forced down paths that they would not follow. Supposing, Miss de la Molle, that mine were some such position, and supposing that owing to that position I could not say to you words which I should wish to say—-”
Ida began to understand now and once more turned aside.
“Supposing, however, that at some future time the difficulties of that position of which I have spoken were to fade away, and I were then to speak those words, can you, supposing all this–tell me how they would be received?”
Ida paused, and thought. She was a strong-natured and clear-headed woman, and she fully understood the position. On her answer would depend whether or no the thirty thousand pounds were forthcoming, and therefore, whether or no Honham Castle would pass from her father and her race.
“I said just now, Mr. Cossey,” she answered coldly, “that I would give anything and everything over which I have control in the world, to save my father from seeing Honham sold over his head. I do not wish to retract those words, and I think that in them you will find an answer to your question.”
He coloured. “You put the matter in a very business-like way,” he said.
“It is best put so, Mr. Cossey,” she answered with a faint shade of bitterness in her tone; “it preserves me from feeling under an obligation–will you see my father about these mortgages?”
“Yes, to-morrow. And now I will say good-bye to you,” and he took her hand, and with some little hesitation kissed it. She made no resistance and showed no emotion.
“Yes,” she answered, “we have been here some time; Mrs. Quest will wonder what has become of you.”
It was a random arrow, but it went straight home, and for the third time that day Edward Cossey reddened to the roots of his hair. Without answering a word he bowed and went.
When Ida saw this, she was sorry she had made the remark, for she had no wish to appear to Mr. Cossey (the conquest of whom gave her neither pride nor pleasure) in the light of a spiteful, or worst still, of a jealous woman. She had indeed heard some talk about him and Mrs. Quest, but not being of a scandal-loving disposition it had not interested her, and she had almost forgotten it. Now however she learned that there was something in it.
“So that is the difficult position of which he talks,” she said to herself; “he wants to marry me as soon as he can get Mrs. Quest off his hands. And I have consented to that, always provided that Mrs. Quest can be disposed of, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of thirty thousand pounds. And I do not like the man. It was not nice of him to make that bargain, though I brought it on myself. I wonder if my father will ever know what I have done for him, and if he will appreciate it when he does. Well, it is not a bad price–thirty thousand pounds–a good figure for any woman in the present state of the market.” And with a hard and bitter laugh, and a prescience of sorrow to come lying at the heart, she threw down the remains of the Scarlet Turk and turned away.
CHAPTER XII
GEORGE PROPHESIES
Ida, for obvious reasons, said nothing to her father of her interview with Edward Cossey, and thus it came to pass that on the morning following the lawn tennis party, there was a very serious consultation between the faithful George and his master. It appeared to Ida, who was lying awake in her room, to commence somewhere about daybreak, and it certainly continued with short intervals for refreshment till eleven o’clock in the forenoon. First the Squire explained the whole question to George at great length, and with a most extraordinary multiplicity of detail, for he began at his first loan from the house of Cossey and Son, which he had contracted a great many years before. All this while George sat with a very long face, and tried to look as though he were following the thread of the argument, which was not possible, for his master had long ago lost it himself, and was mixing up the loan of 1863 with the loan of 1874, and the money raised in the severance of the entail with both, in a way which would have driven anybody except George, who was used to this sort of thing, perfectly mad. However he sat it through, and when at last the account was finished, remarked that things “sartainly did look queer.”
Thereupon the Squire called him a stupid owl, and having by means of some test questions discovered that he knew very little of the details which had just been explained to him at such portentous length, in spite of the protest of the wretched George, who urged that they “didn’t seem to be gitting no forrader somehow,” he began and went through every word of it again.
This brought them to breakfast time, and after breakfast, George’s accounts were thoroughly gone into, with the result that confusion was soon worse confounded, for either George could not keep accounts or the Squire could not follow them. Ida, sitting in the drawing-room, could occasionally hear her father’s ejaculatory outbursts after this kind:
“Why, you stupid donkey, you’ve added it up all wrong, it’s nine hundred and fifty, not three hundred and fifty;” followed by a “No, no, Squire, you be a-looking on the wrong side–them there is the dibits,” and so on till both parties were fairly played out, and the only thing that remained clear was that the balance was considerably on the wrong side.
“Well,” said the Squire at last, “there you are, you see. It appears to me that I am absolutely ruined, and upon my word I believe that it is a great deal owing to your stupidity. You have muddled and muddled and muddled till at last you have muddled us out of house and home.”
“No, no, Squire, don’t say that–don’t you say that. It ain’t none of my doing, for I’ve been a good sarvant to you if I haven’t had much book larning. It’s that there dratted borrowing, that’s what it is, and the interest and all the rest on it, and though I says it as didn’t ought, poor Mr. James, God rest him and his free-handed ways. Don’t you say it’s me, Squire.”
“Well, well,” answered his master, “it doesn’t much matter whose fault it is, the result is the same, George; I’m ruined, and I suppose that the place will be sold if anybody can be found to buy it. The de la Molles have been here between four and five centuries, and they got it by marriage with the Boisseys, who got it from the Norman kings, and now it will go to the hammer and be bought by a picture dealer, or a manufacturer of brandy, or someone of that sort. Well, everything has its end and God’s will be done.”
“No, no, Squire, don’t you talk like that,” answered George with emotion. “I can’t bear to hear you talk like that. And what’s more it ain’t so.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the old gentleman sharply. “It /is/ so, there’s no getting over it unless you can find thirty thousand pounds or thereabouts, to take up these mortgages with. Nothing short of a miracle can save it. That’s always your way. ‘Oh, something will turn up, something will turn up.'”
“Thin there’ll be a miricle,” said George, bringing down a fist like a leg of mutton with a thud upon the table, “it ain’t no use of your talking to me, Squire. I knaw it, I tell you I knaw it. There’ll never be no other than a de la Molle up at the Castle while we’re alive, no, nor while our childer is alive either. If the money’s to be found, why drat it, it will be found. Don’t you think that God Almighty is going to put none of them there counter jumpers into Honham Castle, where gentlefolk hev lived all these ginerations, because He ain’t. There, and that’s the truth, because I knaw it and so help me God–and if I’m wrong it’s a master one.”
The Squire, who was striding up and down the room in his irritation, stopped suddenly in his walk, and looked at his retainer with a sharp and searching gaze upon his noble features. Notwithstanding his prejudices, his simplicity, and his occasional absurdities, he was in his own way an able man, and an excellent judge of human nature. Even his prejudices were as a rule founded upon some solid ground, only it was as a general rule impossible to get at it. Also he had a share of that marvellous instinct which, when it exists, registers the mental altitude of the minds of others with the accuracy of an aneroid. He could tell when a man’s words rang true and when they rang false, and what is more when the conviction of the true, and the falsity of the false, rested upon a substantial basis of fact or error. Of course the instinct was a vague, and from its nature an undefinable one, but it existed, and in the present instance arose in strength. He looked at the ugly melancholy countenance of the faithful George with that keen glance of his, and observed that for the moment it was almost beautiful–beautiful in the light of conviction which shone upon it. He looked, and it was borne in upon him that what George said was true, and that George knew it was true, although he did not know where the light of truth came from, and as he looked half the load fell from his heart.
“Hullo, George, are you turning prophet in addition to your other occupations?” he said cheerfully, and as he did so Edward Cossey’s splendid bay horse pulled up at the door and the bell rang.
“Well,” he added as soon as he saw who his visitor was, “unless I am much mistaken, we shall soon know how much truth there is in your prophecies, for here comes Mr. Cossey himself.”
Before George could sufficiently recover from his recent agitation to make any reply, Edward Cossey, looking particularly handsome and rather overpowering, was shown into the room.
The Squire shook hands with him this time, though coldly enough, and George touched his forelock and said, “Sarvant, sir,” in the approved fashion. Thereon his master told him that he might retire, though he was to be sure not to go out of hearing, as he should want him again presently.
“Very well, sir,” answered George, “I’ll just step up to the Poplars. I told a man to be round there to-day, as I want to see if I can come to an understanding with him about this year’s fell in the big wood.”
“There,” said the Squire with an expression of infinite disgust, “there, that’s just like your way, your horrid cadging way; the idea of telling a man to be ’round about the Poplars’ sometime or other to-day, because you wanted to speak to him about a fell. Why didn’t you write him a letter like an ordinary Christian and make an offer, instead of dodging him round a farm for half a day like a wild Indian? Besides, the Poplars is half a mile off, if it’s a yard.”
“Lord, sir,” said George as he retired, “that ain’t the way that folks in these parts like to do business, that ain’t. Letter writing is all very well for Londoners and other furriners, but it don’t do here. Besides, sir, I shall hear you well enough up there. Sarvant, sir!” this to Edward Cossey, and he was gone.
Edward burst out laughing, and the Squire looked after his retainer with a comical air.
“No wonder that the place has got into a mess with such a fellow as that to manage it,” he said aloud. “The idea of hunting a man round the Poplars Farm like–like an Indian squaw! He’s a regular cadger, that’s what he is, and that’s all he’s fit for. However, it’s his way of doing business and I shan’t alter him. Well, Mr. Cossey,” he went on, “this is a very sad state of affairs, at any rate so far as I am concerned. I presume of course that you know of the steps which have been taken by Cossey and Son to force a foreclosure, for that is what it amounts to, though I have not as yet received the formal notice; indeed, I suppose that those steps have been taken under your advice.”
“Yes, Mr. de la Molle, I know all about it, and here is the notice calling in the loans,” and he placed a folded paper on the table.
“Ah,” said the Squire, “I see. As I remarked to your manager, Mr. Quest, yesterday, I think that considering the nature of the relationship which has existed for so many generations between our family and the business firm of which you are a member, considering too the peculiar circumstances in which the owners of land find themselves at this moment, and the ruinous loss–to put questions of sentiment aside–that must be inflicted by such sale upon the owner of property, more consideration might have been shown. However, it is useless to try to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, or to get blood from a stone, so I suppose that I must make the best of a bad job–and,” with a most polite bow–“I really do not know that I have anything more to say to you, Mr. Cossey. I will forward the notice to my lawyers; indeed I think that it might have been sent to them in the first instance.”
Edward Cossey had all this while been sitting on an old oak chair, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and slowly swinging his hat between his legs. Suddenly he looked up and to the Squire’s surprise said quietly:
“I quite agree with you. I don’t think that you can say anything too bad about the behaviour of my people. A Shoreditch Jew could not have done worse. And look here, Mr. de la Molle, to come to the point and prevent misunderstanding, I may as well say at once that with your permission, I am anxious to take up these mortgages myself, for two reasons; I regard them as a desirable investment even in the present condition of land, and also I wish to save Cossey and Son from the discredit of the step which they meditate.”
For the second time that morning the Squire looked up with the sharp and searching gaze he occasionally assumed, and for the second time his instinct, for he was too heady a man to reason overmuch, came into play and warned him that in making this offer Edward Cossey had other motives than those which he had brought forward. He paused to consider what they might be. Was he anxious to get the estate for himself? Was he put forward by somebody else? Quest, perhaps; or was it something to do with Ida? The first alternative seemed the most probable to him. But whatever the lender’s object, the result to him was the same, it gave him a respite. For Mr. de la Molle well knew that he had no more chance of raising the money from an ordinary source, than he had of altering the condition of agriculture.
“Hum,” he said, “this is an important matter, a most important matter. I presume, Mr. Cossey, that before making this definite offer you have consulted a legal adviser.”
“Oh yes, I have done all that and am quite satisfied with the security –an advance of thirty thousand charged on all the Honham Castle estates at four per cent. The question now is if you are prepared to consent to the transfer. In that case all the old charges on the property will be paid off, and Mr. Quest, who will act for me in the matter, will prepare a single deed charging the estate for the round total.”
“Ah yes, the plan seems a satisfactory one, but of course in so important a matter I should prefer to consult my legal adviser before giving a final answer, indeed I think that it would be better if the whole affair were carried out in a proper and formal way?”
“Surely, surely, Mr. de la Molle,” said the younger man with some irritation, for the old gentleman’s somewhat magnificent manner rather annoyed him, which under the circumstances was not unnatural. “Surely you do not want to consult a legal adviser to make up your mind as to whether or no you will allow a foreclosure. I offer you the money at four per cent. Cannot you let me have an answer now, yes or no?”
“I don’t like being hurried. I can’t bear to be hurried,” said the Squire pettishly. “These important matters require consideration, a great deal of consideration. Still,” he added, observing signs of increasing irritation upon Edward Cossey’s face, and not having the slightest intention of throwing away the opportunity, though he would dearly have liked to prolong the negotiations for a week or two, if it was only to enjoy the illusory satisfaction of dabbling with such a large sum of money. “Still, as you are so pressing about it, I really, speaking off hand, can see no objection to your taking up the mortgages on the terms you mention.”
“Very well, Mr. de la Molle. Now I have on my part one condition and one only to attach to this offer of mine, which is that my name is not mentioned in connection with it. I do not wish Cossey and Son to know that I have taken up this investment on my own account. In fact, so necessary to me is it that my name should not be mentioned, that if it does transpire before the affair is completed I shall withdraw my offer, and if it transpires afterwards I shall call the money in. The loan will be advanced by a client of Mr. Quest’s. Is that understood between us?”
“Hum,” said the Squire, “I don’t quite like this secrecy about these matters of business, but still if you make a point of it, why of course I cannot object.”
“Very good. Then I presume that you will write officially to Cossey and Son stating that the money will be forthcoming to meet their various charges and the overdue interest. And now I think that we have had about enough of this business for once, so with your permission I will pay my respects to Miss de la Molle before I go.”
“Dear me,” said the Squire, pressing his hand to his head, “you do hurry me so dreadfully–I really don’t know where I am. Miss de la Molle is out; I saw her go out sketching myself. Sit down and we will talk this business over a little more.”
“No, thank you, Mr. de la Molle, I have to talk about money every day of my life and I soon have enough of the subject. Quest will arrange all the details. Good-bye, don’t bother to ring, I will find my horse.” And with a shake of the hand he was gone.
“Ah!” said the old gentleman to himself when his visitor had departed, “he asked for Ida, so I suppose that is what he is after. But it is a queer sort of way to begin courting, and if she finds it out I should think that it would go against him. Ida is not the sort of woman to be won by a money consideration. Well, she can very well look after herself, that’s certain. Anyway it has been a good morning’s work, but somehow I don’t like that young man any the better for it. I have it– there’s something wanting. He is not quite a gentleman. Well, I must find that fellow George,” and he rushed to the front door and roared for “George,” till the whole place echoed and the pheasants crowed in the woods.
After a while there came faint answering yells of “Coming, Squire, coming,” and in due course George’s long form became visible, striding swiftly up the garden.
“Well!” said his master, who was in high good humour, “did you find your man?”
“Well no, Squire–that is, I had a rare hunt after him, and I had just happened of him up a tree when you began to halloa so loud, that he went nigh to falling out of it, so I had to tell him to come back next week, or the week after.”
“You happened of him up a tree. Why what the deuce was the man doing up a tree–measuring it?”
“No, Squire, I don’t rightly know what he wor after, but he is a curious kind of a chap, and he said he had a fancy to wait there.”
“Good heavens! no wonder the place is going to ruin, when you deal with men who have a fancy to transact their business up a tree. Well, never mind that, I have settled the matter about the mortgages. Of course somebody, a client of Mr. Quest’s, has been found without the least difficulty to take them up at four per cent. and advance the other five thousand too, so that there be no more anxiety about that.”
“Well that’s a good job at any rate,” answered George with a sigh of relief.
“A good job? Of course it’s a good job, but it is no more than I expected. It wasn’t likely that such an eligible investment, as they say in the advertisements, would be allowed to go begging for long. But that’s just the way with you; the moment there’s a hitch you come with your long face and your uneducated sort of way, and swear that we are all ruined and that the country is breaking up, and that there’s nothing before us but the workhouse, and nobody knows what.”
George reflected that the Squire had forgotten that not an hour before he himself had been vowing that they were ruined, while he, George, had stoutly sworn that something would turn up to help them. But his back was accustomed to those vicarious burdens, nor to tell the truth did they go nigh to the breaking of it.
“Well, it’s a good job anyway, and I thank God Almighty for it,” said he, “and more especial since there’ll be the money to take over the Moat Farm and give that varmint Janter the boot.”
“Give him /what?/”
“Why, kick him out, sir, for good and all, begging your pardon, sir.”
“Oh, I see. I do wish that you would respect the Queen’s English a little more, George, and the name of the Creator too. By the way the parson was speaking to me again yesterday about your continued absence from church. It really is disgraceful; you are a most confirmed Sabbath-breaker. And now you mustn’t waste my time here any longer. Go and look after your affairs. Stop a minute, would you like a glass of port?”
“Well, thank you, sir,” said George reflectively, “we hev had a lot of talk and I don’t mind if I do, and as for that there parson, begging his pardon, I wish he would mind his own affairs and leave me to mind mine.”
CHAPTER XIII
ABOUT ART
Edward Cossey drove from the Castle in a far from happy frame of mind. To begin with, the Squire and his condescending way of doing business irritated him very much, so much that once or twice in the course of the conversation he was within an ace of breaking the whole thing off, and only restrained himself with difficulty from doing so. As it was, notwithstanding all the sacrifices and money risks which he was undergoing to take up these mortgages, and they were very considerable even to a man of his great prospects, he felt that he had been placed in the position of a person who receives a favour rather than of a person who grants one. Moreover there was an assumption of superiority about the old man, a visible recognition of the gulf which used to be fixed between the gentleman of family and the man of business who has grown rich by trading in money and money’s worth, which was the more galling because it was founded on actual fact, and Edward Cossey knew it. All his foibles and oddities notwithstanding, it would have been impossible for any person of discernment to entertain a comparison between the half-ruined Squire and the young banker, who would shortly be worth between half a million and a million sterling. The former was a representative, though a somewhat erratic one, of all that is best in the old type of Englishmen of gentle blood, which is now so rapidly vanishing, and of the class to which to a large extent this country owes her greatness. His very eccentricities were wandering lights that showed unsuspected heights and depths in his character–love of country and his country’s honour, respect for the religion of his fathers, loyalty of mind and valour for the right. Had he lived in other times, like some of the old Boisseys and de la Molles, who were at Honham before him, he would probably have died in the Crusades or at Cressy, or perhaps more uselessly, for his King at Marston Moor, or like that last but one of the true de la Molles, kneeling in the courtyard of his Castle and defying his enemies to wring his secret from him. Now few such opportunities are left to men of his stamp, and they are, perhaps as a consequence, dying out of an age which is unsuited to them, and indeed to most strong growths of individual character. It would be much easier to deal with a gentleman like the Squire of this history if we could only reach down one of those suits of armour from the walls of his vestibule, and put it on his back, and take that long two-handled sword which last flashed on Flodden Field from its resting-place beneath the clock, and at the end see him die as a loyal knight should do in the forefront of his retainers, with the old war cry of “/a Delamol–a Delamol/” upon his lips. As it is, he is an aristocratic anachronism, an entity unfitted to deal with the elements of our advanced and in some ways emasculated age. His body should have been where his heart was–in the past. What chance have such as he against the Quests of this polite era of political economy and penny papers?
No wonder that Edward Cossey felt his inferiority to this symbol and type of the things that no more are, yes even in the shadow of his thirty thousand pounds. For here we have a different breed. Goldsmiths two centuries ago, then bankers from generation to generation, money bees seeking for wealth and counting it and hiving it from decade to decade, till at last gold became to them what honour is to the nobler stock–the pervading principle, and the clink of the guinea and the rustling of the bank note stirred their blood as the clank of armed men and the sound of the flapping banner with its three golden hawks flaming in the sun, was wont to set the hearts of the race of Boissey, of Dofferleigh and of de la Molle, beating to that tune to which England marched on to win the world.
It is a foolish and vain thing to scoff at business and those who do it in the market places, and to shout out the old war cries of our fathers, in the face of a generation which sings the song of capital, or groans in heavy labour beneath the banners of their copyrighted trade marks; and besides, who would buy our books (also copyrighted except in America) if we did? Let us rather rise up and clothe ourselves, and put a tall hat upon our heads and do homage to the new Democracy.
And yet in the depths of our hearts and the quiet of our chambers let us sometimes cry to the old days, and the old men, and the old ways of thought, let us cry “/Ave atque vale/,–Hail and farewell.” Our fathers’ armour hangs above the door, their portraits decorate the wall, and their fierce and half-tamed hearts moulder beneath the stones of yonder church. Hail and farewell to you, our fathers! Perchance a man might have had worse company than he met with at your boards, and even have found it not more hard to die beneath your sword-cuts than to be gently cozened to the grave by duly qualified practitioners at two guineas a visit.
And the upshot of all this is that the Squire was not altogether wrong when he declared in the silence of /his/ chamber that Edward Cossey was not quite a gentleman. He showed it when he allowed himself to be guided by the arts of Mr. Quest into the adoption of the idea of obtaining a lien upon Ida, to be enforced if convenient. He showed it again, and what is more he committed a huge mistake, when tempted thereto by the opportunity of the moment, he made a conditional bargain with the said Ida, whereby she was placed in pledge for a sum of thirty thousand pounds, well knowing that her honour would be equal to the test, and that if convenient to him she would be ready to pay the debt. He made a huge mistake, for had he been quite a gentleman, he would have known that he could not have adopted a worse road to the affections of a lady. Had he been content to advance the money and then by-and-bye, though even that would not have been gentlemanlike, have gently let transpire what he had done at great personal expense and inconvenience, her imagination might have been touched and her gratitude would certainly have been excited. But the idea of bargaining, the idea of purchase, which after what had passed could never be put aside, would of necessity be fatal to any hope of tender feeling. Shylock might get his bond, but of his own act he had debarred himself from the possibility of ever getting more.
Now Edward Cossey was not lacking in that afterglow of refinement which is left by a course of public school and university education. No education can make a gentleman of a man who is not a gentleman at heart, for whether his station in life be that of a ploughboy or an Earl, the gentleman, like the poet, is born and not made. But it can and does if he be of an observant nature, give him a certain insight into the habits of thought and probable course of action of the members of that class to which he outwardly, and by repute, belongs. Such an insight Edward Cossey possessed, and at the present moment its possession was troubling him very much. His trading instincts, the desire bred in him to get something for his money, had led him to make the bargain, but now that it was done his better judgment rose up against it. For the truth may as well be told at once, although he would as yet scarcely acknowledge it to himself, Edward Cossey was already violently enamoured of Ida. He was by nature a passionate man, and as it chanced she had proved the magnet with power to draw his passion. But as the reader is aware, there existed another complication in his life for which he was not perhaps entirely responsible. When still quite a youth in mind, he had suddenly found himself the object of the love of a beautiful and enthralling woman, and had after a more or less severe struggle yielded to the temptation, as, out of a book, many young men would have done. Now to be the object of the violent affection of such a woman as Belle Quest is no doubt very flattering and even charming for a while. But if that affection is not returned in kind, if in short the gentleman does not love the lady quite as warmly as she loves him, then in course of time the charm is apt to vanish and even the flattery to cease to give pleasure. Also, when as in the present case the connection is wrong in itself and universally condemned by society, the affection which can still triumph and endure on both sides must be of a very strong and lasting order. Even an unprincipled man dislikes the acting of one long lie such as an intimacy of the sort necessarily involves, and if the man happens to be rather weak than unprincipled, the dislike is apt to turn to loathing, some portion of which will certainly be reflected on to the partner of his ill-doing.
These are general principles, but the case of Edward Cossey offered no exception to them, indeed it illustrated them well. He had never been in love with Mrs. Quest; to begin with she had shown herself too much in love with him to necessitate any display of emotion on his part. Her violent and unreasoning passion wearied and alarmed him, he never knew what she would do next and was kept in a continual condition of anxiety and irritation as to what the morrow might bring forth. Too sure of her unaltering attachment to have any pretext for jealousy, he found it exceedingly irksome to be obliged to avoid giving cause for it on his side, which, however, he dreaded doing lest he should thereby bring about some overwhelming catastrophe. Mrs. Quest was, as he well knew, not a woman who would pause to consider consequences if once her passionate jealousy were really aroused. It was even doubtful if the certainty of her own ruin would check her. Her love was everything to her, it was her life, the thing she lived for, and rather than tamely lose it, it seemed extremely probable to Edward Cossey that she would not hesitate to face shame, or even death. Indeed it was through this great passion of hers, and through it only, that he could hope to influence her. If he could persuade her to release him, by pointing out that a continuance of the intrigue must involve him in ruin of some sort, all might yet go well with him. If not his future was a dark one.
This was the state of affairs before he became attached to Ida de la Molle, after which the horizon grew blacker than ever. At first he tried to get out of the difficulty by avoiding Ida, but it did not answer. She exercised an irresistible attraction over him. Her calm and stately presence was to him what the sight of mountain snows is to one scorched by continual heat. He was weary of passionate outbursts, tears, agonies, alarms, presentiments, and all the paraphernalia of secret love. It appeared to him, looking up at the beautiful snow, that if once he could reach it life would be all sweetness and light, that there would be no more thirst, no more fear, and no more forced marches through those ill-odoured quagmires of deceit. The more he allowed his imagination to dwell upon the picture, the fiercer grew his longing to possess it. Also, he knew well enough that to marry a woman like Ida de la Molle would be the greatest blessing that could happen to him, for she would of necessity lift him up above himself. She had little money it was true, but that was a very minor matter to him, and she had birth and breeding and beauty, and a presence which commands homage. And so it came to pass that he fell deeply and yet more deeply in love with Ida, and that as he did so his connection with Mrs. Quest (although we have seen him but yesterday offering in a passing fit of tenderness and remorse to run away with her) became more and more irksome to him. And now, as he drove leisurely back to Boisingham, he felt that he had imperilled all his hopes by a rash indulgence in his trading instincts.
Presently the road took a turn and a sight was revealed that did not tend to improve his already irritable mood. Just here the roadway was bordered by a deep bank covered with trees which sloped down to the valley of the Ell, at this time of the year looking its loveliest in the soft autumn lights. And here, seated on a bank of turf beneath the shadow of a yellowing chestnut tree, in such position as to get a view of the green valley and flashing river where cattle red and white stood chewing the still luxuriant aftermath, was none other than Ida herself, and what was more, Ida accompanied by Colonel Quaritch. They were seated on campstools, and in front of each of them was an easel. Clearly they were painting together, for as Edward gazed, the Colonel rose, came up close behind his companion’s stool made a ring of his thumb and first finger, gazed critically through it at the lady’s performance, then sadly shook his head and made some remark. Thereupon Ida turned round and began an animated discussion.
“Hang me,” said Edward to himself, “if she has not taken up with that confounded old military frump. Painting together! Ah, I know what that means. Well, I should have thought that if there was one man more than another whom she would have disliked, it would have been that battered-looking Colonel.”
He pulled up his horse and reflected for a moment, then handing the reins to his servant, jumped out, and climbing through a gap in the fence walked up to the tree. So engrossed were they in their argument, that they neither saw nor heard him.
“It’s nonsense, Colonel Quaritch, perfect nonsense, if you will forgive me for telling you so,” Ida was saying with warmth. “It is all very well for you to complain that my trees are a blur, and the castle nothing but a splotch, but I am looking at the water, and if I am looking at the water, it is quite impossible that I should see the trees and the cows otherwise than I have rendered them on the canvas. True art is to paint what the painter sees and as he sees it.”
Colonel Quaritch shook his head and sighed.
“The cant of the impressionist school,” he said sadly; “on the contrary, the business of the artist is to paint what he knows to be there,” and he gazed complacently at his own canvas, which had the appearance of a spirited drawing of a fortified place, or of the contents of a child’s Noah’s ark, so stiff, so solid, so formidable were its outlines, trees and animals.
Ida shrugged her shoulders, laughed merrily, and turned round to find herself face to face with Edward Cossey. She started back, and her expression hardened–then she stretched out her hand and said, “How do you do?” in her very coldest tones.
“How do you do, Miss de la Molle?” he said, assuming as unconcerned an air as he could, and bowing stiffly to Harold Quaritch, who returned the bow and went back to his canvas, which was placed a few paces off.
“I saw you painting,” went on Edward Cossey in a low tone, “so I thought I would come and tell you that I have settled the matter with Mr. de la Molle.”
“Oh, indeed,” answered Ida, hitting viciously at a wasp with her paint brush. “Well, I hope that you will find the investment a satisfactory one. And now, if you please, do not let us talk any more about money, because I am quite tired of the subject.” Then raising her voice she went on, “Come here, Colonel Quaritch, and Mr. Cossey shall judge between us,” and she pointed to her picture.
Edward glanced at the Colonel with no amiable air. “I know nothing about art,” he said, “and I am afraid that I must be getting on. Good- morning,” and taking off his hat to Ida, he turned and went.
“Umph,” said the Colonel, looking after him with a quizzical expression, “that gentleman seems rather short in his temper. Wants knocking about the world a bit, I should say. But I beg your pardon, I suppose that he is a friend of yours, Miss de la Molle?”
“He is an acquaintance of mine,” answered Ida with emphasis.
CHAPTER XIV
THE TIGER SHOWS HER CLAWS
After this very chilling reception at the hands of the object of his affection, Edward Cossey continued his drive in an even worse temper than before. He reached his rooms, had some luncheon, and then in pursuance of a previous engagement went over to the Oaks to see Mrs. Quest.
He found her waiting for him in the drawing-room. She was standing at the window with her hands behind her, a favourite attitude of hers. As soon as the door was shut, she turned, came up to him, and grasped his hand affectionately between her own.
“It is an age since I have seen you, Edward,” she said, “one whole day. Really, when I do not see you, I do not live, I only exist.”
He freed himself from her clasp with a quick movement. “Really, Belle,” he said impatiently, “you might be a little more careful than to go through that performance in front of an open window–especially as the gardener must have seen the whole thing.”
“I don’t much care if he did,” she said defiantly. “What does it matter? My husband is certainly not in a position to make a fuss about other people.”
“What does it matter?” he said, stamping his foot. “What does it /not/ matter? If you have no care for your good name, do you suppose that I am indifferent to mine?”
Mrs. Quest opened her large violet eyes to the fullest extent, and a curious light was reflected from them.
“You have grown wonderfully cautious all of a sudden, Edward,” she said meaningly.
“What is the use of my being cautious when you are so reckless? I tell you what it is, Belle. We are talked of all over this gossiping town, and I don’t like it, and what is more, once and for all, I won’t have it. If you will not be more careful, I will break with you altogether, and that is the long and short of it.”
“Where have you been this morning?” she asked in the same ominously calm voice.
“I have been to Honham Castle on a matter of business.”
“Oh, and yesterday you were there on a matter of pleasure. Now did you happen to see Ida in the course of your business?”
“Yes,” he answered, looking her full in the face, “I did see her, what about it?”
“By appointment, I suppose.”
“No, not by appointment. Have you done your catechism?”
“Yes–and now I am going to preach a homily on it. I see through you perfectly, Edward. You are getting tired of me, and you want to be rid of me. I tell you plainly that you are not going the right way to work about it. No woman, especially if she be in my–unfortunate position, can tamely bear to see herself discarded for another. Certainly I cannot–and I caution you–I caution you to be careful, because when I think of such a thing I am not quite myself,” and suddenly, without the slightest warning (for her face had been hard and cold as stone), she burst into a flood of tears.
Now Edward Cossey was naturally somewhat moved at this sight. Of course he did his best to console her, though with no great results, for she was still sobbing bitterly when suddenly there came a knock at the door. Mrs. Quest turned her face towards the wall and pretended to be reading a letter, and he tried to look as unconcerned as possible.
“A telegram for you, sir,” said the girl with a sharp glance at her mistress. “The telegraph boy brought it on here, when he heard that you were not at home, because he said he would be sure to find you here–and please, sir, he hopes that you will give him sixpence for bringing it round, as he thought it might be important.”
Edward felt in his pocket and gave the girl a shilling, telling her to say that there was no answer. As soon as she had gone, he opened the telegram. It was from his sister in London, and ran as follows:
“Come up to town at once. Father has had a stroke of paralysis. Shall expect you by the seven o’clock train.”
“What is it?” said Mrs. Quest, noting the alarm on his face.
“Why, my father is very ill. He has had a stroke of paralysis, and I must go to town by the next train.”
“Shall you be long away?”
“I do not know. How can I tell? Good-bye, Belle. I am sorry that we should have had this scene just as I am going, but I can’t help it.”
“Oh, Edward,” she said, catching him by the arm and turning her tear- stained face up towards his own, “you are not angry with me, are you? Do not let us part in anger. How can I help being jealous when I love you so? Tell me that you do not hate me–or I shall be wretched all the time that you are away.”
“No, no, of course not–but I must say, I wish that you would not make such shocking scenes–good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she answered as she gave him her shaking hand. “Good-bye, my dear. If only you knew what I feel here,” she pointed to her breast, “you would make excuses for me.” Almost before she had finished her sentence he was gone. She stood near the door, listening to his retreating footsteps till they had quite died away, and then flung herself in the chair and rested her head upon her hands. “I shall lose him,” she said to herself in the bitterness of her heart. “I know I shall. What chance have I against her? He already cares for Ida a great deal more than he does for me, in the end he will break from me and marry her. Oh, I had rather see him dead–and myself too.”
Half-an-hour later, Mr. Quest came in.
“Where is Cossey?” he asked.
“Mr. Cossey’s father has had a stroke of paralysis and he has gone up to London to look after him.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Quest. “Well, if the old gentleman dies, your friend will be one of the wealthiest men in England.”
“Well, so much the better for him. I am sure money is a great blessing. It protects one from so much.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Quest with emphasis, “so much the better for him, and all connected with him. Why have you been crying? Because Cossey has gone away–or have you quarrelled with him?”
“How do you know that I have been crying? If I have, it’s my affair. At any rate my tears are my own.”
“Certainly, they are–I do not wish to interfere with your crying–cry when you like. It will be lucky for Cossey if that old father of his dies just now, because he wants money.”
“What does he want money for?”
“Because he has undertaken to pay off the mortgages on the Castle