Colonel Quaritch, V.C. (1889), page 34
She paced her bedroom till she was tired; then, in an access of despair, which was sufficiently distressing in a person of her reserved and stately manner, flung herself, weeping and sobbing, upon her knees, and resting her aching head upon the bed, prayed as she had never prayed before that this cup might pass from her.
She did not know — how should she? — that at this very moment her prayer was being answered, and that her lover was then, even as she prayed, lifting the broken stone and revealing the hoard of ruddy gold. But so it was; she prayed in despair and agony of mind, and the prayer carried on the wild wings of the night brought a fulfilment with it. Not in vain were her tears and supplications, for even now the deliverer delved among
“The dust and awful treasures of the dead,”
and even now the light of her happiness was breaking on her tortured night as the cold gleams of the Christmas morning were breaking over the fury of the storm without.
And then, chilled and numb in body and mind, she crept into her bed again and at last lost herself in sleep.
By half-past nine o’clock, when Ida came down to breakfast, the gale had utterly gone, though its footprints were visible enough in shattered trees, unthatched stacks, and ivy torn in knotty sheets from the old walls it clothed. It would have been difficult to recognise in the cold and stately lady who stood at the dining-room window, noting the havoc and waiting for her father to come in, the lovely, passionate, dishevelled woman who some few hours before had thrown herself upon her knees praying to God for the succour she could not win from man. Women, like nature, have many moods and many aspects to express them. The hot fit had passed, and the cold fit was on her now. Her face, except for the dark hollows round the eyes, was white as winter, and her heart was cold as winter’s ice.
Presently her father came in.
“What a gale,” he said, “what a gale! Upon my word I began to think that the old place was coming down about our ears, and the wreck among the trees is dreadful. I don’t think there can have been such a wind since the time of King Charles I., when the top of the tower was blown right off the church. You remember I was showing you the entry about it in the registers the other day, the one signed by the parson and old Sir James de la Molle. The boy who has just come up with the letters tells me he hears that poor old Mrs. Massey’s summer-house on the top of Dead Man’s Mount has been blown away, which is a good riddance for Colonel Quaritch. Why, what’s the matter with you, dear? How pale you look!”
“The gale kept me awake. I got very little sleep,” answered Ida.
“And no wonder. Well, my love, you haven’t wished me a merry Christmas yet. Goodness knows we want one badly enough. There has not been much merriment at Honham of late years.”
“A merry Christmas to you, father,” she said.
“Thank you, Ida, the same to you; you have got most of your Christmases before you, which is more than I have. God bless me, it only seems like yesterday since the big bunch of holly tied to the hook in the ceiling there fell down on the breakfast table and smashed all the cups, and yet it is more than sixty years ago. Dear me! how angry my poor mother was. She never could bear the crockery to be broken — it was a little failing of your grandmother’s,” and he laughed more heartily than Ida had heard him do for some weeks.
She made no answer but busied herself about the tea. Presently, glancing up she saw her father’s face change. The worn expression came back upon it and he lost his buoyant bearing. Evidently a new thought had struck him, and she was in no great doubt as to what it was.
“We had better get on with breakfast,” he said. “You know that Cossey is coming up at ten o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock?” she said faintly.
“Yes. I told him ten so that we could go to church afterwards if we wished to. Of course, Ida, I am still in the dark as to what you have made up your mind to do, but whatever it is I thought that he had better once and for all hear your final decision from your own lips. If, however, you feel yourself at liberty to tell it to me as your father, I shall be glad to hear it.”
She lifted her head and looked him full in the face, and then paused. He had a cup of tea in his hand, and held it in the air half way to his mouth, while his whole face showed the over-mastering anxiety with which he was awaiting her reply.
“Make your mind easy, father,” she said, “I am going to marry Mr.
Cossey.”
He put the cup down in such a fashion that he spilt half the tea, most of it over his own clothes, without even noticing it, and then turned away his face.
“Well,” he said, “of course it is not my affair, or at least only indirectly so, but I must say, my love, I congratulate you on the decision which you have come to. I quite understand that you have been in some difficulty about the matter; young women often have been before you, and will be again. But to be frank, Ida, that Quaritch business was not at all suitable, either in age, fortune, or in anything else. Yes, although Cossey is not everything that one might wish, on the whole I congratulate you.”
“Oh, pray don’t,” broke in Ida, almost with a cry. “Whatever you do, pray do not congratulate me!”
Her father turned round again and looked at her. But Ida’s face had already recovered its calm, and he could make nothing of it.
“I don’t quite understand you,” he said; “these things are generally considered matters for congratulation.”
But for all he might say and all that he might urge in his mind to the contrary, he did more or less understand what her outburst meant. He could not but know that it was the last outcry of a broken spirit. In his heart he realised then, if he had never clearly realised it before, that this proposed marriage was a thing hateful to his daughter, and his conscience pricked him sorely. And yet — and yet — it was but a woman’s fancy — a passing fancy. She would become reconciled to the inevitable as women do, and when her children came she would grow accustomed to her sorrow, and her trouble would be forgotten in their laughter. And if not, well it was but one woman’s life which would be affected, and the very existence of his race and the very cradle that had nursed them from century to century were now at stake. Was all this to be at the mercy of a girl’s whim? No! let the individual suffer.
So he argued. And so at his age and in his circumstances most of us would argue also, and, perhaps, considering all things, we should be right. For in this world personal desires must continually give way to the welfare of others. Did they not do so our system of society could not endure.
No more was said upon the subject. Ida made pretence of eating a piece of toast; the Squire mopped up the tea upon his clothes, and then drank some more.
Meanwhile the remorseless seconds crept on. It wanted but five minutes to the hour, and the hour would, she well knew, bring the man with it.
The five minutes passed slowly and in silence. Both her father and herself realised the nature of the impending situation, but neither of them spoke of it. Ah! there was the sound of wheels upon the gravel. So it had come.
Ida felt like death itself. Her pulse sunk and fluttered; her vital forces seemed to cease their work.
Another two minutes went by, then the door opened and the parlour-maid came in.
“Mr. Cossey, if you please, sir.”
“Oh,” said the Squire. “Where is he?”
“In the vestibule, sir.”
“Very good. Tell him I will be there in a minute.”
The maid went.
“Now, Ida,” said her father, “I suppose that we had better get this business over.”
“Yes,” she answered, rising; “I am ready.”
And gathering up her energies, she passed out to meet her fate.
CHAPTER XLIII
GEORGE IS SEEN TO LAUGH
IDA AND HER father reached the vestibule to find Edward Cossey standing with his face to the mantelpiece and nervously toying with some curiosities upon it. He was, as usual, dressed with great care, and his face, though white and worn from the effects of agitation of mind, looked if anything handsomer than ever. As soon as he heard them coming, which owing to his partial deafness he did not do till they were quite close to him, he turned round with a start, and a sudden flush of colour came upon his pale face.
The Squire shook hands with him in a solemn sort of way, as people do when they meet at a funeral, but Ida barely touched his outstretched fingers with her own.
A few random remarks followed about the weather, which really for once in a way was equal to the conversational strain put upon it. At length these died away and there came an awful pause. It was broken by the Squire, who, standing with his back to the fire, his eyes fixed upon the wall opposite, after much humming and hawing, delivered himself thus:
“I understand, Mr. Cossey, that you have come to hear my daughter’s final decision on the matter of the proposal of marriage which you have made and renewed to her. Now, of course, this is a very important question, very important indeed, and it is one with which I cannot presume even to seem to interfere. Therefore, I shall without comment leave my daughter to speak for herself.”
“One moment before she does so,” Mr. Cossey interrupted, drawing indeed but a poor augury of success from Ida’s icy looks. “I have come to renew my offer and to take my final answer, and I beg Miss de la Molle to consider how deep and sincere must be that affection which has endured through so many rebuffs. I know, or at least I fear, that I do not occupy the place in her feelings that I should wish to, but I look to time to change this; at any rate I am willing to take my chance. As regards money, I repeat the offer which I have already made.”
“There, I should not say too much about that,” broke in the Squire impatiently.
“Oh, why not?” said Ida, in bitter sarcasm. “Mr. Cossey knows it is a good argument. I presume, Mr. Cossey, that as a preliminary to the renewal of our engagement, the persecution of my father which is being carried on by your lawyers will cease?”
“Absolutely.”
“And if the engagement is not renewed the money will of course be called in?”
“My lawyers advise that it should be,” he answered sullenly; “but see here, Ida, you may make your own terms about money. Marriage, after all, is very much a matter of bargaining, and I am not going to stand out about the price.”
“You are really most generous,” went on Ida in the same bitter tone, the irony of which made her father wince, for he understood her mood better than did her lover. “I only regret that I cannot appreciate such generosity more than I do. But it is at least in my power to give you the return which you deserve. So I can no longer hesitate, but once and for all — —”
She stopped dead, and stared at the glass door as though she saw a ghost. Both her father and Edward Cossey followed the motion of her eyes, and this was what they saw. Up the steps came Colonel Quaritch and George. Both were pale and weary-looking, but the former was at least clean. As for George, this could not be said. His head was still adorned with the red nightcap, his hands were cut and dirty, and on his clothes was an unlimited quantity of encrusted filth.
“What the dickens — —” began the Squire, and at that moment George, who was leading, knocked at the door.
“You can’t come in now,” roared the Squire; “don’t you see that we are engaged?”
“But we must come in, Squire, begging your pardon,” answered George, with determination, as he opened the door; “we’ve got that to say as won’t keep.”
“I tell you that it must keep, sir,” said the old gentleman, working himself into a rage. “Am I not to be allowed a moment’s privacy in my own house? I wonder at your conduct, Colonel Quaritch, in forcing your presence upon me when I tell you that it is not wanted.”
“I am sure that I apologise, Mr. de la Molle,” began the Colonel, utterly taken aback, “but what I have to say is — —”
“The best way that you can apologise is by withdrawing,” answered the Squire with majesty. “I shall be most happy to hear what you have to say on another occasion.”
“Oh, Squire, Squire, don’t be such a fule, begging your pardon for the word,” said George, in exasperation. “Don’t you go a-knocking of your head agin a brick wall.”
“Will you be off, sir?” roared his master in a voice that made the walls shake.
By this time Ida had recovered herself. She seemed to feel that her lover had something to say which concerned her deeply — probably she read it in his eyes.
“Father,” she said, raising her voice, “I won’t have Colonel Quaritch turned away from the door like this. If you will not admit him I will go outside and hear what it is that he has to say.”
In his heart the Squire held Ida in some awe. He looked at her, and saw that her eyes were flashing and her breast heaving. Then he gave way.
“Oh, very well, since my daughter insists on it, pray come in,” and he bowed. “If such an intrusion falls in with your ideas of decency it is not for me to complain.”
“I accept your invitation,” answered Harold, looking very angry, “because I have something to say which you must hear, and hear at once. No, thank you, I will stand. Now, Mr. de la Molle, it is this, wonderful as it may seem. It has been my fortune to discover the treasure hidden by Sir James de la Molle in the year 1643!”
There was a general gasp of astonishment.
“What!” exclaimed the Squire. “Why, I thought that the whole thing was a myth.”
“No, that it ain’t, sir,” said George with a melancholy smile, “cos
I’ve seen it.”
Ida had sunk into a chair.
“What is the amount?” she asked in a low eager voice.
“I have been unable to calculate exactly, but, speaking roughly, it cannot be under fifty thousand pounds, estimated on the value of the gold alone. Here is a specimen of it,” and Harold pulled out a handful of rials and other coins, and poured them on to the table.
Ida hid her face in her hand, and Edward Cossey realising what this most unexpected development of events might mean for him, began to tremble.
“I should not allow myself to be too much elated, Mr. de la Molle,” he said with a sneer, “for even if this tale be true, it is treasure trove, and belongs to the Crown.”
“Ah,” said the Squire, “I never thought of that.”
“But I have,” answered the Colonel quietly. “If I remember right, the last of the original de la Molles left a will in which he especially devised this treasure, hidden by his father, to your ancestor. That it is the identical treasure I am fortunately in a position to prove by this parchment,” and he laid upon the table the writing he had found with the gold.
“Quite right — quite right,” said the Squire, “that will take it out of the custom.”
“Perhaps the Solicitor to the Treasury may hold a different opinion,” said Cossey, with another sneer.
Just then Ida took her hand from her face. There was a dewy look about her eyes, and the last ripples of a happy smile lingered round the corners of her mouth.
“Now that we have heard what Colonel Quaritch had to say,” she said in her softest voice, and addressing her father, “there is no reason why we should not finish our business with Mr. Cossey.”
Here Harold and George turned to go. She waved them back imperiously, and began speaking before any one could interfere, taking up her speech where she had broken it off when she caught sight of the Colonel and George coming up the steps.
“I can no longer hesitate,” she said, “but once and for all I decline to marry you, Mr. Cossey, and I hope that I shall never see your face again.”
At this announcement the bewildered Squire put his hand to his head. Edward Cossey staggered visibly and rested himself against the table, while George murmured audibly, “That’s a good job.”
“Listen,” said Ida, rising from her chair, her dark eyes flashing as the shadow of all the shame and agony that she had undergone rose up within her mind. “Listen, Mr. Cossey,” and she pointed her finger at him; “this is the history of our connection. Some months ago I was so foolish as to ask your help in the matter of the mortgages which your bank was calling in. You then practically made terms that if it should at any time be your wish I should become engaged to you; and I, seeing no option, accepted. Then, in the interval, while it was inconvenient to you to enforce those terms, I gave my affection elsewhere. But when you, having deserted the lady who stood in your way — no, do not interrupt me, I know it, I know it all, I know it from her own lips — came forward and claimed my promise, I was forced to consent. But a loophole of escape presented itself and I availed myself of it. What followed? You again became possessed of power over my father and this place, you insulted the man I loved, you resorted to every expedient that the law would allow to torture my father and myself. You set your lawyers upon us like dogs upon a hare, you held ruin over us and again and again you offered me money, as much money as I wished, if only I would sell myself to you. And then you bided your time, leaving despair to do its work.
“I saw the toils closing round us. I knew that if I did not yield my father would be driven from his home in his old age, and that the place he loved would pass to strangers — would pass to you. No, father, do not stop me, I will speak my mind!
“And at last I determined that cost what it might I would yield. Whether I could have carried out my determination God only knows. I almost think that I should have killed myself upon my marriage day. I made up my mind. Not five minutes ago the very words were upon my lips that would have sealed my fate, when deliverance came. And now go. I have done with you. Your money shall be paid to you, capital and interest, down to the last farthing. I tender back my price, and knowing you for what you are, I — I despise you. That is all I have to say.”
