 CHAPTER I. There are some things and faces which, when felt or seen for the first time, project themselves upon the mind like a sun image on a sensitive plate, and there remain unalterably fixed. To take the case 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, the same look, unaltering and unalterable, reminding us in the midst of changed of the absolutely indestructible nature of every experience, act and aspect of our life. For that which has been is, since the past knows no change and no corruption, but lives eternally in its frozen and completed self. These are somewhat large words to be born of a small matter, but they rose up spontaneously in the mind of a soldierly looking man, on the particular evening when this history opens, over a gate in an eastern country lane, staring vacantly at a right field of 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 yet one of the distinguishing attributes of the English gentleman. In face he was ugly, no other words can express it. Here were not the long moustachios, the Alma dies, 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 rather scrubby, sandy-coloured whiskers, small but rather 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 bust of Julius Caesar. And a long thin nose, one good feature, however, he did possess, a mouth of such sweetness and beauty, that, said as it was, above a very square and manly-looking chin, it had the air of being ludicrously out of place. Uh! said his old aunt, Mrs. Massie, who had just died and left him what she had, on the occasion of her first introduction to him, five and thirty years before. Oomph! 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 Courage undoubtedly was, people found something very taking about it, when once they got used 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 to be found quite as often upon the faces of men as upon those of women. Any person of discernment, in looking at Colonel Courage, must have felt that he was in the presence of a good man, not a prude or a milksop, but a man who had attained to virtue by thought and struggle, that had left their mark upon his face, a man whom it would not be well to tamper with, and 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 realized that his nature was antagonistic, and the more solid ones could not understand him. Perhaps this was the reason why Colonel Courage had never married, had never even had a love affair since he was five and twenty. And yet it was of a woman's face that he was thinking as he lent over the gate, and looked at the field of yellowing corn, undulating like a golden sea beneath the pressure of the wind. Colonel Courage had twice in his life been at Honham, before the present time, when he had come to abide there for good and all, once ten and once five years ago. His old aunt, Mrs. Massey, had a place in the village, a very small place, called Honham Cottage, or Mole Hill, and he had on those two occasions been down to stay with her. Now Mrs. Massey was dead and buried, and had left him the property, and he had given up his profession in which he had no further prospects, and come to live at Honham. 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 of the task, he was refreshing himself by leaning over the gate. It is, though a great many people will not believe it, one of the most delightful refreshments in the world. And then it was, as he lent over the gate, that the image of a woman's face rose before his mind, as it had been continuously rising for the last five years. It was five years since he had seen it, and those five years he had spent in India, and Egypt that is, with the exception of his six months which he had passed in hospital, as a result of an Arab spear thrust in his 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 mass, 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 into the spine of 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 had been forced to do, revolted him, even in the heat of the fight, and then, even then, over that ghastly, agony distorted face, another face had spread itself like a mask, blotting it out from view, that woman's face. And now again it re-arrows, 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 man were to set to work to record all the impressions that 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 had been leaning over this very gate, and had turned to see a young girl, dressed in black, with a spray of honeysuckle stuck in her girdle, and a stick in her hand, 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 and a grace, and a set of the shoulders. And then, as she came near, he saw the soft dark eyes and the waving brown hair that contrasted so strangely and effectively with the pale and striking face. 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 arrived opposite to where he was standing, a gust of wind, for there was a stiff breeze, had blown the lady's hat off, taking it right over the hedge, and he, as in duty bound, had 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 had watched her departing down the long level drift, till she 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 her name was Aida De La Mol, which sounded like a name out of a novel, the only daughter of the old squire who lived at Hanim Castle. And then the next day he had departed to India and saw Miss De La Mol no more. And now he wondered what had become of her. Probably she was married, so striking a person would almost be 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, and this was true enough. But though he was not married, he once, before he was five and twenty, had nearly taken 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 very day before it was to have taken place. And after that it leaked out in the neighbourhood, it was in Essex near Romford, that the young lady, who by the way was a large heiress, had gone off her head, presumably with grief, and had been confined in an asylum, where she was presumed still to remain. Perhaps it was the thinking of this one woman's face, the woman he had once seen walking down the drift, her figure lined out against the stormy sky that led him to think of the other face, the face hidden in the mad-house. At any rate, with a sigh, or rather a groan, he swung himself round from the gate, and began walking homeward at a brisk pace. The drift that he was following was 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 Mol, sometimes written as De La Mol, in history and ancient writings. Honham Castle was now nothing but a ruin, with a manor house built out of the wreck on one side of the 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 a grass lane. Colonel Courage followed this drift till he came to the high road, and then turned to the left. A few minutes walk brought him to a drive, opening out of the main road on the left as he faced toward Boisingham. This drive, which was some three hundred yards long, led up a rather sharp slope to his own place, Honham Cottage or Mole Hill, 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. As a matter of 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 as the records show, in the fifteenth century, suffered terribly from an outbreak of the plague. At this the monks obtained by Grant from the Dilla Mall of the day, ten acres of land, known as the Mole Hill, and so named, either on account of its resemblance to a Mole Hill, 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 known as Honham Cottage, where, too, 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, upon the flat top of a swelling hill, which comprised the ten acres of grazing ground originally granted, and was wonderful to say, to this day, the most magnificently timbered piece of ground in the countryside. For on the ten acres of grassland there were over fifty great oaks, some of them pollards of the most enormous antiquity, and others, which had originally, no doubt, grown very close together, fine, upstanding trees, with a wonderful length and girth of bowl. This place, old Mrs. Massie, Colonel Courage's aunt had bought nearly thirty years before, when she became a widow, and now it had, together with a modest income, of two hundred a year, passed to him under her will. Shaking himself clear of his sad thoughts, Harold Courage turned round at his own front door to contemplate the scene. The long, single storied house stood, as it had 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 that country. There, a mile or so away to the south, situated in the midst of grassy grazing grounds, flanked on either side by still perfect towers, frowned the massive gateway of the old Norseman Castle. Then to the west, almost at the foot of the Moorhill, the ground broke away in a deep bank, clothed with timber, which led the eye down by slow descent into the beautiful valley of the L. Here the Silver River wound its gentle way through lush and popular bordered marshes, where the cattle stand knee-deep in flowers, past quaint old wooden millhouses, through Boisingham old Common, windy looking even now, and brightened here and there with a dash of golden gorse, till it was lost in 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 countries, where the scenery is fine enough in its own way, whatever people whose imaginations are so weak that they require a mountain and a torrent to excite them into activity, may choose to say the contrary. 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 the landscape out. What this mound, which may perhaps have covered half an acre of ground, was, nobody had any idea. Some learned folk said that it was 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 that it was an ancient British dwelling, and pointed triumphantly to a hollow at the top where the ancient Britishers were supposed to have moved, lived, and had their being, which must, urged the other party, have been a very damp one. Thereon the late Mrs. Massie, who was a British dwelling-ite, proceeded to show with much triumph how they had lived in that 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 it was found necessary to pave the whole with tiles, and cut surface drains in it, the result did not clearly prove it chews 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 gardeners, and for rubbish, generally. CHAPTER II The Colonel meets the Squire. Suddenly, as Colonel Courage was contemplating these various views, and reflecting that on the hole he had done well to come and live at Honham Cottage, he was startled by a loud voice saluting him from about twenty yards' distance, with such a peculiar vigor that he fairly jumped. Colonel Courage, 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. Massie, that she ought to have the hill cut away a bit, just here. Well, here goes for it. And after a few heavy steps the visitor emerged from the shadow of the trees into the sunset light which was playing on the terrace before the house. Colonel Courage 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 chiseled and clean-shaved, of the stamp which in novels is generally known as aristocratic. A face that, in fact, showed both birth and breeding. Indeed, as, closed in loose tweed garments and a gigantic pair of top boots, his visitors did there, leaning on his long stick and resting himself after breasting the hill, Harold Courage thought to himself 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 Delamole. My man George, who knows everybody's business except his own, told me that you had arrived here, so I thought that I would walk around and do myself the honour of making your acquaintance. This is very kind of you, said the Colonel. Not at all. If you only knew how uncommonly dull it is down here, 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 Courage of the climax of a conjuring trick. You have dropped something, 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 through a towel to keep it off. And he rolled the mass of nappery 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 at Egypt, as I have good reason to know. And he pointed again to his white hat, which, as Harold Courage 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 Courage had never heard that De La Mol had more than one child, Ida De La Mol, the young lady whose face had 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 is no real reason why it should. Deaths are so common. Not Miss De La Mol, 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 Courage, 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 that 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 Courage, 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 tonight. What do you say? Take the place, as you find it, you know. I know 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 chauve 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 old 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 that it would have puzzled an American novelist to analyze, something between restlessness and curiosity, with a dash of magnetic attraction thrown in, got the better of his scruples, and he went. Well, thank you," he said, if you are sure that Miss Delamole will not mind, I will come. Just allow me to tell Mrs. Jobson. That's right," hollered 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 that lay behind the house, the old gentleman was nowhere to be seen. Presently, however, a loud hello from the top of the tumulus-like hill announced his whereabouts. Wondering what the old gentleman could be doing up there, Harold Quaritch walked up the steps that led to the summit of the mound, and found him standing at the entrance of the mushroom-shaped summer house, contemplating the view. There, Colonel," he said, there is a perfect view for you. Talk about Scotland and the Alps. Give me a view of the valley of El from the top of Deadman's Mount. On an autumn evening 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 country 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 am 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. Deadman's Mount is what the people here call it. And that is what they call 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 drain-hole. But they got on this offside of your old aunt, who, by the way, begging your pardon, was a wonderfully obstinate lady. One once she got an idea into her head. And so she set to work and built the slate-mushroom over it. And one way or 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 in a titanic laugh, such as hailed Courage 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. Hello! It is twenty minutes past seven, and we dine at half-past. I shall catch it from Ida. Come on, Colonel Courage, you don't know what it is to have a daughter. A daughter, when one is late for dinner, is a serious thing for a 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 it was somewhat aimless, was by no means without its charm. He was a capital companion for a silent man like Harold Courage, who liked to hear other people talk, though some people found him a somewhat tiresome one. In this way they got down the slope, and, passing through a couple of wheat fields, came to a succession of broad meadows, somewhat sparsely timbered, through which the footpath ran right up to the grim gateway of the ancient castle, which now loomed before them, outlined in red lines a fire against the ruddy background of the sunset sky. Ah, 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 dilemoles, my ancestors, and the boysers 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 they were a roguestat in their lifetime. 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 circumstances, and caring neither for men nor devil, till the priests got hold of them at 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 molten walls, and the haggar 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 first Boise, from whose family, centuries ago, the dillamoles had obtained the property by marriage with the heiress, had got his chards and cut the first sod of his moat. Right before them was the gateway of the castle, flanked by two great towers, and that, with the exception of some ruins, was, 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 the 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, it will stand now for many a long day, and here we are. And he pushed open a porch door, and then passed, through a passage, into a kind of oak-pennelled vestibule, which was hung with tapestry, originally taken, no doubt, from the old castle, and decorated with coats of armour, spearheads, and ancient swords. And here it was, that Harold Courage once more beheld the face that had haunted his memory for so many months. CHAPTER III For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Colonel Courage, V.C., CHAPTER III. The Tale of Sir James Delamolle. 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 had 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 Courage 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 hello, I have knocked my head. Here, Mary, bring me a light. Here is a light, said the voice, and at the same moment there was the sound of a match being struck. In another moment the candle was a light, and the owner of the voice had turned around with it, holding it in such a fashion that its rays surrounded her like an oriole, showing Harold Courage that same face of which memory had left him. There was 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 it. The face was now the face of a woman, who knew what life was, and had not found it too easy. It had lost some of its dreaminess, he thought, though it had gained an 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 Mol was a large, strong woman, and there was about her a swing and a licem grace, which is very rare. She was now nearly six and twenty years of age, and not having begun to wither in accordance with the fate which overtakes nearly all unmarried women after thirty, was at her very best. Harold Courage, glancing at her well-poised head, her perfect bust 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 match burn up, and held it to the candle. 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 clock. And she broke off for the first time, perceiving 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 neighbor, Colonel Courage. Colonel Courage let me introduce you to my daughter, Miss de La Mol. 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. I have a good memory, Miss de La Mol, said he, feeling not a little pleased that she should have recollected the incident. Evidently, not better than your own, Colonel Courage, was her 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 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 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 plate. Then, turning to Harold, she began to apologize to him. I don't know what sort of a dinner you will get, Colonel Courage, she said. It is so provoking of my father, he never gives one the least warning when he is going to ask anyone to dinner. Not at all, not at all, he answered hurriedly. It is I who ought to apologize, coming down on you like, like... A wolf on the fold? Suggested Ida. Yes, exactly. He went on earnestly. And in this coat too. Well, she went on laughing. He will get very little to eat for your pains, and I know that soldiers always like good dinners. How do you know that, Miss Delamole? Oh, because of poor James and his friends whom he used to bring here. By the way, Colonel Courage, 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 when 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 the two of us. 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, too, 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 Courage, will you take my daughter? Stop! You don't know the way. Perhaps I'd better show it to you with the candle. Accordingly he had 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-paneled, but the walls were mostly 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 grays and wooden-y 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 old castle. Such as it was, however, it gave a very good idea of what the ancient seat of the Boises and de la Moles had been like before the round heads 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, which was of extraordinary solidity and weight, made of black oak, was matched by a side-board of the same material and, apparently, of the same date. Both pieces of furniture being, Mr. de la Moles informed his guest, relics of the old castle. On the side-board were placed several pieces of very massive ancient plate, on each of which were rudely engraved three falcons, or the arms of the de la Moles family. One piece, indeed, a very ancient salver bearing those of the Boises, a ragged oak in an astution of pretence, showing thereby that it dated from the de la Moles who, in the time of Henry VII, had obtained the property by marriage with the Boise he heiress. As the dinner, which was a very simple one, went on, the conversation having turned that way, the squire had this piece of plate brought by the servant-girl to Harold Courage for him to examine. It is very curious, he said, have you much of this, Mr. de la Moles? No, indeed, he said, I wish I had. It all vanished in the time of Charles I. 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 this story, if you like, as soon as we have done dinner. Accordingly, as soon as the servant 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 Moles 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 a small expense upon their lands, which were at that time very large, had amassed a quantity of wealth which, for the age, might fairly be called enormous. Thus Sir Stephen de la Moles, the grandfather of Sir James, who lived in the time of James I, left to his son, who was 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 troubled the sum in his lifetime. Anyhow, he died rich as Crocius, and abominated alike by his tenants, and by the countryside, as might be expected, when a gentleman of his name and fame degraded himself, as this Sir Stephen undoubtedly did, to the practice of usury. With the next air Sir James, however, the old spirit of the de la Moles seemed to have revived, although it is sufficiently clear that he was by no means a spend-thrift, but on the contrary a careful man, the one who maintained his station, and refused to soil his fingers with such base dealings 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 baronessy. Indeed, the best proof of his devotion is that 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, smarching under some slight which was put upon him, he made a somewhat brusque demand for the money which 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 Moles, whose name was still a byword in the land, evidently survived in the family. Sir James turned white with fury, bowed, and without a word left the court, nor did he return thither. Years passed, and the civil war was at its height. Sir James has us 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 round heads whom he hated with a singular hatred. So time went till at last, when he was sore oppressed, 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 Moles, who was a foretime 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 each found at the side of their kings, striking for the right. It is said to me also that Sir James de la Moles doth thus place himself, bowing 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 in our esteem, 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 Moles 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 in his own hand, and show pretty clearly how hardly he was pressed. It is said that when he read it, Sir James, forgetting his grievance, burst into tears, and taking the paper, wrote hastily as follows, which last he certainly did, for I have seen the letter in the museum. Now I leech, 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 disposal 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, were of I will at once place ten thousand pieces at the disposal of your Majesty, so soon as safe means can be provided of conveying the same, seeing that I had sooner die than that these great monies should fall into the hands of the rebels to the furtherance of an evil 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 monies, he would bring them in person to the king. And now comes the climax of the story. The messenger was captured, and Sir James, in cautious letter taken from his boot, as a result of which he within ten days found himself closely besieged by five hundred round heads under command of one Colonel Playfair. The castle was 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 than Colonel Playfair sent for his prisoner, and to his astonishment produced, to Sir James' face, his own letter to the king. Now, Sir James, he said, we have the hive, and I must ask you to leave us up to the honey. Where be these great monies? Where of you talk herein? Fane would I be fingering these ten thousand pieces in gold, the which you have so snugly stored away? I answered old Sir James. You have the hive, but the secret of the money 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 tomorrow's light, Sir James, or otherwise, well, 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 questioned as to where the treasure was, under the threat of immediate death, not being suffered meanwhile, to communicate by word or sign with any one, save the officers of the rebels, and every day he refused, till at last his inquisitors patience gave out, and he was told frankly that if he did not communicate the secret he would be shot at dawn the following day. 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 round heads marched him out into the courtyard of the castle, and here he found Colonel Playfair and his officers waiting. Now, Sir James, for your last word, 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 act is worthy of a holy presbyteries. I have spoken, and my mind is fixed. Beeth, thank 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, has he been these three years, and not he knows, 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 not therein. Save what I have written here upon the last sheet. It is all I have left to give. The book shall be searched, answered the Colonel, and if not is found therein it shall be sent. And now, in the name of God, I adjure you, Sir James, let not the love of Lucra stand between you and your life. Here I make you one last offer. Discover to us but 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. Musketeers 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, together with dense and cutting rain, that for a while the execution was delayed. Presently it passed, and the wild light of the November morning swept out from the sky, and revealed the doomed man kneeling upon the sodden turf, with the water running from his white hair and beard and praying. They called to him to stand up, but he would not, and continued praying, so they shot him on his knees. Well, said Colonel Courage, 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. Con found him, growled the old gentleman. He is always here about something or other. I suppose it is about the moat farm. He was going to see Janter today. Will you excuse me, Courage? Ida will tell you the end of the story, if you care to hear any more. I will join you in the drawing-room. As soon as her father had gone, Ida rose and suggested that if Colonel Courage had done with his wine they should go in to the drawing-room, which they accordingly did. This room was much more modern than either the vestibule or the dining-room, and had a general air and flavour of nineteenth-century young lady about it. There were the little tables and draperies and 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 room lovely in the eyes of brutal man. It was a very pleasant place to look upon this drawing-room at Haunham 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 Courage 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 per chance 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, anyway 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! said Harold 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 known. The story is all known historically, and it is known 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 raised to the ground partly for military purposes and partly in the long and determined attempt that was made to discover old St. 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 in shooting Sir James he had done away with the only chance of finding the money that he was ever likely to have. For to all appearances 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 by way of threats and promises of reward which at last grew to half the total amount that should be discovered was taken to induce these to come forward if they existed but without result. And so the matter went on till after a few years the whole thing died away and was forgotten. Meanwhile the son Sir Edward, who was the second and last baronette, 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 Dauferly, a girl of good blood and great beauty but without means. Indeed, she was the sister of George Dauferly, who was a cousin and companion in exile of Sir Edward, 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 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 Mol, to John Jeffrey Dauferly, 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 Mol family, the direct line of which became extinct with himself. Well, of course this will, when it was executed, was to all appearance so much waste paper, but within three years from its execution Charles II was king of England. Thereon John Dauferly produced the document, and on assuming the names and arms of the De La Mol, actually succeeded in obtaining the remains of the castle, and a considerable portion of the landed property, though the baronessy became extinct. His son it was, who built this present house, and he is our direct ancestor, for though my father talks of them, and as though they were, it is a little weakness of his. The old De La Mol's were not our direct male ancestors. Well, said Harold, and did Dauferly 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 tonight hidden away somewhere. I don't know where, but there was nothing else within 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 Court, 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 dispatch 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 Mol. Nor was this all. The first sheets of the Bible, which was one of the earliest copies of the authorized 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 on the cover and edges brought near to certainty. Poor fellow, 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 old oak-chest in the basement of the Western Tower, quite hidden up in dust and 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 Revelation, there had been a small blank space densely covered with crabbed writing in faded ink, which she read aloud. It ran as follows. Do not grieve me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly and wickedly done to death by rebel murderers, for not happeneth but according to God's will, and now farewell, Edward, till we shall meet in heaven. My moneys have I hid, and on account thereof I die unto this world, knowing that not one piece shall cromwell touch, to whom God shall appoint shall all my treasure be, for not can I communicate. There, said Ida triumphantly, what do you think of that crown court? 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 that 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 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 is remained undiscovered for so long will remain so till the end of the chapter. Perhaps the old Sir James was hoaxing his adversaries. 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 one can see from his letter to the king. There is nothing found after his death, except his lands, of course. Oh, it will be found some day, twenty centuries hence perhaps, much too late to be any good to us. Well, said Harold Corritch 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 his interview with George had evidently been anything but satisfactory. For it bore an expression of exceeding 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 has some bad news or other. It is the times, my dear. It is the times. Isn't it, George? I really don't know what has come to the country. What, what is it, said Ida, with a deepening expression of anxiety? Something wrong about the moat-farm? Yes, Janter has thrown it up after all, and I'm sure I don't know where I am to find another tenant. You see what the pleasures of landed property are, Colonel Courage, said Ida, turning toward him with a smile which did not somehow 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 Courage, she said. I am so pleased that we are going to have you as a neighbor. By the way, I have a few people coming to play lawn-tenants here tomorrow afternoon. Will you come, too? What? broke in the squire in a voice of irritation. More lawn-tenants, party's Ida, I think that you might have spared me for once, with all this business on my hands, too. Not since, Father, said his daughter, with some acerbity. How can a few people playing lawn-tenants 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 merely asked who were coming. Oh, nobody in particular. Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries. Mr. Jeffries is our clergyman, you know, Colonel Courage, and Dr. Bass, and the two Mrs. Smith, 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 that I detest that young man, that I consider him an abominable young man, and I think that you might have shown more consideration for 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 the 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 of one of the great banking families? Yes, said Ida. He is one of the sons. They say he will have a half 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. Really, I fancy that Mr. Quest 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 walking. If you are home, Courage, I will walk with you. I want a little air. Colonel Courage, you have not said if you will come to my party tomorrow yet, said Ida, as he stretched out his hand to say good-bye. Oh, thank you, Miss Dullamole. Yes, I think I can come. Though I play tennis atrociously. Oh, we all know 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 leaned her arm on the mantelpiece and reflected that she liked Colonel Courage 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 that is the sort of man that 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 the new trouble about that moat-farm, my poor old dad. 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. 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 this farm, the moat-farm. It fetched twenty-five shillings an acre when I was a young man, and age 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 Michael mess, but that stupid old George said it was all nothing, and that he would continue at fifteen shillings when the time came. And now tonight 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 is quite heart-breaking 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 stomped in his wok and stuck 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 Courage, good-night. And he turned and walked away through the moonlight. Harold Courage 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 Mol was on its last legs. 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 old squire would become a great station fitted as he was by nature, descent and tradition, to play the solid part of an English gentleman of the old good-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 he, with some difficulty, for he was not yet fully accustomed to its twists and turns, found his way past the swelling heaps 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 was, like many solitary men, a great smoker, and never did he feel the need of the consolation of tobacco more than he did this night. A few months ago, when he had retired from the army, he found himself in a great dilemma. There he was, a hail, 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 himself 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, it might be three hundred a year in all. This added to the 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 Mohill, 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, seeing that in addition to reading he was a thorough sportsman, and an argent, though owing to the smallness of his means, necessarily not 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 life would slope gently down toward 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 him, 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 imaging. 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 to desire and 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 at Hanim, a fresh cause of troubling had arisen. He had seen Aida de la Mol again, and after an interval of between five and six years, had found her face yet more charming than he had 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 least the pyre had been gathered and laid, and did but require the touch of the match to burn up merrily enough. And now this was supplied, and at the first glance of Aida'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 Quorich 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 women 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 worth so little. Then it is that the danger comes, for when a man puts forth his second venture, puts it forth with fear and trembling, and with no great hope of seeing a golden argacy sailing into port. And if it sinks, or is driven back by adverse winds and frowning skies, then there is an end of his legitimate dealings with such frail merchandise. And now he, Harold Quorich, was about to put forth his second adventure, not of his own desire or free will, indeed, but because his reason and judgment were over-mastered. In short, to put it briefly, he had fallen in love with Ida de Lamol 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-burnished room which he proposed to turn into his dining-room, and groaned in spirit over this pretentious discovery, what had become of his fair prospect of quiet years sloping gently downward 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 beyond four or five hundred a year and a Victoria Cross which he had never worn to recommend him? 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 sucked at his empty pipe. So little did it please him indeed, that when at last he rose to find his way up to bed, up the old oak staircase, the only imposing thing in Mohel, he had almost made up his mind to give up the idea at living at Hanum at all, to 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 somehow seemed to have acquired a touch of sternness since he last had looked upon it. Ah, wise resolutions of the quiet night, wither do you go in the garish light of day, to heaven perhaps with the missed reeds and the dew-drops. When the squire got back to the castle he found his daughter still sitting up in the drying 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 was about, Jantar in the moat-farm. It is best to get it over. Yes, yes, my dear. Yes, but there is not much to tell you. Jantar 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 fire-irons 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 that I must take the place in hand, and 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 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? she answered. Rather than risk all that sum of money? 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 it should be ruined than that we should. Father dear, she said, appealingly, laying her 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 never 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. With determination. I cannot bear this sort of thing any longer. I see that abominable man, Mr. Quest, continually having about here like a bird of ill omen, and I cannot stand it. And I tell you what it is, Father, if you do not tell me the whole truth at once, I shall cry. And she looked as if she meant it. Now the old squire was no more impervious to a woman's tears than any other man. And of all Aida's moods, and there 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, Hanum 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 wished to spare you trouble, that is all. But as you are so impervious, 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 it off till tomorrow. No, no, Father, by tomorrow you have changed your mind. Let us have it now. I want to know how much we really owe, what we have got to live on. The old gentleman hummed and hummed a little, and after various indications of impatience at last began. Well, as you know, our family has, for some generation, depended on the land. Your dear mother brought a small fortune with her, five or six thousand pounds, but that was, with the sanction of her trustees, extended upon improvements to the farm and to this house. 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, I found it necessary to repair the gateway, and you have no idea of the expense in which those repairs landed me. Then your 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 cost me there. Your poor 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 end-tail 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 finger uneasily upon a book. Yes, Father, but you have not told me yet what it is 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 this 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 have to pay five percent, as I suppose you do, you will have to pay fifteen hundred a year in interest. Now, Father, you said that in 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 good 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 poor 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 go and live in a cottage on a couple hundred a year than to try and keep our heads above water here, which we cannot do. Sooner or later these people, quest or whoever they are, will want their money-pack, 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 Hanum. Leave Hanum? said the old gentleman, jumping up in his agitation. Watch not since you talk, Ida. How can I leave Hanum? 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 around. Something may happen. One can never tell in this world. If we do not leave Hanum, then Hanum 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 gentleman wearily. I only hope that my time may come first. I have lived here all my life, and I know that I could not live anywhere else. But God's will be done, and now, my dear, go to bed. She leaned down and kissed him, and as she did so, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. Not trusting herself to speak, first 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. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Colonel Courage, V.C. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Colonel Courage, V.C. By H. Ryder Haggard Chapter 6 Lawyer Quest The day following the conversation described in the last chapter was one of those glorious autumn mornings which sometimes come as a faint compensation for the utter vileness and bitter disappointment of the season, which 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 had been 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 don't you say so? Here I have been shouting myself hoarse for you. Yes, squire. Replied the imperturbable George. I have been 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 that 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 hallowing all over the place after you. Now look here. Have you got that fat pony of yours here? Yes, squire, the pony is here, and if it is fat it isn'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. See you are about the place at eleven o'clock, for I expect Mr. Quest to see me about the moat farm. Yes, sir. I suppose you have heard nothing more from Jantor, have you? No, squire, nothing. He means to get 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-jent, Major Boston, as is an agent for all the college lands down the valley, he be a poor weak fool, and when all these tenants come to him and say they must either have the land at five shillings an acre or go, he gets scared. He Jew and dangles 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 to have penny. The college must pay him from his salary all the same, and he don't go no more about farming, nor land, nor nothing, than my old mayor, Minder. Well, and what comes of it? Of course every tenant on the place hears that those college lands are going for five shillings an acre, and they prick up their ears and say they must have their land at the same figure. And it's all owing to that Boston varmint who ought to be kicked through every hole 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 saying that they ain't bad, Squire. Said his retainer, his long face lighting up. They are bad, cruel bad, bad for everybody, and I am not denying that they are bad for their tenants, but if they are bad for their tenants they are worse for the landlord. It all comes on his shoulders in the long run. If men find that they can get land at five shillings an acre, that's worth twenty. Why, it isn't human nature to pay twenty, and if they find the landlord must go as they drive him, of course they'll lay on the whip. Why, bless you, sir, when a tenant comes and say that he is very sorry, but he can't pay his rent. In nine cases out of ten, if you could just look at the man's bankbook, you'd find that the bank was paid, the tradesmen were paid, the doctors paid, everybody's paid before he thinks about his rent. Let the landlord suffer, because he can help himself, but lord bless us, if a hundred pounds was overdue to the bank it would have the innards out him in no time, and he knows it. Now as for that varment janter, to tell me 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 that price. 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 are. 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 farm all the others will come down on you. I'm not saying a word again, your tenants, but where there's money to be made you can't trust 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. Anyways, be off with that note, and let me have the answer as soon as you get back. Mind you don't go loafing and drawing 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 the reach of the squire's shouts and sight of the castle gates he deliberately turned up a by-lane and jogged along for a mile or more to a farm where he had a long confabulation with a man about thatching some wrecks. 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 the opinion that there was no hurry about the squire's letter, as lawyers wasn't in the habit of coming to the office at eight in the morning. Breakfast over the philosophic George quietly 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-or, he arrived at Mr. Quest's office, which, as all the Boisingham world knows, is just opposite the church of which Mr. Quest is one of the church wardens, and which was, but two years ago, 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, whereon a clerk opened the door, and in an 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 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, while I look through it.' "'Oh, 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 he was going to throw it up, and I advised him to do nothing of the sort, but he is a dissatisfied sort of fellow. Janter is, and Major Boston has upset the whole countryside by his very ill-advised action about the college lands. Janter is a varment, and Major Boston, begging at his pardon for the language, is an ass, sir. "'Anyway, there it is. Janter has thrown up. And where am I to find a tenant between now and Michael-ness? 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, yes, sir. You see, there will be covenants to meet. And then the farm is three hundred acres, and to stock it proper 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. "'Causeies do not like the land 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 church warden's meeting at a quarter-two 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 one hundred and twenty pounds, and that is more than we see our way to at present. Though, I can promise, fifty if they can scrape 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 write him a note. By the way, you would like a glass of wine, wouldn't you, George? Not since 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 his 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 that he never allowed to appear. He was too much afraid of the man for that, and in his own way too much devoted to the squire's interests to run the risk of imperiling them by the exhibition of any aversion to Mr. Quest. He knew more of his master's affairs than anybody living, unless it was perhaps 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 many faults. He was somewhat sly, and perhaps, within certain lines, at times capable of giving the word honesty, a liberal interpretation. But he had won conspicuous virtue. He loved the old squire, as a Highland man loves his chief, and would almost, if not quite, have died to serve him. Indeed, as it was, his billet was no easy one, for Mr. de la Mol'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, pig-headed sort of way, to labour early and late to prop up his master's, broken fortunes. Indeed, had it not been for George's contrivings and procrastinations, Hanum Castle and its owner would have parted company long before. 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, back to the town. 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 antiquities, and a positive mania for collecting them, and plunged into a brown study. Presently he lent 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 principles of the great banking firm of Causian Sun, and dated from their head office in Mincing Lane. It ran as follows. Dear Sir, we have considered your report as to the extensive mortgages which we hold upon the Hanum Castle estates, and have given due weight to your arguments as to the advisability of allowing Mr. de la Mol time to give things a chance of writing. But we must tell you that we can see no prospect of any such solution in 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 land rather than to our recovery. The interest on the mortgages in question is, moreover, a year in a rear, probably owing to the non-receipt of rents by Mr. de la Mol. Under these circumstances, much as it grieves us to take action against Mr. de la Mol, 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 out about in the usual manner. We are presuming that Mr. de la Mol 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 twelve 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. This would be, of 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, which, 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, minimize. 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, Cosy and son. W. Quest, Esquire. 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 Cosy 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 Bell's fortune she has had, or nearly all, and most of my savings, and now she wants another five hundred, and she will have it too. Here we are. And he drew another letter from his pocket, written in a bold, but somewhat uneducated woman's hand. Dear Bill, it ran, I have been unlucky again, and dropped a pot. Shall want five hundred pounds by the first October. No shuffling mind, money down. But I think that you know me too well to play any more larks. When can you tear yourself away from the lovely Mrs. Q., and come and give your E. a look? Bring some tin when you come, and we will have tines. Thine, the tiger. The tiger, yes, the tiger, he gasped, his face working with passion, and his grey eyes glinting as he tore the epistol to fragments, and 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 a man ever felt like murder, I do now. Five hundred more, and I haven't five thousand to clear in the world. Truly we pay for the follies of our youth. It makes me mad to think of those fools, causey 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 would be sure to turn up trumps. Surely there must be a way out of it somehow. There's a way out of everything, 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 got sight of the figure of a tall gentleman, strolling idly toward 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 cell. Edward, causey by George, he said aloud, there's the way out of it, if only I could work him, and unless I have made a strange mistake, I think I know the way. A couple of minutes afterward 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 mustaches, 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 causey. 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. Such, however, was the prospect in life that opened out before Mr. Edward causey, who was now supposed by his old and eminently business-like father to be in a process of acquiring a sound knowledge of the provincial affairs of their house, by attending to the working of their country branches in the eastern counties. How do you do, Mr. Quest? said Edward causey, nodding somewhat codely to the lawyer, and sitting down. Any business? Well, yes, Mr. Causey, 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 Haunham Castle estates. At least it comes to that. At the sound of this intelligence Edward causey's whole demeanor underwent the most startling transformation. His langer vanished, his eye brightened, and his form became instinct with active life and beauty. What the juice! 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 Mol. Perhaps because he is not particularly fond of me, he added rather droly. But it would be an infernal shame to break up that family and sell the house under them. Why, they would be ruined. And then there's Ida, Miss De La Mol, I mean. What would become of her, and the old place, too? After being in the family for all these centuries, I suppose it would be sold to some confounded counterskipper 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 you were so sentimental, Mr. Causey, or that you took such a lively interest in Miss De La Mol. And he glanced up to observe the effect of his shot. Edward causey colored. I did not mean that I took any particular interest in Miss De La Mol, he said. I was referring to the family. Oh, quite so. Though I am sure. I don't know why you shouldn't. Miss De La Mol is one of the most charming women that I have ever met. I think the most charming, if I accept my own wife, Belle. And he again looked up suddenly at Edward causey, who, for his part, colored 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 causey 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 I can come at. Besides, he added, recollecting himself, why should I interfere in it? 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 or twice thirty thousand pounds. I know several who would consider it an honour to lend the money to a causey, if only for the sake of the introduction. That is, of course, provided the security was of a legal nature. Let me see the letter, said Edward. Mr. Quest handed him the document, conveying the commands of causey and son, and he read it through twice. The old man means business, he said, as he returned it, that letter was written by him, and when he has once made up his mind it is useless to try and stir him. Did you say that you were going to see the squire today? No, I did not say so, but as a matter of fact I am. His man George, a shrewd fellow by the way, for one of these bumpkins, came with a letter asking me to go up to the castle, so I shall get round there to lunch. It is about this fresh loan that the old gentleman wishes to negotiate. Of course, I shall be obliged to tell him that instead of giving him a fresh loan we shall have to serve a notice on him. Don't do that just yet, said Edward, with decision. Write to the house and say that their instructions shall be attended to. There is no hurry about the notice, though I don't see how I am to help in the matter. Indeed, there is no call upon me. Very well, Mr. Cozy, and now by the way, are you going to the castle this afternoon? Yes, I believe so, why? Well, I want to get up there to luncheon, and I am in a fix. Belle will want the trap to go there this afternoon. Can you lend me your dog-cart to drive up, and then perhaps you would not mind if she gave you a lift this afternoon? Very well, answered Edward, that is, if it suits Mrs. Quest, perhaps she may object to carting me about the country. I have not observed any such reluctance on her part, said the lawyer, dryly, but we can easily settle the question. I must go home to get some plans before I attend the vestry meeting about that pinnacle. Will you step across with me, and we can ask her? Oh, yes, he answered. I have nothing particular to do. And accordingly, as soon as Mr.—