 CHAPTER XXI. The next morning was fine and still, one of those lovely autumn days of which we get four or five in the course of a season. After breakfast Harold Courage strolled down his garden, stood himself against a gate to the right of Deadman's Mount, and looked at the scene. All about him there fully are jelloing to its fall. Were the giant oaks, which were the pride of the countryside, and so quiet was the air that not a leaf upon them stirred. The only sounds that reached his ears were the tapping of the nut-hatches as they sought their food in the rough crannies of the bark, and the occasional falling of a ripe acorn from its lofty place on to the frosted grass beneath. The sunshine shone bright, but with a chastened heat. The squirrels scrambled up the oaks, and high in the blue air the rooks pursued their path. It was a beautiful morning, for summer is never more sweet than on its death-bed, and yet it filled him with solemn thoughts. How many autums had those old trees seen, and how many would they still see, long after his eyes had lost their sight? And if they were old, how old was the Deadman's Mount there to his left? Old indeed, for he had discovered it was mentioned in Doomsday Book by that name. And what was it, a boundary hill, a natural formation, or as its name implied, a funeral barrel? He had half a mind to dig one day and find out. That is, if he could get anybody to dig for him, for the people about Haunam were so firmly convinced that Deadman's Mount was haunted, a reputation that it had had, from time immemorial, that nothing would have persuaded them to touch it. He contemplated the great mound carefully, without coming to any conclusion, and then looked at his watch. It was a quarter to ten, time for him to start for the castle, for the day's shooting. So he got his guns and cartridges, and in due course arrived at the castle, to find George and several mermittons in the shape of beaders and boys, already standing in the yard. Please, Colonel, the squire hopes you'll go in and have a glass of something before you start. Said George, so accordingly he went, not to have a glass of something, but on the chance of seeing Ida. In the vestibule he found the old gentleman, busily engaged, in writing an enormous letter. Hello, Colonel! He hallowed, without getting up. Glad to see you. Excuse me for a few moments, will you? I want to get this off my mind. Here, Ida! Ida! Ida! he shouted. Here's Colonel Quorich. Good gracious father! said that young lady, arriving in a hurry. You are bringing the house down. And then she turned round and greeted Harold. It was the first time that they had met, since the eventful evening described a chapter or two back, so the occasion might be considered a little awkward. At any rate he felt it so. How do you do, Colonel Quorich? she said, quite simply giving him her hand. There was nothing in the words, and yet he felt that he was very welcome. For, when a woman really loves, there is about her an atmosphere of softness and tender meaning which cannot be mistaken. Sometimes it is only perceptible to the favoured individual himself, but more generally is to be discerned by any person of ordinary shrewdness. A very short course of observation in general society will convince the reader of the justice of this observation, and when once he gets to know the signs of the weather he will probably light upon more love affairs than were ever meant for his investigation. This softness or atmospheric influence or subdued glow of affection radiated from a light within, was clearly enough visible in Ida that morning, and certainly it made our friend the Colonel unspeakably happy to see it. Are you fond of shooting? she asked presently. Yes, very, and I have been all my life. Are you a good shot? she asked again. I call that a rude question, he answered smiling. Yes, it is, but I want to know. Well, said Harold, I suppose that I am pretty fair, that is, at rough shooting. I have never had much practice at driven birds, and that kind of sport. I am glad of that. Why, it does not much matter. One goes out shooting for the sport of the thing. Yes, I know, but Mr. Edward Causey, and she shrank visibly as she uttered the name, is coming, and he is a very good shot, and very conceited about it. I want you to beat him if you can. Will you try? Well, said Harold, I don't at all like shooting against a man. It is not sportsmen like, you know. And besides, if Mr. Causey is a crack shot, I daresay that I shall be nowhere, but I will shoot as well as I can. Dear, no, it is very feminine, but I would give anything to see you beat him. And she nodded and laughed, whereupon Harold Quarridge vowed in his heart that if it lay in him he would not disappoint her. At that moment Edward Causey's fast-trotting horse drew up at the door with a prodigious crunching of gravel and Edward himself entered, looking very handsome and rather pale. He was admirably dressed, that is to say, his shooting clothes were beautifully made, and very new looking, and so were his boots, and so was his hat, and so were his hammerless guns, of which he brought a pair. There existed a certain class of sportsmen who always appeared to have just walked out of a sporting tailor's shop, and to this class Edward Causey belonged. Everything about him was of the best and newest and most expensive kind possible. Even his guns were just down from perdies, and the best that could be had for love or money, having cost exactly a hundred and forty guinea for the pair. Indeed he presented a curious contrast to his rival. The Colonel had certainly nothing new looking about him. An old tweed-coat, an old hat with a piece of gut, still twined round it, a sadly frayed bag full of brown cartridges, and at last of all, an old gun, with all the brown war off the barrels, originally cost, seventeen pound, ten shilling. And yet there was no possibility of making any mistake as to which of the two looked more of a gentleman, or indeed more of a sportsman. Edward Causey shook hands with Ida, but when the Colonel was advancing to give him his hand he turned and spoke to the squire, who at length finished his letter, so that no greeting passed between them. At the time Harold did not know if this move was or was not accidental. Presently they started. Edward Causey attended by his man with the second gun. "'Hello, Causey,' sang up the squire after him, "'it isn't much use bringing two guns for this sort of work. I don't preserve much here. You know, at least not now. You will only get a dozen cock pheasants and a few braze of cartridges.' "'Oh, thank you,' he answered. I always like to have a second gun, in case I should want it. It's no trouble, you know.' "'All right,' said the squire, Ida and I will come down with the luncheon to the spiny. Good-bye.' After crossing the moat Edward Causey walked by himself, followed by his man, and a very fine retriever. And the Colonel talked to George, who was informing him that Mr. Causey was a pretty shot. He was, but rather snappy over it, till they came to a field of white turnips. "'Now, gentlemen, if you please,' said George, "'we will walk through these here turnips. I put two covies of birds in here myself, and it's rare good lay for them, so I think we had better see if they will let us come up to them.' Finally they started down the field. The Colonel on the right, George in the middle, and Edward Causey on the left. Before they had gone ten yards an old Frenchman got up in the front of one of the beaters, and wheeled round past Edward, who cut him over in first-rate style. From that one bird the Colonel could see that the man was a quick and clever shot. Presently, however, a leash of English birds rose rather awkwardly at about forty paces straight in front of Edward Causey, and Harold noticed that he left them alone, never attempting to fire at them. The fact was that he was one of those shooters who never take a hard shot if they can avoid it, being always in terror, lest they should miss it, and so reduced their average. Then George, who was a very fair shot of the poking order, fired both barrels and got a bird, and Edward Causey got another. It was not till they were getting to the end of the last beat that Harold got a chance of letting off his gun. Suddenly, however, a brace of old birds sprang up out of the turnips in front of him at about thirty yards, as swiftly as though they had been ejected from a mortar and made off, one to the right and one to the left, both of them rising shots. He got the right-hand bird and then turning, killed the other also, when it was more than fifty yards away. The Colonel felt satisfied, for the shots were very good. Mr. Causey opened his eyes and wondered if it was a fluke, and George ejaculated, well, that's a master one. After this they pursued their course, picking up another two braces of birds on the way to the outlining cover, a wood of about twenty acres, through which they were to brush. It was a good holding wood for pheasants, but lay on the outside of the Hanum estate, where they were liable to be poached, by the farmers whose land marched, so George enjoined them particularly not to let anything go. Into the details of the sport that followed we need not enter, beyond saying that the Colonel, to his huge delight, never shot better in his life. Indeed, with the exception of one rabbit and a hen pheasant that flopped up right beneath his feet, he scarcely missed anything, though he took the shots as they came. Edward Causey also shot well, and, with one exception, missed nothing, but then he never took a difficult shot if he could avoid it. The exception was a woodcock, which rose in front of George, who was walking down an outside belt with the beaters. He had two barrels at it and missed it, and on it came among the treetops, past where Edward Causey was standing, about half way down the belt, giving him a difficult chance with the first barrel, and a clear one with the second, bang, bang, and on came the woodcock flying low, but at a tremendous speed, straight at the Colonel's head, a most puzzling shot. However he fired, and to his joy, and what joy is there, like to the joy of a sportsman, who had just killed a woodcock which everybody had been popping at? Down it came, with a thump almost at his feet. This was their last beat before lunch, which was now to be seen approaching down a lane in a donkey cart, convoyed by Ida and the squire. The latter was advancing in stages of about ten paces, and at every stage he stopped to utter a most fearful roar by way of warning all and sundry that they were not to shoot in his direction. Edward gave his gun to his bearer, and at once walked off to join them, but the Colonel went with George to look after two running cocks which he had down, for he was an old-fashioned sportsman, and hated not picking up his game. After some difficulty they found one of the cocks in the hedge-row, but the other they could not find, so reluctantly they gave up the search. When they got to the lane they found the luncheon ready, while one of the beaters was laying out the game for the squire to inspect. There were fourteen pheasants, four brace, and a half of partridges, a hare, three rabbits, and a woodcock. "'Hello,' said the squire, who shot the woodcock?' "'Well, sir,' said George, we all had to pull at him, but the Colonel wiped our eyes.' "'Oh, Mr. Cozy,' said Ida, in effected surprise. Why, I thought you never missed anything.' "'Everybody misses sometimes,' answered that gentleman, looking uncommonly sulky. I shall do better this afternoon, when it comes to the driven partridges.' "'I don't believe you well,' went on Ida, laughing maliciously. "'I bet you a pair of gloves that Colonel Quorich will shoot more driven partridges than you do.' "'Done,' said Edward Cozy sharply. "'Now, do you hear that Colonel Quorich?' went on Ida. "'I have bet Mr. Cozy a pair of gloves that you will kill more partridges this afternoon than he will, so I hope you won't make me lose them.' "'Goodness gracious,' said the Colonel, in much alarm, why the last partridge driving that I had was on the slopes of some mountain in Afghanistan. I daresay that I shan't hit a haystack. Besides, he said with some irritation, I don't like being set up to shoot against people.' "'Oh, of course,' said Edward loftily. "'If Colonel Quorich doesn't like to take it up, there's an end of it.' "'Well,' said the Colonel, if you put it that way, I don't mind trying. But I have only one gun, and you have two.' "'Oh, that will be all right,' said Ida to the Colonel. "'You shall have George's gun. He never tries to shoot when they drive partridges, because he cannot hit them. He goes with the beaters. It is a very good gun.' The Colonel took up the gun and examined it. It was of about the same bend and length of his own, but of a better quality, having been once the property of James Dillamole. "'Yes,' he said, but then I haven't got a bearer. "'Never mind. I'll do that. I know all about it. I always used to hold my brother's second gun when we drove partridges, because he said I was so much quicker than the man. Look!'' And she took the gun and rested one knee on the turf. "'First position, second position, third position. We used to have regular drills at it.' And she sighed. The Colonel laughed heartily, for it was a curious thing to see this stately woman handling a gun with all the skill and quickness of a practice shot. Besides, as the bearer idea involved a whole afternoon of Ida's society, he certainly was not inclined to negative it. But Edward Cossey did not smile. On the contrary, he positively scowled with jealousy, and was about to make some remark when Ida held up her finger. "'Hush,' she said. Here comes my father. The squire had been counting the game. He hates bets, so you mustn't say anything about our match.' Luncheon went off pretty well, though Edward Cossey did not contribute much to the general conversation. When it was done the squire announced that he was going to walk to the other end of the estate, whereon Ida said that she should stop and see some of the shooting, and the fun began. CHAPTER XXII. THE END OF THE MATCH. They began the afternoon with several small drives, but on the whole the birds went very badly. They broke back, went off to one side or the other, and generally misbehaved themselves. In the first drive the colonel and Edward Cossey got a bird each. In the second drive the latter got three birds firing five shots, and his antagonist only got a hare and a pheasant that jumped out of a ditch, neither of which, of course, counted anything. Only one brace of birds came his way at all. But if the truth must be told he was talking to Ida at the moment and did not see them till too late. Then came a longer drive when the birds were pretty plentiful. The colonel got one, a low-lying Frenchman, which he killed as he toppled the fence, and after that for the life of him he could not touch a feather. Every sportsman knows what a fatal thing it is to begin to miss and then get nervous, and that was what happened to the colonel. Continually there came distant cries of, mark, mark, over, followed by the apparition of half a dozen brown balls showing clear against the grey autumn sky and sweeping down towards him like lightning. Whiz, in front, overhead, and behind, bang, bang, bang, again went the second gun, and they were away, vanished, gone, leaving nothing but a memory behind them. The colonel swore beneath his breath and Ida kneeling at his side, groaned audibly. But it was of no use, and presently the drive was gone, and there he was with one wretched French partridge to show for it. Ida said nothing, but she looked volumes, and if ever a man felt humiliated Harold Courage was that man. She had set her heart upon his winning the match, and he was making an exhibition of himself that might have caused a schoolboy to blush. Only Edward Cossie smiled grimly as he told his bearer to give the two-and-a-half brace which he had not shot to George. Last drive this next gentleman. Said that universal, functionary as he surveyed the colonel's one Frenchman, and then glancing sadly at the tell-tale pile of empty cartridge cases. Added, you'll have to shoot up Colonel this time, if you are going to win them gloves for Miss Ida. Sir Cossie has knocked up four brace-and-a-half, and you have only got a brace. Look here, sir. He went on, in a portentious whisper. Keep forward of them, well-forward, fire ahead, and down they'll come. You're a better shot than he is, long way. You could give him birds, sir, that you could, and beat him. Harold said nothing. He was sorely tempted to make excuses as any man would have been, and he might with truth have urged that he was not accustomed to partridge-driving, and that one of the guns was new to him, but he resisted manfully and never said a word. George placed two guns, and then went off to join the beaters. It was a capital spot for a drive, for on each side were young, large plantations, sloping down toward them like a V, the guns being at the narrow end, and level with the ends of the plantations, which were at this spot about one hundred and twenty yards apart. In front was a large stretch of open fields, lying in such a fashion that the birds were bound to fly straight over the guns, and between the gap at the end of the V-shaped covers. They had to wait a long while, for the beat was of considerable extent, and this they did in silence, till presently a couple of single birds appeared coming down the wind, for a stiffish breeze had sprung up like lightning. One went to the left, over Edward Cossey's head, and he shot it very neatly, but the other, catching sight of Harold's hat, beneath the fence, which was not a very high one, swerved and crossed an almost impossible shot nearer sixty than fifty yards from him. "'Now,' said Ida, and he fired, and to his joy down came the bird, with a thud, bounding full feet into the air with the force of its impact, being indeed shot through the head. "'That's better,' said Ida, as she handed him the second gun. Another moment, and a covey came over high up. He fired both barrels, and got a right and left, and snatching the second gun, sent another barrel after them, hitting a third bird which did not fall. And then a noble enthusiasm and certainty possessed him, and he knew that he should miss no more, nor did he. With almost two impossible exceptions he dropped every bird that drive. But his crowning glory, a thing whereof he still often dreams, was yet to come. He had killed four brace of partridge, and fired twelve times, when at last the beaters made their appearance about two hundred yards away at the further end of rather dirty barley stubble. "'I think that is the lot,' he said. "'I am afraid that you have lost your gloves, Ida.' Actually were the words out of his mouth, when there was a yell of, Mark!' and a strong covey of birds appeared swooping down the wind right on to him. On they came, scattered and rather stringy, and Harold gripped his gun, and drew a deep breath, while Ida, kneeling at his side, her lips apart, and her beautiful eyes wide open, watched their advent through a space in the hedge. Lovely enough, she looked, to charm the heart out of any man, if a man out-partridge-driving could descend to such frivolity, which we hold to be impossible. Now is the moment, the leading brace or something over fifty yards away, and he knows full well, that if there is to be a chance left for the second gun, he must shoot before they are five yards nearer. Bang! down comes the old cock-bird. Bang! and his mate follows him, falling with a smash to the fence. Like his light, Ida takes the empty gun with one hand and passes him the cocked and loaded one with the other. Bang! another bird topples head-first out of the thinned covey. They are nearly sixty yards away now, bang again, and oh joy and wonder the last bird turns right over backward and falls dead as a stone some seventy paces from the muzzle of the gun. He had killed four birds out of a single driven covey, which, as shooters well know, is a feat not often done, even by the best driving-shots. Bravo! said Ida, I was sure that you could shoot if you chose. Yes, he answered, it was pretty good work. And he commenced collecting the birds, for by this time the beaters were across the field. They were all dead, not a runner in the lot, and they were exactly six brace of them. Just as he picked up the last, George arrived, followed by Edward Cossey. Well, I never, said the former, while something resembling a smile stole over his melancholy countenance. That's the masterous bit of shooting that I ever did see. Lord Walsingham couldn't beat that himself. Fourteen shots and twelve birds picked up, why? And he turned to Edward, bless me, sir, if I don't believe the Colonel has won them gloves for Miss Ida after all. Let's see, sir, you have got two brace this last drive, and one the first, and a leash the second, and two brace and a half the third, six and a half brace in all. And the Colonel, yes, he has seven brace, one bird to the good. There, Mr. Cossey, said Ida, smiling sweetly, I have won my gloves, mind you don't forget to pay them. Oh, I will not forget Miss Delamole, he said, smiling also, but not too prettily. I suppose, he said, addressing the Colonel, that that last covey twisted up and you browned them. No, he answered quietly, all four were clear shots. Mr. Cossey smiled again, an incredulous smile, which somehow sent Harold Quartz's blood leaping through his veins more quickly than was good for him, and turned away to hide his vexation. He would rather have lost a thousand pounds than that this adversary should have got that extra bird. For not only was he a jealous shot, but he knew perfectly well that Ida was anxious that he should lose, and desired above all things to see him humiliated. And then he, the smartest shot within ten miles around, to be beaten by a middle-aged soldier shooting with a strange gun, and totally unaccustomed to driving. Why, the story would be told over the county. His anger was so great when he thought of it that, afraid of making himself ridiculous, he set off with his bearer toward the castle without another word, leaving the others to follow. Ida looked after him and smiled. He is so conceited, she said, he cannot bear to be beaten at anything. I think that you are rather hard on him, said the Colonel, for the joke had an unpleasant side which jarred on him. At any rate, she answered with a little stamp, it is not for you to say so. If you disliked him as much as I do, you would be hard on him too. Besides, I daresay that his turn is coming. The Colonel winced as well he might, but looking at her handsome face, set just now like steel, at the thought of what the future might bring forth, he reflected that if Edward Cossey's turn did come, he was by no means sure that the ultimate triumph would rest with him. Ida de Lamol, to whatever extent her sense of honour and money in deadness might carry her, was no butterfly to be broken on a wheel, but a woman whose dislike and anger, or worse still, whose cold unvarying disdain was a thing from which the boldest hearted man might shrink aghast. Nothing more was said on the subject, and they began to talk, though somewhat constrainedly, about indifferent matters. They were both aware that it was a farce, and that they were playing apart, for beneath the external ice of formalities the river of their devotion ran wither they knew not. All that had been made clear a few nights back. But what will you have? Necessity overriding their desires compelled them along the path of self-denial, and likewise folk. They recognized the fact, for there is nothing more painful in the world than the outburst of hopeless passion. And so they talked about painting and shooting, and what not, till they reached the gray old castle-towers. Here Harold wanted to bid her good-bye, but she persuaded him to come in and have some tea, saying that her father would like to say good-night to him. Accordingly he went into the vestibule, where there was a light, for it was getting dusk, and here he found the squire and Mr. Cozy. As soon as he entered Edward Cozy rose, said good-night to the squire and Ida, and then passed toward the door, where the colonel was standing, rubbing the mud off his shooting-boots. As he came, Harold, being slightly ashamed of the business of the shooting-match, and very sorry to have humiliated a man who prided himself so much upon his skill in a particular branch of sport, held out his hand, and said in a friendly tone, Good-night, Mr. Cozy, next time that we are out shooting together I expect I shall be nowhere. It was an awful fluke of mine killing those four birds. But Edward Cozy took no notice of the friendly words or the outstretched hand, but came straight on as though he intended to walk past him. The colonel was wondering what it was best to do, for it was impossible to mistake the meaning of the oversight, when the squire, who was sometimes very quick to notice things, spoke in a loud and decided tone. Mr. Cozy, he said, Colonel Courage is offering you his hand. I observed that he is, he answered, setting his handsome face, but I do not wish to take Colonel Courage's hand. Then came a moment's silence, which the squire again broke. What a gentleman in my house refuses to take the hand of another gentleman, he said very quietly, I think that I have the right to ask the reason for his conduct, which, unless that reason, is a very sufficient one, is almost as much a slight upon me as upon him. I think that Colonel Courage must know the reason, and will not press me to explain, said Edward Cozy. I know of no reason, replied the colonel sternly, unless indeed it is that I have been so unfortunate as to get the best of Mr. Cozy in a friendly shooting match. Colonel Courage must know well that such is not the reason to which I allude. Said Edward, if he consults his conscience, he will probably discover a better one. Ida and her father looked at each other in surprise, while the colonel, by a half involuntary movement, stepped between his accuser and the door, and Ida noticed that his face was white with anger. You have made a very serious implication against me, Mr. Cozy, he said, in a cold, clear voice. Before you leave this room, you will be so good as to explain it in the presence of those before whom it has been made. Certainly, if you wish it, he answered, with something like a sneer. The reason why I refuse to take your hand, Colonel Courage, is that you have been guilty of conduct, which proves to me that you are not a gentleman, and therefore not a person with whom I desire to be unfriendly terms. Shall I go on? Most certainly you will go on, answered the colonel. Very well, the conduct to which I refer is that you were once engaged to my aunt, Julia Heston, that within three days of the time of marriage you deserted and jilted her in a most cruel way, as a consequence of which she went mad, and is to this moment an inmate of an asylum. Ida gave an exclamation of astonishment, and the colonel started and coloured up, while a squire, looking at him curiously, waited to hear what he had to say. It is perfectly true, Mr. Cosy, he answered, that I was engaged twenty years ago, to be married to Miss Julia Heston, though I now, for the first time, learned that she was your aunt. It is also quite true that the engagement was broken off, under most painful circumstances, within three days of the time fixed for the marriage. What those circumstances were, I am not at liberty to say, for the simple reason that I gave my word not to do so. But this, I will say, that they were not to my discredit, though you may not be aware of that fact. But as you were one of the family, Mr. Cosy, my tongue is not tied, and I will do myself the honour of calling upon you tomorrow and explaining them to you. After that, he added significantly, I shall require you to apologise to me, as publicly as you have accused me. You may require, but whether I shall comply is another matter, said Edward Cosy, as he passed out. I am very sorry, Mr. Dillamoll, said the Colonel, as soon as he had gone, more sorry than I can say, that I should have been the cause of this most unpleasant scene. I also feel that I am placed in a very false position, and until I produce Mr. Cosy's wish and apology, that position must to some extent continue. If I fail to obtain that apology I shall have to consider what course to take. In the meanwhile I can only ask you to suspend your judgment. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BLOW FALLS On the following morning, about ten o'clock, while Edward Cosy was still at breakfast, a dog-cart drew up at his door, and out of it stepped Colonel Courage. Now for the row, he said to himself, I hope that the Governor was right in his tale, that's all. Perhaps it would have been wiser to say nothing till I had made more sure. And he poured out some more tea, a little nervously, for in the Colonel he had, he felt an adversary not to be despised. Presently the door opened, and Colonel Courage was announced. He rose and bowed a salutation, which the Colonel, whose face bore a particularly grim expression, did not return. Will you take a chair? he said, as soon as the servant had left, and without speaking the Colonel took one, and presently began the conversation. Last night Mr. Cosy, he said, you thought proper to publicly bring a charge against me, which, if it were true, would go a long way towards showing that I was not a fit person to associate with those before whom it was brought. Yes, said Edward Cooley. Before making any remarks on your conduct in bringing such a charge, which I give you credit for believing to be true, I propose to show to you that it is a false charge. Went on the Colonel quietly. The story is a very simple one, and so sad that nothing short of necessity would force me to tell it. I was, when quite young, engaged to your aunt, Miss Heston, to whom I was much attached. And who was then, twenty years of age? And though I had little, besides my profession, she had some money, and we were going to be married. The circumstances under which the marriage was broken off were as follows. Three days before the wedding was to take place, I went unexpectedly to the house, and was told by the servant that Miss Heston was upstairs in her sitting-room. I went upstairs to the room, which I knew well, knocked and got no answer. Then I walked into the room, and this is what I saw. Your aunt was lying on the sofa in her wedding-dress, that is, in half of it, for she had only the skirt on. As I first thought, asleep. I went up to her, and saw that by her side was a brandy bottle half empty. In her hand also was a glass containing raw brandy. While I was wondering what it could mean, she woke up, got off the sofa, and began to stag around the room, and I saw that she was intoxicated. It's a lie! said Edward excitedly. Be careful what you say, sir. Answer the colonel, and wait to say it till I have done. As soon as I realized what the matter was, I left the room again, and going down to your grandfather's study, where he was engaged in writing a sermon. I asked him to come upstairs, as I was afraid that his daughter was not well. He came and saw, and the sight threw him off his balance, for he broke out into a torrent of explanations and excuses, from which in time I extracted the following facts. It appeared that ever since she was a child, Miss Heston has been addicted to drinking-fits, and that it was on account of this constitutional weakness, which was, of course, concealed from me, that she had been allowed to engage herself to a penniless subaltern. It appeared, too, that the habit was hereditary, for her mother had died from the effects of drink, and one of her aunts had become mad from it. I went away and thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that under these circumstances it would be impossible for me, much as I was attracted to her, to marry her, because even if I was willing to do so I had no right to run the risk of bringing children into the world who might inherit the curse. Having come to this determination, which it cost me much to do, I wrote and communicated it to your grandfather, and the marriage was broken off. I do not believe it! I do not believe a word of it! said Edward, jumping up, you jilted her and drove her mad, and now you are trying to shelter yourself behind a tissue of falsehoods. Are you acquainted with your grandfather's handwriting? asked the Colonel quietly. Yes. Is that it? He went on, producing a yellow-looking letter, and showing it to him. I believe so, at least it looks like it. Then read the letter. Edward obeyed. It was one written, in answer to that of Harold Corritch, to his betrothed father, and admitted in the clearest terms the justice of the step that he had taken. Further it begged him, for the sake of Julia and the family at large, never to mention the cause of his defection to anyone outside the family. Are you satisfied, Mr. Cozzi? I have other letters if you wish to see them. Edward made no reply, and the Colonel went on. I gave the promise that your grandfather asked for, and in spite of the remarks that were freely made upon my behaviour, I kept it, as it was my duty to do. You, Mr. Cozzi, are the first person to whom the story has been told. And now that you have thought fit to make accusations against me, which are without foundation, I must ask you to retract them as fully as you made them. I have prepared a letter, which you will be so good as to sign. And he handed him a note, addressed to the squire. It ran. Dear Mr. Delamolle, I beg, in the fullest and most ample manner possible, to retract the charges which I made yesterday evening against Colonel Corritch, in the presence of yourself and Miss Delamolle. I find that those charges were unfounded, and I hereby apologize to Colonel Corritch for having made them. And supposing that I refused to sign, said Edward sulkily, I do not think, and said the Colonel, that you will refuse. Edward looked at Colonel Corritch, and the Colonel looked at Edward. Well, said the Colonel, please understand that I mean you should sign that letter, and indeed, seeing how absolutely you are in the wrong, I do not think that you can hesitate to do so. Then, very slowly and unwillingly, Edward Cossey took up a pen, affixed his signature to the letter, blotted, and pushed it from him. The Colonel folded it up, placed it in an envelope which he had ready, and put it in his pocket. Now, Mr. Cossey, he said, I will wish you good morning, another time I should recommend you to be more careful, both in the facts and the manner of your accusations. And with a slight bow, he left the room. Curse the fellow, thought Edward to himself, as the front door closed. He had me there, I was forced to sign, well, I will be even with him about Ida at any rate. I will propose to her this very day, bella or no bella. And if she won't have me, I will call the money in and smash the whole thing. And his handsome face bore a very evil look, as he thought it. That very afternoon he started, in accordance with this design, to pay a visit at the castle. The squire was out, but Miss Della Mole was at home, the servant said, and accordingly he was ushered into a drawing-room where Ida was working, for it was a wet and windy afternoon. She rose to greet him coldly enough, and he sat down, and then came a pause, which she did not seem inclined to break. At last he spoke. Did the squire get to my letter, Miss Della Mole? He asked. Yes, she answered rather icily. Colonel Quaritch sent it up. I am very sorry, he added, confusedly, that I should have put myself in such a false position. I hope that you will give me credit for having believed my accusation when I made it. Such accusations should not be made lightly, Mr. Cosy, was her answer. And as though to turn the subject, she rose and rang the bell for tea. It came, and the bustle connected with it prevented any further conversation for a while. At length, however, it subsided, and once more Edward found himself alone with Ida. He looked at her, and felt afraid. The woman was of a different clay to himself, and he knew it, he loved her, but he did not understand her in the least. However if the thing was to be done at all, it must be done now. With a desperate effort he screwed himself up to the point. Mr. Delamol, he said, and Ida, knowing full, surely what was coming, felt her heart jump within her bosom, and then stand still. Mr. Delamol, he went on, perhaps you will remember a conversation that we had some weeks ago in the conservatory. Yes, she said, I remember, about the money. About the money and other things, he said, gathering courage. I hinted to you, then, that I hoped, in certain contingencies, to be allowed to make my addresses to you, and I think that you understood me. I understood you perfectly, answered Ida. Her pale face sat like ice, and I gave you to understand that in the event of your lending my father the money I should hold myself bond to—to listen to what you had to say. Oh, curse the money, broken Edward, it is not a question of money with me. Ida, it is not indeed. I love you with all my heart. I have loved you ever since I saw you. It was because I was jealous of him that I made a full of myself last night with Colonel Quaritch. I should have asked you to marry me long ago. Only there were obstacles in the way. I love you, Ida. There never was a woman like you. Never. She listened, with the same set face. Obviously, he was an earnest, but his earnestness did not move her. It scarcely even flattered her pride. She disliked the man intensely, and nothing that he could say or do would lessen that dislike by one jot. Probably indeed it would only intensify it. Presently he stopped and stood beside her, his breast heaving and his face broken with emotion, and tried to take her hand. She withdrew it sharply, for his touch was unpleasant to her. I do not think that there is any need for all this, she said coldly. I gave a conditional promise. You have fulfilled your share of the bargain, and I am prepared to fulfill mine in due course. So far as her words went, Edward could find no fault with their meaning, and yet he felt more like a man who has been abruptly and finally refused than one declared chosen. He stood still and looked at her. I think it right to tell you, however, she went on, in the same measured tones, that if I marry you it will be from motives of duty and not from motives of affection. I have no love to give to you, and I do not wish for yours. I do not know if you will be satisfied with this. If you are not, you had better give up the idea. And she, for the first time, looked up at him with more anxiety in her face than she would have cared to show. But if she hoped that her coldness would repel him, she was destined to be disappointed. On the contrary, like water thrown on burning oil, it only inflamed him the more. The love will come, Ida, he said, and once more he tried to take her hand. No, Mr. Cosy, she said, in a voice that checked him. I am sorry to have to speak so plainly, but till I marry I am my own mistress. Pray understand me. As you like, he said, drawing back from her suckly, I am so fond of you that I will marry you on any terms, and that is the truth. I have one thing to ask of you, Ida, and that is that you will keep our engagement secret for the present, and get your father, I suppose I must speak to him, to do the same. I have reasons, he went on, by way of explanation, for not wishing it to become known. I do not see why I should keep it secret, she said, but it does not matter to me. The fact is, he explained, my father is a very curious man, and I doubt if he would like my engagement, because he thinks I ought to marry a great deal of money. Oh, indeed, answered Ida, she had believed, as was indeed the case, that there were other reasons, not unconnected with Mrs. Quest, on account of which he was anxious to keep the engagement secret. By the way, she went on, I am sorry to have to talk of business, but this is a business matter, is it not? I suppose it is understood that, in the event of our marriage, the mortgage you hold over this place will not be enforced against my father. Of course not, he answered, look here, Ida, I will give you those mortgage bonds as a wedding present, and you can put them in the fire, and I will make a good settlement on you. Thank you, she said, but I do not require any settlement on myself, I had rather none was made. But I consent to the engagement, only on the express condition, that the mortgages shall be cancelled before the marriage, and as the property will ultimately come to me, this is not much to ask. Now one more thing, Mr. Causse, I should like to know, when you would wish this marriage to take place, not at once, I presume. I wish it to take place to-morrow, he said, with an attempt at a laugh, but I suppose that between one thing and another it can't come off at once. Shall we say this time, six months, that will be in May. Very good, said Ida, this day, six months, I shall be prepared to become your wife, Mr. Causse, I believe it is. She added, with a flash of bitter sarcasm, the time usually allowed for the redemption of a mortgage. You say very hard things, he answered, wintzing. Do I, I dare say, I am hard by nature, I wonder that you can wish to marry me. I wish it, beyond everything in the world. He answered, earnestly. You can never know how much. By the way, I know I was foolish about Colonel Quaritch, but Ida, I cannot bear to see that man near you. I hope you will draw up his acquaintance as much as possible now. Once more, Ida's face, set like a flint. I am not your wife yet, Mr. Causse, she said. When I am, you will have a right to dictate to me as to whom I shall associate with. At present you have no such right, and if it pleases me to associate with Colonel Quaritch, I shall do so. If you disapprove of my conduct, the remedy is simple. You can break off the engagement. He rose absolutely crushed, for Ida was by far the stronger of the two, and besides his passion gave her an unfair advantage over him. Without attempting any reply he held out his hand and said good-night, for he was afraid to attempt any demonstration of affection, adding that he would come to see her father in the morning. She touched his outstretched hand with her fingers, and then, fearing lest he should change his mind, promptly rang the bell. In another minute the door had closed behind him, and she was left alone. Good-bye, my dear, good-bye. When Edward Causse had gone, Ida rose and put her hands to her head. So the blow had fallen, and the deed was done, and she was engaged to be married to Edward Causse. And Harold Quaritch? Well, there must be an end to that. It was hard too, only a woman could know how hard. Ida was not a person with a long record of love affairs. Just when she was twenty she had had a proposal, which she had refused, and that was all. So it happened that when she became attached to Colonel Quaritch she had found her heart for the first time, and for a woman somewhat late in life. Consequently her feelings were all the more profound, and so indeed was her grief at being forced not only to put it away, but to give herself to another man who was not agreeable to her. She was not a violent or ill-regulated woman like Mrs. Quest. She looked the facts in the face, recognized their meaning, and bowed before their inexorable logic. It seemed to her, almost impossible, that she could hope to avoid this marriage. And if that proved to be so, she might be relied upon to make the best of it. Scandal would, under any circumstances, never find a word to say against Ida, for she was not a person who would attempt to console herself for an unhappy marriage. But it was bitter, bitter as gall, to be thus forced to turn aside from her happiness, for she well knew that with Harold Quaritch her life would be very happy, and fit her shoulders to this heavy yoke. Well, she had saved the place to her father by it, and also to her descendants if she had any, and that was all that could be said for it. She thought and thought, wishing in the bitterness of her heart that she had never been born to come to such a heavy day, till at last she could think no more. The air of the room seemed to stifle her, though it was by no means overheated. She went to the window and looked out. It was a wild, wet evening, and the wind was driving the rain before it in sheets. In the west the lured light of the sinking sun stained the clouds blood red, and broken flying arrows of ominous light upon the driving storms. But bad as the weather was it attracted Ida. When the heart is heavy and torn by conflicting passions it seems to answer to the call of the storm, and to long to lose its petty troubling in the turmoil of the Russian world. Nature has many moods of which are own, are but the echo and reflection, and she can be companionable when all human sympathy must fail. Here she is our mother, from whom we come to whom we go, and her arms are ever opened to clasp the children who can hear her voices. Drawn there too by an impulse which she could not have analysed, Ida went upstairs, put on a thick pair of boots, a macintosh, and an old hat, and sallied out into the wind and wet. It was blowing big guns, and as the rain whirled down the drops struck her face like spray. She crossed the bridge and went out into the parkland beyond. The air was full of dead leaves, and the grass rustled with them, for this was the first wind since the frost. The great boughs of the oaks rattled and groaned above her, and high overhead among the sullen clouds, a flight of wind-tossed rooks were being blown this way and that. Ida bent her tall frame against the rain and gale, and fought her way through it. At first she had no clear idea as to where she was going, but gradually, perhaps from custom, she took the path that ran across the fields to Hanum Church. It was a beautiful old church, and had originally been built by the Boise family, and enlarged, particularly as regards the tower, which was one of the finest in the country, by the widow of one of the dillamoles, whose husband had fallen at Agincourt, as a memorial for ever. Thereupon the porch were curved the hawks of the dillamoles, wreathed round with palms of victory, and there, too, within the chancel, hung the warrior's helmet and his dintage shield. Nor was he alone, for all round lay the dust of the illustrious dead, come, after the toil and struggle of their stormy lives, to rest within the walls of the old church. Some of them had monuments of alabaster, where they lay in refugee, their heads pillowed upon that of a conquered Saracen. Some had monuments of oak and brass, and some had no monuments at all, for the Puritans had ruthlessly destroyed them. But they were all nearly there, some twenty generations of the bearers of an ancient name, for even those of them who had perished on the scaffold had been born here for burial. The whole place was eloquent of the dead, and of the mournful lesson of mortality. From century to century the bearers of that name had walked in these fields, and lived in yonder castle, and looked upon the familiar swell of yonder ground, and the silver flash of yonder river. And now their dust was gathered here, and all the turmoil of their lives was lost in the silence of their narrow tomb. Ida loved the spot, hallowed to her not only by the altar of her faith, but the human associations that clung around and clothed it as the ivy closed its walls. Here she had been christened, and here among her ancestors she hoped to be buried also. Here as a girl she used to creep in odd silence with her brother James, and look through the window when the full moon was up, at the white figures stretched in their marble silence within. Here too she had sat, Sunday after Sunday, for more than twenty years, and stared at the quaint Latin inscriptions cut on marble slabs, which recorded the almost superhuman virtues of departed dilemoles of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, her own immediate ancestors. The place was familiar to her whole life. She had scarcely a recollection, with which it was not in some way connected. It was not wonderful, therefore, that she loved it, and that in the trouble of her mind her feet shaped their course toward it. Presently she was in the churchyard, and taking her stand under the shelter of a line of scotch furs through which the girl, sobbed and sang, lent against the side gate and looked. The scene was desolate enough. The rain dropped from the roof on to the sodden graves beneath, and ran in thin sheets down the flint facing of the tower. The dead leaves whirled and rattled in and about the empty porch, and overall shot one red and angry arrow from the sinking sun. She stood in the wind and rain, and gazed at the old church that had seen the end of so many sorrows more bitter than her own, and the wreck of so many summers till the darkness began to close round her like a pall, while the wind sung the requiem of her hopes. She was not of a desponding or pessimistic character, but in that bitter hour she found it in her heart to wish, as most people have done at one time or another in their lives, that the tragedy were over and the curtain had fallen, and that she lay beneath those dripping sods without sight or hearing, without hope or dread. It seemed to her that the hereafter must indeed be terrible if it outweighs the sorrows of the here. And there, poor woman, she thought of the long years between her and rest, and leaning her head against the gate-post she began to cry bitterly in the gloom. Presently she stopped crying with a start and looked up, for she felt that she was no longer alone. Her instinct had not deceived her, for there, not more than two paces from her in the shadow of the fir trees, was the figure of a man. Just then he took a step to the left which brought his figure against the sky, and Ida's heart stood still, for she saw who it was now. It was Harold Quaritch, the man over whose loss she had been weeping. It's Deuce Dodd. She heard him saying, for she was to leeward of him, but I could have sworn that I heard somebody sobbing, I suppose it was the wind. Ida's first idea was flight, and she made a movement for that purpose, and in doing so tripped over a stick and nearly fell. In a minute he was by her side, she was caught, and perhaps she was not altogether sorry, especially as she had tried to get away. "'Who is it? What is the matter?' said the Colonel, lighting a fusé under her nose. It was one of those flaming fusées and burnt with a blue light, showing Ida's tall figure and her beautiful face, all stained with grief and tears. Her wet Macintosh and the gate-post against which she had been leaning, everything. "'Why, Ida?' he said, in a maze. "'What are you doing here, crying, too?' "'I'm not crying,' she said with a sob. It's the rain has made my face wet. Just then the light burnt out and he dropped it. "'What is it, dear? What is it?' he said, in great distress, for the sight of her alone in the wet and dark, in tears moved him beyond himself, and indeed he would have been no man if it had not. She tried to answer, but poor thing she could not, and in another minute, to tell the honest truth, she had exchanged the gate-post for Harold's broad shoulder and was finishing her cry there. "'Now, to see a young and pretty woman weeping, more especially if she happens to be weeping in your arms, is a very trying thing. It is trying, even if you don't happen, to be in love with her at all. But if you are in love with her, however little, it is dreadful. Whereas if, as in the present case, you happen to worship her, more perhaps than it is good to worship any fallible human creature, then the sight is positively overwhelming. And so indeed it proved in the present instance. The colonel could not bear it, but lifting her head from his shoulder he kissed her sweet face again and again. Now nature has generally a remedy for most ills, if only the physician knew where to look for it. And there is no doubt that this sort of treatment has before now proved efficacious in many similar cases. At any rate it answered here, for presently I did grew quieter. "'Don't,' she said, feebly, a phrase common to the sex in such circumstances from Duchess to milkmaids, and one full of human nature. "'What is it, darling?' he said. "'What is the matter?' "'Leave go of me, I will tell you,' she answered. He obeyed, though with some unwillingness, for the situation was not without its charms. She hunted for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, and then at last she spoke. "'I am engaged to be married,' she said in a low voice. "'To Mr. Cosy!' Then, for about the first time in his life, Harold Cawrich swore violently in the presence of a lady. "'Oh, blank at all,' he said. She took no notice of the strength of the language. Perhaps indeed she re-echoed it in some feminine equivalent. "'It is true,' she said with a sigh. "'I knew that it would come. Those dreadful things always do. And it was not my fault. I am sure that you will always remember that. I had to do it. He advanced the money on the express condition, and even if I could pay back the money, I suppose that I should be bound to carry out the bargain. It is not the money that he wants, but his bond.' "'Curse him for an infernal shylock,' said Harold again, and he groaned in his bitterness and jealousy. "'Is there anything to be done?' He asked presently, in a harsh voice, for he was very hard hit. "'Nothing,' she answered sadly. "'I do not see what can help us unless the man died,' she said. And that is not likely.' Harold, she went on, addressing him for the first time in her life by his Christian name. For she felt that after crying upon a man's shoulder it is ridiculous to scruple about calling him by his name. "'Herald, there is no help for it. I did it myself. Remember, because I told you, I do not think that any one woman has a right to place her individual happiness before the welfare of her family.' "'And I am only sorry,' she added, her voice breaking a little. That what I have done should bring suffering upon you.' He groaned again, but said nothing. "'We must try to forget,' she went on, wildly. "'No, no, no. I know that it is not possible that we should forget. You won't forget me, Harold, will you? And though it must be all over between us, we must never speak like this again. Never. You will always know that I have not forgotten you. Will you not? But that I think of you always?' "'There is no fear of my forgetting,' he said, and I am selfish enough to hope that you will think of me at times, dear.' "'Yes, indeed I will. We all have our burdens to bear. It is a hard world, and we must bear them. And it will all be the same in the end, in just a few years. I dare say these dead people here have felt the same. And how quiet they are. And perhaps they may be something beyond, where things are not so. Who can say? You won't go away from this place, Harold, will you? Not until I am married at any rate. Perhaps you had better go then. Say that you won't go till then. And you will let me see you sometimes. It is such a comfort to see you.' "'I should have gone, certainly,' he said, to New Zealand, probably. But if you wish it, I will stop for the present.' "'Thank you, and now good-bye, my dear. Good-bye. No, don't come with me. I can find my own way home.' "'And now why do you wait? Good-bye. I'll stay for ever in this way. Yes, kiss me once, and swear that you will never forget me. Mary, if you wish to, but don't forget me, Harold. Forgive me for speaking so plainly. But I speak as one about to die to you, and I wish things to be clear.' "'I shall never marry, and I shall never forget you,' he answered. Good-bye, my love. Good-bye.' In another minute she had vanished into the storm and rain, out of his sight and out of his life, but not out of his heart. And he too turned and went his way into the wild and lonely night. An hour afterward Ida came down into the drawing-room, dressed for dinner, looking rather pale, but otherwise quite herself. Presently the old squire arrived. He had been attending a magistrate's meeting in a neighbouring town, and had only just got home. "'Why, Ida,' he said, I could not find you anywhere. I met George as I was driving from Boisingham, and he told me that he saw you walking through the park.' "'Did he?' she answered, indifferently. Yes, I have been out. It was so stuffy in door's, Father. She went on, with a change of tone. I have something to tell you. I am engaged to be married.' He looked at her curiously, and then said quietly, the squire was always quiet, in any matter of real emergency. "'Indeed, my dear, that is a serious matter. However, speaking offhand, I think that, notwithstanding the disparity of age, Quaritch.' "'No, no,' she said, wintzing visibly. I am not engaged to curl Quaritch. I am engaged to Mr. Causey.' "'Oh,' he said, oh, indeed, I thought from what I saw that—that.' "'At this moment the servant announced dinner.' "'Well, never mind about it now, Father.' She said, I am tired, and I want my dinner. Mr. Causey is coming to see you to-morrow, and we can talk about it afterward.' And though the squire thought about it a good deal, he made no further allusion to the subject that night. CHAPTER XXV The Squire Gives His Consent Edward Causey did not come away from the scene of his engagement in a very happy or triumphant tone of mind. I'd, as bitter words, stung like whips, and he understood, as she clearly meant he should understand, that it was only in consideration of the money advanced that she had consented to become his wife. Now, however satisfactory it may be to be rich enough to purchase your heart's desire in this fashion, it is not altogether soothing to the pride of a nineteenth-century man to be continually reminded, by the thought, that he is a buyer in the market, and nothing but a buyer. Of course, he saw clearly enough that there was an object in all this. He saw that Ida, by making obvious her dislike, wished to discuss him with the bargain, and escape from an alliance of which the prospect was hateful to her. But he had no intention of being so easily discouraged. In the first place, his passion for the woman was as a devouring flame, eating ever at his heart. In that, at any rate, he was sincere. He did love her so far as his nature was capable of love, or at any rate he had the keenest desire to make her his wife. A delicate-minded man would probably have shrunk from forcing himself upon a woman under parallel circumstances, but Edward Causey did not happen to fall into that category. And as a matter of fact, such men are rare. Few even among the gentler classes are there who, where women are concerned, will allow delicacy to weigh against their passion or their interest. Another thing that he took into account was that Ida would probably get over her dislike. He was a close observer of women in a cynical and half-contemptuous way, and he remarked, under thought that he remarked, a curious tendency among them to submit with comparative complacency to the inevitable whenever it happened to coincide with her matriarchal advantage. Women, he argued, have not as a class outgrown the recollections of their primitive condition, when their partners for life were chosen for them by lot as the chance of battle. They still recognize the claims of the wealthiest or strongest, and their love of luxury and ease is so keen that if the nest they lie in is only soft enough they will not grieve long over the fact that it was not of their own choosing. Arguing from these premises, therefore, he came to the conclusion that Ida would soon get over her repugnance to marrying him when she found how many comforts and good things marriage with so rich a man would place at her disposal, and would learn to look on him with affection and gratitude as the author of her gildedese, if for no other reason, and so indeed she might have done had she been of another and very common stamp. But unfortunately for his reasoning there are members of her sex who are by nature of an order of mind superior to these considerations, and who realize that they have but one life to live, and that the highest form of happiness is not dependent upon money or money's worth, but rather upon the indulgence of mental aspirations, and those affectations which, when genuine, draw nearer to holiness than anything else about us. Such a woman, more especially if she be already possessed with an affection for another man, does not easily become reconciled to her lot, however quietly she may endure it, and such a woman was Ida de la Mol. Edward Cossey, on returning to Boisingham on the evening of his engagement, at once wrote and posted a note to the squire, saying that he would call on him on the following morning on a matter of business. Accordingly about half-past ten he arrived and was shown into the vestibule where he found the old gentleman, standing with his back to the fire, and plunged in reflection. Well, Mr. de la Mol, said Edward, rather nervously, as soon as he had shaken hands. I don't know if Ida has spoken to you about what took place between us yesterday. Yes, he said, yes, she told me something to the effect that she had accepted a proposal of marriage from you, subject to my consent, of course, but really the whole thing is so sudden that I have hardly had time to consider it. It is very simple, said Edward, I am deeply attached to your daughter, and I have been so fortunate as to be accepted by her. Should you give your consent to the marriage, I may as well say at once that I wish to make the most liberal money arrangement in my power. I will make Ida a present of the mortgage-bonds that I hold over this property, and she may put them in the fire. Further I will covenant on the death of my father, which cannot now be long delayed to settle two hundred thousand pounds upon her absolutely. Also, I shall be prepared to agree if I have a son, and he should wish to do so. He shall take the name of de la Mol. I am sure, said the squire, turning round to hide his natural gratification at these proposals. Your offers on the subject of settlements are of a most liberal order, and of course so far as I am concerned Ida will have this place, which may one day be again more valuable than it is now. I am glad that they meet with your approval, said Edward, and now there is one more thing I want to ask you, Mr. de la Mol, and which I hope, if you will give your consent to the marriage, you will not raise any objection to. That is, that our engagement should not be announced at present. The fact is, he went on hurriedly. My father is a very peculiar man, and has a great idea of my marrying somebody with a large fortune. Also, his state of help is so uncertain that there is no possibility of knowing how he will take anything. Indeed, he is dying. The doctors told me that he might go off any day, and that he cannot last for another three months. If the engagement is announced to him now, at the best I shall have a great deal of trouble, and at the worst he might, if he happened to take a fancy against it, make me suffer in his will. Said the squire, I don't quite like the idea of a projected marriage with my daughter, Miss de la Mol of Haunham Castle, being hushed up, as though there was something discredible about it, but still there may be peculiar circumstances in the case that would justify me in consenting to that course. You are both old enough to know your own minds, and the match would be as advantageous to you as it could be to us. For even nowadays a family, and I may even say personal appearance, will go for something where matrimony is concerned. I have reason to know that your father is a peculiar man, very peculiar, yes, on the whole, though I don't like whole and corner affairs, I shall have no objection to the engagement not being announced for the next month or two. Thank you for considering me so much, said Edward, with a sigh of relief. Then am I to understand that you give your consent to our engagement? The squire reflected for a moment. Everything seemed quite straight, and yet he suspected crookedness. His latent distrust of the man, which had not been decreased by the scene of two nights before, for he never could bring himself to like Edward Cosy, arose in force and made him hesitate, when there was no visible grounds for hesitation. He had, as has been said, an instinctive insight into character that was almost feminine in its intensity, and it was lifting a warning finger before him now. I don't quite know what to say, he replied at length. The whole affair is so sudden, and to tell you the truth, I thought that Ida had bestowed her affections in another direction. Edward's face darkened. I thought so too, he answered, until yesterday I was so happy as to be undeceived. I ought to tell you by the way, he went on, running away from the covert falsehood, in his last words, as quickly as he could. How much I regret that I was the cause of that scene with Colonel Courage, more especially as I find that there is an explanation of the story against him. The fact is, I was foolish enough to be put out, because he beat me out shooting, and also because, well, I was jealous of him. Ah, yes, said the squire, rather cordly, a most unfortunate affair. Of course I don't know what the particulars of the matter were, and it is no affair of mine, but, speaking generally, I should say, never bring an accusation of that sort against a man at all, unless you are driven to it, and if you do bring it, be quite certain of your ground. However, that is neither here nor there. Well, about this engagement, Ida is old enough to judge for herself, and seems to have made up her mind. So as I know no reason to the contrary, and as the business arrangements proposed, are all that I could wish, I cannot see that I have any grounds for withholding my consent. So all I can say, sir, is that I hope you will make my daughter a good husband, and that you will both be happy. Ida is a high-spirited woman, and in some ways a very peculiar woman, but in my opinion she is greatly above the average of her sex, as I have known it, and provided you have her affection, and don't attempt to drive her. She will go through thick and thin for you. But I dare say, you would like to see her? Oh, by the way, I forgot. She has got a dreadful headache this morning, and is stopping in bed. It isn't much in her line, but I dare say that she is a little upset. Perhaps you would like to come up to dinner tonight. This proposition, Edward, knowing full well that Ida's headache was a device to rid herself of the necessity of seeing him, accepted with gratitude, and departed. As soon as he was gone, Ida herself came down. Well, my dear, said the squire cheerfully, I have just had the pleasure of seeing Edward Causey, and I have told him that as you seem to wish it. Here Ida made a movement of impatience, but remembered herself and said nothing, that as you seem to wish that it should be so, I had no grounds of objection to your engagement. I may as well tell you that the proposal that he makes as regard settlements are of the most liberal nature. Are they? answered Ida indifferently. Is Mr. Causey coming here to dinner? Yes, I asked him. I thought that you would like to see him. Well, then, I wish you had not, she answered, with animation, because there is nothing for dinner except some cold beef. Dearly Father, it is very thoughtless of you. And she stamped her foot and went off in a huff, leaving the squire full of reflection. I wonder what it all means, he said to himself, she can't care much about the man, or she would not make that fuss about his being asked to dinner. She isn't the sort of woman to be caught by the money I should think. Well, I know nothing about it, it is no affair of mine, and I can only take things as I find them. And then he fell to reflecting that the marriage was an extraordinary stroke of luck for the family. Here they were at the last gasp, mortgaged up to the eyes, when suddenly fortune in the shape of a, on the whole, perfectly unobjectionable young man, appears, takes up the mortgages, proposes settlements to the tune of hundreds of thousands, and even offers to perpetuate the old family name in the person of his son should he have one. Such a state of affairs could not but be gratifying to any man, however unworldly, and the squire was not altogether unworldly. That is, he had a keen sense of the dignity of his social position and his family, and it had all his life been his chief and laudable desire to be sufficiently provided with the goods of this world to raise the Delamoles to the position which they had occupied in former centuries. Neither to, however, the tendency of events had been all the other way, the house was a sinking one, and all but the other day its ancient roof had nearly fallen about their ears. Now, however, as though by magic the prospect changed, on Ida's marriage all the mortgages, those heavy accumulation of years, of growing expenditure and narrowing means, would roll off the back of the estate, and the Delamoles of Hawnham Castle would once more take the place in the country to which they were undoubtedly entitled. It is not wonderful that the prospect proved a pleasing one to him, or that his head was filled with visions of splendors to come. As it chanced on that very morning it was necessary for Mr. Quest to pay the old gentleman a visit in order to obtain his signature to a lease of a bakery in Boisingham, which, together with two or three other houses, belonged to the estate. He arrived just as the squire was in full flow of his meditations, and it would not have needed a man of Mr. Quest's penetration and powers of observation to discover that he had something on his mind which he was longing for an opportunity to talk about. The squire signed the lease without paying the slightest attention to Mr. Quest's explanations, and then suddenly asked him when the first interest on the recently affected mortgages came due. The lawyer mentioned an approaching date. Ah! said the squire, then it will have to be met, but it does not matter. It will be for the last time. Mr. Quest pricked up his ears and looked at him. The fact is, Quest, he went on, by way of explanation, that there are, well, family arrangements pending which will put an end to these embarrassments in a natural and proper way. Indeed, said Mr. Quest, I am very glad to hear it. Yes, yes, said the squire, unfortunately I am under some restraints in speaking about the matter at present, or I should like to ask your opinion, for which, as you know, I have a great respect. Really though, I do not know why I should not consult my lawyer on a matter of business. I only consented not to trumpet the thing about. Others are confidential agents, said Mr. Quest, quietly. Of course they are, of course, and it is their business to hold their tongues. I may rely upon your discretion, may I not? Certainly, said Mr. Quest, well, the matter is this. Mr. Edward Causey is engaged to Miss Delamole. He has just been here to obtain my consent, which of course I have not withheld, as I know nothing against the young man, nothing at all. The only stipulation that he made is, I think, a reasonable one under the circumstances, namely, that the engagement is to be kept quiet for a little while, on account of the condition of his father's health. He says that he is an unreasonable man, and that he might take a prejudice against it. During this announcement Mr. Quest had remained perfectly quiet, his face showing no signs of excitement, only his eyes shone with a curious light. Indeed, he said, this is very interesting news. Yes, said the squire, that is what I meant, by saying that there will be no necessity to make any arrangements for the future payments of interest, for Causey has informed me that he proposes to put the mortgage bonds in the fire before his marriage. Indeed, said Mr. Quest, well, he could hardly do less, could he? Altogether I think that you are to be congratulated, Mr. Delamole. It is not often that a man gets such a chance of clearing the encumbrances off a property. And now I am very sorry, but I must be getting home, as I promised my wife to be back for luncheon. As the thing is to be quiet, I suppose it would be premature for me to offer my congratulations to Mr. Delamole. Yes, yes, don't say anything about it at present, well, good-bye. Mr. Quest got into his dog-cart and drove homeward, full of feelings, which it would be difficult to describe. The hour of his revenge was at hand. He had played his cards, and he had won the game, and fortune with it, and his enemy lay in the hollow of his hand. He looked behind him at the proud towers of the castle, reflecting as he did so that in all probability they would belong to him before another year was over his head. At one time he had earnestly longed to possess this place. Now this was not so much the object of his desire. What he wanted now was the money. With thirty thousand pounds in his hand he would, altogether with what he had, be a rich man, and he had already laid his plans for the future. Of the tiger he had heard nothing lately. She was cowed, but he well knew that it was only for a while. By and by her rapacity would get the better of her fear, and she would recommend her persecutions. Once being so he came to a determination that he would put the world between them. Once let him have this money in his hand, and he would start his life afresh in some new country. He was not too old for it, and he would be a rich man, and then perhaps he might get rid of the cares which had rendered so much of his life valueless. If Bella would go with him, well and good. If not he could not help it. If she did go there must be a reconciliation first, for he could not tolerate the life they lived any longer. In due course he reached the oaks and went in. Luncheon was on the table, at which Bella was sitting. She was, as usual, dressed in black, and beautiful to look on. But her round, babyish face was pale and pinched, and there were black lines beneath her eyes. I did not know you were coming back to luncheon, she said. I am afraid there is not much to eat. Yes, he said, I finished my business up at the castle, so I thought I may as well come home. By the way, Bella, I have a bit of news for you. What is it? She asked, looking up sharply, for something in his tone attracted her attention and awoke her fears. Your friend, Edward Cossey, is going to be married to Ida Delamole. She blanched till she looked like death itself, and put her hands to her heart as though she had been stabbed. The squire told me himself. He went on, keeping his eyes remorselessly fixed upon her face. She lent forward, and he thought she was going to faint, but she did not. By a supreme effort she recovered herself and drank a glass of sherry which was standing by her side. I expected it, she said in a low voice. You mean that you dreaded it, answered Mr. Quest quietly. He rose and locked the door, and then came and stood close to her and spoke. Listen, Bella, I know all about your affair with Edward Cossey. I have proofs of it. But I have foreborn to use them, because I saw that in the end he would weary of you, and desert you for some other woman. And that would be my best revenge upon you. You have all along been nothing but his toy, the light woman with whom he amuses his leisure hours. She put her hands back over her heart, but said, never a word, and he went on. Bella, I did wrong to marry you when you did not want to marry me, but being married you have done wrong to be unfaithful to your vows. I have been rewarded by your infidelity, and your infidelity has been rewarded by desertion. Now I have a proposal to make to you, and if you are wise you will accept it. Let us set the one wrong against the other. Let both be forgotten. Forgive me, and I will forgive you, and let us make peace. If not now, then in a little while, when your heart is not so sore, and go right away from Edward Cawsey, and I did a lameole, and haunt him, and boysing him, into some new part of the world, where we can begin life again, and try to forget the past. She looked up at him, and shook her head mournfully. And twice she tried to speak, and twice she failed. The third time the words came. You do not understand me, she said. You are very kind, and I am very grateful to you, but you do not understand me. I cannot get over things so easily, as I know most women can. What I have done I can never undo. I do not blame him altogether. It was as much or more my fault than his. But having once loved him I cannot go back to you, or any other man. If you like I will go on living with you as we live, and I will try to make you comfortable, but I can say no more. Think again, Bella. He said almost pleadingly, I dare say that you have never given me credit for much tenderness of heart, and I know that you have as much against me as I have against you. But I have always loved you, and I will make you a good husband if you will let me. You are very good, she said, but it cannot be. Get rid of me if you like, and marry somebody else. I am ready to take the penalty of what I have done. Once more, Bella, I beg you to consider. Do you know what kind of man this is, for whom you are giving up your life? Not only has he deserted you, but do you know how he has got hold of Ida Delamol? He has, as I know well, bought her. I tell you, he has bought her as much as though he had gone into the open market and paid down a price for her. The other day, Kazian's son, were going to foreclose upon the Hanima states, which would have ruined the old gentleman. Well, what did your young man do? He went to the girl who hates him, by the way, and is in love with Colonel Quarich, and said to her, If you will promise to marry me when I ask you, I will find the thirty thousand pounds and take up the mortgages. And on those terms she agreed to marry him, and now he has got rid of you and claimed her promise. That is the history. I wonder that your pride will bear such a thing. By heaven I would kill the man. She looked up at him curiously. Would you? She said. It is not a bad idea, I daresay, it is all true. He is worthless. Why does one fall in love with worthless people? Well, there is an end of it, or a beginning of the end. As I have sown, so must I reap. And she got up and, unlocking the door, left the room. Yes, he said aloud, when she had gone, There is the beginning of the end. Upon my word, what between one thing and another, Unlucky devil as I am, I had rather stand in my own shoes Than in Edward Kazi's. Bella went to her room, and sat thinking, or rather brooding sullenly. Then she put on her bonnet and cloak, and started out, Taking the road that ran past Hanum Castle. She had not gone a hundred yards before she found herself Face to face with Edward Kazi himself. He was coming out of a gunsmith's shop, where he had been ordering some cartridges. How do you do, Bella? He said, colouring up and lifting his hat. How do you do, Mr. Kazi? She answered, coming to a stop, and looking him straight in the face. Where are you going? He asked, not knowing what to say. I'm going to walk up to the castle to call on Miss Delamol. I don't think you will find her. She is in bed with a headache. Oh! So you have been up there this morning? Yes. I had to see the squire about some business. Indeed. Then looking him in the eyes again. Are you engaged to be married to Ida? He coloured up. He could not prevent himself from doing so. No, he answered. What makes you ask such a question? I don't know, she said, laughing a little. Feminine curiosity, I suppose. I thought that you might be. Good-bye. And she went on, leaving Edward Kazi, to the enjoyment of a peculiar set of sensations. What a coward, Bella said to herself. He does not even dare to tell me the truth. Only an hour later she arrived at the castle and asking for Ida was shown into the drawing-room where she found her sitting reading. Ida rose to greet her, not without warmth, for the two women, although they were at the opposite poles of characters, had a friendly feeling for each other. In this way they were both strong and strength always recognises and respects strength. Have you walked up? asked Ida. Yes, I walked on the chance of finding you. I wanted to speak to you. Yes, said Ida, what is it? This, forgive me, but you are engaged to be married to Edward Kazi? Ida looked at her in a slow, stately kind of way, which seemed to ask by what right she came to question her. At least, so Bella read it. I know that I have no right to ask such a question, she said, with humility, and of course you need not answer it, but I have a reason for asking. Well, said Ida, I was requested, by Mr. Kazi, to keep the matter secret, but he appears to have divulged it. Yes, I am engaged to be married to him. Bella's beautiful face turned a shade paler, if that was possible, and her eyes hardened. Do you wonder, I ask you this, she said, I will tell you, though probably when I have done so you will never speak to me again. I am Edward Kazi's discarded mistress, and she laughed bitterly enough. Ida shrank a little and colored. As a pure and high-minded woman, naturally does, when she is for the first time suddenly brought into actual contact with impurity and passion. I know, went on Bella, that this must seem a shameful thing to you, but Ida, good and cold and stately as you are, pray God that you may never be thrown into temptation. Pray God that you may never be married, almost by force, to a man whom you hate, and then suddenly, know what a thing it is to fall in love, and for the first time, feel your life awake. Hush, said Ida gently, what right have I to judge you? I loved him, went on Bella, I loved him passionately, and for a while it was as though heaven had opened its gates, for he used to care for me a little, and I think he would have taken me away and married me afterward, but I would not hear of it, because I knew it would ruin him. He offered to once, and I refused, and within three hours of that, I believed that he was bargaining for you. Well, and then it was the old story, that he fell more and more in love with you, and of course I had no hold upon him. Yes, said Ida, moving impatiently, but why do you tell me all this? It is very painful, and I had rather not hear it. Why do I tell you? I tell you because I do not wish you to marry Edward Causey, I tell you because I wish him to feel a little of what I have to feel, and because I have said he should not marry you. I wish that you could prevent it, said Ida, with a sudden outburst. I am sure you are quite welcome to Mr. Causey as far as I am concerned, for I detest him, and I cannot imagine how any woman could ever have done otherwise. Thank you, said Bella, but I have done with Mr. Causey, and I think I hate him too. I know that I did hate him, when I met him in the street just now, and he told me that he was not engaged to you. You say that you detest him. Why then, do you marry him? You are a free woman. Do you want to know? said Ida, wheeling around and looking her visitor full in the face. I am going to marry him for the same reason that you say caused you to marry, because I must. I am going to marry him because he lent me money on condition that I promised to marry him, and as I have taken the money I must give him his price, even if it breaks my heart. Do you think that you are richard? How do you know that I am not fifty times as richard? Your lot is to lose your lover. Mine is to have one forced upon me, and endure him all my life. The worse of your pain is over. All mine is to come. Why, why, broken Bella, what is such a promise as that? He cannot force you to marry him, and it is better for a woman to die than to have to marry a man she hates. She added meaningly, as she happens to love another man. Be advised by me. I know what it is. He asked, said Ida, no doubt it is better to die. But death is not so easy. As for the promise, you do not seem to understand that no gentleman or lady can break a promise in consideration of which they have received money. Whatever he has done, and whatever he is, I must marry Mr. Causie, so I do not think that we need discuss the matter any more. Bella sat silent for a minute or more, and then, rising, said that she must go. I have warned you, she added, although to warn you I have had to put myself at your mercy. You can tell the story, and destroy me if you like. I do not much care if you do. Women such as I get reckless. You must understand me very little, Mrs. Quest. It had always been Bella before, and she winced at the changed name. If you think me capable of such conduct, you have nothing to fear from me. She held out her hand, but in her humility and shame, Bella went without taking it, and through the angry sunset light, walked slowly back to Boisingham, and as she walked there was a look upon her face that Edward Causie should scarcely have cared to see. CHAPTER 27 Mr. Quest has his innings. All that afternoon and far into the evening Mr. Quest was employed in drafting, and with his own hand engrossing on parchment certain deeds to the proper execution of which he seemed to find constant reference necessary to a tin box of papers which was labelled Hanum Castle Estates. By eleven that night everything was finished, and having carefully collected and docketed his papers he put the tin box away and went home to bed. Next morning about ten o'clock Edward Causie was sitting at breakfast in no happy frame of mind. He had gone up to the castle to dinner on the previous evening, but it cannot be said that he had enjoyed himself. Ida was there looking very handsome in her evening dress, but she was cold as stone and unapproachable as a statue. She scarcely spoke to him, indeed, except in answer to some direct remark, reserving all her conversation for her father, who seemed to have caught the contagion of restraint and was for him unusually silent and depressed. But once or twice he found her looking at him, and then there was upon her face a mingled expression of contempt and irrepressible aversion which chilled him to the marrow. These sentiments toward him were indeed so much more plainly developed than they had been before, that at last a conviction which he had first rejected as incredible forced itself into his mind. That conviction was that Bella must have disbelieved his denial of the engagement and in her eagerness for revenge had told Ida the whole story. The thought made him feel faint and sick, but there was but one thing to be done, and that was to face it out. Once when the squire's back was turned he ventured to attempt some little tenderness in which the word deer occurred, but Ida did not seem to hear it, and looked straight over his head into space, and this he felt was trying. So trying did he find the whole entertainment, indeed, that about half-past nine he rose and came away saying that he had some bank-papers which must be attended to that night. Now most men would, in all human probability, have been dismayed by this state of affairs into relinquishing an attempt at matrimony which it was evident could only be carried through in the face of the quiet, but none the less vigorous, dislike and contempt of the other contracting party. But this was not so with Edward Cossey. Ida's coldness exercised upon his tenacious and obstinate mind much the same effect that may be supposed to be produced upon the benighted seeker for the North Pole by a frozen ocean of ice-burgs. Like the explorer he was convinced that if once he could get over those cold and frowning heights he would find a smiling and sunny land beyond, and perchance many other delights, and like the explorer again he was metaphorically ready to die in the effort. For to tell the truth he loved and desired her more every day till now his passion dominated his physical being and his mental judgment, so that whatever loss was entailed, whatever obstacles arose, he was determined to endure and overcome them. If by so doing he might gain his end. He was reflecting upon all this the morning in question when Mr. Quest, looking very cool and composed and gentlemanlike, was shown into his room, much as Colonel Quarich had been shown in two mornings before. Oh, dear-do, Mr. Quest, he said, in a form high to low kind of tone, which he was in the habit of adopting towards his official subordinates. Sit down, what is it? It is some business, Mr. Cosy, the lawyer answered, in his usual quiet tones. Hawnham Castle mortgage is a gain, I suppose, growled he. I only hope that you don't want any more money on that account at present. That's all, because I can't raise another cent while the governor lives, for they don't entail cash and bank shares, you know. And though my credit's pretty good, I am not far from the bottom of it. Well, said Mr. Quest, with a faint smile, it has to do with Hawnham Castle mortgages, but as I have a good deal to say, perhaps we had better wait till the things are cleared away. All right. Just ring the bell, will you, and take a cigarette. Mr. Quest smiled again and rang the bell, but did not take the cigarette. When the breakfast things had been removed he took a chair, and placing it on the further side of the table in such a position that the light, which was to his back struck full upon Edward Cosy's face, commenced to deliberately untie and sort his bundle of papers. Presently he came to the one he wanted. It was not an original letter, but a copy. Will you kindly read this, Mr. Cosy? He said quietly as he pushed the letter toward him across the table. He finished lighting his cigarette, and then took the letter up and glanced at it carelessly. At the first line, however, his expression changed to one of absolute horror. His face blanched, the perspiration, sprang out upon his forehead, and the cigarette dropped from his fingers to the carpet, where it lay smoldering. And no wonder, for the letter was a copy of one of Bella's most passionate epistles to himself. He had never been able to restrain her from writing these compromising letters. Indeed this one was the very one that some little time before Mr. Quest had abstracted from the pocket of his lounging coat in his room in London. He read on for a little way, and then put the letter down upon the table. There was no need for him to go on, it was all in the same strain. You will observe, Mr. Cosy, that this is a copy, said Mr. Quest, but if you like you can inspect the original document. He made no answer. Now went on Mr. Quest handing him a second paper. Here is the copy of another letter, of which the original is in your handwriting. Edward glanced at it. It was an intercepted letter of his own, dated about a year before, and its contents, though not of so passionate nature as the other, were still of a sufficiently incriminating character. He put it down upon the table by the side of the first, and waited for Mr. Quest to go on. I have other evidence, said his visitor presently, but you are probably sufficiently versed in such matters to know that these letters alone are almost enough for my purpose, which is to commence a suit for divorce against my wife, in which you will, of course, in accordance with the provisions of the Act, be joined as co-respondent. Indeed, I have already drawn up a letter of instruction to my London agents, directing them to take the preliminary steps. And he pushed a third paper toward him. Edward Cossey turned his back to his tormentor, and resting his head upon his hand, tried to think. Mr. Quest, he said, presently in a hoarse voice, without admitting anything, there are reasons which would make it ruinous to me if such an action were commenced at present. Yes, he answered, there are, in the first place, there is no knowing what view your father would take of the matter, and how his view would affect your future interests, and in this second your engagement to Miss Dillamole, upon which your heart is so strongly set, would certainly be broken off. How do you know that I am engaged? asked Edward in surprise. It does not matter how I know, said the lawyer, I do know it, so it will be useless for you to deny it. As you remark, this suit will probably be a ruin in every way, and therefore it is, as you will easily understand, a good moment for a man who wants his revenge to choose it. Without admitting anything, answered Edward Cossey, I wish to ask you a question. Is there no way out of this, supposing that I have done you a wrong? Wrong admits of compensation. Yes, it does, Mr. Cossey, and I have thought of that. He has his price in this world, and I have mine, but the compensation for such a wrong must be a heavy one. And to what price will you agree to stay the action forever? he asked. The price that I will take to stay the action is a transfer into my name of the mortgages you hold over the Hanum Castle estates. Answered Mr. Quest quietly. Great heavens! said Edward, why, that is a matter of thirty thousand pounds. I know it is, and I know also that it is worth your while to pay thirty thousand pounds to save yourself from the exposure, the chance of disinheritance, and the certainty of the loss of the woman whom you want to marry. So well do I know it that I have prepared the necessary deeds for your signature, and here they are. Listen, sir, he went on sternly, refused to accept my terms, and by tonight's post I shall send this letter of instructions. Also I shall send to Mr. Qazi Sr. and to Mr. de La Mol copies of these two precious epistles. And he pointed to the incriminating documents, and a copy of the letter to my agents, and where will you be then? Consent, and I will bind myself not to proceed in any way or form. Now make your choice. But I cannot, even if I will I cannot, said he, almost ringing his hands in his perplexity. It was on condition of my taking up these mortgages that I had consented to become engaged to me, and I have promised that I will cancel them on our wedding. Will you not take money instead? A little time ago I would not have taken it, because I wanted that property, but I have changed my ideas. But as you yourself said, your credit is strained to the utmost, and while your father is alive you will not find it possible to raise another thirty thousand pounds. Besides, if this matter is to be settled at all, it must be settled now. I will not wait while you make attempts to raise the money. But about the mortgages I promise to keep them. What shall I say to Aida? Say, say nothing. You can meet them if you like, after your father's death. Refuse if you like, but if you refuse you will be mad. Thirty thousand pounds will be nothing to you, but exposure will be ruined. Have you made up your mind? You must take my offer or leave it. Sign the documents, and I will put the originals of those two letters into your hands. Refuse and I will take my steps. Edward Cosy thought for a moment and then said, I will sign, let me see the papers. Mr. Quest turned aside to hide the expression of triumph, which flitted across his face, and then handed him the deeds. They were elaborately drawn, for he was a skillful legal drossman, quite as skillful as many a leading chancery, conveyancer, but the substance of them was that the mortgages were transferred to him by the said Edward Cosy in, and for the consideration that he, the said William M. Quest, consented to abandon for ever a pending action for divorce against his wife Bella Quest, whereon too the said Edward Cosy was to be joined as co-respondent. You will observe, said Mr. Quest, that if you attempt to contest the validity of this assignment, which you certainly could not do with any prospect of success, the attempt will recoil upon your head, because the whole scandal will then transpire. We shall require some witnesses, so with your permission I will ring the bell and ask the landlady and your servant to step up. They need know nothing of the contents of the papers. And he did so. Stop! said Edward presently, where are the original letters? Here, answered Mr. Quest, producing them from an inner pocket and showing them to him from a distance. When the landlady comes up, I will give them to her to hold in this envelope directing her to hand them to you when the deeds are signed and witnessed. She will only think that it is a part of the ceremony. Presently the man-servant and the landlady arrived, and Mr. Quest, in his most matter-of-fact way, explained to them that they were required to witness some documents, and at the same time handed the letters to the woman, saying that she was to give them to Mr. Cosy when they had all done signing. Then Edward Cosy signed, and placing his thumb on the familiar wafer, delivered the various documents as his act and deed. And the witnesses, with much preparation and effort, affixed their awkward signatures in the places pointed out to them, and in a few minutes the thing was done, and Mr. Quest was a richer man by thirty thousand pounds than when he had got up that morning. Now give Mr. Cosy that packet, Mrs. Jeffries, he said, as he blotted the signatures, and then you can go. And she did so and went. When the witnesses had gone, Edward looked at the letters, and then with a savage oath flung them into the fire and watched them burn. Good morning, Mr. Cosy, said Mr. Quest, as he prepared to depart with the deeds. You have now bought your experience and had to pay dearly for it, but upon my word, when I think of all you owe me, I wonder at myself for letting you off at so small a price. When he had gone, Edward Cosy gave way to his feelings in language more forcible than polite, and what they were may be more easily imagined than described. For now, in addition to all the money that he had just lost, and the painful exposure to which he had been subjected, he was face to face with a new difficulty. Either he must make a clean press of it to Ida about the mortgages being no longer in his hands, or he must pretend that he still had them. In the first alternative the consideration upon which Ida had agreed to marry him came to nothing. Moreover she was thereby released from her promise, and he was well aware that under these circumstances she would certainly break off the engagement. In the second he would be acting a lie, and the lie would sooner or later be discovered, and what then? Well, if it was after marriage what would it matter? To a woman of gentle birth there is only one thing more irretrievable than marriage, and that is death. Anyhow he had suffered so much for the sake of this woman that he did not mean to give her up now. He must meet the mortgages after marriage, that was all. Facili's Desensus of Verney, when a man of character, of Edward Causie or indeed of any character, allows his passion