 41 How the night went. George sat opposite to him, his hands on his knees, the red nightcap on his head, and a comical expression of astonishment upon his melancholy countenance. Well, he said, when Harold had done, below me if that ain't a master one, and yet there's folks who say that there ain't no such thing as Providence, not that there's anything provided yet, perhaps there ain't nothing there after all. I don't know if there is or not, but I am going back to sea, and I want you to come with me now. Now, said George, rather uneasily, why, Colonel, that ain't a very nice spot to go digging about on a night like this. I never heard no good of that place there. Not as I hold by such talk myself, he added apologetically. Well, said the Colonel, you can do as you like, but I am going back at once, and going down the hole, too. The gas must be out of it by now. There are reasons, he added. Why, if this money is to be found at all, it should be found this morning. Today is Christmas Day, you know. Yes, yes, Colonel, I know what you mean. Bless you, I know all about it. The old squire must talk to somebody. If he don't, he'd bust, so he talks to me. That Cosy's looking for his answer from Miss Ida this morning. Poor young lady, I saw her yesterday, and she looks like a ghost she do. Ah, he's a mean one, that Cosy. Your request warn't in it with him after all. Well, I cooked his goose for him, and I'd give some it to have a hand in cooking that banker-chaps, too. You wait a minute, Colonel, and I'll come along. Gail and Ghostus isn't all. I only hope it's meant to be after a fool's errand, that's all. And he retired to put on his boots. Presently he appeared again, his red night-cap still on his head, for he was afraid that the wind would blow a hat off, and carrying an unlighted lantern in his hand. Now, Colonel, I am ready, sir, if you be. And they started. The Gail was, if anything, fiercer than ever. Indeed, there had been no such tempest in those parts for years, or rather centuries, as the condition of the timber by ten o'clock that morning amply testified. This here wind must be like that, as the squire tells us on in the time of King Charles as blew the top of the church tower off on a Christmas night, shouted George. But Harold made no answer, and they fought their way onward without speaking any more, for their voices were almost inaudible. Once the Colonel stopped and pointed to the skyline of all the row of tall poplars which he had seen bending like whips before the wind as he came along, but one remained standing now, and as he pointed that vanished also. During the summer house and safety they entered, and the Colonel shut and locked the door behind them. The frail building was literally rocking in the fury of the storm. I hope the roof will hold, shouted George, but Harold took no heed. He was thinking of other things. They lit the lanterns, of which they now had three, and the Colonel slid down into the great grave he had so industriously dug, motioning to George to follow. Just that worthy did, not without trepidation. Then they both knelt and stared down through the hole in the masonry, but the light of the lanterns was not strong enough to enable them to make anything out with clearness. Well, said George, falling back upon his favorite expression in his amazement, as he drew his night-capped head from the hole. If that ain't a master one, I never saw a masterer, that's all. What are you going to do now, Colonel? Have you a ladder here? No, answered Harold. I never thought of that, but I have a good rope, I'll get it. Scrambling out of the hole, he presently returned with a long coil of stout rope. It belonged to some men who had been recently employed in cutting boughs off such of the oaks as needed attention. They undid the rope, and let the end down to see how deep the pit was. When they felt that the end lay upon the floor they pulled it up. The depth from the hole to the bottom of the pit appeared to be about sixteen feet, or a trifle more. Harold took the iron crowbar, and having made the rope fast to it, fixed the bar across the mouth of the aperture. Then he doubled the rope, tied some knots in it, and let it down into the pit, preparatory to climbing down it. But George was too quick for him, forgetting his dose as to the wisdom of groping about dead man's mount at night, in the ardor of his burning curiosity, he took the dark lantern, and holding it in his teeth, passed his body through the hole in the masonry and cautiously slid down the rope. Are you all right? asked Harold, in a voice tremulous with excitement, for was not his life's fortune trembling on the turn? Yes, answered George, in a doubtful voice, and Harold, looking down, could see that he was holding the lantern above his head, and staring at something very hard. Next moment an awful howl of terror echoed up through the pit. The lantern was dropped upon the ground, and the rope commenced to be agitated with the utmost violence. In another two seconds George's red night-cap appeared through the hole, followed by a face that was literally livid with terror. Let me up for God's sake, he gasped, or he'll have me by the leg, he who, asked the Colonel, not without a thrill of superstitious fear, as he dragged the panting man through the hole. But George would give no answer until he was through the hole and out of the grave. Indeed had it not been for the Colonel's eager entreaties, back to some extent by actual force he would have been out of the summer-house and half-way down the mount by now. What is it, roared the Colonel, in the hole to George, who, shivering with terror, was standing on the edge thereof? It's a blessed ghost, that's what it is, Colonel," answered George, keeping his eyes fixed upon the hole, as though he momentarily expected to see the object of his fears emerge. Nonsense, said Harold doubtfully, what rubbish you talk, what sort of ghost? A whiten, said George, all bones like. All bones, answered the Colonel, why, it must be a skeleton. I don't say that he ain't, was the answer, but if he be, he's seven foot high, and sitting, airing of his self, in a stone bath. Oh, rubbish, said the Colonel, how can a skeleton sit and air himself, he would tumble to bits. I don't know, but there he is, and they don't call this place dead man's moat, for nothing. Well, said the Colonel, argumentatively, a skeleton is a perfectly harmless thing. Yes, if he's dead, maybe, sir, but this one's alive, I saw him nod his head at me. Look here, George," answered Harold, feeling that if this went on much longer he should lose his nerve altogether. I'm not going to be scared, great heavens, what a gust, I am going down to sea for myself. Very good, Colonel," answered George, and I'll wait here till you come up again, that is, if you ever do. Thraese did Harold look at the hole, and Thraese, like false sexes, did he shrink back. Come, he shouted angrily, don't be an infernal fool, get down here and hand me the lantern. George obeyed with evident trepidation. Then Harold got through the hole, and with many an inward tremor, and there is scarcely a man on earth who is really free from supernatural fears, descended hand over hand. But in so doing he managed to let the lantern fall, and it went out. Now as the reader will probably admit, this was exceedingly trying. It is not pleasant to be left alone in the dark, underground, in the company of an unknown spook. He had some matches, but what, between fear and cold, it was some time before he could get a light. Alone in this deep place, the rush of the great gale reached his ears like a faint and melancholy sighing. And he had heard other tapping noises, or, he thought he did, noises of a creepy and unpleasant nature. Would the matches never light? The chill and deathlike damp of the place struck to his marrow, and the cold sweat poured from his brow. Ah, at last! He kept his eyes steadily fixed upon the lantern till he had lit it, and it was burning up brightly. Then by an effort he lifted his eyes and looked round him. And this is what he saw. There three or four paces from him, in the center of the chamber of death, sat, or rather lay, a figure of death. It reclined in a stone-chester coffin, like a man in a hip-path which was too small for him. The boney arms hung down on either side, the boney limbs projecting toward him. The great white skull hung forward over a massive breast-bone. It moved, too, of itself, and as it moved the jawbone tapped against the breast, and the teeth clicked gently together. Terror seized him while he looked, and as George had done he turned to fly. How could that thing move its head? The head ought to fall off. Seizing the rope he jerked it violently in the first effort of mounting. Have they got you, Colonel? Sang out George above, and the sound of a human voice brought him back to his senses. No, he answered, as boldly as he could, and then, setting his teeth, turned and tottered straight at the horror in the chest. He was there now, and holding the lantern straight against the thing examined it. It was a skeleton of enormous size, and the skull was fixed to the vertebra with rusty wire. At this evidence of the handiwork of man his fears almost vanished. Even in that company he could not help remembering that it is scarcely to be supposed that spiritual skeletons carry about wire with which to tie on their skulls. With a sigh of relief he held up the lantern and looked around. He was standing in a good-sized vault or chamber built of rubble-stone. Some of this rubble had fallen in to his left, but otherwise, though the workmanship showed that it must be of extreme antiquity, the stone lining was still strong and good. He looked upon the floor, and then, for the first time, perceived that the nodding skeleton before him was not the only one. All round lay remnants of the mighty dead. There they were, stretched out in the form of a circle, of which the stone kisk was the center. One place in the circle was vacant. Evidently it had been once occupied by the giant frame which now sat within the kisk. Next he looked at the kisk itself. It had all the appearance of one of those rude-stone chests in which the very ancient inhabitants of this island buried the ashes of their cremated dead. But if this was so, whence came the uncremated skeletons? Perhaps a subsequent race or tribe had found the chamber ready prepared, and used it to bury some among them who had fallen in battle. It was impossible to say more, especially as, with one exception, there was nothing buried with the skeletons which would assist to identify their race or age. That exception was a dog. A dog had been placed by one of the bodies. Evidently from the position of the bones of its master's arms he had been left to his last sleep with his hand resting on his hound's head. Bending down Harold examined the seated skeleton more closely. It was he discovered accurately jointed together with strong wire. Clearly this was the work of hands which were born into the world long after the flesh on those mighty bones had crumbled into dust. But where was the treasure? He saw none. His heart sank as the idea struck him that he had made an interesting archaeological discovery and that was all. Before undertaking a closer search he returned to the hole and hallowed to George to come down, as there was nothing but some bones to frighten him. This the worthy George was at length with much difficulty persuaded to do. When at last he stood beside him in the vault Harold explained to him what the place was and how ridiculous were his fears without Harold however succeeding in allaying them to any considerable extent. And really when one considers the position shut up as they were in the bowels of a place which had for centuries owned the reputation of being haunted, faced by a nodding skeleton of almost superhuman size and surrounded by various other skeletons all very fine and large, with the most violent tempest that had visited the country for years sighing away outside. It is not wonderful that George was scared. Well, he said, his teeth chattering, if this ain't the masterist one I ever did see. But here he stopped. Language was not equal to the expression of his feelings. Meanwhile Harold, with a hurtful of anxiety, was turning the lantern this way and that in the hope of discovering some traces of Sir James's treasure, but not could he see. There to the left the masonry was fallen in, he went to it, and pulled aside some of the stones. There was a cavity behind, apparently a passage, leading no doubt to the secret entrance to the vault, but he could see nothing in it. Once more he searched round, there was nothing. Unless the treasure was buried somewhere or hidden away in the passage it was nonexistent, that was all. And yet, what was the meaning of that jointed skeleton sitting in the stone bath? It must have been put there for some purpose, probably to frighten would be plunderers away. Could he be sitting on the money? He rushed to the chest and looked through the bony legs. No, his pelvis rested on the stone bottom of the kist. Well, George, it seems we're done. Said Harold, with a ghastly attempt at a laugh. There's no treasure here. Maybe it's underneath that there's stone corn-bin. Suggested George, whose teeth were still chattering. It should be here or here about surely. This was an idea. Helping himself to the shoulder-blade of some deceased hero. Harold, using it as a trowel, began to scoop away the soft sand upon which the stone chest stood. He scooped and scooped manfully, but he could not come to the bottom of the kist. He stepped back and looked at it. There must be one of two things. Either the hollow at the top was but a shallow cutting in a great block of stone, or the kist had a false bottom. He literally sprang at it, and, seizing the giant skeleton by the spine, jerked it out of the kist, and dropped it into a bristling bony heap on one side. Just as he did so, there came a gust of wind, so furious that buried as they were in the earth they literally felt the mound rock beneath it. Finally it was followed by a frightful crash overhead. George collapsed in terror, and for a moment Harold could not for the life of him think what had happened. He ran to the hole and looked up. Straight above him he could see the sky in which the first cold lights of dawn were quivering. Mrs. Massie's summer-house had been blown, bodily away, and the ancient British dwelling-place was once more as it had been for centuries, open to the sky. The summer-house is gone, George. He said, thank God that we're not in it, or we should have been gone, too. Oh, Lord, sir, groaned, the unhappy George, this is an awful business that's like a judgment. It might have been if we had been up above instead of safe down here, he answered, come, bring that other lantern. George roused himself, and together they bent over the now empty kist, and examined it closely. The stone bottom was not of quite the same color as the walls of the kist, and there was a crack across it. Harold felt in his pocket and drew out his knife, which had at the back of it one of those strong iron hooks that are used to extract stones from the hoofs of horses. This hook he worked into the crack, and managed, before it broke, to pull up a fragment of stone. Then looking round he found among the rubbers, where the wall had fallen in, a long sharp flint. This he inserted into the hole, and they both levered away at it. Half of the crack stone came up a few inches, far enough to allow them to get their fingers underneath it, so it was a false bottom. Catch hold, gasped the kernel, and pull for your life. George did as he was bid, and setting their knees against the hollowed stone, they tugged till their muscles cracked. It's a moving, said George, now then, kernel. Next second they both found themselves, on the flat of their backs, the stone had given with a run. Up spraying the kernel like a kitten, the broken stone was standing edgeways in the kist. There was something soft beneath it. The light, George, he said hoarsely. Beneath the stone were some layers of rotten linen. Was it a shroud, or what? They pulled the linen out by handfuls. One, two, three—oh, great heaven! There under the linen was a row of shining gold coins set edgeways. For a moment everything swam before Harold's eyes, and his heart stopped beating. As for George, he muttered something inaudible about its being a master one, and collapsed. Its trembling fingers Harold managed to pick out two pieces of gold which had been disturbed by the anheaval of the stone and held them to the light. He was a skilled, numus metologist, and had no difficulty in recognizing them. One was a beautiful three-pound piece of Charles I, and the other a spur royal of James I. That proved it. There was no doubt that this was the treasure hidden by Sir James Delamol, and he it must have been also who conceived the idea of putting a false bottom into the cast and setting up the skeleton to frighten marauders from the treasure, if by any chance one should enter. For a minute or two the men stood staring at each other over the great treasure which they had unearthed in that dread place, shaking with the reaction of their first excitement, and scarcely able to speak. How deep do it go, said George. Harold got his knife and loosed some of the top coins, which were very tightly packed, till he could move his hand in them freely. Then he pulled out a handful after handful of every sort of gold coin. There was a rose noble of Edward IV, double sovereigns of Henry VIII, triple sovereigns in gold crowns of Edward VI, double royals, and angles of Mary, rose royals, spur royals, angels, angles, large sovereigns, and laurels of James I, double royals, and royals of Elizabeth, three-pound pieces, broads and half-broad, of Charles I, some in greater quantity and some in less, but all were represented. Handful after handful did he pull out, and yet the bottom was not reached. At last he came to it. The layer of gold pieces was about thirty inches thick, by three feet, six long. We must get this into the house, George, before anyone is about. Gasped the colonel. Yes, sir, yes, ah, but how are we going to carry it? Harold thought for a minute, and then acted thus. Bidding George stay in the vault with the treasure, which he was with difficulty persuaded to do, he climbed the improvised rope ladder, and got in safety through the hole. In his excitement he had forgotten about the summer-house having been carried away by the gale which was still blowing, though with not so much fury as before, and the windswept dissolution that met his view as he emerged into the dawning light broke upon him with a shock. The summer-house was clean gone, nothing but a few uprights remained of it, and fifty yards away he thought he could make out the crumpled-up shape of the roof, nor was that all. Quite a quarter of the great oaks which were the glory of the place were down or splintered and ruined. But what did he care for the summer-house or the oaks now? Forgetting his exhaustion he ran down the slope and reached the house, which he entered as softly as he could by the side door. Nobody was about yet, or would be for another hour. It was Christmas Day and not a pleasant morning to get up on, so the servants would be sure to lie a bed. On his way to his bedroom he peeped into the dining-room where he had fallen asleep on the previous evening. When he had woken up it may be remembered he led a candle. This candle was now flaring itself to death, for he had forgotten to extinguish it, and by its side laid the paper from which he had made the great discovery. There was nothing in it, of course, but somehow the sight impressed him very much. It seemed months since he awoke to find the lamp gone out. How much may happen between the lighting of the candle and its burning away? Smiling at this trite reflection he blew that light out, and taking another went to his room. Here he found a stout handbag with which he made haste to return to the mount. Are you all right, George? He shouted down the hall. Well, Colonel, yes, but not sorry to see you back. It's lonesome like down here with these debtors. Very well, look out, there's a bag. Put as much gold in it as you can lift comfortably, and then make it fast to the rope. Some three minutes passed, and then George announced that the bag full of gold was ready. Harold hauled away, and with a considerable effort brought it to the surface, then getting the bag onto his shoulder he staggered off with it to the house. In his room stood a massive, sea-going chest, the companion of his many wanderings. It was about half full of uniforms and old clothes which he bundled unceremoniously to the floor. This done he shot the bag full of shining gold as bright and uncorrupted now as when it was packed away two and a half centuries ago into the chest and returned for another load. Twenty times did he make this journey. At the tenth something happened. There was a writing, sir, with this lot, shouted George, it was packed away in the money. He took the writing, or rather parchment, out of the mouth of the bag and put it in his pocket unread. At last the store, enormous as it was, was exhausted. That's the lot, sir, shouted George, as he sent out the twentieth bag full. If you'll kindly let down that there rope I'll come up, too. All right, said the Colonel, put the skeleton back first. Well, sir, answered George, he looks wonderful comfortable where he lay he do, so if you're agreeable I think I'll let him be. Harold chuckled, and presently George arrived, covered with filth and perspiration. Well, sir, he said, I never did think that I should get dead tired of handling gold coins, but there's a rum world, and that's a fact. Well, I never, and the summer house gone, and just look at them their oaks, well, if that bent to Master One. You never saw a Masterer, that's what you were going to say, wasn't it? Well, and take one thing with another, nor did I, George, if that's any comfort to you. Now look here, just cover over this hole with some boards and earth, and then come in, and get some breakfast. It's eight o'clock, and past, and the gale is blowing itself out. A merry Christmas to you, George, and he held out his hand, covered with cuts and grime and blood. George shook it. Same to you, Colonel, I'm sure. And a merry Christmas it is. God bless you, sir, for what you've done tonight. You've saved the old place from that banker chap, that's what you've done, and you'll have Miss Ida, and I'm darn glad on it that I am. Lord won't this make the squire open his eyes. And the honest fellow brushed away a tear, and fairly capered with joy, his red night-cap waving on the breeze. It was a strange and beautiful sight to see that solemn George capering thus in the midst of that windy desolation. Harold was too moved to answer, so he shouldered his last load of treasure and limped off with it to the house. Mrs. Jobson and her talkative niece were up now, but they did not happen to see him, and he reached his room in safety. He poured the last bagful of gold into the chest, and smoothed it down. It filled it to the brim. He shut the chest and locked it, and then, as he was covered with filth and grime, bruised and bleeding, and his hair flying wildly about his face, he sat down upon it. And from his heart thanked heaven for the wonderful thing that had happened to him. So exhausted was he that he nearly fell asleep as he sat, but remembering himself, he rose, and taking the parchment from his pocket, he cut the faded silk with which it was tied and opened it. On it was a short inscription in the same crabbed writing which he had seen in the old Bible that Ida had found. It ran as follows. Saying that the times be so troubleous that no man can be sure of his own, I, Sir James Dillamole, have brought together all my substance and money from wheresoever it lay at interest, and have hid the same in this sepulcher, to which I found the entry by a chance. Till such time as peace come back to this unhappy England. This I have done on Christmas Day in the year of our Lord, 1643, having completed the hiding of the gold while the great gale was blowing. James Dillamole. Thus, on a long gone Christmas Day, in the hour of a great wind, was the gold head, and now on this Christmas Day, when another great wind raged overhead, was it found once more, just in time to save a daughter of the house of Dillamole from a fate as bad as death. CHAPTER 42 Ida goes to meet her fate. Most people of a certain age and a certain degree of sensitiveness of disposition, in looking back down the vista of their lives, whereon memories melancholy light, plays in fitful flashes like the alternate glow of a sensor, swung in the twilight of a tomb, can recall some one night of peculiar mental agony. It may have come when first we found ourselves face to face with the chill and hopeless horror of departed life, when, in our souls to spare, we stretched out, vain hands entwept, called, and no answer came. When we kissed those beloved lips and sank aghast at the contact with their clay, those lips more eloquent now in the rich pomp of their unutterable silence than in the brightest hour of their unsealing. It may have come when our honor and hope of all our days lay at our feet shattered like a shred on the hard roadway of the world. It may have come when she, the sweet star of our youth, the pure and holy thing, the type of completed beauty and woman's most perfect measure, she to whom was given the chalice of our joy, and who held in her white hand the love-begotten germ of all our power, ruthlessly emptied and crushed it, and, as she became a star, slid down her horizon's way to rise upon some other sky. For it may have come when Brutus stabbed us, or when a child whom we had cherished struck us with a serpent fang of treachery and left the icy poison to creep upon our heart. One way or another it has been with most of us that long night of utter woe, and all will own that it is a ghastly thing to face. And so Ida de Lamol had found it. The shriek of the great Gale rushing on that Christmas Eve round the stout Norman Towers was not more strong than the breath of despair that shook her life. She could not sleep. Who could sleep on such a night, the herald of such a moral? The whale and roar of the wind, the crash of falling trees, and the rattle of flying stones seemed to form a fit accompaniment to the turmoil of her mind. She rose, and putting on her dressing-gown, went to the window, and in the dim light watched the trees gigantically tossing in a great struggle for their life. An oak and a birch were within her view. The oak stood the Gale out for a while. Presently there came an awful gust and beat upon it. It would not bend, and the tough roots would not give. So beneath the weight of the breath of its destiny the big tree broken too like a straw, and its spreading top was whirled into the moat. As the birch gave and bent, it bent till its delicate filaments lay upon the wind like a woman's streaming hair, and the fierceness of the gust wore itself away and spared it. "'See what happens to those who stand up and defy their fate,' said Ida to herself with a bitter laugh, that birch has had the best of it. Ida rose, and closed the shutters. The sight of the storm affected her already strained nerves almost beyond bearing. She began to walk up and down the big room, flitting like a ghost from end to end, and back again and again back. What could she do? What should she do? Her fate was upon her. She could no longer resist the inevitable. She must marry him. And yet her whole soul revolted from the act with an overwhelming fierceness which astonished even herself. She had known two girls who had married people whom they did not like, being at the time, or pretending to be attached, to somebody else. And she had observed that they accommodated themselves to their fate with considerable ease. But it was not so with her. She was fashioned of another clay, and it made her faint to think of what was before her. And yet the prospect was one on which she could expect little sympathy. Her own father, although personally he disliked the man whom she must marry, was clearly filled with amazement that she should prefer Colonel Quaritch, middle-aged, poor, and plain, to Edward Causie, handsome, young, and rich as Croesus. He could not comprehend or measure the extraordinary gulf which her passion had dug between the two. If therefore this was so with her own father, how would it be with the rest of the world? She paced her bedroom till she was tired, and then, in access of despair, which was sufficiently distressing in a person of her reserved and stately manner, flung herself, weeping and sobbing upon her knees, and, resting her aching head upon the bed, prayed, as she had never prayed before, that this cup might pass from her. She did not know, how should she, that at that very moment her prayer was being answered, and that her lover was then, even as she prayed, lifting the broken stone and revealing the horde of ruddy gold. But so it was, she prayed in despair and agony of mind, and the prayer carried on the wild wings of the night brought a fulfillment with it. Not in vain were her tears and supplications, for even now the deliverer delved among the dust and awful treasures of the dead. And even now the light of her coming happiness was breaking on her tortured night as the first cold claims of the Christmas morning were breaking over the stormy fury of the void without. And then, chilled and numbed in body and mind, she crept into her bed again, and at last lost herself in sleep. By half-past nine o'clock, when Ida came down to breakfast, the gale had utterly vanished, though its footprints were visible enough in shattered trees, untouched stacks, and ivy torn in naughty sheets from the old walls it clothed. It would have been difficult to recognize in the cold and stately lady who stood at the dining-room window, noting the havoc and awaiting her father to come in, the lovely, passionate, dishevelled woman who, some few hours before, had thrown herself upon her knees praying to God for the sucker she could not win from man. Women, like nature, have many moods and many countenance to express them. The hot fit had passed, and the cold fit was on her now. Her face, except for the dark hollows round the eyes, was white as winter, and her heart was cold as winter's ice. Presently her father came in. What a gale! he said. What a gale! Upon my word I began to think that the old place was coming down about our ears, and the wreck among the trees is dreadful. I don't think there can have been such a wind since the time of King Charles I when the top of the tower was blown clean off the church. You remember, I was showing you the entry about it in the registers the other day, the one signed by the person and old Sir James Delamole. The boy who has just come up tells me that he hears that poor old Mrs. Massey's summer-house on the top of Dead Man's Mount has been blown away, which is a good riddance for Colonel Courage. Why, what's the matter with you? How pale you look! The gale kept me awake. I got very little sleep, answered Ida. And no wonder, well, my dear, you haven't wished me a merry Christmas yet. Goodness knows, we want one badly enough. There has not been much mere mint at Hanum of late years. A merry Christmas to you, father? She said. Thank you, my love, the same to you. You have got most of your Christmases before you, which is more than I have. God bless me, it only seems like yesterday, since the big bunch of holly tied to the hook in the ceiling there, fell down on the breakfast-table and smashed all the cups. And yet it is more than sixty years ago. Dear me, how angry my poor dear mother was! She never could bear the crockery to be broken. It was a little failing of your grandmothers. And he laughed more heartily than Ida had heard him, too, for some weeks. She made no answer, but busied herself about the tea. Presently, glancing up, she saw her father's face change. The worn expression came back upon it again, and he lost his buoyant bearing. Evidently, a new thought had struck him, and she was in no great doubt as to what it was. We had better get on with breakfast, he said. You know that cause he is coming up at ten o'clock. Ten o'clock? She said faintly. Yes, I told him ten so that we could go to church afterwards if we wished to. Of course, Ida, I am still in the dark as to what you have made up your mind to do. But whatever it is, I thought that he had better, once and for all, hear your final decision from your own lips. If however you feel yourself at liberty to tell it to me as your father, I shall be glad to hear it. She lifted her head and looked him full in the face, and then paused. He had a cup of tea in his hand, and it was held in the air half way to his mouth, while his whole face showed the overmastering anxiety with which he was awaiting her reply. Make your mind easy, father, she said, I am going to marry Mr. Causie. He put the cup down in such a fashion that he spilled half of the tea, most of it over his own clothes, without even noticing it, and then turned away his face. Well, he said, of course it is not to my affair, or at least only indirectly so. But I must say my love, I congratulate you on the decision which you have come to. I quite understand that you have been in some little difficulty about the matter. Young women often have been before, and you will be again. But to be frank, Ida, that Quorage business was not at all suitable, either in age or fortune, or in anything else. Yes, although Causie is not everything that one might wish. On the whole, I congratulate you heartily. Oh, pray don't, broken Ida, almost in a cry. Whatever you do, pray don't congratulate me. Her father turned round again and looked at her. But Ida's face had already recovered its calm, and he could make nothing of it. I don't quite understand you, he said, these things are generally considered matters for congratulation. But for all he might say, and all he might urge in his mind to the contrary, he did more or less understand what her outburst meant. He could not but know that the exclamation was the last outcry of a broken spirit. In his heart he realized then, if he had never clearly realized it before, that this proposed marriage was a thing hateful to his daughter, and his conscience pricked him sorely. And yet, and yet, it was but a woman's fancy, a passing fancy. She would become reconciled to the inevitable, as women do, and when her children came she would grow accustomed to her sorrow, and her trouble would be forgotten in their laughter. And if not, well, it was but one woman's life which would be affected, and the very existence of his race, the very cradle that had nursed them from century to century, were now at stake. Was all this to be at the mercy of a girl's fancy? No, let the individual suffer. So he argued, and so at his age and in his circumstances most of us would argue also, and perhaps, considering all things, we should be right. For in this world personal desires must continually give way to the welfare of others. Did they not do so? Our system of society could not endure. No more was said upon the subject. Ida made pretence of eating a piece of toast. The squire mopped up the tea upon his clothes, and then drank some more. Meanwhile the remorseless seconds crept on. It wanted but five minutes to the hour, and the hour would, she well knew, bring the man with it. The five minutes passed slowly and in silence, both her father and herself realising the nature of the impending situation, but neither of them spoke of it. Ah, there was the sound of wheels upon the gravel, so it had come. Ida felt like death itself. Her pulse sank and fluttered. Her vital forces seemed to cease their work. Another two minutes passed, and then the door opened, and the parlor maid came in. Mr. Cossey, if you please, sir. Oh! said the squire. Where is he? In the vestibule, sir. Very good. Tell him I'll be there in a minute. The maid went. Now, Ida, said her father, I suppose we had better get this business over. Yes, she answered, rising. I am ready. And gathering up her energies she passed out to meet her fate. CHAPTER 43 of Colonel Courage, V.C. Colonel Courage, V.C., by H. Reider Haggard, CHAPTER 43. George is zined to laugh. Ida and her father reached the vestibule to find Edward Cossey standing with his face to the mantelpiece and nervously toying with some curiosities upon it. He was, as usual, dressed with great care, and his face, though pale and worn, from the effects of agitation of mind, looked of anything handsomer than ever. As soon as he heard them coming, which owing to his partial duffness he did not do till they were quite close to him, he turned round with a start, and a sudden flush of color came upon his pale face. The squire shook hands with him in a solemn sort of way, like people do when they meet at a funeral, and Ida barely touched his outstretched fingers with her own. A few random remarks followed about the weather, which really for once in a way was equal to the conversational strain put upon it, but at length these died away, and there came an awful pause. It was broken at length by the squire, who, standing with his back to the fire, his eyes fixed upon the wall opposite, after much humming and hawing delivered himself thus. I understand, Mr. Cossey, that you have come to hear my daughter's final decision, on the matter of the proposal of marriage which you have made and renewed to her. Now, of course, this is a very important question, very important indeed, and it is one with which I cannot presume, even to seem to interfere. Therefore I shall, without comment, leave my daughter to speak for herself. One moment before she does so he interrupted, drawing but a poor augury of success from Ida's icy looks. I have come to renew my offer and to take my final answer, and I beg Miss Delamole to consider how deep and sincere must be that affection which has endured through so many rebuffs. I know, or at least I fear, that I do not occupy the place in her feelings that I should wish to, but I look to my time to change this. At any rate I am willing to take my chance. As regards money I repeat the offer that I have already made. There I should not say too much about that, broke in the squire impatiently. A why not, said Ida, in bitter sarcasm, Mr. Cosy knows it is one of the best arguments with our sex. I presume that as a preliminary to the renewal of the engagement, the persecution of my father which is being carried on by your lawyer will cease? Absolutely. And if the engagement is not renewed, the money will, of course, be called in. My lawyers advise that it should be, he answered sullenly, but see here, Ida, you make your own terms about money. Marriage after all is particularly a matter of bargaining, and I am not going to stand out about the price. You are really most generous, went on Ida, in the same bitter tone, the irony of which made her father wince, for he understood her mood better than did her lover. I only regret that I cannot appreciate the generosity more than I do. But it is at least in my power to give you the return which you deserve, so I can no longer hesitate, but once and for all. And she stopped dead, and stared at the glass door, as though she saw a ghost. Both her father and Edward Cosy followed the motion of her eyes, and this is what they saw. Up the steps came Colonel Quorich and George. Both were pale and weary-looking, but the former was at least clean. After George this could not be said. His head was still adorned with the red nightcap. His hands were cut and dirty, and on his clothes was an unlimited quantity of encrusted filth. What the dickens! Began the squire, and at the moment George, who was leading, knocked at the door. You can't come in now, roared the squire. Don't you see that we are engaged? But we must come in, squire, begging your pardon, answered George with determination, as he opened the door. We've got that, to say, as won't keep. I tell you that it must keep, sir, said the old gentleman, working himself into a rage. Am I not to be allowed a moment's privacy in my own house? I wonder at your conduct, Colonel Quorich, enforcing your presence upon me, when I tell you that it is not wanted. I am sure that I apologize, Mr. Delamolle. Began the Colonel, utterly taken aback. Which what I have to say is the best way that you can apologize is by withdrawing, answered the squire with majesty. I shall be most happy to hear what you have to say, on another occasion. Oh, squire, squire, don't be such a fool, begging your pardon for the word, said George, in exasperation. Don't you go and knock on your head again a brick wall? Well you be off, sir, roared his master, in a voice that made the walls shake. By this time Ida had recovered herself. She seemed to feel that her lover had something to say that concerned her deeply. Probably she read it in his eyes. Father, she said, raising her voice, I won't have Colonel Quorich turned away from the door like that. If you will not admit him, I will go outside and hear what it is that he has to say. In his heart the squire held Ida in some awe. He looked at her and saw that her eyes were flashing and her breasts heaving, and he gave way. Oh, very well, since my daughter insists on it, pray come in. And he bowed. If such an intrusion falls in with your ideas of decency, it is not for me to complain. I accept your invitation, answered Harold, looking very angry, because I have something to say, which you must hear and hear at once. No, thank you, I will stand. Now, Mr. Dullamall, it is this, wonderful as it may be, it has been my fortune to discover the treasure hidden by Sir James Dullamall in the year 1643. There was a universal gasp of astonishment. What! said the squire, why I thought that the whole thing was a myth. Know that it ain't, sir, said George, with a melancholy smile, because I've seen it. Ida had sunk into a chair. What is the amount? She asked, in a low, eager voice. I have been unable to calculate exactly, but speaking roughly, it cannot be much under fifty thousand pounds, estimated on the value of the gold alone. Here is a specimen of it. And Harold pulled out a handful of riles and other coins, and poured them on the table. Ida hit her face in her hand, and Edward Causie, realizing what this most unexpected development of events might mean for him, began to tremble. I should not allow myself to be too much elated, Mr. Dullamall, he said with a sneer, for even if this tale be true, it is a treasure trove and belongs to the crown. Ah! said the squire, I never thought of that. But I have, said the Colonel quietly, if I remember right, the last of the original Dullamall's left a will, in which he specially devised this treasure hidden by his father to your ancestor. It is the identical treasure that I am fortunately in a position to prove by this parchment. And he laid the writing that he had found with the gold upon the table. Quite right, quite right, said the squire, that will take it out of the custom. Perhaps the solicitor to the treasury may hold a different opinion, said Causie, with another sneer. Just then Ida took her hand from her face. There was a dewy look about her eyes, and the last ripples of a happy smile lingered round the corners of her mouth. Now that we have heard what Colonel Quarridge had to say, she said, in her softest voice addressing her father, there is no reason why we should not finish her business with Mr. Causie. Here Harold and George turned to go, but she waved them back imperiously and began speaking before anyone could interfere, taking up her speech where she had broken it off when she caught sight of the Colonel and George coming up the steps. I can no longer hesitate, she said, but once and for all I declined to marry you, Mr. Causie, and I hope that I shall never see your face again. At this announcement the bewildered squire put his hand to his head. Edward Causie staggered visibly and rested himself against the table, while George murmured audibly, that's a good job. Listen, said Ida, rising from her chair, her dark eyes, flashing as the thought of all shame and agony, that she had undergone rose up within her mind. Listen, Mr. Causie, and she pointed her finger at him, this is the history of our connection. Some months ago I was so foolish, taking you for a gentleman, as to ask your help in the matter of the mortgages which her bank was calling in. You then practically made terms that if it should be at any time your wish I should become engaged to you, and I having no option accepted. Then in the interval, while it was inconvenient to you, to enforce your rights, I gave my affections elsewhere. But when you, having deserted the lady who stood in your way, do not interrupt me, I know it all, I know it all, I know it from her own lips, came forward and claimed to my promise, I was forced to assent. Then a loophole of escape presented itself, and I availed myself of it. What followed, you again became possessed of power over my father and this place. You insulted the man I loved, you resorted to every expedient that the law would allow to torture my father and myself. You set your lawyers upon us like dogs upon a hare. You held ruin over us, and again and again you offered me money, as much money as I wished, if only I would sell myself to you. And then you bided your time, leaving despair to do its work. I saw the toils closing around us. I knew that if I did not yield my father would be driven from his home, in his old age, and that the place he loved, better than his life, would pass to strangers, would pass to you. No father, do not stop me, I will speak my mind. And at last I determined that, cost what it might, I would yield. Whether I could have carried out my determination, God only knows. I almost think that I should have killed myself upon my marriage-day. I made up my mind. Not five minutes ago the very words were upon my lips that would have sealed my fate when deliverance came. And now go, I have done with you, your money shall be paid to you. Capital and interest down to the last farthing. I tender back my price, and knowing you for what you are, I, I despise you, that is all I have to say. Well if that beamed a master one, ejaculated George aloud. Ida, who had never looked more beautiful than she did in this moment of passion, turned to see to herself, but the tension of her feelings and the torrent of her wrath and eloquence had been too much for her, and she would have fallen had not Harold, who had been listening amazed to this overpowering outburst of nature, ran up and caught her in his arms. As for Edward Cosy he had shrunk back involuntarily beneath the volume of her scorn, till he stood with his back against the paneled wall. His face was white as a sheet, despair and fury shone in his large dark eyes. Never had he desired this woman more fiercely than he did now, in the moment when he knew that she had escaped him for ever. In a sense he was to be pitied, for passion tore his heart in twain. For a moment he stood thus, and then with a spring, rather than a step, he advanced across the room till he was face to face with Harold, who with eye to half-fainting, still in his arms, and her head upon his shoulder, was standing on the further side of the great, open great. Blank you, he said, I owe this to you, you half-pay adventurer! And he lifted his arm as though to strike him. Come, none of that, said the squire, speaking for the first time, I will have no brawling here. No, put in George, edging his long form between the two. And begon your pardon, sir, don't you go a calling of better men than yourself, adventurers? At any rate, if the Colonel is an adventurer, he has adventured, to some purpose, as is easy to see, and he pointed to Ida, lying in his arms. Hold your tongue, sir, roared the squire, as usual, relieving his feelings on his retainer. You are always shoving your oar in, where it is entwanted. All right, squire, all right, said George, the impoturbable. Then his manners shouldn't be such. Do you mean to allow this, said Cosy, turning fiercely to the old gentleman? Do you mean to allow this man to marry your daughter for her money? Mr. Cosy answered the squire, with his palatest and most old-fashioned bow. Whatever sympathy I may have felt for you is being rapidly alienated by your manner. I told you that my daughter must speak for herself. She has spoken very clearly, and in short I have absolutely nothing to add to her words. I tell you what it is, said Cosy, shaking with fury, I have been tricked and fooled and played with, and so sure as there is a God above us I will have my revenge on you all somehow. The money that this man says that he has found belongs to the Queen and not to you, and I will take care that the proper people are informed of it, before you can make away with it. And when that is taken from you, if indeed the whole thing is not a trick, we will see what will happen to you. I will tell you that I will take this property, and I will pull this old place you are so fond of, down, stone by stone, and throw it into the moat, and send the plow over the site. I will sell the estate piecemeal and blot it out. I tell you I have been tricked. You encourage the marriage yourself. You know you did, and you forbade that man the house. And he paused for a breath and to collect his words. I gained the squire bowed, and his bow was a study in itself. You do not see such bows nowadays. One minute, Mr. Cosy, he said very quietly, for it was one of his peculiarities to become abnormally quiet in circumstances of real emergency. And then I think that we may close this painful interview. When first I knew you I did not like you. Afterwards, through various circumstances I modified my opinion and set my dislike down to prejudice. You are quite right in saying that I encouraged the idea of a marriage between you and my daughter, and also that I forbade the house to Colonel Quarch. I did so, because, to be honest, I saw no other way of avoiding the utter ruin of my family, but perhaps I was wrong in so doing. I hope that you may never be placed in a position which will force you to such a decision. Also at the time indeed never tell this moment have I quite realized how the matter really stood. I did not understand how strongly my daughter was attached in another direction. Perhaps I was unwilling to understand it. Nor did I altogether understand the course of action by which it seems you obtained a promise of marriage from my daughter in the first instance. I was anxious for the marriage because I believed you to be a better man than you are, and because I thought that it would place my daughter in her descendants in a much improved position, and that she would in time become attached to you. I forbade Colonel Quarch the house because I thought that an alliance with him would be most undesirable for everybody concerned. I find that, in all this, I was acting wrongly. And I frankly admit it. Perhaps as we grow old we grow worldly also, and you and your agents pressed me very hard, Mr. Cosy. Still, I have always told you that my daughter was a free agent, and must decide for herself, and therefore I owe you no apology on that score. So much then for the question of your engagement to Miss Delamole. It is done with. And now, as regards the threats you make, I shall try to meet them as occasion arises, and if I cannot do so it will be my misfortune. But one thing they show me, though I am sorry to have to say it, to any man in a house which I can still call my own, they show me that my first impressions of you were the correct ones. You are not to gentlemen, Mr. Cosy, and I must beg to decline the honour of your further acquaintance. And with another bow he opened the vestibule door, and stood holding the handle in his hand. Edward Cosy looked round with a stare of rage, and then muttering, in most comprehensive curse, he stalked from the room, and in another minute was driving fast through the ancient gateway. Poor man, let us pity him, for he also certainly got his full due. George followed him to the outer door, and then he did a thing that nobody had seen him to before. He burst out into a loud laugh. What are you making that noise about? Asked his master sternly. This is no laughing matter. Him, replied George, pointing to the retreating dog-cart, he is going to pull down the castle, and throw it into the moat, and send the plough over it, is he? Him, that vermit, why them old towers will be astounding there when his beggarly bones is dust, and when his name ain't no more a name, and there'll be one of the old blood sitting in them too. I know it, and I have always known it. Come, squire, though you always do say, how I as a fool, what did I tell you? I did tell you that Providence weren't going to let this place go to any lawyers, or bankers, or of them sort. Why, of course I did, and now you see. Not but what is owing to the Colonel. He was the man that found it, but then God Almighty taught him how to do it. But he's a goodon, he is, and a gentleman, not like him. And he once more, pointed, with unutterable scorn, to the road, down which, Edward Causie, had vanished. Now look here, said the squire, don't you stand talking here all day about things you don't understand. That's the way you waste time. You be off, and look after this gold. It should not be left alone, you know. We will come down presently to Mole Hill, for I suppose that that's where it is. No, I can't stop to hear the story now, and besides I want Colonel Quarrett to tell it to me. All right, squire, said George, touching his red nightcap, I'll be off. And he started. George hallowed his master after him, but George did not stop. He had a trick of deafness when the squire was calling, and he wanted to go somewhere else. Confound you, roared the old gentleman. Why don't you stop when I call you? This time George brought his long, lank frame to a standstill. Beg pardon, squire. Beg pardon, yes. You're always begging pardon. Look here, you had better bring your wife and have dinner in the servants' hall today, and drink a glass of port. Thank you, squire, said George, again touching his red nightcap. And look here, George, give me your hand, man. Here's a merry Christmas to you. We've gone through some queerish times about this place together, but now it almost looks as though we're going to end our days in peace and plenty. Same to you, squire, I'm sure same to you, said George, pulling off his cap. Yes, yes, we've had some bad years. But with poor Mr. James, and that quest in Kazi, he's the master environment of the lot he is. And the bad times and the moat farm and all, but bless you, squire. Now that there'll be some ready money and no debts, why, if I don't make out somehow, so that you'll all get a good living out of the place, I'm a Dutchman. Yes, it's been a bad time, and we're getting old, but there, that's how it is, the sky's almost always clear, toward nightfall. God Almighty has a mind to let one down easy, I suppose. If you would talk a little less about God Almighty and come to church a little more, it would be a good thing, as I've told you before, said the squire, but there go along with you. And the honest fellow went. CHAPTER 44 Christmas Chimes The squire turned and entered the house. He generally was fairly noisy in his movements, but on this occasion he was exceptionally so. Possibly he had a reason for it. On reaching the vestibule he found Harold and Ida standing side by side, as though they were being drilled. It was impossible to resist the conclusion that they had suddenly assumed that attitude because it happened to be the first position into which they could conveniently fall. There was a moment's silence, and then Harold took Ida's hand and led her up to where her father was standing. Mr. Delamol, he said simply, once more, I ask you for your daughter in marriage. I am quite aware of my many disqualifications, especially those of my age and the smallness of my means, but Ida and myself hope and believe that under all the circumstances you will no longer withhold your consent. And he paused. Quaritch, answered the squire, I have already in your presence told Mr. Causey under what circumstances I was favorably inclined to his proposal, so I need not repeat all that. As regards your means, although they would have been quite insufficient to avert the ruin which threatened us, still you have, I believe, a competence and owing to your wonderful and most providential discovery the fear of ruin seems to have passed away. It is owing to you that discovery, which, by the way, I want to hear all about, has been made. Had it not been for you it never would have been made at all, and therefore I certainly have no right to say anything more about your means. As regards your age, well, after all, forty-four is not the limit of life, and if Ida does not object to marrying a man of those years I cannot object to her doing so. With reference to your want of occupation I think that if you marry Ida this place will, as times are, keep your hands pretty full, especially when you have an obstinate donkey like that fellow George to deal with, for I am getting too old and stupid to look after to myself. And besides, things are so topsy-turvy that I can't understand them. There is one thing more that I want to say to you. I forbade you the house, well, you are a generous-minded man, and it is human to err, and I think that perhaps you will understand my actions and not bear me a grudge on that account. Also I daresay that at the time, and possibly at other times, I said things that I should be sorry for if I could remember what they were, which I can't. And if so, I apologize to you as a gentleman should when he finds himself in the wrong. And now I say God bless you both, and hope you will be happy in life together. And so come here Ida, my love, and give me a kiss. You have been a good daughter all your life, and so Quorich may be sure that you will be a good wife, too. Ida did as she was bid, and then she went over to her lover and took his hand, and he kissed her on the forehead, and so, after all their troubles, they finally ratified the contract. And we, who have followed them thus far, have perhaps been a little moved by their struggles, hopes, and fears, will not surely grudge to re-echo those squires old-fashioned to prayer. God bless them both. God bless them both, long may they live, and happily. Long may they live, and for very long may their children's children of the race, if not of the name of Dillamolle, pass in and through the old Norman gateway, and pass the sturdy Norman towers. The Boises who built them, here, had their habitation for six generations. The Dillamolles, who wedded the heiress of the Boises, lived here for thirteen generations. May the Quoriches, whose ancestor married Ida, heiress of the Dillamolles, endure as long. Surely it is permitted to us, to lift a corner of the curtain, of futurity to see, in spirit, Ida Quorich, stately and beautiful as we know her, but of a happier countenance, seated on some Christmas eve to come, in the drying-room of the castle, and telling to the children at her knees the wonderful tale of how their father and old George, on this very night, when the great Gale blew, long years ago, discovered the ruddy pile of gold, hoarded in that awful store-house, amid the bones of Saxon or Danish heroes, and thus saved her to be their mother. We can surely see the wide and wondering eyes, and the fixed faces, as for the tenth time they listen to a story before which the joys of Crusoe will grow pale, and hear the eager appeals for confirmation made to the military-looking gentleman, very grizzled now, but grown better looking with the advancing years, who is standing warming himself before the fire, the best and most beloved husband and father in the whole countryside. Perhaps there may be a vacant chair, and another tomb among the ranks of the departed dillamoles. Perhaps the ancient walls will no longer echo to the sound of the old squire's stentorian voice, and what of that? It is our common lot. But when he goes, the countryside will lose a man, of whom they will not see the like again, for the breed is dead or dying. A man whose very prejudices, inconsistencies, and occasional, wrong-headed violence will be held, when he is no longer here, to have been endearing qualities. And for manliness, for downright English God-fearing virtues, for love of queen, country, family, and home, they may search in vain to find his equal among the thin-blooded gentility of the cosmopolitan Englishman of the dawning twentieth century. His faults were many, and at one time he went near to sacrificing his daughter to save his house, but he would not have been the man he was without them. And so to him too. Farewell. Perhaps he will find himself a better place in the Valhalla of his forefathers, surrounded by those stout old dillamoles whose memory he regarded with so much affection, than here in the Victorian era. For as has been said elsewhere, the old squire would undoubtedly have looked better in a chain-shirt and a battle-axe than ever he did in a frock coat, especially with his retainer George armed to the teeth behind him. They kissed, and it was done, and out from the church tower in the meadows broke with a clash and clanger the glad sound of the Christmas bells. Out it swept, over pitle and fallow, over grove and wood. It floated down the valley of the El, it beat against Dead Man's Mount, henceforth to the vulgar mind more haunted than ever, and echoed up the castle's Norman towers and down the oak-clad vestibule. Away over the common went the glad message of earth saviour, away high into the air, startling the rooks upon their airy courses, as though the iron notes of the world's rejoicing would faint float to the throne-feet of the world's everlasting king. Peace and goodwill, eye-happiness to the children of men while their span is, and hope for the beyond, and Heaven's blessing on holy love and all good things that are. This was what those liquid notes seemed to say to the most happy pair who stood hand in hand in the vestibule, and thought of all they had escaped, and all they had won. Well, Quaritch, if you and Ida have quite done staring at each other, which isn't very interesting to a third party, perhaps you will not mind telling us how you happened on old Sir James Dilla Moll's hoard. Thus a jurid herald began his thrilling story, telling the whole history of the night in detail, and if his hearers had expected to be astonished, certainly their expectations were considerably more than fulfilled. Upon my word, said the squire when he had done, I think I am beginning to grow superstitious in my old age, hang me if I don't believe it was the finger of Providence itself that pointed out those letters to you. Anyway, I am off to see the spoil. Run and get your hat, Ida, my dear, and we will all go together. And they went and looked at the chest, brimful of red gold, yes, and passed down, all three of them, into those chill presences, and the bowels of the mount, and, coming thence, odd and silent, sealed up the place for ever. End of Chapter 44 CONCLUSION Goodbye. On the following morning, such inhabitants of Boisingham, as happened to be about, were much interested at seeing an ordinary farm-trumble coming down the main street, and being driven, or rather led, by no less a person than George himself, while behind it, walked the well-known form of the old squire, arm in arm with Colonel Courage. They were still more interested, however, when the tumble drew up at the door of the bank, not Causes, but the opposition bank, where, although it was Boxing Day, the manager and the clerk were waiting, apparently for its coming. But their interest culminated when they perceived that the cart only contained a few flower sacks, and yet that each of these sacks seemed to require three or four men to lift it without any comfort. Thus the gold was safely housed. Upon being weighed, its value was found to be about fifty-three thousand pounds of modern money. As however some of the coins were exceedingly rare, and of great value to museums and collectors, this value was considerably increased, and the treasure was ultimately sold for fifty-five thousand two hundred and fifty-four pounds. Only Ida kept back enough of the choiceless coins to make a gold waistband or girdle, and a necklace for herself. Destined no doubt in future days to form the most cherished heirloom of the Courage family. On that same evening the squire and herald went to London and opened up communications with the solicitor to the treasury. Suddenly they were able to refer to the will of Sir Edward de Lamolle, the second baronet in which he specially devised to his cousin Geoffrey Dauferly, and his heirs for ever, not only his estates, but his lands, together with the treasure hidden thereon or elsewhere, by my late murdered father, Sir James de Lamolle. Also they produced the writing which Ida had found in the Old Bible, and the parchment discovered by George among the coin. These three documents formed a chain of evidence which even officials interested for the treasury could not refuse to admit, and in the upshot the crown renounced its claims, and the property in the gold passed to the squire, subject to the payment of the same succession duty which it would have been called upon to meet had he inherited a like sum from a cousin at the present time. And so it came to pass that when the mortgage money was due it was paid to the last farthing, capital and interest, and Edward Causie lost his hold upon Hanum forever. As for Edward Causie himself we may say one more word about him. In the course of time he got over his violent passion for Ida sufficiently to allow him to make a brilliant marriage with the only daughter of an impecunious peer. She keeps her name in title, and he plays the part of the necessary husband. Anyhow, my reader, if it is your glorious fortune to frequent the gilded saloons of the great you may meet Lady Honoria Talbot and Mr. Causie. If you do meet him, however, it may be well to avoid him, for the events of his life have not been of a nature to improve his temper. This much then of Edward Causie. If after leaving the gilded saloons aforesaid you should happen to wander down Piccadilly or the Strand, as the case may be, you may meet another character in this history. You may see a sweet pale face, still stamped with a childlike roundness and simplicity, but half-hidden in the coarse hood of the Nun. You may see her, and if you care to follow you may find what is the work wherein she seeks her peace. It would shock you, you would fly from it in horror, but in her work of mercy and loving kindness, and she does it unflinchingly, and among her fellow nuns there is no one more beloved than Sister Agnes, so good-bye to her also. Harold Courage and Ida were married in the spring, and the village children strew the churchyard path, the same path where in anguish of soul they had met and parted on that dreary winter's night, with prim-roses and violets. And there at the old church door, when the wreath is on her brow and the veil about her face, let us bid farewell to Ida and her husband Harold Courage. The End