Colonel Quaritch, V.C.
by
H. Rider Haggard
Part 1 out of 7
Produced by John Bickers and Dagny
COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.
By H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1888.
Etext prepared by John Bickers, jbickers@ihug.co.nz
and Dagny, dagnypg@yahoo.com
COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.
A TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE
BY
H. RIDER HAGGARD
I Dedicate
This Tale of Country Life
To
My Friend and Fellow-Sportsman,
CHARLES J. LONGMAN
PREPARER'S NOTE
This text was prepared from an 1889 edition published by Longmans,
Green and Co., printed by Kelly and Co., Gate Street, Lincoln's
Inn Fields, W.C.; and Middle Mill, Kingston-on-Thames.
COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.
A TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE
CHAPTER I
HAROLD QUARITCH MEDITATES
There are things and there are faces which, when felt or seen for the
first time, stamp themselves upon the mind like a sun image on a
sensitized plate and there remain unalterably fixed. To take the
instance of a face--we may never see it again, or it may become the
companion of our life, but there the picture is just as we /first/
knew it, the same smile or frown, the same look, unvarying and
unvariable, reminding us in the midst of change of the indestructible
nature of every experience, act, and aspect of our days. For that
which has been, is, since the past knows no corruption, but lives
eternally in its frozen and completed self.
These are somewhat large thoughts to be born of a small matter, but
they rose up spontaneously in the mind of a soldierly-looking man who,
on the particular evening when this history opens, was leaning over a
gate in an Eastern county lane, staring vacantly at a field of ripe
corn.
He was a peculiar and rather battered looking individual, apparently
over forty years of age, and yet bearing upon him that unmistakable
stamp of dignity and self-respect which, if it does not exclusively
belong to, is still one of the distinguishing attributes of the
English gentleman. In face he was ugly, no other word can express it.
Here were not the long mustachios, the almond eyes, the aristocratic
air of the Colonel of fiction--for our dreamer was a Colonel. These
were--alas! that the truth should be so plain--represented by somewhat
scrubby sandy-coloured whiskers, small but kindly blue eyes, a low
broad forehead, with a deep line running across it from side to side,
something like that to be seen upon the busts of Julius Caesar, and a
long thin nose. One good feature, however, he did possess, a mouth of
such sweetness and beauty that set, as it was, above a very square and
manly-looking chin, it had the air of being ludicrously out of place.
"Umph," said his old aunt, Mrs. Massey (who had just died and left him
what she possessed), on the occasion of her first introduction to him
five-and-thirty years before, "Umph! Nature meant to make a pretty
girl of you, and changed her mind after she had finished the mouth.
Well, never mind, better be a plain man than a pretty woman. There, go
along, boy! I like your ugly face."
Nor was the old lady peculiar in this respect, for plain as the
countenance of Colonel Harold Quaritch undoubtedly was, people found
something very taking about it, when once they became accustomed to
its rugged air and stern regulated expression. What that something was
it would be hard to define, but perhaps the nearest approach to the
truth would be to describe it as a light of purity which,
notwithstanding the popular idea to the contrary, is quite as often to
be found upon the faces of men as upon those of women. Any person of
discernment looking on Colonel Quaritch must have felt that he was in
the presence of a good man--not a prig or a milksop, but a man who had
attained by virtue of thought and struggle that had left their marks
upon him, a man whom it would not be well to tamper with, one to be
respected by all, and feared of evildoers. Men felt this, and he was
popular among those who knew him in his service, though not in any
hail-fellow-well-met kind of way. But among women he was not popular.
As a rule they both feared and disliked him. His presence jarred upon
the frivolity of the lighter members of their sex, who dimly realised
that his nature was antagonistic, and the more solid ones could not
understand him. Perhaps this was the reason why Colonel Quaritch had
never married, had never even had a love affair since he was five-and-
twenty.
And yet it was of a woman that he was thinking as he leant over the
gate, and looked at the field of yellowing corn, undulating like a
golden sea beneath the pressure of the wind.
Colonel Quaritch had twice before been at Honham, once ten, and once
four years ago. Now he was come to abide there for good. His old aunt,
Mrs. Massey, had owned a place in the village--a very small place--
called Honham Cottage, or Molehill, and on those two occasions he
visited her. Mrs. Massey was dead and buried. She had left him the
property, and with some reluctance, he had given up his profession, in
which he saw no further prospects, and come to live upon it. This was
his first evening in the place, for he had arrived by the last train
on the previous night. All day he had been busy trying to get the
house a little straight, and now, thoroughly tired, he was refreshing
himself by leaning over a gate. It is, though a great many people will
not believe it, one of the most delightful and certainly one of the
cheapest refreshments in the world.
And then it was, as he leant over the gate, that the image of a
woman's face rose before his mind as it had continually risen during
the last five years. Five years had gone since he saw it, and those
five years he spent in India and Egypt, that is with the exception of
six months which he passed in hospital--the upshot of an Arab spear
thrust in the thigh.
It had risen before him in all sorts of places and at all sorts of
times; in his sleep, in his waking moments, at mess, out shooting, and
even once in the hot rush of battle. He remembered it well--it was at
El Teb. It happened that stern necessity forced him to shoot a man
with his pistol. The bullet cut through his enemy, and with a few
convulsions he died. He watched him die, he could not help doing so,
there was some fascination in following the act of his own hand to its
dreadful conclusion, and indeed conclusion and commencement were very
near together. The terror of the sight, the terror of what in defence
of his own life he was forced to do, revolted him even in the heat of
the fight, and even then, over that ghastly and distorted face,
another face spread itself like a mask, blotting it out from view--
that woman's face. And now again it re-arose, inspiring him with the
rather recondite reflections as to the immutability of things and
impressions with which this domestic record opens.
Five years is a good stretch in a man's journey through the world.
Many things happen to us in that time. If a thoughtful person were to
set to work to record all the impressions which impinge upon his mind
during that period, he would fill a library with volumes, the mere
tale of its events would furnish a shelf. And yet how small they are
to look back upon. It seemed but the other day that he was leaning
over this very gate, and had turned to see a young girl dressed in
black, who, with a spray of honeysuckle thrust in her girdle, and
carrying a stick in her hand, was walking leisurely down the lane.
There was something about the girl's air that had struck him while she
was yet a long way off--a dignity, a grace, and a set of the
shoulders. Then as she came nearer he saw the soft dark eyes and the
waving brown hair that contrasted so strangely and effectively with
the pale and striking features. It was not a beautiful face, for the
mouth was too large, and the nose was not as straight as it might have
been, but there was a power about the broad brow, and a force and
solid nobility stamped upon the features which had impressed him
strangely. Just as she came opposite to where he was standing, a gust
of wind, for there was a stiff breeze, blew the lady's hat off, taking
it over the hedge, and he, as in duty bound, scrambled into the field
and fetched it for her, and she had thanked him with a quick smile and
a lighting up of the brown eyes, and then passed on with a bow.
Yes, with a little bow she had passed on, and he watched her walking
down the long level drift, till her image melted into the stormy
sunset light, and was gone. When he returned to the cottage he had
described her to his old aunt, and asked who she might be, to learn
that she was Ida de la Molle (which sounded like a name out of a
novel), the only daughter of the old squire who lived at Honham
Castle. Next day he had left for India, and saw Miss de la Molle no
more.
And now he wondered what had become of her. Probably she was married;
so striking a person would be almost sure to attract the notice of
men. And after all what could it matter to him? He was not a marrying
man, and women as a class had little attraction for him; indeed he
disliked them. It has been said that he had never married, and never
even had a love affair since he was five-and-twenty. But though he was
not married, he once--before he was five-and-twenty--very nearly took
that step. It was twenty years ago now, and nobody quite knew the
history, for in twenty years many things are fortunately forgotten.
But there was a history, and a scandal, and the marriage was broken
off almost on the day it should have taken place. And after that it
leaked out in the neighbourhood that the young lady, who by the way
was a considerable heiress, had gone off her head, presumably with
grief, and been confined in an asylum, where she was believed still to
remain.
Perhaps it was the thought of this one woman's face, the woman he had
once seen walking down the drift, her figure limned out against the
stormy sky, that led him to think of the other face, the face hidden
in the madhouse. At any rate, with a sigh, or rather a groan, he swung
himself round from the gate and began to walk homeward at a brisk
pace.
The drift that he was following is known as the mile drift, and had in
ancient times formed the approach to the gates of Honham Castle, the
seat of the ancient and honourable family of de la Molle (sometimes
written "Delamol" in history and old writings). Honham Castle was now
nothing but a ruin, with a manor house built out of the wreck on one
side of its square, and the broad way that led to it from the high
road which ran from Boisingham,[*] the local country town, was a drift
or grass lane.
[*] Said to have been so named after the Boissey family, whose heiress
a de la Molle married in the fourteenth century. As, however, the
town of Boisingham is mentioned by one of the old chroniclers,
this does not seem very probable. No doubt the family took their
name from the town or hamlet, not the town from the family.
Colonel Quaritch followed this drift till he came to the high road,
and then turned. A few minutes' walk brought him to a drive opening
out of the main road on the left as he faced towards Boisingham. This
drive, which was some three hundred yards long, led up a rather sharp
slope to his own place, Honham Cottage, or Molehill, as the villagers
called it, a title calculated to give a keen impression of a neat
spick and span red brick villa with a slate roof. In fact, however, it
was nothing of the sort, being a building of the fifteenth century, as
a glance at its massive flint walls was sufficient to show. In ancient
times there had been a large Abbey at Boisingham, two miles away,
which, the records tell, suffered terribly from an outbreak of the
plague in the fifteenth century. After this the monks obtained ten
acres of land, known as Molehill, by grant from the de la Molle of the
day, and so named either on account of their resemblance to a molehill
(of which more presently) or after the family. On this elevated spot,
which was supposed to be peculiarly healthy, they built the little
house now called Honham Cottage, whereto to fly when next the plague
should visit them.
And as they built it, so, with some slight additions, it had remained
to this day, for in those ages men did not skimp their flint, and oak,
and mortar. It was a beautiful little spot, situated upon the flat top
of a swelling hill, which comprised the ten acres of grazing ground
originally granted, and was, strange to say, still the most
magnificently-timbered piece of ground in the country side. For on the
ten acres of grass land there stood over fifty great oaks, some of
them pollards of the most enormous antiquity, and others which had, no
doubt, originally grown very close together, fine upstanding trees
with a wonderful length and girth of bole. This place, Colonel
Quaritch's aunt, old Mrs. Massey, had bought nearly thirty years
before when she became a widow, and now, together with a modest income
of two hundred a year, it had passed to him under her will.
Shaking himself clear of his sad thoughts, Harold Quaritch turned
round at his own front door to contemplate the scene. The long,
single-storied house stood, it has been said, at the top of the rising
land, and to the south and west and east commanded as beautiful a view
as is to be seen in the county. There, a mile or so away to the south,
situated in the midst of grassy grazing grounds, and flanked on either
side by still perfect towers, frowned the massive gateway of the old
Norman castle. Then, to the west, almost at the foot of Molehill, the
ground broke away in a deep bank clothed with timber, which led the
eye down by slow descents into the beautiful valley of the Ell. Here
the silver river wound its gentle way through lush and poplar-bordered
marshes, where the cattle stand knee-deep in flowers; past quaint
wooden mill-houses, through Boisingham Old Common, windy looking even
now, and brightened here and there with a dash of golden gorse, till
it was lost beneath the picturesque cluster of red-tiled roofs that
marked the ancient town. Look which way he would, the view was lovely,
and equal to any to be found in the Eastern counties, where the
scenery is fine enough in its own way, whatever people may choose to
say to the contrary, whose imaginations are so weak that they require
a mountain and a torrent to excite them into activity.
Behind the house to the north there was no view, and for a good
reason, for here in the very middle of the back garden rose a mound of
large size and curious shape, which completely shut out the landscape.
What this mound, which may perhaps have covered half an acre of
ground, was, nobody had any idea. Some learned folk write it down a
Saxon tumulus, a presumption to which its ancient name, "Dead Man's
Mount," seemed to give colour. Other folk, however, yet more learned,
declared it to be an ancient British dwelling, and pointed
triumphantly to a hollow at the top, wherein the ancient Britishers
were supposed to have moved, lived, and had their being--which must,
urged the opposing party, have been a very damp one. Thereon the late
Mrs. Massey, who was a British dwellingite, proceeded to show with
much triumph /how/ they had lived in the hole by building a huge
mushroom-shaped roof over it, and thereby turning it into a summer-
house, which, owing to unexpected difficulties in the construction of
the roof, cost a great deal of money. But as the roof was slated, and
as it was found necessary to pave the hollow with tiles and cut
surface drains in it, the result did not clearly prove its use as a
dwelling place before the Roman conquest. Nor did it make a very good
summer house. Indeed it now served as a store place for the gardener's
tools and for rubbish generally.
CHAPTER II
THE COLONEL MEETS THE SQUIRE
As Colonel Quaritch was contemplating these various views and
reflecting that on the whole he had done well to come and live at
Honham Cottage, he was suddenly startled by a loud voice saluting him
from about twenty yards distance with such peculiar vigour that he
fairly jumped.
"Colonel Quaritch, I believe," said, or rather shouted, the voice from
somewhere down the drive.
"Yes," answered the Colonel mildly, "here I am."
"Ah, I thought it was you. Always tell a military man, you know.
Excuse me, but I am resting for a minute, this last pull is an
uncommonly stiff one. I always used to tell my dear old friend, Mrs.
Massey, that she ought to have the hill cut away a bit just here.
Well, here goes for it," and after a few heavy steps his visitor
emerged from the shadow of the trees into the sunset light which was
playing on the terrace before the house.
Colonel Quaritch glanced up curiously to see who the owner of the
great voice might be, and his eyes lit upon as fine a specimen of
humanity as he had seen for a long while. The man was old, as his
white hair showed, seventy perhaps, but that was the only sign of
decay about him. He was a splendid man, broad and thick and strong,
with a keen, quick eye, and a face sharply chiselled, and clean
shaved, of the stamp which in novels is generally known as
aristocratic, a face, in fact, that showed both birth and breeding.
Indeed, as clothed in loose tweed garments and a gigantic pair of top
boots, his visitor stood leaning on his long stick and resting himself
after facing the hill, Harold Quaritch thought that he had never seen
a more perfect specimen of the typical English country gentleman--as
the English country gentleman used to be.
"How do you do, sir, how do you do--my name is de la Molle. My man
George, who knows everybody's business except his own, told me that
you had arrived here, so I thought I would walk round and do myself
the honour of making your acquaintance."
"That is very kind of you," said the Colonel.
"Not at all. If you only knew how uncommonly dull it is down in these
parts you would not say that. The place isn't what it used to be when
I was a boy. There are plenty of rich people about, but they are not
the same stamp of people. It isn't what it used to be in more ways
than one," and the old Squire gave something like a sigh, and
thoughtfully removed his white hat, out of which a dinner napkin and
two pocket-handkerchiefs fell to the ground, in a fashion that
reminded Colonel Quaritch of the climax of a conjuring trick.
"You have dropped some--some linen," he said, stooping down to pick
the mysterious articles up.
"Oh, yes, thank you," answered his visitor, "I find the sun a little
hot at this time of the year. There is nothing like a few
handkerchiefs or a towel to keep it off," and he rolled the mass of
napery into a ball, and cramming it back into the crown, replaced the
hat on his head in such a fashion that about eight inches of white
napkin hung down behind. "You must have felt it in Egypt," he went on
--"the sun I mean. It's a bad climate, that Egypt, as I have good
reason to know," and he pointed again to his white hat, which Harold
Quaritch now observed for the first time was encircled by a broad
black band.
"Ah, I see," he said, "I suppose that you have had a loss."
"Yes, sir, a very heavy loss."
Now Colonel Quaritch had never heard that Mr. de la Molle had more
than one child, Ida de la Molle, the young lady whose face remained so
strongly fixed in his memory, although he had scarcely spoken to her
on that one occasion five long years ago. Could it be possible that
she had died in Egypt? The idea sent a tremor of fear through him,
though of course there was no real reason why it should. Deaths are so
common.
"Not--not Miss de la Molle?" he said nervously, adding, "I had the
pleasure of seeing her once, a good many years ago, when I was
stopping here for a few days with my aunt."
"Oh, no, not Ida, she is alive and well, thank God. Her brother James.
He went all through that wretched war which we owe to Mr. Gladstone,
as I say, though I don't know what your politics are, and then caught
a fever, or as I think got touched by the sun, and died on his way
home. Poor boy! He was a fine fellow, Colonel Quaritch, and my only
son, but very reckless. Only a month or so before he died, I wrote to
him to be careful always to put a towel in his helmet, and he
answered, in that flippant sort of way he had, that he was not going
to turn himself into a dirty clothes bag, and that he rather liked the
heat than otherwise. Well, he's gone, poor fellow, in the service of
his country, like many of his ancestors before him, and there's an end
of him."
And again the old man sighed, heavily this time.
"And now, Colonel Quaritch," he went on, shaking off his oppression
with a curious rapidity that was characteristic of him, "what do you
say to coming up to the Castle for your dinner? You must be in a mess
here, and I expect that old Mrs. Jobson, whom my man George tells me
you have got to look after you, will be glad enough to be rid of you
for to-night. What do you say?--take the place as you find it, you
know. I believe that there is a leg of mutton for dinner if there is
nothing else, because instead of minding his own business I saw George
going off to Boisingham to fetch it this morning. At least, that is
what he said he was going for; just an excuse to gossip and idle, I
fancy."
"Well, really," said the Colonel, "you are very kind; but I don't
think that my dress clothes are unpacked yet."
"Dress clothes! Oh, never mind your dress clothes. Ida will excuse
you, I daresay. Besides, you have no time to dress. By Jove, it's
nearly seven o'clock; we must be off if you are coming."
The Colonel hesitated. He had intended to dine at home, and being a
methodical-minded man did not like altering his plans. Also, he was,
like most military men, very punctilious about his dress and personal
appearance, and objected to going out to dinner in a shooting coat.
But all this notwithstanding, a feeling that he did not quite
understand, and which it would have puzzled even an American novelist
to analyse--something between restlessness and curiosity, with a dash
of magnetic attraction thrown in--got the better of his scruples, and
he accepted.
"Well, thank you," he said, "if you are sure that Miss de la Molle
will not mind, I will come. Just allow me to tell Mrs. Jobson."
"That's right," halloaed the Squire after him, "I'll meet you at the
back of the house. We had better go through the fields."
By the time that the Colonel, having informed his housekeeper that he
should not want any dinner, and hastily brushed his not too luxuriant
locks, had reached the garden which lay behind the house, the Squire
was nowhere to be seen. Presently, however, a loud halloa from the top
of the tumulus-like hill announced his whereabouts.
Wondering what the old gentleman could be doing there, Harold Quaritch
walked up the steps that led to the summit of the mound, and found him
standing at the entrance to the mushroom-shaped summer-house,
contemplating the view.
"There, Colonel," he said, "there's a perfect view for you. Talk about
Scotland and the Alps! Give me a view of the valley of Ell from the
top of Dead Man's Mount on an autumn evening, and I never want to see
anything finer. I have always loved it from a boy, and always shall so
long as I live--look at those oaks, too. There are no such trees in
the county that I know of. The old lady, your aunt, was wonderfully
fond of them. I hope--" he went on in a tone of anxiety--"I hope that
you don't mean to cut any of them down."
"Oh no," said the Colonel, "I should never think of such a thing."
"That's right. Never cut down a good tree if you can help it. I'm
sorry to say, however," he added after a pause, "that I have been
forced to cut down a good many myself. Queer place this, isn't it?" he
continued, dropping the subject of the trees, which was evidently a
painful one to him. "Dead Man's Mount is what the people about here
call it, and that is what they called it at the time of the Conquest,
as I can prove to you from ancient writings. I always believed that it
was a tumulus, but of late years a lot of these clever people have
been taking their oath that it is an ancient British dwelling, as
though Ancient Britons, or any one else for that matter, could live in
a kind of drainhole. But they got on the soft side of your old aunt--
who, by the way, begging your pardon, was a wonderfully obstinate old
lady when once she hammered an idea into her head--and so she set to
work and built this slate mushroom over the place, and one way and
another it cost her two hundred and fifty pounds. Dear me! I shall
never forget her face when she saw the bill," and the old gentleman
burst out into a Titanic laugh, such as Harold Quaritch had not heard
for many a long day.
"Yes," he answered, "it is a queer spot. I think that I must have a
dig at it one day."
"By Jove," said the Squire, "I never thought of that. It would be
worth doing. Hulloa, it is twenty minutes past seven, and we dine at
half past. I shall catch it from Ida. Come on, Colonel Quaritch; you
don't know what it is to have a daughter--a daughter when one is late
for dinner is a serious thing for any man," and he started off down
the hill in a hurry.
Very soon, however, he seemed to forget the terrors in store, and
strolled along, stopping now and again to admire some particular oak
or view; chatting all the while in a discursive manner, which, though
somewhat aimless, was by no means without its charm. He made a capital
companion for a silent man like Harold Quaritch who liked to hear
other people talk.
In this way they went down the slope, and crossing a couple of wheat
fields came to a succession of broad meadows, somewhat sparsely
timbered. Through these the footpath ran right up to the grim gateway
of the ancient Castle, which now loomed before them, outlined in red
lines of fire against the ruddy background of the sunset sky.
"Ay, it's a fine old place, Colonel, isn't it?" said the Squire,
catching the exclamation of admiration that broke from his companion's
lips, as a sudden turn brought them into line with the Norman ruin.
"History--that's what it is; history in stone and mortar; this is
historic ground, every inch of it. Those old de la Molles, my
ancestors, and the Boisseys before them, were great folk in their day,
and they kept up their position well. I will take you to see their
tombs in the church yonder on Sunday. I always hoped to be buried
beside them, but I can't manage it now, because of the Act. However, I
mean to get as near to them as I can. I have a fancy for the
companionship of those old Barons, though I expect that they were a
roughish lot in their lifetimes. Look how squarely those towers stand
out against the sky. They always remind me of the men who built them--
sturdy, overbearing fellows, setting their shoulders against the sea
of circumstance and caring neither for man nor devil till the priests
got hold of them at the last. Well, God rest them, they helped to make
England, whatever their faults. Queer place to choose for a castle,
though, wasn't it? right out in an open plain."
"I suppose that they trusted to their moat and walls, and the hagger
at the bottom of the dry ditch," said the Colonel. "You see there is
no eminence from which they could be commanded, and their archers
could sweep all the plain from the battlements."
"Ah, yes, of course they could. It is easy to see that you are a
soldier. They were no fools, those old crusaders. My word, we must be
getting on. They are hauling down the Union Jack on the west tower. I
always have it hauled down at sunset," and he began walking briskly
again.
In another three minutes they had crossed a narrow by-road, and were
passing up the ancient drive that led to the Castle gates. It was not
much of a drive, but there were still some half-dozen of old pollard
oaks that had no doubt stood there before the Norman Boissey, from
whose family, centuries ago, the de la Molles had obtained the
property by marriage with the heiress, had got his charter and cut the
first sod of his moat.
Right before them was the gateway of the Castle, flanked by two great
towers, and these, with the exception of some ruins were, as a matter
of fact, all that remained of the ancient building, which had been
effectually demolished in the time of Cromwell. The space within,
where the keep had once stood, was now laid out as a flower garden,
while the house, which was of an unpretentious nature, and built in
the Jacobean style, occupied the south side of the square, and was
placed with its back to the moat.
"You see I have practically rebuilt those two towers," said the
Squire, pausing underneath the Norman archway. "If I had not done it,"
he added apologetically, "they would have been in ruins by now, but it
cost a pretty penny, I can tell you. Nobody knows what stuff that old
flint masonry is to deal with, till he tries it. Well, they will stand
now for many a long day. And here we are"--and he pushed open a porch
door and then passed up some steps and through a passage into an oak-
panelled vestibule, which was hung with tapestry originally taken, no
doubt, from the old Castle, and decorated with coats of armour, spear
heads, and ancient swords.
And here it was that Harold Quaritch once more beheld the face which
had haunted his memory for so many months.
CHAPTER III
THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE
"Is that you, father?" said a voice, a very sweet voice, but one of
which the tones betrayed the irritation natural to a healthy woman who
has been kept waiting for her dinner. The voice came from the recesses
of the dusky room in which the evening gloom had gathered deeply, and
looking in its direction, Harold Quaritch could see the outline of a
tall form sitting in an old oak chair with its hands crossed.
"Is that you, father? Really it is too bad to be so late for dinner--
especially after you blew up that wretched Emma last night because she
was five minutes after time. I have been waiting so long that I have
almost been asleep."
"I am very sorry, my dear, very," said the old gentleman
apologetically, "but--hullo! I've knocked my head--here, Mary, bring
me a light!"
"Here is a light," said the voice, and at the same moment there was a
sound of a match being struck.
In another moment the candle was burning, and the owner of the voice
had turned, holding it in such a fashion that its rays surrounded her
like an aureole--showing Harold Quaritch that face of which the memory
had never left him. There were the same powerful broad brow, the same
nobility of look, the same brown eyes and soft waving hair. But the
girlhood had gone out of them, the face was now the face of a woman
who knew what life meant, and had not found it too easy. It had lost
some of its dreaminess, he thought, though it had gained in
intellectual force. As for the figure, it was much more admirable than
the face, which was strictly speaking not a beautiful one. The figure,
however, was undoubtedly beautiful, indeed, it is doubtful if many
women could show a finer. Ida de la Molle was a large, strong woman,
and there was about her a swing and a lissom grace which is very rare,
and as attractive as it is rare. She was now nearly six-and-twenty
years of age, and not having begun to wither in accordance with the
fate which overtakes all unmarried women after thirty, was at her very
best. Harold Quaritch, glancing at her well-poised head, her perfect
neck and arms (for she was in evening dress) and her gracious form,
thought to himself that he had never seen a nobler-looking woman.
"Why, my dear father," she went on as she watched the candle burn up,
"you made such a fuss this morning about the dinner being punctually
at half-past seven, and now it is eight o'clock and you are not
dressed. It is enough to ruin any cook," and she broke off for the
first time, seeing that her father was not alone.
"Yes, my dear, yes," said the old gentleman, "I dare say I did. It is
human to err, my dear, especially about dinner on a fine evening.
Besides, I have made amends and brought you a visitor, our new
neighbour, Colonel Quaritch. Colonel Quaritch, let me introduce you to
my daughter, Miss de la Molle."
"I think that we have met before," said Harold, in a somewhat nervous
fashion, as he stretched out his hand.
"Yes," answered Ida, taking it, "I remember. It was in the long drift,
five years ago, on a windy afternoon, when my hat blew over the hedge
and you went to fetch it."
"You have a good memory, Miss de la Molle," said he, feeling not a
little pleased that she should have recollected the incident.
"Evidently not better than your own, Colonel Quaritch," was the ready
answer. "Besides, one sees so few strangers here that one naturally
remembers them. It is a place where nothing happens--time passes, that
is all."
Meanwhile the old Squire, who had been making a prodigious fuss with
his hat and stick, which he managed to send clattering down the flight
of stone steps, departed to get ready, saying in a kind of roar as he
went that Ida was to order in the dinner, as he would be down in a
minute.
Accordingly she rang the bell, and told the maid to bring in the soup
in five minutes and to lay another place. Then turning to Harold she
began to apologise to him.
"I don't know what sort of dinner you will get, Colonel Quaritch," she
said; "it is so provoking of my father; he never gives one the least
warning when he is going to ask any one to dinner."
"Not at all--not at all," he answered hurriedly. "It is I who ought to
apologise, coming down on you like--like----"
"A wolf on the fold," suggested Ida.
"Yes, exactly," he went on earnestly, looking at his coat, "but not in
purple and gold."
"Well," she went on laughing, "you will get very little to eat for
your pains, and I know that soldiers always like good dinners."
"How do you know that, Miss de la Molle?"
"Oh, because of poor James and his friends whom he used to bring here.
By the way, Colonel Quaritch," she went on with a sudden softening of
the voice, "you have been in Egypt, I know, because I have so often
seen your name in the papers; did you ever meet my brother there?"
"I knew him slightly," he answered. "Only very slightly. I did not
know that he was your brother, or indeed that you had a brother. He
was a dashing officer."
What he did not say, however, was that he also knew him to have been
one of the wildest and most extravagant young men in an extravagant
regiment, and as such had to some extent shunned his society on the
few occasions that he had been thrown in with him. Perhaps Ida, with a
woman's quickness, divined from his tone that there was something
behind his remark--at any rate she did not ask him for particulars of
their slight acquaintance.
"He was my only brother," she continued; "there never were but we two,
and of course his loss was a great blow to me. My father cannot get
over it at all, although----" and she broke off suddenly, and rested
her head upon her hand.
At this moment the Squire was heard advancing down the stairs,
shouting to the servants as he came.
"A thousand pardons, my dear, a thousand pardons," he said as he
entered the room, "but, well, if you will forgive particulars, I was
quite unable to discover the whereabouts of a certain necessary
portion of the male attire. Now, Colonel Quaritch, will you take my
daughter? Stop, you don't know the way--perhaps I had better show you
with the candle."
Accordingly he advanced out of the vestibule, and turning to the left,
led the way down a long passage till he reached the dining-room. This
apartment was like the vestibule, oak-panelled, but the walls were
decorated with family and other portraits, including a very curious
painting of the Castle itself, as it was before its destruction in the
time of Cromwell. This painting was executed on a massive slab of oak,
and conceived in a most quaint and formal style, being relieved in the
foreground with stags at gaze and woodeny horses, that must, according
to any rule of proportion, have been about half as large as the
gateway towers. Evidently, also, it was of an older date than the
present house, which is Jacobean, having probably been removed to its
present position from the ruins of the Castle. Such as it was,
however, it gave a very good idea of what the ancient seat of the
Boisseys and de la Molles had been like before the Roundheads had made
an end of its glory. The dining-room itself was commodious, though not
large. It was lighted by three narrow windows which looked out upon
the moat, and bore a considerable air of solid comfort. The table,
made of black oak, of extraordinary solidity and weight, was matched
by a sideboard of the same material and apparently of the same date,
both pieces of furniture being, as Mr. de la Molle informed his
guests, relics of the Castle.
On this sideboard were placed several pieces of old and massive plate,
each of which was rudely engraved with three falcons /or/, the arms of
the de la Molle family. One piece, indeed, a very ancient salver, bore
those of the Boisseys--a ragged oak, in an escutcheon of pretence--
showing thereby that it dated from that de la Molle who in the time of
Henry the Seventh had obtained the property by marriage with the
Boissey heiress.
Conversation having turned that way, as the dinner, which was a simple
one, went on, the old Squire had this piece of plate brought to Harold
Quaritch for him to examine.
"It is very curious," he said; "have you much of this, Mr. de la
Molle?"
"No indeed," he said; "I wish I had. It all vanished in the time of
Charles the First."
"Melted down, I suppose," said the Colonel.
"No, that is the odd part of it. I don't think it was. It was hidden
somewhere--I don't know where, or perhaps it was turned into money and
the money hidden. But I will tell you the story if you like as soon as
we have done dinner."
Accordingly, when the servants had removed the cloth, and after the
old fashion placed the wine upon the naked wood, the Squire began his
tale, of which the following is the substance.
"In the time of James I. the de la Molle family was at the height of
its prosperity, that is, so far as money goes. For several generations
previous the representatives of the family had withdrawn themselves
from any active participation in public affairs, and living here at
small expense upon their lands, which were at that time very large,
had amassed a quantity of wealth that, for the age, might fairly be
called enormous. Thus, Sir Stephen de la Molle, the grandfather of the
Sir James who lived in the time of James I., left to his son, also
named Stephen, a sum of no less than twenty-three thousand pounds in
gold. This Stephen was a great miser, and tradition says that he
trebled the sum in his lifetime. Anyhow, he died rich as Croesus, and
abominated alike by his tenants and by the country side, as might be
expected when a gentleman of his race and fame degraded himself, as
this Sir Stephen undoubtedly did, to the practice of usury.
"With the next heir, Sir James, however, the old spirit of the de la
Molles seems to have revived, although it is sufficiently clear that
he was by no means a spendthrift, but on the contrary, a careful man,
though one who maintained his station and refused to soil his fingers
with such base dealing as it had pleased his uncle to do. Going to
court, he became, perhaps on account of his wealth, a considerable
favourite with James I., to whom he was greatly attached and from whom
he bought a baronetcy. Indeed, the best proof of his devotion is, that
he on two occasions lent large sums of money to the King which were
never repaid. On the accession of Charles I., however, Sir James left
court under circumstances which were never quite cleared up. It is
said that smarting under some slight which was put upon him, he made a
somewhat brusque demand for the money that he had lent to James.
Thereon the King, with sarcastic wit, congratulated him on the fact
that the spirit of his uncle, Sir Stephen de la Molle, whose name was
still a byword in the land, evidently survived in the family. Sir
James turned white with anger, bowed, and without a word left the
court, nor did he ever return thither.
"Years passed, and the civil war was at its height. Sir James had as
yet steadily refused to take any share in it. He had never forgiven
the insult put upon him by the King, for like most of his race, of
whom it was said that they never forgave an injury and never forgot a
kindness, he was a pertinacious man. Therefore he would not lift a
finger in the King's cause. But still less would he help the
Roundheads, whom he hated with a singular hatred. So time went, till
at last, when he was sore pressed, Charles, knowing his great wealth
and influence, brought himself to write a letter to this Sir James,
appealing to him for support, and especially for money.
"'I hear,' said the King in his letter, 'that Sir James de la Molle,
who was aforetyme well affected to our person and more especially to
the late King, our sainted father, doth stand idle, watching the
growing of this bloody struggle and lifting no hand. Such was not the
way of the race from which he sprang, which, unless history doth
greatly lie, hath in the past been ever found at the side of their
kings striking for the right. It is told to me also, that Sir James de
la Molle doth thus place himself aside blowing neither hot nor cold,
because of some sharp words which we spake in heedless jest many a
year that's gone. We know not if this be true, doubting if a man's
memory be so long, but if so it be, then hereby do we crave his
pardon, and no more can we do. And now is our estate one of grievous
peril, and sorely do we need the aid of God and man. Therefore, if the
heart of our subject Sir James de la Molle be not rebellious against
us, as we cannot readily credit it to be, we do implore his present
aid in men and money, of which last it is said he hath large store,
this letter being proof of our urgent need.'
"These were, as nearly as I can remember, the very words of the
letter, which was written with the King's own hand, and show pretty
clearly how hardly he was pressed. It is said that when he read it,
Sir James, forgetting his grievance, was much affected, and, taking
paper, wrote hastily as follows, which indeed he certainly did, for I
have seen the letter in the Museum. 'My liege,--Of the past I will not
speak. It is past. But since it hath graciously pleased your Majesty
to ask mine aid against the rebels who would overthrow your throne,
rest assured that all I have is at your Majesty's command, till such
time as your enemies are discomfited. It hath pleased Providence to so
prosper my fortunes that I have stored away in a safe place, till
these times be past, a very great sum in gold, whereof I will at once
place ten thousand pieces at the disposal of your Majesty, so soon as
a safe means can be provided of conveying the same, seeing that I had
sooner die than that these great moneys should fall into the hands of
rebels to the furtherance of a wicked cause.'
"Then the letter went on to say that the writer would at once buckle
to and raise a troop of horse among his tenantry, and that if other
satisfactory arrangements could not be made for the conveyance of the
moneys, he would bring them in person to the King.
"And now comes the climax of the story. The messenger was captured and
Sir James's incautious letter taken from his boot, as a result of
which within ten days' time he found himself closely besieged by five
hundred Roundheads under the command of one Colonel Playfair. The
Castle was but ill-provisioned for a siege, and in the end Sir James
was driven by sheer starvation to surrender. No sooner had he obtained
an entry, then Colonel Playfair sent for his prisoner, and to his
astonishment produced to Sir James's face his own letter to the King.
"'Now, Sir James,' he said, 'we have the hive, and I must ask you to
lead us to the honey. Where be those great moneys whereof you talk
herein? Fain would I be fingering these ten thousand pieces of gold,
the which you have so snugly stored away.'
"'Ay,' answered old Sir James, 'you have the hive, but the secret of
the honey you have not, nor shall you have it. The ten thousand pieces
in gold is where it is, and with it is much more. Find it if you may,
Colonel, and take it if you can.'
"'I shall find it by to-morrow's light, Sir James, or otherwise--or
otherwise you die.'
"'I must die--all men do, Colonel, but if I die, the secret dies with
me.'
"'This shall we see,' answered the Colonel grimly, and old Sir James
was marched off to a cell, and there closely confined on bread and
water. But he did not die the next day, nor the next, nor for a week,
indeed.
"Every day he was brought up before the Colonel, and under the threat
of immediate death questioned as to where the treasure was, not being
suffered meanwhile to communicate by word or sign with any one, save
the officers of the rebels. Every day he refused, till at last his
inquisitor's patience gave out, and he was told frankly that if he did
not communicate the secret he would be shot at the following dawn.
"Old Sir James laughed, and said that shoot him they might, but that
he consigned his soul to the Devil if he would enrich them with his
treasures, and then asked that his Bible might be brought to him that
he might read therein and prepare himself for death.
"They gave him the Bible and left him. Next morning at the dawn, a
file of Roundheads marched him into the courtyard of the Castle and
here he found Colonel Playfair and his officers waiting.
"'Now, Sir James, for your last word,' said the Roundhead. 'Will you
reveal where the treasure lies, or will you choose to die?'
"'I will not reveal,' answered the old man. 'Murder me if ye will. The
deed is worthy of Holy Presbyters. I have spoken and my mind is
fixed.'
"'Bethink you,' said the Colonel.
"'I have thought,' he answered, 'and I am ready. Slay me and seek the
treasure. But one thing I ask. My young son is not here. In France
hath he been these three years, and nought knows he of where I have
hid this gold. Send to him this Bible when I am dead. Nay, search it
from page to page. There is nought therein save what I have writ here
upon this last sheet. It is all I have left to give.'
"'The book shall be searched,' answered the Colonel, 'and if nought is
found therein it shall be sent. And now, in the name of God, I adjure
you, Sir James, let not the love of lucre stand between you and your
life. Here I make you one last offer. Discover but to us the ten
thousand pounds whereof you speak in this writing,' and he held up the
letter to the King, 'and you shall go free--refuse and you die.'
"'I refuse,' he answered.
"'Musqueteers, make ready,' shouted the Colonel, and the file of men
stepped forward.
"But at that moment there came up so furious a squall of wind, and
with it such dense and cutting rain, that for a while the execution
was delayed. Presently it passed, the wild light of the November
morning swept out from the sky, and revealed the doomed man kneeling
in prayer upon the sodden turf, the water running from his white hair
and beard.
"They called to him to stand up, but he would not, and continued
praying. So they shot him on his knees."
"Well," said Colonel Quaritch, "at any rate he died like a gallant
gentleman."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the servant came in.
"What is it?" asked the Squire.
"George is here, please, sir," said the girl, "and says that he would
like to see you."
"Confound him," growled the old gentleman; "he is always here after
something or other. I suppose it is about the Moat Farm. He was going
to see Janter to-day. Will you excuse me, Quaritch? My daughter will
tell you the end of the story if you care to hear any more. I will
join you in the drawing-room."
CHAPTER IV
THE END OF THE TALE
As soon as her father had gone, Ida rose and suggested that if Colonel
Quaritch had done his wine they should go into the drawing-room, which
they accordingly did. This room was much more modern than either the
vestibule or the dining-room, and had an air and flavour of nineteenth
century young lady about it. There were the little tables, the
draperies, the photograph frames, and all the hundred and one knick-
knacks and odds and ends by means of which a lady of taste makes a
chamber lovely in the eyes of brutal man. It was a very pleasant place
to look upon, this drawing-room at Honham Castle, with its irregular
recesses, its somewhat faded colours illuminated by the soft light of
a shaded lamp, and its general air of feminine dominion. Harold
Quaritch was a man who had seen much of the world, but who had not
seen very much of drawing-rooms, or, indeed, of ladies at large. They
had not come in his way, or if they did come in his way he had avoided
them. Therefore, perhaps, he was the more susceptible to such
influences when he was brought within their reach. Or perchance it was
Ida's gracious presence which threw a charm upon the place that added
to its natural attractiveness, as the china bowls of lavender and rose
leaves added perfume to the air. Anyhow, it struck him that he had
rarely before seen a room which conveyed to his mind such strong
suggestions of refinement and gentle rest.
"What a charming room," he said, as he entered it.
"I am glad you think so," answered Ida; "because it is my own
territory, and I arrange it."
"Yes," he said, "it is easy to see that."
"Well, would you like to hear the end of the story about Sir James and
his treasure?"
"Certainly; it interests me very much."
"It positively /fascinates/ me," said Ida with emphasis.
"Listen, and I will tell you. After they had shot old Sir James they
took the Bible off him, but whether or no Colonel Playfair ever sent
it to the son in France, is not clear.
"The story is all known historically, and it is certain that, as my
father said, he asked that his Bible might be sent, but nothing more.
This son, Sir Edward, never lived to return to England. After his
father's murder, the estates were seized by the Parliamentary party,
and the old Castle, with the exception of the gate towers, razed to
the ground, partly for military purposes and partly in the long and
determined attempt that was made to discover old Sir James's treasure,
which might, it was thought, have been concealed in some secret
chamber in the walls. But it was all of no use, and Colonel Playfair
found that in letting his temper get the better of him and shooting
Sir James, he had done away with the only chance of finding it that he
was ever likely to have, for to all appearance the secret had died
with its owner. There was a great deal of noise about it at the time,
and the Colonel was degraded from his rank in reward for what he had
done. It was presumed that old Sir James must have had accomplices in
the hiding of so great a mass of gold, and every means was taken, by
way of threats and promises of reward--which at last grew to half of
the total amount that should be discovered--to induce these to come
forward if they existed, but without result. And so the matter went
on, till after a few years the quest died away and was forgotten.
"Meanwhile the son, Sir Edward, who was the second and last baronet,
led a wandering life abroad, fearing or not caring to return to
England now that all his property had been seized. When he was two-
and-twenty years of age, however, he contracted an imprudent marriage
with his cousin, a lady of the name of Ida Dofferleigh, a girl of good
blood and great beauty, but without means. Indeed, she was the sister
of Geoffrey Dofferleigh, who was a first cousin and companion in exile
of Sir Edward's, and as you will presently see, my lineal ancestor.
Well, within a year of this marriage, poor Ida, my namesake, died with
her baby of fever, chiefly brought on, they say, by want and anxiety
of mind, and the shock seems to have turned her husband's brain. At
any rate, within three or four months of her death, he committed
suicide. But before he did so, he formally executed a rather elaborate
will, by which he left all his estates in England, 'now unjustly
withheld from me contrary to the law and natural right by the rebel
pretender Cromwell, together with the treasure hidden thereon or
elsewhere by my late murdered father, Sir James de la Molle,' to John
Geoffrey Dofferleigh, his cousin, and the brother of his late wife,
and his heirs for ever, on condition only of his assuming the name and
arms of the de la Molle family, the direct line of which became
extinct with himself. Of course, this will, when it was executed, was
to all appearance so much waste paper, but within three years from
that date Charles II. was King of England.
"Thereon Geoffrey Dofferleigh produced the document, and on assuming
the name and arms of de la Molle actually succeeded in obtaining the
remains of the Castle and a considerable portion of the landed
property, though the baronetcy became extinct. His son it was who
built this present house, and he is our direct ancestor, for though my
father talks of them as though they were--it is a little weakness of
his--the old de la Molles are not our direct male ancestors."
"Well," said Harold, "and did Dofferleigh find the treasure?"
"No, ah, no, nor anybody else; the treasure has vanished. He hunted
for it a great deal, and he did find those pieces of plate which you
saw to-night, hidden away somewhere, I don't know where, but there was
nothing else with them."
"Perhaps the whole thing was nonsense," said Harold reflectively.
"No," answered Ida shaking her head, "I am sure it was not, I am sure
the treasure is hidden away somewhere to this day. Listen, Colonel
Quaritch--you have not heard quite all the story yet--/I/ found
something."
"You, what?"
"Wait a minute and I will show you," and going to a cabinet in the
corner, she unlocked it, and took out a despatch box, which she also
unlocked.
"Here," she said, "I found this. It is the Bible that Sir James begged
might be sent to his son, just before they shot him, you remember,"
and she handed him a small brown book. He took it and examined it
carefully. It was bound in leather, and on the cover was written in
large letters, "Sir James de la Molle. Honham Castle, 1611." Nor was
this all. The first sheets of the Bible, which was one of the earliest
copies of the authorised version, were torn out, and the top corner
was also gone, having to all appearance been shot off by a bullet, a
presumption that a dark stain of blood upon the cover and edges
brought near to certainty.
"Poor gentleman," said Harold, "he must have had it in his pocket when
he was shot. Where did you find it?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Ida, "in fact I have no doubt of it. I found
it when I was a child in an ancient oak chest in the basement of the
western tower, quite hidden up in dusty rubbish and bits of old iron.
But look at the end and you will see what he wrote in it to his son,
Edward. Here, I will show you," and leaning over him she turned to the
last page of the book. Between the bottom of the page and the
conclusion of the final chapter of Revelations there had been a small
blank space now densely covered with crabbed writing in faded ink,
which she read aloud. It ran as follows:
"/Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly
done to death by rebel murderers, for nought happeneth but
according to God's will. And now farewell, Edward, till we shall
meet in heaven. My monies have I hid and on account thereof I die
unto this world, knowing that not one piece shall Cromwell touch.
To whom God shall appoint, shall all my treasure be, for nought
can I communicate./"
"There," said Ida triumphantly, "what do you think of that, Colonel
Quaritch? The Bible, I think, was never sent to his son, but here it
is, and in that writing, as I solemnly believe," and she laid her
white finger upon the faded characters, "lies the key to wherever it
is that the money is hidden, only I fear I shall never make it out.
For years I have puzzled over it, thinking that it might be some form
of acrostic, but I can make nothing of it. I have tried it all ways. I
have translated it into French, and had it translated into Latin, but
still I can find out nothing--nothing. But some day somebody will hit
upon it--at least I hope so."
Harold shook his head. "I am afraid," he said, "that what has remained
undiscovered for so long will remain so till the end of the chapter.
Perhaps old Sir James was hoaxing his enemies!"
"No," said Ida, "for if he was, what became of all the money? He was
known to be one of the richest men of his day, and that he was rich we
can see from his letter to the King. There was nothing found after his
death, except his lands, of course. Oh, it will be found someday,
twenty centuries hence, probably, much too late to be of any good to
us," and she sighed deeply, while a pained and wearied expression
spread itself over her handsome face.
"Well," said Harold in a doubtful voice, "there may be something in
it. May I take a copy of that writing?"
"Certainly," said Ida laughing, "and if you find the treasure we will
go shares. Stop, I will dictate it to you."
Just as this process was finished and Harold was shutting up his
pocket-book, in which he put the fair copy he had executed on a half-
sheet of note paper, the old Squire came into the room again. Looking
at his face, his visitor saw that the interview with "George" had
evidently been anything but satisfactory, for it bore an expression of
exceedingly low spirits.
"Well, father, what is the matter?" asked his daughter.
"Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing," he answered in melancholy tones.
"George has been here, that is all."
"Yes, and I wish he would keep away," she said with a little stamp of
her foot, "for he always brings some bad news or other."
"It is the times, my dear, it is the times; it isn't George. I really
don't know what has come to the country."
"What is it?" said Ida with a deepening expression of anxiety.
"Something wrong with the Moat Farm?"
"Yes; Janter has thrown it up after all, and I am sure I don't know
where I am to find another tenant."
"You see what the pleasures of landed property are, Colonel Quaritch,"
said Ida, turning towards him with a smile which did not convey a
great sense of cheerfulness.
"Yes," he said, "I know. Thank goodness I have only the ten acres that
my dear old aunt left to me. And now," he added, "I think that I must
be saying good-night. It is half-past ten, and I expect that old Mrs.
Jobson is sitting up for me."
Ida looked up in remonstrance, and opened her lips to speak, and then
for some reason that did not appear changed her mind and held out her
hand. "Good-night, Colonel Quaritch," she said; "I am so pleased that
we are going to have you as a neighbour. By-the-way, I have a few
people coming to play lawn tennis here to-morrow afternoon, will you
come too?"
"What," broke in the Squire, in a voice of irritation, "more lawn
tennis parties, Ida? I think that you might have spared me for once--
with all this business on my hands, too."
"Nonsense, father," said his daughter, with some acerbity. "How can a
few people playing lawn tennis hurt you? It is quite useless to shut
oneself up and be miserable over things that one cannot help."
The old gentleman collapsed with an air of pious resignation, and
meekly asked who was coming.
"Oh, nobody in particular. Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries--Mr. Jeffries is our
clergyman, you know, Colonel Quaritch--and Dr. Bass and the two Miss
Smiths, one of whom he is supposed to be in love with, and Mr. and
Mrs. Quest, and Mr. Edward Cossey, and a few more."
"Mr. Edward Cossey," said the Squire, jumping off his chair; "really,
Ida, you know I detest that young man, that I consider him an
abominable young man; and I think you might have shown more
consideration to me than to have asked him here."
"I could not help it, father," she answered coolly. "He was with Mrs.
Quest when I asked her, so I had to ask him too. Besides, I rather
like Mr. Cossey, he is always so polite, and I don't see why you
should take such a violent prejudice against him. Anyhow, he is
coming, and there is an end of it."
"Cossey, Cossey," said Harold, throwing himself into the breach, "I
used to know that name." It seemed to Ida that he winced a little as
he said it. "Is he one of the great banking family?"
"Yes," said Ida, "he is one of the sons. They say he will have half a
million of money or more when his father, who is very infirm, dies. He
is looking after the branch banks of his house in this part of the
world, at least nominally. I fancy that Mr. Quest really manages them;
certainly he manages the Boisingham branch."
"Well, well," said the Squire, "if they are coming, I suppose they are
coming. At any rate, I can go out. If you are going home, Quaritch, I
will walk with you. I want a little air."
"Colonel Quaritch, you have not said if you will come to my party
to-morrow, yet," said Ida, as he stretched out his hand to say good-
bye.
"Oh, thank you, Miss de la Molle; yes, I think I can come, though I
play tennis atrociously."
"Oh, we all do that. Well, good-night. I am so very pleased that you
have come to live at Molehill; it will be so nice for my father to
have a companion," she added as an afterthought.
"Yes," said the Colonel grimly, "we are almost of an age--good-night."
Ida watched the door close and then leant her arm on the mantelpiece,
and reflected that she liked Colonel Quaritch very much, so much that
even his not very beautiful physiognomy did not repel her, indeed
rather attracted her than otherwise.
"Do you know," she said to herself, "I think that is the sort of man I
should like to marry. Nonsense," she added, with an impatient shrug,
"nonsense, you are nearly six-and-twenty, altogether too old for that
sort of thing. And now there is this new trouble about the Moat Farm.
My poor old father! Well, it is a hard world, and I think that sleep
is about the best thing in it."
And with a sigh she lighted her candle to go to bed, then changed her
mind and sat down to await her father's return.
CHAPTER V
THE SQUIRE EXPLAINS THE POSITION
"I don't know what is coming to this country, I really don't; and
that's a fact," said the Squire to his companion, after they had
walked some paces in silence. "Here is the farm, the Moat Farm. It
fetched twenty-five shillings an acre when I was a young man, and
eight years ago it used to fetch thirty-five. Now I have reduced it
and reduced it to fifteen, just in order to keep the tenant. And what
is the end of it? Janter--he's the tenant--gave notice last
Michaelmas; but that stupid owl, George, said it was all nothing, and
that he would continue at fifteen shillings when the time came. And
now to-night he comes to me with a face as long as a yard-arm, and
says that Janter won't keep it at any price, and that he does not know
where he is to find another tenant, not he. It's quite heartbreaking,
that's what it is. Three hundred acres of good, sound, food-producing
land, and no tenant for it at fifteen shillings an acre. What am I to
do?"
"Can't you take it in hand and farm it yourself?" asked Harold.
"How can I take it in hand? I have one farm of a hundred and fifty
acres in hand as it is. Do you know what it would cost to take over
that farm?" and he stopped in his walk and struck his stick into the
ground. "Ten pounds an acre, every farthing of it--and say a thousand
for the covenants--about four thousand pounds in all. Now where am I
to get four thousand pounds to speculate with in that way, for it is a
speculation, and one which I am too old to look after myself, even if
I had the knowledge. Well, there you are, and now I'll say good-night,
sir. It's getting chilly, and I have felt my chest for the last year
or two. By-the-way, I suppose I shall see you to-morrow at this tennis
party of Ida's. It's all very well for Ida to go in for her tennis
parties, but how can I think of such things with all this worry on my
hands? Well, good-night, Colonel Quaritch, good-night," and he turned
and walked away through the moonlight.
Harold Quaritch watched him go and then stalked off home, reflecting,
not without sadness, upon the drama which was opening up before him,
that most common of dramas in these days of depression,--the break up
of an ancient family through causes beyond control. It required far
less acumen and knowledge of the world than he possessed to make it
clear to him that the old race of de la Molle was doomed. This story
of farms thrown up and money not forthcoming pointed its own moral,
and a sad one it was. Even Ida's almost childish excitement about the
legend of the buried treasure showed him how present to her mind must
be the necessity of money; and he fell to thinking how pleasant it
would be to be able to play the part of the Fairy Prince and step in
with untold wealth between her and the ruin which threatened her
family. How well that grand-looking open-minded Squire would become a
great station, fitted as he was by nature, descent, and tradition, to
play the solid part of an English country gentleman of the good old-
fashioned kind. It was pitiful to think of a man of his stamp forced
by the vile exigencies of a narrow purse to scheme and fight against
the advancing tide of destitution. And Ida, too,--Ida, who was
equipped with every attribute that can make wealth and power what they
should be--a frame to show off her worth and state. Well, it was the
way of the world, and he could not mend it; but it was with a bitter
sense of the unfitness of things that with some little difficulty--for
he was not yet fully accustomed to its twists and turns--he found his
way past the swelling heap of Dead Man's Mount and round the house to
his own front door.
He entered the house, and having told Mrs. Jobson that she could go to
bed, sat down to smoke and think. Harold Quaritch, like many solitary
men, was a great smoker, and never did he feel the need for the
consolation of tobacco more than on this night. A few months ago, when
he had retired from the army, he found himself in a great dilemma.
There he was, a hale, active man of three-and-forty, of busy habits,
and regular mind, suddenly thrown upon the world without occupation.
What was he to do with himself? While he was asking this question and
waiting blankly for an answer which did not come, his aunt, old Mrs.
Massey, departed this life, leaving him heir to what she possessed,
which might be three hundred a year in all. This, added to his pension
and the little that he owned independently, put him beyond the
necessity of seeking further employment. So he had made up his mind to
come to reside at Molehill, and live the quiet, somewhat aimless, life
of a small country gentleman. His reading, for he was a great reader,
especially of scientific works, would, he thought, keep him employed.
Moreover, he was a thorough sportsman, and an ardent, though owing to
the smallness of his means, necessarily not a very extensive,
collector of curiosities, and more particularly of coins.
At first, after he had come to his decision, a feeling of infinite
rest and satisfaction had taken possession of him. The struggle of
life was over for him. No longer would he be obliged to think, and
contrive, and toil; henceforth his days would slope gently down
towards the inevitable end. Trouble lay in the past, now rest and rest
alone awaited him, rest that would gradually grow deeper and deeper as
the swift years rolled by, till it was swallowed up in that almighty
Peace to which, being a simple and religious man, he had looked
forward from childhood as the end and object of his life.
Foolish man and vain imagining! Here, while we draw breath, there is
no rest. We must go on continually, on from strength to strength, or
weakness to weakness; we must always be troubled about this or that,
and must ever have this desire or that to regret. It is an inevitable
law within whose attraction all must fall; yes, even the purest souls,
cradled in their hope of heaven; and the most swinish, wallowing in
the mud of their gratified desires.
And so our hero had already begun to find out. Here, before he had
been forty-eight hours in Honham, a fresh cause of troubles had
arisen. He had seen Ida de la Molle again, and after an interval of
between five and six years had found her face yet more charming than
it was before. In short he had fallen in love with it, and being a
sensible man he did not conceal this fact from himself. Indeed the
truth was that he had been in love with her for all these years,
though he had never looked at the matter in that light. At the least
the pile had been gathered and laid, and did but require a touch of
the match to burn up merrily enough. And now this was supplied, and at
the first glance of Ida's eyes the magic flame began to hiss and
crackle, and he knew that nothing short of a convulsion or a deluge
would put it out.
Men of the stamp of Harold Quaritch generally pass through three
stages with reference to the other sex. They begin in their youth by
making a goddess of one of them, and finding out their mistake. Then
for many years they look upon woman as the essence and incarnation of
evil and a thing no more to be trusted than a jaguar. Ultimately,
however, this folly wears itself out, probably in proportion as the
old affection fades and dies away, and is replaced by contempt and
regret that so much should have been wasted on that which was of so
little worth. Then it is that the danger comes, for then a man puts
forth his second venture, puts it forth with fear and trembling, and
with no great hope of seeing a golden Argosy sailing into port. And if
it sinks or is driven back by adverse winds and frowning skies, there
is an end of his legitimate dealings with such frail merchandise.
And now he, Harold Quaritch, was about to put forth this second
venture, not of his own desire or free will indeed, but because his
reason and judgment were over-mastered. In short, he had fallen in
love with Ida de la Molle when he first saw her five years ago, and
was now in the process of discovering the fact. There he sat in his
chair in the old half-furnished room, which he proposed to turn into
his dining-room, and groaned in spirit over this portentous discovery.
What had become of his fair prospect of quiet years sloping gently
downwards, and warm with the sweet drowsy light of afternoon? How was
it that he had not known those things that belonged to his peace? And
probably it would end in nothing. Was it likely that such a splendid
young woman as Ida would care for a superannuated army officer, with
nothing to recommend him beyond five or six hundred a year and a
Victoria Cross, which he never wore. Probably if she married at all
she would try to marry someone who would assist to retrieve the fallen
fortunes of her family, which it was absolutely beyond his power to
do. Altogether the outlook did not please him, as he sat there far
into the watches of the night, and pulled at his empty pipe. So little
did it please him, indeed, that when at last he rose to find his way
to bed up the old oak staircase, the only imposing thing in Molehill,
he had almost made up his mind to give up the idea of living at Honham
at all. He would sell the place and emigrate to Vancouver's Island or
New Zealand, and thus place an impassable barrier between himself and
that sweet, strong face, which seemed to have acquired a touch of
sternness since last he looked upon it five years ago.
Ah, wise resolutions of the quiet night, whither do you go in the
garish light of day? To heaven, perhaps, with the mist wreaths and the
dew drops.
When the Squire got back to the castle, he found his daughter still
sitting in the drawing room.
"What, not gone to bed, Ida?" he said.
"No, father, I was going, and then I thought that I would wait to hear
what all this is about Janter and the Moat Farm. It is best to get it
over."
"Yes, yes, my dear--yes, but there is not much to tell you. Janter has
thrown up the farm after all, and George says that there is not
another tenant to be had for love or money. He tried one man, who said
that he would not have it at five shillings an acre, as prices are."
"That is bad enough in all conscience," said Ida, pushing at the
fireirons with her foot. "What is to be done?"
"What is to be done?" answered her father irritably. "How can I tell
you what is to be done? I suppose I must take the place in hand, that
is all."
"Yes, but that costs money, does it not?"
"Of course it does, it costs about four thousand pounds."
"Well," said Ida, looking up, "and where is all that sum to come from?
We have not got four thousand pounds in the world."
"Come from? Why I suppose that I must borrow it on the security of the
land."
"Would it not be better to let the place go out of cultivation, rather
than risk so much money?" she answered.
"Go out of cultivation! Nonsense, Ida, how can you talk like that? Why
that strong land would be ruined for a generation to come."
"Perhaps it would, but surely it would be better that the land should
be ruined than that we should be. Father, dear," she said appealingly,
laying one hand upon his shoulder, "do be frank with me, and tell me
what our position really is. I see you wearing yourself out about
business from day to day, and I know that there is never any money for
anything, scarcely enough to keep the house going; and yet you will
not tell me what we really owe--and I think I have a right to know."
The Squire turned impatiently. "Girls have no head for these things,"
he said, "so what is the use of talking about it?"
"But I am not a girl; I am a woman of six-and-twenty; and putting
other things aside, I am almost as much interested in your affairs as
you are yourself," she said with determination. "I cannot bear this
sort of thing any longer. I see that abominable man, Mr. Quest,
continually hovering about here like a bird of ill-omen, and I cannot
bear it; and I tell you what it is, father, if you don't tell me the
whole truth at once I shall cry," and she looked as though she meant
it.
Now the old Squire was no more impervious to a woman's tears than any
other man, and of all Ida's moods, and they were many, he most greatly
feared that rare one which took the form of tears. Besides, he loved
his only daughter more dearly than anything in the world except one
thing, Honham Castle, and could not bear to give her pain.
"Very well," he said, "of course if you wish to know about these
things you have a right to. I have desired to spare you trouble, that
is all; but as you are so very imperious, the best thing that I can do
is to let you have your own way. Still, as it is rather late, if you
have no objection I think that I had better put if off till
to-morrow."
"No, no, father. By to-morrow you will have changed your mind. Let us
have it now. I want to know how much we really owe, and what we have
got to live on."
The old gentleman hummed and hawed a little, and after various
indications of impatience at last began:
"Well, as you know, our family has for some generations depended upon
the land. Your dear mother brought a small fortune with her, five or
six thousand pounds, but that, with the sanction of her trustees, was
expended upon improvements to the farms and in paying off a small
mortgage. Well, for many years the land brought in about two thousand
a year, but somehow we always found it difficult to keep within that
income. For instance, it was necessary to repair the gateway, and you
have no idea of the expense in which those repairs landed me. Then
your poor brother James cost a lot of money, and always would have the
shooting kept up in such an extravagant way. Then he went into the
army, and heaven only knows what he spent there. Your brother was very
extravagant, my dear, and well, perhaps I was foolish; I never could
say him no. And that was not all of it, for when the poor boy died he
left fifteen hundred pounds of debt behind him, and I had to find the
money, if it was only for the honour of the family. Of course you know
that we cut the entail when he came of age. Well, and then these
dreadful times have come upon the top of it all, and upon my word, at
the present moment I don't know which way to turn," and he paused and
drummed his fingers uneasily upon a book.
"Yes, father, but you have not told me yet what it is that we owe."
"Well, it is difficult to answer that all in a minute. Perhaps twenty-
five thousand on mortgage, and a few floating debts."
"And what is the place worth?"
"It used to be worth between fifty and sixty thousand pounds. It is
impossible to say what it would fetch now. Land is practically a drug
in the market. But things will come round, my dear. It is only a
question of holding on.
"Then if you borrow a fresh sum in order to take up this farm, you
will owe about thirty thousand pounds, and if you give five per cent.,
as I suppose you do, you will have to pay fifteen hundred a year in
interest. Now, father, you said that in the good times the land
brought in two thousand a year, so, of course, it can't bring in so
much now. Therefore, by the time that you have paid the interest,
there will be nothing, or less than nothing, left for us to live on."
Her father winced at this cruel and convincing logic.
"No, no," he said, "it is not so bad as that. You jump to conclusions,
but really, if you do not mind, I am very tired, and should like to go
to bed."
"Father, what is the use of trying to shirk the thing just because it
is disagreeable?" she asked earnestly. "Do you suppose that it is more
pleasant to me to talk about it than it is for you? I know that you
are not to blame about it. I know that dear James was very thoughtless
and extravagant, and that the times are crushing. But to go on like
this is only to go to ruin. It would be better for us to live in a
cottage on a couple of hundred a year than to try to keep our heads
above water here, which we cannot do. Sooner or later these people,
Quest, or whoever they are, will want their money back, and then, if
they cannot have it, they will sell the place over our heads. I
believe that man Quest wants to get it himself--that is what I believe
--and set up as a country gentleman. Father, I know it is a dreadful
thing to say, but we ought to leave Honham."
"Leave Honham!" said the old gentleman, jumping up in his agitation;
"what nonsense you talk, Ida. How can I leave Honham? It would kill me
at my age. How can I do it? And, besides, who is to look after the
farms and all the business? No, no, we must hang on and trust to
Providence. Things may come round, something may happen, one can never
tell in this world."
"If we do not leave Honham, then Honham will leave us," answered his
daughter, with conviction. "I do not believe in chances. Chances
always go the wrong way--against those who are looking for them. We
shall be absolutely ruined, that is all."
"Well, perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right, my dear," said
the old Squire wearily. "I only hope that my time may come first. I
have lived here all my life, seventy years and more, and I know that I
could not live anywhere else. But God's will be done. And now, my
dear, go to bed."
She leant down and kissed him, and as she did so saw that his eyes
were filled with tears. Not trusting herself to speak, for she felt
for him too deeply to do so, she turned away and went, leaving the old
man sitting there with his grey head bowed upon his breast.
CHAPTER VI
LAWYER QUEST
The day following that of the conversation just described was one of
those glorious autumn mornings which sometimes come as a faint
compensation for the utter vileness and bitter disappointment of the
season that in this country we dignify by the name of summer.
Notwithstanding his vigils and melancholy of the night before, the
Squire was up early, and Ida, who between one thing and another had
not had the best of nights, heard his loud cheery voice shouting about
the place for "George."
Looking out of her bedroom window, she soon perceived that functionary
himself, a long, lean, powerful-looking man with a melancholy face and
a twinkle in his little grey eyes, hanging about the front steps.
Presently her father emerged in a brilliant but ancient dressing gown,
his white locks waving on the breeze.
"Here, George, where are you, George?"
"Here I be, sir."
"Ah, yes; then why didn't you say so? I have been shouting myself
hoarse for you."
"Yis, Squire," replied the imperturbable George, "I hev been
a-standing here for the last ten minutes, and I heard you."
"You heard me, then why the dickens didn't you answer?"
"Because I didn't think as you wanted me, sir. I saw that you hadn't
finished your letter."
"Well, then, you ought to. You know very well that my chest is weak,
and yet I have to go hallooing all over the place after you. Now look
here, have you got that fat pony of yours in the yard?"
"Yis, Squire, the pony is here, and if so be as it is fat it bean't
for the want of movement."
"Very well, then, take this letter," and he handed him an epistle
sealed with a tremendous seal, "take this letter to Mr. Quest at
Boisingham, and wait for an answer. And look here, mind you are about
the place at eleven o'clock, for I expect Mr. Quest to see me about
the Moat Farm."
"Yis, Squire."
"I suppose that you have heard nothing more from Janter, have you?"
"No, Squire, nawthing. He means to git the place at his own price or
chuck it."
"And what is his price?"
"Five shillings an acre. You see, sir, it's this way. That army gent,
Major Boston, as is agent for all the College lands down the valley,
he be a poor weak fule, and when all these tinants come to him and say
that they must either hev the land at five shillings an acre or go, he
gits scared, he du, and down goes the rent of some of the best meadow
land in the country from thirty-five shillings to five. Of course it
don't signify to him not a halfpenny, the College must pay him his
salary all the same, and he don't know no more about farming, nor
land, nor northing, than my old mare yinder. Well, and what comes of
it? Of course every tinant on the place hears that those College lands
be going for five shillings an acre, and they prick up their ears and
say they must have their land at the same figger, and it's all owing
to that Boston varmint, who ought to be kicked through every holl on
the place and then drowned to dead in a dyke."
"Yes, you're right there, George, that silly man is a public enemy,
and ought to be treated as such, but the times are very bad, with corn
down to twenty-nine, very bad."
"I'm not a-saying that they ain't bad, Squire," said his retainer, his
long face lighting up; "they are bad, cruel bad, bad for iverybody.
And I'm not denying that they is bad for the tinants, but if they is
bad for the tinants they is wus for the landlord. It all comes on his
shoulders in the long run. If men find they can get land at five
shillings an acre that's worth twenty, why it isn't in human natur to
pay twenty, and if they find that the landlord must go as they drive
him, of course they'll lay on the whip. Why, bless you, sir, when a
tinant comes and says that he is very sorry but he finds he can't pay
his rent, in nine cases out of ten, you'd find that the bank was paid,
the tradesmen were paid, the doctor's paid, iverybody's paid before he
thinks about his rent. Let the landlord suffer, because he can't help
hisself; but Lord bless us, if a hundred pounds were overdue to the
bank it would have the innards out of him in no time, and he knows it.
Now as for that varmint, Janter, to tell me that he can't pay fifteen
shillings an acre for the Moat Farm, is nonsense. I only wish I had
the capital to take it at the price, that I du."
"Well, George," said the Squire, "I think that if it can be managed I
shall borrow the money and take the farm on hand. I am not going to
let Janter have it at five shillings an acre."
"Ah, sir, that's the best way. Bad as times be, it will go hard if I
can't make the interest and the rent out of it too. Besides, Squire,
if you give way about this here farm, all the others will come down on
you. I'm not saying a word agin your tinants, but where there's money
to be made you can't trust not no man."
"Well, well," said the Squire, "perhaps you are right and perhaps you
ain't. Right or wrong, you always talk like Solomon in all his glory.
Anyway, be off with that note and let me have the answer as soon as
you get back. Mind you don't go loafing and jawing about down in
Boisingham, because I want my answer."
"So he means to borrow the money if he can get it," said Ida to
herself as she sat, an invisible auditor, doing her hair by the open
window. "George can do more with him in five minutes than I can do in
a week, and I know that he hates Janter. I believe Janter threw up the
farm because of his quarrelling with George. Well, I suppose we must
take our chance."
Meanwhile George had mounted his cart and departed upon the road to
Boisingham, urging his fat pony along as though he meant to be there
in twenty minutes. But so soon as he was well out of reach of the
Squire's shouts and sight of the Castle gates, he deliberately turned
up a bye lane and jogged along for a mile or more to a farm, where he
had a long confabulation with a man about thatching some ricks. Thence
he quietly made his way to his own little place, where he proceeded to
comfortably get his breakfast, remarking to his wife that he was of
opinion that there was no hurry about the Squire's letter, as the
"lawyers" wasn't in the habit of coming to office at eight in the
morning.
Breakfast over, the philosophic George got into his cart, the fat pony
having been tied up outside, and leisurely drove into the picturesque
old town which lay at the head of the valley. All along the main
street he met many acquaintances, and with each he found it necessary
to stop and have a talk, indeed with two he had a modest half-pint. At
length, however, his labour o'er, he arrived at Mr. Quest's office,
that, as all the Boisingham world knows, was just opposite the church,
of which Mr. Quest was one of the churchwardens, and which but two
years before was beautifully restored, mainly owing to his efforts and
generous contributions. Driving up to the small and quiet-looking
doorway of a very unpretentious building, George descended and
knocked. Thereon a clerk opened the door, and in answer to his
inquiries informed him that he believed Mr. Quest had just come over
to the office.
In another minute he was shown into an inner room of the ordinary
country lawyer's office stamp, and there at the table sat Mr. Quest
himself.
Mr. Quest was a man of about forty years of age, rather under than
over, with a pale ascetic cast of face, and a quiet and pleasant,
though somewhat reserved, manner. His features were in no way
remarkable, with the exception of his eyes, which seemed to have been
set in his head owing to some curious error of nature. For whereas his
general tone was dark, his hair in particular being jet black, these
eyes were grey, and jarred extraordinarily upon their companion
features. For the rest, he was a man of some presence, and with the
manners of a gentleman.
"Well, George," he said, "what is it that brings you to Boisingham? A
letter from the Squire. Thank you. Take a seat, will you, will I look
through it? Umph, wants me to come and see him at eleven o'clock. I am
very sorry, but I can't manage that anyway. Ah, I see, about the Moat
Farm. Janter told me that he was going to throw it up, and I advised
him to do nothing of the sort, but he is a dissatisfied sort of a
fellow, Janter is, and Major Boston has upset the whole country side
by his very ill-advised action about the College lands."
"Janter is a warmint and Major Boston, begging his pardon for the
language, is an ass, sir. Anyway there it is, Janter has thrown up,
and where I am to find a tinant between now and Michaelmas I don't
know; in fact, with the College lands going at five shillings an acre
there ain't no chance."
"Then what does the Squire propose to do--take the land in hand?"
"Yes, sir, that's it; and that's what he wants to see you about."
"More money, I suppose," said Mr. Quest.
"Well, yis, sir. You see there will be covenants to meet, and then the
farm is three hundred acres, and to stock it proper as it should be
means nine pounds an acre quite, on this here heavy land."
"Yes, yes, I know, a matter of four thousand more or less, but where
is it to come from, that's the question? Cossey's do not like land
now, any more than other banks do. However, I'll see my principal
about it. But, George, I can't possibly get up to the Castle at
eleven. I have got a churchwardens' meeting at a quarter to, about
that west pinnacle, you know. It is in a most dangerous condition, and
by-the-way, before you go I should like to have your opinion, as a
practical man, as to the best way to deal with it. To rebuild it would
cost a hundred and twenty pounds, and that is more than we see our way
to at present, though I can promise fifty if they can scape up the
rest. But about the Squire. I think that the best thing I can do will
be to come up to the Castle to lunch, and then I can talk over matters
with him. Stay, I will just write him a note. By-the-way, you would
like a glass of wine, wouldn't you, George? Nonsense man, here it is
in the cupboard, a glass of wine is a good friend to have handy
sometimes."
George, who like most men of his stamp could put away his share of
liquor and feel thankful for it, drank his glass of wine while Mr.
Quest was engaged in writing the note, wondering meanwhile what made
the lawyer so civil to him. For George did not like Mr. Quest. Indeed,
it would not be too much to say that he hated him. But this was a
feeling which he never allowed to appear; he was too much afraid of
the man for that, and in his queer way too much devoted to the old
Squire's interests to run the risk of imperilling them by the
exhibition of any aversion to Mr. Quest. He knew more of his master's
affairs than anybody living, unless, perhaps, it was Mr. Quest
himself, and was aware that the lawyer held the old gentleman in a
bondage that could not be broken. Now, George was a man with faults.
He was somewhat sly, and, perhaps within certain lines, at times
capable of giving the word honesty a liberal interpretation. But
amongst many others he had one conspicuous virtue: he loved the old
Squire as a Highlandman loves his chief, and would almost, if not
quite, have died to serve him. His billet was no easy one, for Mr. de
la Molle's temper was none of the best at times, and when things went
wrong, as they pretty frequently did, he was exceedingly apt to visit
his wrath on the head of the devoted George, saying things to him
which he should not have said. But his retainer took it all in the
day's work, and never bore malice, continuing in his own cadging
pigheaded sort of way to labour early and late to prop up his master's
broken fortunes. "Lord, sir," as he once said to Harold Quaritch when
the Colonel condoled with him after a violent and unjust onslaught
made by the Squire in his presence, "Lord, sir, that ain't nawthing,
that ain't. I don't pay no manner of heed to that. Folk du say how as
I wor made for he, like a safety walve for a traction engine."
Indeed, had it not been for George's contrivings and procrastinations,
Honham Castle and its owner would have parted company long before.
CHAPTER VII
EDWARD COSSEY, ESQUIRE
After George had drunk his glass of wine and given his opinion as to
the best way to deal with the dangerous pinnacle on the Boisingham
Church, he took the note, untied the fat pony, and ambled off to
Honham, leaving the lawyer alone. As soon as he was gone, Mr. Quest
threw himself back in his chair--an old oak one, by-the-way, for he
had a very pretty taste in old oak and a positive mania for collecting
it--and plunged into a brown study.
Presently he leant forward, unlocked the top drawer of his writing
table, and extracted from it a letter addressed to himself which he
had received that very morning. It was from the principals of the
great banking firm of Cossey and Son, and dated from their head office
in Mincing lane. This letter ran as follows:
"Private and confidential.
"Dear Sir,--
"We have considered your report as to the extensive mortgages which
we hold upon the Honham Castle estates, and have allowed due
weight to your arguments as to the advisability of allowing Mr. de
la Molle time to give things a chance of righting. But we must
tell you that we can see no prospect of any such solution of the
matter, at any rate for some years to come. All the information
that we are able to gather points to a further decrease in the
value of the land rather than to a recovery. The interest on the
mortgages in question is moreover a year in arrear, probably owing
to the non-receipt of rents by Mr. de la Molle. Under these
circumstances, much as it grieves us to take action against Mr. de
la Molle, with whose family we have had dealings for five
generations, we can see no alternative to foreclosure, and hereby
instruct you to take the necessary preliminary steps to bring it
about in the usual manner. We are, presuming that Mr. de la Molle
is not in a position to pay off the mortgages, quite aware of the
risks of a forced sale, and shall not be astonished if, in the
present unprecedented condition of the land market, such a sale
should result in a loss, although the sum recoverable does not
amount to half the valuation of the estates, which was undertaken
at our instance about twenty years ago on the occasion of the
first advance. The only alternative, however, would be for us to
enter into possession of the property or to buy it in. But this
would be a course totally inconsistent with the usual practice of
the bank, and what is more, our confidence in the stability of
landed property is so utterly shattered by our recent experiences,
that we cannot burden ourselves by such a course, preferring to
run the risk of an immediate loss. This, however, we hope that the
historical character of the property and its great natural
advantages as a residential estate will avert, or at the least
minimise.
"Be so good as to advise us by an early post of the steps you take
in pursuance of these instructions.
"We are, dear sir,
"Your obedient servants,
"Cossey & Son.
"W. Quest, Esq.
"P.S.--We have thought it better to address you direct in this
matter, but of course you will communicate the contents of this
letter to Mr. Edward Cossey, and, subject to our instructions,
which are final, act in consultation with him."
"Well," said Mr. Quest to himself, as he folded up the sheet of paper,
"that is about as straight as it can be put. And this is the time that
the old gentleman chooses to ask for another four thousand. He may
ask, but the answer will be more than he bargains for."
He rose from the chair and began to walk up and down the room in
evident perplexity. "If only," he said, "I had twenty-five thousand, I
would take up the mortgages myself and foreclose at my leisure. It
would be a good investment at that figure, even as things are, and
besides, I should like to have that place. Twenty-five thousand, only
twenty-five thousand, and now when I want it I have not got it. And I
should have had it if it had not been for that tiger, that devil
Edith. She has had more than that out of me in the last ten years, and
still she is threatening and crying for more, more, more. Tiger; yes,
that is the name for her, her own name, too. She would coin one's
vitals into money if she could. All Belle's fortune she has had, or
nearly all, and now she wants another five hundred, and she will have
it too.
"Here we are," and he drew a letter from his pocket written in a bold,
but somewhat uneducated, woman's hand.
"Dear Bill," it ran, "I've been unlucky again and dropped a pot. Shall
want 500 pounds by the 1st October. No shuffling, mind; money down;
but I think that you know me too well to play any more larx. When can
you tear yourself away, and come and give your E---- a look? Bring
some tin when you come, and we will have times.--Thine, The Tiger."
"The Tiger, yes, the Tiger," he gasped, his face working with passion
and his grey eyes glinting as he tore the epistle to fragments, threw
them down and stamped on them. "Well, be careful that I don't one day
cut your claws and paint your stripes. By heaven, if ever a man felt
like murder, I do now. Five hundred more, and I haven't five thousand
clear in the world. Truly we pay for the follies of our youth! It
makes me mad to think of those fools Cossey and Son forcing that place
into the market just now. There's a fortune in it at the price. In
another year or two I might have recovered myself--that devil of a
woman might be dead--and I have several irons in the fire, some of
which are sure to turn up trumps. Surely there must be a way out of it
somehow. There's a way out of everything except Death if only one
thinks enough, but the thing is to find it," and he stopped in his
walk opposite to the window that looked upon the street, and put his
hand to his head.
As he did so he caught sight of the figure of a tall gentleman
strolling idly towards the office door. For a moment he stared at him
blankly, as a man does when he is trying to catch the vague clue to a
new idea. Then, as the figure passed out of his view, he brought his
fist down heavily upon the sill.
"Edward Cossey, by George!" he said aloud. "There's the way out of it,
if only I can work him, and unless I have made a strange mistake, I
think I know the road."
A couple of minutes afterwards a tall, shapely young man, of about
twenty-four or five years of age, came strolling into the office where
Mr. Quest was sitting, to all appearance hard at work at his
correspondence. He was dark in complexion and decidedly distinguished-
looking in feature, with large dark eyes, dark moustachios, and a
pale, somewhat Spanish-looking skin. Young as the face was, it had, if
observed closely, a somewhat worn and worried air, such as one would
scarcely expect to see upon the countenance of a gentleman born to
such brilliant fortunes, and so well fitted by nature to do them
justice, as was Mr. Edward Cossey. For it is not every young man with
dark eyes and a good figure who is destined to be the future head of
one of the most wealthy private banks in England, and to inherit in
due course a sum of money in hard cash variously estimated at from
half a million to a million sterling. This, however, was the prospect
in life that opened out before Mr. Edward Cossey, who was now supposed
by his old and eminently business-like father to be in process of
acquiring a sound knowledge of the provincial affairs of the house by
attending to the working of their branch establishments in the Eastern
counties.
"How do you do, Quest?" said Edward Cossey, nodding somewhat coldly to
the lawyer and sitting down. "Any business?"
"Well, yes, Mr. Cossey," answered the lawyer, rising respectfully,
"there is some business, some very serious business."
"Indeed," said Edward indifferently, "what is it?"
"Well, it is this, the house has ordered a foreclosure on the Honham
Castle estates--at least it comes to that----"
On hearing this intelligence Edward Cossey's whole demeanour underwent
the most startling transformation--his languor vanished, his eye
brightened, and his form became instinct with active life and beauty.
"What the deuce," he said, and then paused. "I won't have it," he went
on, jumping up, "I won't have it. I am not particularly fond of old de
la Molle, perhaps because he is not particularly fond of me," he added
rather drolly, "but it would be an infernal shame to break up that
family and sell the house over them. Why they would be ruined! And
then there's Ida--Miss de la Molle, I mean--what would become of her?
And the old place too. After being in the family for all these
centuries I suppose that it would be sold to some confounded counter-
skipper or some retired thief of a lawyer. It must be prevented at any
price--do you hear, Quest?"
The lawyer winced a little at his chief's contemptuous allusion, and
then remarked with a smile, "I had no idea that you were so
sentimental, Mr. Cossey, or that you took such a lively interest in
Miss de la Molle," and he glanced up to observe the effect of his
shot.
Edward Cossey coloured. "I did not mean that I took any particular
interest in Miss de la Molle," he said, "I was referring to the
family."
"Oh, quite so, though I'm sure I don't know why you shouldn't. Miss de
la Molle is one of the most charming women that I ever met, I think
the most charming except my own wife Belle," and he again looked up
suddenly at Edward Cossey who, for his part, coloured for the second
time.
"It seems to me," went on the lawyer, "that a man in your position has
a most splendid opportunity of playing knight errant to the lovely
damsel in distress. Here is the lady with her aged father about to be
sold up and turned out of the estates which have belonged to her
family for generations--why don't you do the generous and graceful
thing, like the hero in a novel, and take up the mortgages?"
Edward Cossey did not reject this suggestion with the contempt that
might have been expected; on the contrary he appeared to be turning
the matter over in his mind, for he drummed a little tune with his
knuckles and stared out of the window.
"What is the sum?" he said presently.
"Five-and-twenty thousand, and he wants four more, say thirty
thousand."
"And where am I going to find thirty thousand pounds to take up a
bundle of mortgages which will probably never pay a farthing of
interest? Why, I have not got three thousand that I can come at.
Besides," he added, recollecting himself, "why should I interfere?"
"I do not think," answered Mr. Quest, ignoring the latter part of the
question, "that with your prospects you would find it difficult to get
thirty thousand pounds. I know several who would consider it an honour
to lend the money to a Cossey, if only for the sake of the
introduction--that is, of course, provided the security was of a legal
nature."
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