Colonel Quaritch, V.C. (1889), page 25
“I don’t quite understand,” said Ida, her breast heaving, and a curious light shining in her eyes.
“Don’t you?” said her father, “then perhaps you will read that,” and he pushed the papers to her. As he did so another letter which he had not observed fell out of them.
At this point Harold rose to go.
“Don’t go, Quaritch, don’t go,” said the Squire. “I shall be glad of your advice, and I am sure that what you hear will not go any further.”
At the same time Ida motioned him to stay, and though somewhat unwillingly he did so.
“Dear Sir,” began the Squire, reading the letter aloud, —
“Inclosed you will find the usual formal notices calling in the sum of thirty thousand pounds recently advanced upon the mortgage of the Honham Castle Estates by Edward Cossey, Esq. These mortgages have passed into my possession for value received, and it is now my desire to realise them. I most deeply regret being forced to press an old client, but my circumstances are such that I am obliged to do so. If I can in any way facilitate your efforts to raise the sum I shall be very glad. But in the event of the money not being forthcoming at the end of six months’ notice the ordinary steps will be taken to realise by foreclosure.
“I am, dear sir, yours truly,
“W. Quest.
“James de la Molle, Esq., J.P., D.L.”
“I see now,” said Ida. “Mr. Cossey has no further hold on the mortgages or on the property.”
“That’s it,” said the Squire; “he has transferred them to that rascally lawyer. And yet he told me — I can’t understand it, I really can’t.”
At this point the Colonel insisted upon leaving, saying he would call in again that evening to see if he could be of any assistance. When he was gone Ida spoke in a cold, determined voice:
“Mr. Cossey told me that when we married he would put those mortgages in the fire. It now seems that the mortgages were not his to dispose of, or else that he has since transferred them to Mr. Quest without informing us.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said the Squire.
“Very well,” said Ida. “And now, father, I will tell you something. I engaged myself — or, to be more accurate, I promised to engage myself — to Edward Cossey on the condition that he would take up these mortgages when Cossey and Son were threatening to foreclose, or whatever it is called.”
“Good heavens!” said her astonished father, “what an idea!”
“I did it,” went on Ida, “and he took up the mortgages, and in due course he claimed my promise, and I became engaged to marry him, though that engagement was repugnant to me. You will see that having persuaded him to advance the money I could not refuse to carry out my share of the bargain.”
“Well,” said the Squire, “this is all new to me.”
“Yes,” she answered, “and I should never have told you of it had it not been for this sudden change in the position of affairs. What I did, I did to save our family from ruin. But now it seems that Mr. Cossey has played us false, and that we are to be ruined after all. Therefore, the condition upon which I promised to marry him has not been carried out, and my promise falls to the ground.”
“You mean that supposing he lives, you will not marry Edward Cossey.”
“Yes, I do mean it.”
The Squire thought for a minute. “This is a very serious step, Ida,” he said. “I don’t mean that I think that the man has behaved well — but still he may have given up the mortgages to Quest under pressure of some sort and might be willing to find the money to meet them.”
“I do not care if he finds the money ten times over,” said Ida, “I will not marry him. He has not kept to the letter of his bond and I will not keep to mine.”
“It is all very well, Ida,” said the Squire, “and of course nobody can force you into a distasteful marriage, but I wish to point out one thing. You have your family to think of as well as yourself. I tell you frankly that I do not believe that as times are it will be possible to raise thirty thousand pounds to pay off the charges unless it is by the help of Edward Cossey. So if he lives — and as he has lasted so long I expect that he will live — and you refuse to go on with your engagement to him we shall be sold up, that is all; for this man Quest, confound him, will show us no mercy.”
“I know it, father,” answered Ida, “but I cannot and will not marry him, and I do not think you can expect me to do so. I became engaged, or rather promised to become engaged to him, because I thought that one woman had no right to put her own happiness before the welfare of an old family like ours, and I would have carried out that engagement at any cost. But since then, to tell you the truth,” and she blushed deeply, “not only have I learned to dislike him a great deal more, but I have come to care for some one else who also cares for me, and who therefore has a right to be considered. Think, father, what it means to a woman to sell herself into bodily and mental bondage — when she cares for another man.”
“Well, well,” said her father with some irritation, “I am no authority upon matters of sentiment; they are not in my line and I know that women have their prejudices. Still you can’t expect me to look at the matter in quite the same light as you do. And who is the gentleman? Colonel Quaritch?”
She nodded her head.
“Oh,” said the Squire, “I have nothing to say against Quaritch, indeed I like the man, but I suppose that if he has 600 pounds a year, it is every sixpence he can count on.”
“I had rather marry him upon six hundred a year than Edward Cossey upon sixty thousand.”
“Ah, yes, I have heard young women talk like that before, though perhaps they think differently afterwards. Of course I have no right to obtrude myself, but when you are comfortably married, what is going to become of Honham I should like to know, and incidentally of me?”
“I don’t know, father, dear,” she answered, her eyes filling with tears; “we must trust to Providence, I suppose. I know you think me very selfish,” she went on, catching him by the arm, “but, oh, father! there are things that are worse than death to women, or, at least, to some women. I almost think that I would rather die than marry Edward Cossey, though I should have gone through with it if he had kept his word.”
“No, no,” said her father. “I can’t wonder at it, and certainly I do not ask you to marry a man whom you dislike. But still it is hard upon me to have all this trouble at my age, and the old place coming to the hammer too. It is enough to make a man wish that his worries were over altogether. However, we must take things as we find them, and we find them pretty rough. Quaritch said he was coming back this evening, didn’t he? I suppose there will not be any public engagement at present, will there? And look here, Ida, I don’t want him to come talking to me about it. I have got enough things of my own to think of without bothering my head with your love affairs. Pray let the matter be for the present. And now I am going out to see that fellow George, who hasn’t been here since he came back from London, and a nice bit of news it will be that I shall have to tell him.”
When her father had gone Ida did a thing she had not done for some time — she wept a little. All her fine intentions of self-denial had broken down, and she felt humiliated at the fact. She had intended to sacrifice herself upon the altar of her duty and to make herself the wedded wife of a man whom she disliked, and now on the first opportunity she had thrown up the contract on a quibble — a point of law as it were. Nature had been too strong for her, as it often is for people with deep feelings; she could not do it, no, not to save Honham from the hammer. When she had promised that she would engage herself to Edward Cossey she had not been in love with Colonel Quaritch; now she was, and the difference between the two states is considerable. Still the fall humiliated her pride, and what is more she felt that her father was disappointed in her. Of course she could not expect him at his age to enter into her private feelings, for when looked at through the mist of years sentiment appears more or less foolish. She knew very well that age often strips men of those finer sympathies and sensibilities which clothe them in youth, much as the winter frost and wind strip the delicate foliage from the trees. And to such the music of the world is dead. Love has vanished with the summer dews, and in its place are cutting blasts and snows and sere memories rustling like fallen leaves about the feet. As we grow old we are too apt to grow away from beauty and what is high and pure, our hearts harden by contact with the hard world. We examine love and find, or believe we find, that it is nought but a variety of passion; friendship, and think it self-interest; religion, and name it superstition. The facts of life alone remain clear and desirable. We know that money means power, and we turn our face to Mammon, and if he smiles upon us we are content to let our finer visions go where our youth has gone.
“Trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.”
So says the poet, but alas! the clouds soon melt into the grey air of the world, and some of us, before our course is finished, forget that they ever were. And yet which is the shadow of the truth — those dreams, and hopes, and aspirations of our younger life, or the corruption with which the world cakes our souls?
Ida knew that she could not expect her father to sympathise with her; she knew that to his judgment, circumstances being the same, and both suitors being equally sound in wind and limb, the choice of one of them should, to a large extent, be a matter to be decided by the exterior considerations of wealth and general convenience.
However, she had made her choice, made it suddenly, but none the less had made it. It lay between her father’s interest and the interest of the family at large and her own honour as a woman — for the mere empty ceremony of marriage which satisfies society cannot make dishonour an honourable thing. She had made her choice, and the readers of her history must judge if that choice was right or wrong.
After dinner Harold came again as he had promised. The Squire was not in the drawing-room when he was shown in.
Ida rose to greet him with a sweet and happy smile upon her face, for in the presence of her lover all her doubts and troubles vanished like a mist.
“I have a piece of news for you,” said he, trying to look as though he was rejoiced to give it. “Edward Cossey has taken a wonderful turn for the better. They say that he will certainly recover.”
“Oh,” she answered, colouring a little, “and now I have a piece of news for you, Colonel Quaritch. My engagement with Mr. Edward Cossey is at an end. I shall not marry him.”
“Are you sure?” said Harold with a gasp.
“Quite sure. I have made up my mind,” and she held out her hand, as though to seal her words.
He took it and kissed it. “Thank heaven, Ida,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered, “thank heaven;” and at that moment the Squire came in, looking very miserable and depressed, and of course nothing more was said about the matter.
CHAPTER XXXII
GEORGE PROPHESIES AGAIN
SIX WEEKS PASSED, and in that time several things happened. In the first place the miserly old banker, Edward Cossey’s father, had died, his death being accelerated by the shock of his son’s accident. On his will being opened, it was found that property and money to no less a value than 600,000 pounds passed under it to Edward absolutely, the only condition attached being that he should continue in the house of Cossey and Son and leave a certain share of his fortune in the business.
Edward Cossey also, thanks chiefly to Belle’s tender nursing, had almost recovered, with one exception — he was, and would be for life, stone deaf in the right ear. The paralysis which the doctors feared had not shown itself. One of his first questions when he became convalescent was addressed to Belle Quest.
As in a dream, he had always seen her sweet face hanging over him, and dimly known that she was ministering to him.
“Have you nursed me ever since the accident, Belle?” he said.
“Yes,” she answered.
“It is very good of you, considering all things,” he murmured. “I wonder that you did not let me die.”
But she turned her face to the wall and never said a word, nor did any further conversation on these matters pass between them.
Then as his strength came back so did his passion for Ida de la Molle revive. He was not allowed to write or even receive letters, and with this explanation of her silence he was fain to content himself. But the Squire, he was told, often called to inquire after him, and once or twice Ida came with him.
At length a time came — it was two days after he had been told of his father’s death — when he was pronounced fit to be moved into his own rooms and to receive his correspondence as usual.
The move was effected without any difficulty, and here Belle bade him good-bye. Even as she did so George drove his fat pony up to the door, and getting down gave a letter to the landlady, with particular instructions that it was to be delivered into Mr. Cossey’s own hands. As she passed Belle saw that it was addressed in the Squire’s handwriting.
When it was delivered to him Edward Cossey opened it with eagerness. It contained an inclosure in Ida’s writing, and this he read first. It ran as follows:
“Dear Mr. Cossey, —
“I am told that you are now able to read letters, so I hasten to write to you. First of all, let me say how thankful I am that you are in a fair way to complete recovery from your dreadful accident. And now I must tell you what I fear will be almost as painful to you to read as it is for me to write, namely, that the engagement between us is at an end. To put the matter frankly, you will remember that I rightly or wrongly became engaged to you on a certain condition. That condition has not been fulfilled, for Mr. Quest, to whom the mortgages on my father’s property have been transferred by you, is pressing for their payment. Consequently the obligation on my part is at an end, and with it the engagement must end also, for I grieve to tell you that it is not one which my personal inclination will induce me to carry out. Wishing you a speedy and complete recovery, and every happiness and prosperity in your future life, believe me, dear Mr. Cossey,
“Very truly yours,
“Ida de la Molle.”
He put down this uncompromising and crushing epistle and nervously glanced at the Squire’s, which was very short.
“My dear Cossey,” it began, —
“Ida has shown me the inclosed letter. I think that you did unwisely when you entered into what must be called a money bargain for my daughter’s hand. Whether under all the circumstances she does either well or wisely to repudiate the engagement after it has once been agreed upon, is not for me to judge. She is a free agent and has a natural right to dispose of her life as she thinks fit. This being so I have of course no option but to endorse her decision, so far as I have anything to do with the matter. It is a decision which I for some reasons regret, but which I am quite powerless to alter.
“Believe me, with kind regards,
“Truly yours,
“James de la Molle.”
Edward Cossey turned his face to the wall and indulged in such meditations as the occasion gave rise to, and they were bitter enough. He was as bent upon this marriage as he had ever been, more so in fact, now that his father was out of the way. He knew that Ida disliked him, he had known that all along, but he had trusted to time and marriage to overcome the dislike. And now that accursed Quest had brought about the ruin of his hopes. Ida had seen her chance of escape, and, like a bold woman, had seized upon it. There was one ray of hope, and one only. He knew that the money would not be forthcoming to pay off the mortgages. He could see too from the tone of the Squire’s letter that he did not altogether approve of his daughter’s decision. And his father was dead. Like Caesar, he was the master of many legions, or rather of much money, which is as good as legions. Money can make most paths smooth to the feet of the traveller, and why not this? After much thought he came to a conclusion. He would not trust his chance to paper, he would plead his cause in person. So he wrote a short note to the Squire acknowledging Ida’s and his letter, and saying that he hoped to come and see them as soon as ever the doctor would allow him out of doors.
Meanwhile George, having delivered his letter, had gone upon another errand. Pulling up the fat pony in front of Mr. Quest’s office he alighted and entered. Mr. Quest was disengaged, and he was shown straight into the inner office, where the lawyer sat, looking more refined and gentlemanlike than ever.
“How do you do, George?” he said cheerily; “sit down; what is it?”
“Well, sir,” answered that lugubrious worthy, as he awkwardly took a seat, “the question is what isn’t it? These be rum times, they be, they fare to puzzle a man, they du.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Quest, balancing a quill pen on his finger, “the times are bad enough.”
Then came a pause.
“Dash it all, sir,” went on George presently, “I may as well get it out; I hev come to speak to you about the Squire’s business.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Quest.
“Well, sir,” went on George, “I’m told that these dratted mortgages hev passed into your hands, and that you hev called in the money.”
“Yes, that is correct,” said Mr. Quest again.
“Well, sir, the fact is that the Squire can’t git the money. It can’t be had nohow. Nobody won’t take the land as security. It might be so much water for all folk to look at it.”
“Quite so. Land is in very bad odour as security now.”
“And that being so, sir, what is to be done?”
Mr. Quest shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know. If the money is not forthcoming, of course I shall, however unwillingly, be forced to take my legal remedy.”
“Meaning, sir — —”
“Meaning that I shall bring an action for foreclosure and do what I can with the lands.”
