 CHAPTER XXVIII. Some two or three days before the scene described in the last chapter, the faithful George had suddenly announced his desire to visit London. What? said the squire, in astonishment, for George had never been known to go out of his own county before. Why, what on earth are you going to do in London? Well, squire, answered his retainer, looking marvelously knowing. I don't rightly know, but there is a cheap train, goes up to this here exhibition on the Tuesday morning, and comes back on the Thursday evening. Ten shillings both ways at the fair, and as I see in the chronicle I do, that there is a wonderful show of these newfangled, self-tying and delivering reapers, such as they use so overseas in America, and I have a fancy to see them, and have a holiday look round London town. So as there ain't nothing particular I doing, if you haven't got anything to say against it, I think I'll go, squire. All right, said the squire, are you going to take your wife with you? Why, no, squire. I said that I wanted to go for a holiday, and that ain't no holiday to take the Mrs. too, and George chuckled in a matter that evidently meant volumes. And so it came to pass that on the afternoon of the day of the transfer of the mortgages from Edward Cossey to Mr. Quest, the great George found himself wandering vaguely about the vast expanses of the calendaries and not enjoying himself in the least. He had been recommended by some traveled individual in Boisingham to a certain lodging near Liverpool Street Station, which he found with the help of a friendly porter. Thence he set out for the exhibition, but being of a prudent mind, thought that he would do well to save his money and walk the distance. So he walked and walked till he was tired, and then, after an earnest consultation with a policeman, he took a bus, which an hour later landed him at the Royal Oak. His further adventures we need not pursue, suffice it to say that, having started from his lodging at three, it was past seven o'clock at night when he finally reached the exhibition, more thoroughly wearied than though he had done a good day's harvesting. Here he wandered for a while in continual dread of having his pocket picked, seeking reaping machines and discovering none till at length he found himself in the gardens, where the electric light display was in full swing. Soon wearying of this, for it was a cold, damp night, he made a difficult path to a buffet inside the building, where he sat down at a little table and devoured some very unpleasant-looking cold beef. Here slumber overcame him, for his weariness was great, and he dozed. Presently, through the muffled roar and hum of voices which echoed in his sleep-dulled ears, he got the sound of a familiar name which will come up, all of a heap, as he said afterward. The name was Quest. Without moving his body he opened his eyes. At the very next table to his own were seated two people, a man and a woman. He looked at the latter first. She was clad in yellow, and was very tall and thin and fierce-looking, so fierce-looking that George involuntarily jerked his head back, and brought it with painful force in contact with the wall. It was the tiger herself, and her companion was the coarse, dreadful-looking man called Johnny, whom she had sent away in the cab on the night of Mr. Quest's visit. Oh! Johnny was saying, so Quest is the cubby's name, is it? And she lives in a city called Boisingham-Duzzy. He is an oof-bird. Rich! Rather! answered the tiger, if only one can make the dollar trickle, but he is a nasty mean one he is. Look here! Not a cent! Not a silver have I got to bless myself with, and I dare not ask him for any more, not till January. And how am I going to live till January? I got the sack from the music hall last week, because I was a bit jolly, and old Thompson, the conductor, wanted to draw up ten percent on my salary, because he said I didn't draw as I used to, and that I was getting old and ugly, so I just caught him one with the handle of my brawly that made him see stars, and the beast had me up for assault, and it was forty shillings and costs, and now I can't get another billet anyway, and I've got a bill of sale over the furniture, and I've sold all my jewels down to my ticker, or at least most of them, and there's that brute. And her voice rose to a subdued scream, living like a fighting cock, and rolling an oof, while his poor wife is left to starve. Wife! Oh yes, we know all about that, said the gentleman called Johnny. A look of doubt and cunning passed across the woman's face. Evidently she feared that she had said too much. Well, it's as good a name as another, she said. Oh, don't I wish that I could get a grip of him? I'd ring him. And she twisted her long bony hands, as a washerwoman would, when they ring a cloth. I'd back you, too, said Johnny, and now, adored Edithia, I've had enough of this blooming show, and I'm off. Perhaps I shall look down in Pimlicole way this evening. Ta-ta! Well, you may as well stand a liquor first, said the adored one. I'm pretty dry, I can tell you. Certainly with pleasure I will order one. Waiter, a brandy and soda for this lady. Six, a brandy, if you please. She's very delicate in what support. The waiter grinned and brought the drink, and the man Johnny turned round as though to pay him. But really he departed without doing so. George watched him go, and then looked again at the lady, whose appearance seemed to fascinate him. Well, if that ain't a master one, he said to himself, and she called herself his wife she did, and then drew up like a slug's horned, hang me if I don't stick to her till I find out a bit more of the tale. Thus ruminated George, who, be it observed, was no fool, and who had a hearty dislike and mistrust of Mr. Quest. While he was wondering how he was going to work, an unexpected opportunity occurred. The tiger had finished her brandy and soda, and was preparing to leave when the waiter swooped down upon her. Money, please, Miss," he said. Money! She said. Why, you're paid. Come, none of that, said the waiter. I want a shilling for the brandy and soda. A shilling, do you? Then you'll have to wait. You cheating white-faced rascal you my friend paid you before he went away. Oh, we've had too much of that game, said the waiter, beckoning to a constable, to whom, in spite of the fair Edethea's very rigorous and pointed protestations, he was proceeding to give her in charge, for it appeared that she had only two pence about her. This was George's opportunity, and he interfered. I think, ma'am," he said, that the fact Gent with you was a playing up a little game, he only pretended to pay the waiter. Playing a little game, was he? Gaffes, the infuriated tiger. If I don't play a little game on him when I get my chance, my name is not Edethe, de Begne, the nasty mean beast, the— Permit me, ma'am," said George, putting a shilling on the table, which the waiter took, and departed satisfied. I can't bear to see a real lady like you in difficulty. Well, you are a gentleman, you are, she said. Not at all, ma'am. That's my way. And now, ma'am, wouldn't you have another? No objection was raised by the lady who had another, with the result that she became, if not exactly tipsy, at any rate not far off it. Shortly after, this building was cleared, and George found himself standing in Exhibition Road with the woman on his arm. You're going to give me a lift home, ain't you? She said. Yes, ma'am, for sure I am," said George, sighing as he thought of the cab fare. Accordingly they got into a handsome, and Mrs. de Begne, having given him the address in Pimlico, of which George instantly made a mental note, they started. Come in and have a drink, she said, when they arrived, and accordingly he paid the cab, half a crown it cost him, and was ushered by the woman with a simper into the gilded drawing-room. Here the tiger had another brandy and soda, after which George thought that she was about in a fit state for him to prosecute his inquiries. Will place this London marm? I never was up here afore, and I had no idea that I should find folks so friendly, as I was saying to my friend Lawyer Quest down at Boyzium yesterday. Hello, what's that? She said, do you know the old man? If you mean Lawyer Quest, why, of course I do. And Mrs. Quest too, ah, she's a pretty one she is. Here the lady burst into a flood of incoherent abuse, which tired her so much that she had a fourth brandy and soda. George mixed it for her, and he mixed it strong. Is he rich? She asked, as she put down the glass. What, Lawyer Quest? Well I should say that he is about the warmest men in our part of the county. And here I am starving, burst out the horrible woman, with a flood of drunken tears, starving without a shilling to pay for a cab or a drink, while my wedded husband lives in luxury with another woman. You tell him that I won't stand it, you tell him, that if he don't find it thou, pretty quick, I'll let him know the reason why. I don't quite understand, Marm, said George, there's a lady downing-boising him, as is the real Mrs. Quest. It's a lie, she shrieked, it's a lie, he married me before he married her. I could have him in the dark to-morrow, and I would too if I wasn't afraid of him, and that's a fact. Come, Marm, come, said George, draw to my old from that top. You won't believe me, won't you? said the woman, on whom the liquor was now beginning to take its full effect. Then I'll show you, and she staggered to a desk, unlocked it, and took from it a folded paper which she opened. It was a marriage-license, or purported to be so. But George, who was not too quick at his reading, had only time to note the name Quest, and the church, St. Bartholomew's Hackney, when she snatched it away from him, and locked it up again. There, she said, it is in any business of yours, what right have you to come prying into the affairs of a poor lone woman? And she sat down upon the sofa, beside him, threw her long arm around his neck, rested her painted face upon his shoulder, and began to weep, the tears of intoxication. Well, blow me, said George to himself, if this ain't a master one. I wonder what my old Mrs. would say if she saw me in this fix. I say, Marm. But at that moment the door opened, and in came Johnny, who had evidently also been employing the interval in refreshing himself, for he rolled like a ship in a sea. Well, he said, and who the do so you? Come get out of this, you method-y person-faced Claude-Hopper you. Fairest Edithia, what means this? By this time the fairest Edithia had realized who her visitor was, and the trick whereby he had left her to pay for the brandy and soda, recurring to her mind, she sprang up and began to express her opinion of Johnny in violent and libelous language. He replied in appropriate terms, as people whose health are proposed always do, according to the newspaper reports, and fast and furious grew the fun. At length, however, it seemed to occur to Johnny that he, George, was in some way responsible for this state of affairs. For without word or warning he hit him on the nose, which proved too much for George's Christian forbearance. You would, you fat-lubber, would you, he said, and sprang at him. Now Johnny was big and fat, but Johnny was rather drunk, and George was tough and exceedingly strong. In almost less time than it takes to write it, he had the abominable Johnny by the scruff of the neck, and had, with a mighty jerk, hauled him over the sofa, so that he lay face downward thereon. By the door, quite convenient to his hand, stood George's ground-ash stick, a peculiar good and well-grown one which he had cut himself in Hanum wood. He seized it, now, my lad, he said, I'll teach you how to do the trick where I come from. And he laid on without mercy, whack, whack, whack, went the ground-ash on Johnny's tight clothes. He yelled and swore, and struggled in the grip of the sturdy countryman. But it was of no use, the ash came down like fate. Never was Johnny so best in a dode before. Give it the brute, give it him, shrilled the fair Edithia, be thinking her of her wrongs, and he did till he was tired. Now, Johnny, he said at last, I'm thinking I've pretty well whacked you dead. Perhaps you'll be more careful how you handle your betters by and by. And seizing his hat he ran down the stairs, without seeing anybody, and slipping into the street, crossed over and listened. They were added again. Seeing her enemy prostrate, the tiger had fallen on him, apparently with the fire-irons to judge from the noise. Just then a policeman came hurrying up. I say, Governor," said George, the fulkin that their hose with the red pillars do fare to be a murdering of each other. The policeman listened to the den, and then made for the house, and, profiting by his absence, George retreated as fast as he could. His melancholy countenance shining with a sober satisfaction. Richard Causey meets with an accident. This is not a very cheerful world at the best of times, though no doubt we ought to pretend that humanity at large is as happy as it is represented to be. In let us say the Christmas number of an illustrated paper. How well we can imagine the thoughtful inhabitants of this country in the year A.D. 7500 or their boats disinterring from the crumbling remains of a fire-proof safe of a Christmas number of the Illustrated London News or the Graphic. The archaic letters would perhaps be unintelligible to him. But he would look at the pictures with much the same interest that we regarded the Bushman's drawings, or the primitive clay figures of Peru, and though his whole artistic, seventy-sixth century soul would be revolted at the crudeness of the colouring, surely he would moralize thus. Oh, happy race of primitive men! How I, the child of light and civilisation, envy you your long-forgotten days! Here in these rude drawings which in themselves revealed the extraordinary capacity for pleasure possessed by the early races who could even look upon them and gather gratification from the sight. May we trace your joyous career from the cradle to the grave. Here is your figure as a babe, at whose appearance everybody seems delighted, even those of your race whose inheritance will be thereby diminished. And here, a merry lad, you revel in the school which those of our age find so wearisome. There grown more old you stand at the altar of a beautiful lost faith, a faith that told of hope and peace beyond the grave. And by you stands your blushing bride. No hard fate, no considerations of means, no worldly mindedness come to snatch you from her arms, as now they daily do. With her you spend your peaceful days, and here at last we see you, old, but surrounded by love and tender kindness, and almost looking forward to that grave which you believed would be but the gate of glory. Oh, happy race of simple-minded men! What a commentary upon our fevered, avaricious, pleasure-seeking age is this rude scroll of primitive and infantile art. So will some unborn lauditor, tempori-acti, speak in some dim century to be, when our sorrows have faded and are not. And yet, though we do not put a record of them in our Christmas numbers, troubles are as troubles have been and will continually be, for however happy the lot of individuals it is not altogether a cheerful world in which we have been called to live. At any rate, so thought, Harold Courage, that night after night, the farewell seen with Ida in the churchyard, and so he continued to think for some time to come. A man's life is always more or less of a struggle. He is a swimmer, upon an adverse sea, and to live at all he must keep his limbs in motion. If he grows faint-hearted or weary and no longer strives, for a little while he floats, and then at last, morally or physically, he vanishes. We struggle for our livelihoods and for all that makes life worth living in the material sense, and not the less are we called upon to struggle with an army of spiritual woes and fears which now we vanquish and now are vanquished by. Every man of refinement, and a good many women, will be able to recall periods in his or her existence when life has seemed not only valueless but hateful when our small successes, such as they are, dwindled away and vanished in the gulf of our many failures, when our hopes and aspirations faded like a sunset cloud, and we were surrounded by black and lonely mental night, from which even the star of faith had passed. Such a time had come to Harold Quorich now. His days had not, on the whole, been happy days, but he was a good and earnest man, with that touching faith in providence, which is given to some among us, and which had brought with it the reward of an even, thankful spirit. And then, out of the twilight of his contentment, the hope of happiness had risen, like the angel of the dawn, and suddenly life became beautiful to him, and now it had passed, the woman whom he deeply loved, and who loved him back again, had gone from his reach and left him desolate, gone from his reach, not into the grave, but to the arms of another man. Our race is called upon to face many troubles, sicknesses, poverty and death, but it is doubtful if evil holds another arrow as sharp as that which pierced him now. He was no longer young, it is true, and therefore did not feel that intense agony of disappointed passion, that sickening sense of utter loss, which in such circumstances sometimes settle on the young. But if in youth we feel more sharply, and with a keener sympathy of the imagination, we have at least more strength to bear, and hope does not altogether die, for we know that we shall live it down, or if we do not know it then, we do live it down. Very likely indeed there comes a time when we look back upon our sorrow, and he or she who caused it with wonder, yes, even with scorn and bitter laughter, but it is not so much when the blow falls in later life. It may not hurt so much at the time, it may seem to have been struck with the bludgeon of fate, rather than with the keen dividing sword, but the effect is more lasting, and for the rest of our days we are numb and cold, and time has no sav to heal us. These things Harold realized more clearly in the heavy days that followed that churchyard separation. He took his punishment like a brave man indeed, and went about his daily occupations with a steadfast face, but this bold behavior did not lessen its weight. He had promised not to go away till Ida was married, and he would keep the promise, but in his heart he wondered how he would be able to bear the sight of her. What would it be to see her, to touch her hand, to hear the rustle of her dress, and the music of her beloved voice, and to realize again and yet again that all these things were not for him, that they had passed from him into the ownership of another man? On the day following that upon which Edward Cossey had been terrified into transferring the haunt of mortgages to Mr. Quest, their Colonel went out shooting. He had on the previous day become the possessor of a new hammerless gun by a well-known London maker, of which he stood in considerable need. He had treated himself to this gun when he came into his aunt's little fortune, but it was only just completed. The weapon was a beautiful one, and at any other time it would have filled his sportsman's heart with joy. Even as it was, when he put it together and balanced it, and took imaginary shots at Blackbirds in the garden, for a little while he forgot his sorrows. For the sorrow must indeed be heavy, which a new hammerless gun by such a maker cannot do something toward lightning. So on the next morning he took this gun and proceeded to the marshes by the river, where he was credibly informed several wisps of snipe had been seen, to attempt to shoot some of them and put the new weapon to the test. It was on this same morning that Edward Cossey got a letter, which disturbed him not a little. It was from Bella Quest, and ran thus. Dear Mr. Cossey, will you come over and see me this afternoon about three o'clock? I shall expect you, so I am sure you will not disappoint me. Be que. For a long while he hesitated what to do. Bella Quest was at the present juncture the very last person whom he wished to see. His nerves were shaken, and he feared a scene. But on the other hand he did not know what danger might threaten him if he did not go. Quest had got his price, and he knew that he had nothing more to fear from him. But a jealous woman has no price, and if he did not humour her, it might, he felt, be at a risk which he could not estimate. Also he was nervously anxious to give no further cause for gossip. A sudden outward and visible cessation of his intimacy with the Quest in a little county town like Boisingham, where all his movements were known, might he thought, give rise to surmises and suspicion. So, albeit, with a faint heart, he determined to go. Accordingly, at three o'clock precisely, he was shown into the drawing-room at the oaks. Mrs. Quest was not there. Indeed, he waited for ten minutes before she came in. She was very pale, so pale that the blue veins on her forehead showed distinctly through her ivory skin, and there was a curious intensity about her manner which frightened him. She was very quiet, unnaturally so indeed, but her quiet was of the ominous nature of the silence before the storm, and when she spoke her words were keen and quick and vivid. She did not shake hands with him but sat down and looked at him, slowly fanning herself with a painted ivory fan which she took up from the table. You sent for me, Bella, and here I am, he said, breaking the silence. Then she spoke. You told me the other day, she said, that you were not engaged to be married to Ida Delamol. It was not true. You are engaged to be married to her. Who said so? He asked, defiantly. Quest, I suppose. I have it on a better authority, she answered. I have it from this Delamol herself. Now listen, Edward Causie, when I let you go I made a condition, and that condition was that you should not marry Ida Delamol. Do you still intend to marry her? You had it from Ida, he said, disregarding her question. Then you must have spoken to Ida. You must have told her everything. I suspected as much from her manner the other night you. Then it is true, she broke in coldly, it is true, and in addition to your other failings, Edward, you are a coward and a liar. What is it to you? What I am, or what I am not? He answered savagely. What business is it of yours? You have no hold over me, and no claim upon me. As it is, I have suffered enough at your hands, and at those of your accursed husband. I have to pay him thirty thousand pounds. Do you know that? But of course you know it. No doubt the whole thing is a plant, and you will share the spoil. Ah, she said, drawing a long breath. And now look here, he went on. Once and for all, I will not be interfered with by you. I am engaged to marry Ida Delamol, and whether you wish it or no, I shall marry her. And one more thing. I will not allow you to associate with Ida. Do you understand me? I will not allow it. She had been holding the fan before her face, while he spoke. Now she lowered it, and looked at him. Her face was paler than ever, paler than death, if that be possible. But in her eyes there shone a light, like the light of a flame. Why not? she said quietly. Why not? he answered savagely. I wonder that you think it necessary to ask such a question. But as you do I will tell you why. Because Ida is the lady whom I am going to marry, and I do not choose that she should associate with a woman who is what you are. Ah! she said again. I understand now. At that moment a diversion occurred. The drawing-room looked on to the garden, and at the end of the garden was a door which opened on to another street. Through this door had come Colonel Khorich, accompanied by Mr. Quest, the former with his gun under his arm. They had walked up the garden, and were almost at the French window, when Edward Cossey saw them. Control yourself, he said in a low voice, here is your husband. Mr. Quest advanced and knocked at the window, which his wife opened. When he saw Edward Cossey he hesitated a little, and then nodded to him. While the Colonel came forward, and, placing his gun by the wall, entered the room, shakans with Mrs. Quest, and bowed coldly to Edward Cossey. I met the Colonel Bella, said Mr. Quest, coming here with the true benevolent intention of giving you some snipe, so I brought him up by the short way. That is very kind of you, Colonel Khorich, said she, with a sweet smile, for she had the sweetest smile imaginable. He looked at her. There was something about her face, which attracted his attention, something unusual. What are you looking at, she asked? You, he said bluntly, for they were out of hearing of the other two. If I were poetically minded I should say that you look like the tragic muse. Do I, she answered, bursting out laughing, while that is curious, because I feel like comedy herself. There is something wrong with that woman, thought the Colonel to himself, as he extracted two couple of snipe from his capaceous coattails. I wonder what it is. Just then Mr. Quest and Edward Cossey passed out into the garden talking. Here are the snipe, Mrs. Quest, he said, I have had rather good luck. I killed four couple and missed two couple more. But then I had a new gun, and one can never shoot so well with a new gun. Oh, thank you, she said, do pull out the painters for me. I like to put them in my writing-hat, and I never can find them myself. Very well, he answered, but I must go into the garden to do it. There is not enough light here. It gets dark so soon now. Accordingly he stepped out through the window, and began to hunt for the pretty little feathers which are to be found at the angle of a snipe's wing. Is that the new gun, Colonel Courage? said Mrs. Quest presently. What a beautiful one. Be careful, he said, I haven't taken the cartridges out. If he had been looking at her, which at the moment he was not, the world would have seen her stagger and catch the wall for support. Then he would have seen an awful and malevolent light of sudden determination pass across her face. All right, she said, I know all about guns, my father used to shoot, and I always cleaned his gun. And she took the weapon up and began to examine the engraving on the locks. What is this? she said, pointing to a little slide above the locks on which the word safe was engraved in gold letters. Oh, that's the safety bolt, he said. When you see the word safe, the locks are barred, and the gun won't go off. You have to push the bolt forward before you can fire. So, she said carelessly, and suiting the action to the words. Yes, so, but please be careful the gun is loaded. Yes, I'll be careful, she answered. Well, it is a very pretty gun, and so light that I believe I could shoot with it myself. Meanwhile Edward Causey and Mr. Quest, who were walking toward them had separated. Mr. Quest going to the right across the lawn to pick up a glove which had dropped upon the grass, while Edward Causey slowly sauntered toward them. When he was about nine paces off he too halted, and stooping a little, looked abstractedly at a white Japanese chrysanthemum which was still in bloom. Mrs. Quest turned, as the Colonel thought, to put the gun back against the wall. He would have offered to take it from her. But at the moment both hands were occupied in extracting one of the painters from a snipe. The next thing that he was aware of was a loud explosion, followed by an exclamation, or rather a cry from Mrs. Quest. He dropped the snipe and looked up, just in time to see the gun which had let from her hands with the recoil strike against the wall of the house and fall to the ground. Instantly, whether by instinct or by chance he never knew, he glanced toward the place where Edward Causey was standing and saw that his face was streaming with blood and that his right arm hung helplessly by his side. Even as he looked he saw him put his injured hand to his head and, without a word or sound, sink down on the gravel path. For a second there was silence and the blue smoke from the gun hung heavily upon the damp autumn air. In the midst of it stood Bella Quest, like one transfixed. Her lips apart, her blue eyes opened wide and the stamp of terror, or was it guilt upon her pallid face. All this he saw in a flash, and then ran to the bleeding heap upon the ground. He reached it almost simultaneously with Mr. Quest, and together they turned the body over. But still Bella stood there, enveloped in the heavy smoke. Presently, however, her trance left her and she ran up, flung herself upon her knees, and looked at her former lover, whose face and head were now a mass of blood. His dead! she wilt, he is dead and I have killed him, oh Edward, Edward! Mr. Quest turned on her savagely, so savagely that one might almost have thought that he feared, lest in her agony, she should say something further. Stop that, he said, seizing her arm, and go for the doctor, for if he is not dead he will soon bleed to death. With an effort she rose, put her hand to her forehead, and then ran like the wind, down the garden, and through the little door. CHAPTER XXXIII Mr. Quest and Harold bore the bleeding man, whether he was senseless or dead they knew not, into the house, and laid him on the sofa. Then having dispatched a servant to seek a second doctor, in case the one already gone for was out, they set to work to cut the clothes from his neck and arm and do what they could, and that was little enough towards staunching the bleeding. It soon, however, became evident that Causie had only got the outside portion of the charge of number seven, that is to say, that he had been struck by about a hundred pellets out of the three hundred or so which would go into the ordinary ounce and an eighth. Had he received the whole charge he must at that distance have been instantly killed. As it was the point of the shoulder was riddled, and so to a somewhat smaller extent was the back of his neck and the region of the right ear. One or two outside pellets had also struck the head higher up, and the skin and muscles along the back were torn by the passage of the shot. By Joe, said Mr. Quest, I think he's done for. The Colonel nodded. He had had some experience of shot wounds, and the present was not of a nature to encourage hope of the patient's survival. How did it happen? asked Mr. Quest presently, as he mopped up the streaming blood with a sponge. It was an accident, grown the Colonel. Your wife was looking at my new gun. I told her that it was loaded and that she must be careful, and I thought she had put it down. The next thing that I heard was the report. It is all my cursed fault for leaving the cartridges in. Ah, said Mr. Quest, she always thought that she understood guns. It is a shocking accident. Just then one of the doctors came running up the lawn, carrying a box of instruments, and followed by Bella Quest, and in another minute was at work. He was a quick and skillful surgeon, and having announced that the patient was not dead, at once set to work to tie one of the smaller arteries in the throat, which had been pierced, and through which Edward Cozzi was rapidly bleeding to death. By the time that this was done, the other doctor, an older man, put in an appearance, and together they made a rapid examination of the injuries. Bella stood by, holding a basin of water. She did not speak, and on her face was that same fixed look of horror which Harold had observed after the discharge of the gun. When the examination was finished the two doctors whispered together for a few seconds. Will he live? asked Mr. Quest. Well, you cannot say, answered the older doctor, we do not think it probable that he will. It will depend upon the extent of the injuries, and whether I know they have extended to the spine. If he does live he will probably be paralyzed to some extent, and he will certainly lose the hearing of the right ear. When she heard this Bella sank down upon a chair, overwhelmed, and then the two doctors, assisted by Harold, set to work to carry Edward Cozzi into another room, which had been rapidly prepared, leaving Mr. Quest alone with his wife. He came and stood in front of her, and looked her in the face and then laughed. Upon my word he said, We men are bad enough, but you women beat us in wickedness. What do you mean? she said faintly. I mean that you are a murderous Bella, he said solemnly, and you are a bungler too. You could not hold the gun straight. I deny it, she said. The gun went off. Yes, he said, you are wise to make no admission. They might be used in evidence against you. Let me counsel you to make no admissions. But now look here. I suppose that this man will have to lie in this house until he recovers or dies, and that you will help to nurse him. Well, I will have none of your murderous work going on here. Do you hear me? You are not to complete at leisure what you have begun in haste. What do you take me for? she asked, with some return of spirit. Do you think that I would injure a wounded man? I do not know, he answered with a shrug. And as for what I take you for? I take you for a woman whose passion has made her mad. And he turned and left the room. When they had got Edward Cossey, dead or alive, and looked more like death than life, up to the room prepared for him, the Colonel, seeing that he could be of no further use, left him, with a view of going at once to the castle. On his way out he looked into the drying-room, and there was Mrs. Quest, still sitting on the chair and gazing blankly before her. Pitying her, he entered. Come, cheer up, Mrs. Quest, he said kindly. They hope that he will live. She made no answer. It is an awful accident, but I am almost as culpable as you, for I left the cartridges and the gun. Anyhow, God's will be done. God's will, she said, looking up and then once more, relapsed into silence. He turned to go, when suddenly she rose and caught him by the arm. Will he die? she said, almost fiercely. Tell me what you think. Not what the doctors say. You have seen lots of wounded men, and you know better than they do. Tell me the truth. I cannot say. He answered, shaking his head. Apparently, she interpreted his answer as yes. At any rate, she covered her face with her hands. What would you do, Colonel Courage, if you had killed the only one thing you loved in the whole world? she asked, presently. Oh, what am I saying? I am off my head. Leave me and go and tell Ida. It will be good news for Ida. Finally having picked up the gun from the spot where it had fallen from the hands of Mrs. Quest, he started for the castle. And then it was that for the first time there flashed upon his mind the extraordinary importance of this dreadful accident in its bearing upon his own affairs. If Cosy died he could marry Ida, that was clear. That was what Mrs. Quest must have meant when she said that it would be good news for Ida. But how did she know anything about Ida's engagement to Edward Cosy? And by Jove, what did the woman mean when she asked what he would do if he had killed the only one thing he loved in the world? Cosy must be the only thing she loved. And now he thought of it when she believed that he was dead. She called him Edward, Edward. Now Harold Courage was as simple and unsuspicious a man as it would be easy to find, but he was no fool. He had moved about the world and on various occasions come in contact with cases of this sort as most other men have done. He knew that when a woman in a moment of distress calls a man by his Christian name it is because she is in the habit of thinking of him and speaking of him by that name. Not that there is much in that by itself, but in public she called him Mr. Cosy. Edward clearly then was the only thing she loved and Edward was secretly engaged to Ida and Mrs. Quest knew it. Now when a man has the fortune or rather the misfortune to be the only thing a married woman ever loved, and when that married woman is aware of the fact of his devotion and engagement to somebody else, it is obvious, he reflected, that in nine cases out of ten the knowledge will excite strong feelings in her breast. Feelings, indeed, which in some nature would amount almost to madness. When he had first seen Mrs. Quest that afternoon she and Cosy were alone together and he had noticed something unusual about her, something unnatural and intense. Indeed, he had, he remembered, told her that she looked like a tragic muse. Could it be that the look was the look of a woman maddened by insult and jealousy who was meditating some fearful crime? How did that gun go off? He did not see it, any thank God that he did not. For somehow we are not always as anxious to bring our fellow-creatures to justice as we might be, especially when they happen to be young and lovely women. How did it go off? She understood guns, he could see that from the way she handled it. Was it likely that it exploded of itself or owing to an accidental touch of the trigger? It was possible, but not likely. Still, such things had been known to happen, and it would be impossible to prove that it had not happened in this case. If it was an attempted murder it was very cleverly managed, because nobody could prove that it was not accidental. But could it be that that soft, beautiful, baby-faced woman had, on the spur of the moment, taken advantage of his loaded gun to wreak her jealousy and her wrongs upon her faithless lover? Well, the face is no mirror of the quality of the soul within, and it was possible. Further than that it did not seem to him to be his business to inquire. By this time he was at the castle, the squire was out but Ida was in, and he was shown into the drawing-room while the servant went to seek her. Suddenly he heard her dress rustle upon the stairs, and the sound of it sent the blood to his heart, for where is the music that is more sweet than the rustling of the dress of the woman whom we love? She came in and shook hands with him. Why, what is the matter? she said, noticing the disturbed expression on his face. Well, he said, there has been an accident, a very bad accident. Who, she said, not my father? No, no, Mr. Cosy. Oh, she said, with a sigh of relief. Why, did you frighten me so? The Colonel smiled grimly at this unconscious exhibition of the relative state of her affections. What has happened to him? asked Ida, this time with a suitable expression of concern. He has been accidentally shot. By whom? Mrs. Quest. Then she did it on purpose. I mean, is he dead? No, but I believe he will die. They looked at each other, and each read in the eyes of the other the thought which passed through their brain. If Edward Cosy died they would be free to marry. So clearly did they read it that Ida actually interpreted it in words. You must not think that, she said. It is very wrong. It is wrong, answered the Colonel, apparently in no way surprised at her interpretation of his thoughts. But unfortunately human nature is human nature. Then he went on to tell her all about it. Ida made no comment, that is, after those first words. She did it on purpose, which burst from her in her astonishment. She felt, and he felt, too, that the question as to how that gun went off was one which was best left uninquired into by them. No doubt if the man died there would be an inquest, and the whole matter would be investigated. Meanwhile one thing was certain. Edward Cosy, whom she was engaged to, was shot and likely to die. Presently, while they were still talking, the squire came in from his walk, and to him also the story was told, and to judge from the expression of his face he thought it a serious one enough. If Edward Cosy died, the mortgages over the Hanum property would, as he thought, of course pass to his heir, who unless he had made a will, which was not probable, would be his father, old Mr. Cosy, the banker, from whom Mr. Delamol well knew he had little mercy to expect. This was serious enough, and what was still more serious was that all the bright prospects in which he had for some days been basking of the re-establishment of his family upon a secure basis than it had occupied for generations would vanish like a vision. Now he was not more worldly-minded than other men, but he did most fondly cherish the natural desire to see the family fortunes once more in the ascendant. The projected marriage between his daughter and Edward Cosy would have most fully brought this work about, and however much he might in his secret heart distrust the man himself, and doubt whether the match was really acceptable to Ida he could not view its collapse with indifference. While they were still talking the dressing-bell rang, and Harold rose to go. Stop and dine, won't you, Courage? said the squire. Harold hesitated and looked at Ida. She made no movement, but her eyes said stay, and he sighed and yielded. Dinner was rather a melancholy feast, for the squire was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and Ida had not much to say. While, so far as the Colonel was concerned, the recollection of the tragedy which he had witnessed that afternoon, and of all the dreadful details with which it was accompanied, was not conducive to appetite. As soon as dinner was over the squire announced that he would walk into Boisingham to inquire how the wounded man was getting on, and shortly afterward he started leaving his daughter and the Colonel alone. They went into the drawing-room and talked about indifferent things. No word of love passed between them, no word indeed that could bear even and affectionate significance, and yet every sentence they said carried a message with it, and was as heavy with unuttered passion as a bee with honey. For they loved each other dearly, and love is a thing that cannot be concealed by lovers from each other, like the air impalpable. It is like the air surrounding, and to those who breathe it necessary and real. It was happiness to him merely to sit beside her and hear her speak, and watch the changes of her face, and the lamplight playing upon her hair, and it was happiness to her to know that he was sitting there and watching. For the most beautiful thing about deep affection is its accompanying sense of perfect companionship and rest, a sense that nothing else in this life can give, and which, like a lifting cloud, reveals a glimpse of the white peaks of that heavenly peace that we cannot hope to tread in our stormy journey through the world. And so the evening wore away till at last they heard the squire's loud voice talking to somebody outside. Presently he entered. How is he? asked Harold. Will he live? They cannot say was the answer. But two great doctors have been telegraphed for from London, and will be down to-moral. CHAPTER XXXI of Colonel Quarridge, V.C. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Colonel Quarridge, V.C., by H. Ryder Haggart, CHAPTER XXXI, IDA RECANTS. The two great doctors came, and the two great doctors pocketed their hundred-ginny fee, and went, but neither the one nor the other, nor each the twain, could commit themselves to a fixed opinion as to Edward Cossey's chances of life or death. However, one of them picked out a number of shot from the wounded man, and a number more he left in because he could not pick them out, and they both agreed that the treatment of their humble local brethren was all that could be desired, and so far as they were concerned there was an end of it. A week had passed and Edward Cossey, nursed night and day by Bella Quest, still hovered between life and death. It was a Thursday, and Harold had walked up to the castle to give the squire the latest news of the wounded man. While he was in the vestibule, telling what he had to tell to Mr. Delamole and IDA, a man whom he recognized as one of Mr. Quest's clerks rang the bell. He was shown in, and handed the squire a fully-addressed brief envelope, which he said he had been told to deliver by Mr. Quest, and, saying that there was no answer, bowed himself out. As soon as he was gone the envelope was opened by Mr. Delamole, who took from it two legal documents which he went on to read. Suddenly the first dropped from his hand, and with an exclamation he snatched at the second. What is it, Father? asked IDA. What is it? Why it's just this. Edward Cossey has transferred the mortgages over this property to Quest, the lawyer, and Quest has served a notice on me calling in the money. And he began to walk up and down the room, in a state of great agitation. I don't quite understand, said IDA, her breast heaving, and with a curious light shining in her eyes. Don't you? said her father. Then perhaps you will read that. And he pushed the papers to her. As he did so, another letter which he had not observed, fell out of them. At this point Harold rose to go. Don't go, Courage, don't go! said the squire. I shall be glad of your advice, and I am sure that what you hear will not go any further. At the same time IDA motioned him to stay, and though somewhat unwelling he did so. Dear sir! began the squire, reading the letter aloud, and closed you will find the usual formal notices, calling in the sum of thirty thousand pounds, recently advanced upon your mortgage of the Hanum Castle Estates, by Edward Cosi Esquire. These mortgages have passed into my possession for value received, and it is now my desire to realize them. I most deeply regret being forced to press an old client, but my circumstances are such that I am obliged so to do. If I can in any way facilitate your efforts to raise the money I shall be very glad to do so, but in the extent of the money not being forthcoming, at the end of the six months' notice, the ordinary steps will be taken to realize by foreclosure. I am, dear sir, yours truly, W. Quest. James De La Mol Esquire, J.P. I see now, said IDA, Mr. Cosi has no further hold on the mortgages or on the property. That's it, said the squire. He has transferred them to that rascally lawyer, and yet he told me I can't understand it, I really can't. At this point the Colonel insisted upon departing, saying that he would call in again in the evening to see if he could be of any assistance. When he was gone, IDA spoke in a cold, determined voice. Mr. Cosi told me that when we married he would put those mortgages in the fire. It now seems that the mortgages were not his to dispose of, or else, that he has since transferred them to Mr. Quest without informing us. Yes, I suppose so, said the squire. Very well, said IDA, and now, Father, I will tell you something. I engaged myself, or, to be more accurate, I promised to engage myself to Edward Cosi on the condition that he would take up these mortgages when Cosi and son were threatening to foreclose, or whatever it is called. Good heavens! said her astonished father. What an idea! I did it, went on IDA, and he took up the mortgages, and in due course he claimed my promise, and I became engaged to marry him, though that engagement was most repugnant to me. You will see that, having persuaded him to advance the money, I could not refuse to carry out my share of the bargain. Well, said the squire, this is all news to me. Yes, she answered, and I should never have told you of it had it not been for this sudden change in the position of affairs. What I did, I did to save our family from ruin, but now it seems that Mr. Cosi has played us faults, and that we are to be ruined after all. Therefore the condition upon which I promised to marry him has not been carried out, and my promise falls to the ground. You mean that, supposing he lives, you will not marry Edward Cosi? Yes, I do mean it. The squire thought for a minute. This is a very serious step, IDA. He said, I don't mean that I think that the man has behaved well, but still he may have given up the mortgages to Mr. Quest under pressure of some sort, and might be willing to find the money to meet them. I do not care if he finds the money ten times over, said IDA. I will not marry him. He has not kept the letter of his bond, and I will not keep to mine. It is all very well, IDA, said the squire, and of course nobody can force you into a distasteful marriage, but I wish to point out to you one thing. You have your family to think of as well as yourself. I tell you, frankly, that I do not believe that, as times are, it will be possible to raise thirty thousand pounds to pay off the charges, unless it is by the help of Edward Cosi. So if he lives, and as he has lasted so long, I expect that he will live, and you refuse to go on with your engagement to him. We shall be sold up, and that is all, for that fellow-Quest confound him. We'll show us no mercy. I know it, Father, answered IDA, but I cannot, and will not marry him, and I do not think you can expect me to. I got engaged or rather promised to get engaged to him, because I thought that one woman had no right to put her own happiness before the welfare of an old family like ours, and I would have carried out that engagement at any cost. But since then, to tell you the truth, and she blushed deeply, not only have I learned to dislike him a great deal more, but I have come to care for someone else who also cares for me, and who, therefore, has a right to be considered. Think, Father, what it means to a woman to sell herself into bodily and mental bondage when she cares for another man. Well, well, said her father, with some irritation, I am no authority upon matters of sentiment. They are not in my line, and I know that women have their prejudices. Still, you can't expect me to look at the matter in quite the same light as you do. And who is the gentleman, Colonel Courage? She nodded her head. Oh, said the squire, I have nothing to say against Courage. Indeed, I like the man, but I suppose that if he has five hundred pounds a year, that is every six pounds he can count on. I had rather marry him upon five hundred a year than Edward Cossey upon fifty thousand. Ah, yes, I have heard women talk like that before, though perhaps they think differently afterwards. Of course I have no right to obtrude myself, but when you are comfortably married, what is going to become of him upon him? I should like to know, and incidentally, of me. I don't know, Father, dear," she answered, her eyes filling with tears. We must trust a providence, I suppose. I know you think me very selfish. She went on, catching him by the arm. But, oh, Father, there are things that are worse than death to women, or at least to some women. I almost think that I would rather die than marry Edward Cossey, though I would have gone through with it, if he had kept his word. No, no, said her father, I can't wonder at it, and certainly I do not ask you to marry a man you dislike. But still, it is hard upon me to have all this trouble at my age, and the old place, coming to the hammer, too. It is enough to make a man wish that his troubles were over altogether. However, we must take things as we find them, and we find them pretty rough. Quaritch said he was coming back this evening, didn't he? I suppose there will not be any public engagement at present while there. And look here, Ida, I don't want him to come talking to me about it. I have got enough things of my own to think of without bothering my head about your love affairs. Pray let the thing be for the present. And now I am going out to see that fellow George, who hasn't been here since he came back from London, and a nice bit of news it will be that I shall have to tell him. When her father had gone, Ida did a thing she had not done for some time. She wept a little. All her fine intentions of self-denial had broken down, and she felt humiliated at the fact. She had intended to sacrifice herself upon the altar of her duty, and to make herself the wedded wife of a man who was repugnant to her. And now, on the first opportunity, she had thrown up the contract on a quibble, a point of law as it were. Nature had been so strong for her, as it often is for people with deep feelings she could not do it, no, not to save Hanum from the hammer. When she had promised that she would engage herself, Chedricosi, she had not been in love with Colonel Quaritch. Now she was, and the difference between the two states was considerable. Still, the fall was a humiliating one to her pride. And what is more, she felt that her father was disappointed in her. Of course, she could not expect him at his age. When looked at through the mist of years all sentiment appears more or less foolish. To enter into her private feelings. She knew very well that age strips men of those finer sympathies and sensibilities which close them in youth, much as the winter frost and winds strip the delicate foliage from the trees. For to them the music of the world is dead. Love has vanished with the summer dews, and in its place are cutting blasts and snows and mere memories rustling like fallen leaves about their feet. As we grow old we are apt to grow away from beauty and what is high and pure, our hearts harden by contact with the hard world. We examine love and find, or think we find, that it is not but a variety of lust, friendship, and think it self-interest, religion, and aim it superstition. The facts of life alone remain clear and desirable. We know that money means power, and we turn our face to mammon, and if he smiles upon us we are content to let our finer visions go where our youth has gone. Trailing clouds of glory do we come from God who is our home. So says the poet, but alas the clouds soon melt into the great air of the world, and so any of us before our course is finished forget that they ever were, and yet which is the shadow of the truth, those dreams and hopes and aspirations of our younger life, or the grimy corruption with which the world cakes our souls. She knew that she could not expect her father to sympathize with her. She knew that to his judgment circumstances being the same, and both suitors being equally sound in wind and limb, the choice of one of them should be a matter to be decided by the exterior consideration of wealth and general convenience. For men and especially old men who are interested in the matter, putting aside their contempt of sentiment, little understand the preferences of women. Since the world began women have been an article of commerce, and in their hearts many men look upon them as an article of commerce still, creatures incapable of any real feeling, except of course the natural maternal instinct, and quite ready, to accommodate themselves to any master which fate gives them. It is, however, only fair to say that they also sometimes reach that conclusion by study from the life rather than from the inherited tradition. However Ida had made her choice, made it suddenly, but nonetheless had made it. It lay between her father's interest and the interest of the family at large, and her own honour as a woman, for the mere empty ceremony of marriage which satisfied the world cannot make dishonour an honourable thing. She had made her choice, and the readers of her history must judge if that choice were right or wrong. After dinner Harold came again as he had promised. The squire was not in the drawing-room when he was shown in. Ida rose to greet him with a sweet and happy smile upon her face. Four in the presence of her lover, all doubt and troubles vanished like a mist. I have a bit of good news for you," said he, trying to look as though he were rejoiced to give it. Edward Cawsey has taken a wonderful turn for the better. They say that he will certainly recover. Oh! she answered, colouring a little. And now I have a bit of news for you, Colonel Quarch. My engagement with Mr. Edward Cawsey is at an end. I shall not marry him. Are you sure? said Harold with a gasp. Quite sure. I have made up my mind. And she held out her hand as though to seal her words. He took it and kissed it. Thank God, Ida," he said. Yes, she answered, thank God. And at that moment the squire came in, looking very miserable and depressed, and of course nothing more was said about the matter. CHAPTER 32 George prophesies again. Six weeks have passed, and in that time several things have happened. In the first place the miserly old banker Edward Cawsey's father had died, his death having been accelerated by the shock of his son's accident. On his will being opened it was found that property and money to no less a value than six hundred thousand pounds passed under it to Edward absolutely, the only condition attached being that he should continue in the house of Cawsey and son and leave a certain share of his fortune in the business. Edward Cawsey had also, thanks chiefly to Bella's tender nursing, almost recovered, with one exception he was, and would be for life, stone deaf in the right ear, the paralysis which the doctors had feared had not shown itself. One of the first questions, when he became convalescent, was addressed to Bella Quest. He had, as in a dream, always seen her sweet face hanging over him and dimly known, that she was ministering to him. "'Have you nursed me ever since the accident, Bella?' he said. "'Yes,' she answered. "'It is very good of you, considering all things,' he murmured. "'I wonder that you did not let me die.'" And she turned her face to the wall, and said, never a word, nor did any further conversation on these matters pass between them. Then, as his strength came back, so did his passion for Ida de Lamol revive. He was not allowed to write or even receive letters, and with this explanation of her silence he was feigned to content himself. But the squire, he was told often, called to inquire after him, and once or twice Ida came with him. At length a time came, it was two days after he had been told of his father's death, when he was pronounced fit to be moved into his own rooms and to receive his correspondence as usual. The move was effected without any difficulty, and here Bella bade him good-bye. Even as she did so George drove his fat pony up to the door and, getting down, delivered a letter to the landlady, with particular instructions that it was to be delivered to Mr. Cosy's own hands. As she passed Bella saw that it was addressed in the squire's handwriting. When it was delivered to him Edward Cosy opened it with eagerness. It contained an enclosure in Ida's writing. And this he read first. It ran as follows, Dear Mr. Cosy, I am told that you are now able to read letters, so I hastened to write to you. First of all, let me tell you how thankful I am that you are in a fair way to complete recovery from your dreadful accident. And now I must tell you what I fear will be almost as painful to you to read as it is for me to write. Namely, that the engagement between us is at an end. To put the matter frankly you will remember that I rightly or wrongly became engaged to you on a certain condition, that engagement has not been fulfilled. For Mr. Quest, to whom the mortgages on my father's property have been transferred by you, is pressing for their payment. Consequently, the obligation on my part is at an end. And with it the engagement must end also, for I grieve to tell you that it is not one which my personal inclination will induce me to carry on. Wishing you a speedy and complete recovery, and every happiness and prosperity in your future life. Believe me, Dear Mr. Cosy, very truly yours, Ida de la Maul. He put this uncompromising and crushing epistle down, and nervously glanced at the squires which was very short. It began. My dear Cosy, Ida has shown me the enclosed letter. I think that you did unwisely, when you entered into what must be called a money bargain for my daughter's hand. Whether under all the circumstances she does either well or wisely to repudiate the engagement after it has once been entered into is not for me to judge. She is a free agent, and has, of course, a right to dispose of her life as she thinks fit. This being so I have, of course, no option but to endorse her decision, so far as I have anything to do with the matter. It is a decision which I for some reasons regret, but which I am quite powerless to alter. Believe me, with kind regards, yours truly, James de la Maul. Edward Cosy turned his face to the wall, and indulged in such meditations as the occasion gave rise to, and they were bitter enough. He was as bent upon this marriage as he had ever been, more so in fact, now that his father was out of the way. He knew that Ida disliked him. He had known that all along, but he had trusted to time and marriage to overcome the dislike. And now that a cursed quest has brought about the ruin of his hopes. Ida had seen her chance to escape, and had, like a bold woman, seized upon it. There was one ray of hope, and only one. He knew that the money would not be forthcoming to pay off the mortgages. He could see too, from the tone of the squire's letter, that he did not altogether approve of his daughter's decision. And his father was dead. Like Caesar he was the master of many legions, or rather of much money, which is as good as legions. Money can make most paths smooth to the feet of the traveller, and why not this? After much thought he came to a conclusion. He would not trust his chance to paper. He would plead his cause in person. So he wrote a short note to the squire, acknowledging Ida's and his letter, and saying that he hoped to come and see them as soon as ever the doctor would allow him out of doors. Meanwhile George, having delivered his letter, had proceeded upon another errand. Pulling up the fat pony in front of Mr. Quest's office, he alighted and entered. Mr. Quest was disengaged, and he was shown straight into the inner office, where the lawyer sat, looking more refined and gentlemanlike than ever. Oh, do you do, George? He said cheerily, sit down, what is it? Well, sir, answered that legubrius worthy, as he awkwardly took a seat. The question is, what isn't it? These be rum-times they be. They fair to puzzle a man they do. Yes, said Mr. Quest, balancing a quill-pan on his finger. The times are bad enough. Then came a pause. Dashed all, sir, went on George presently. I may as well get it out. I have come to speak to you about the squire's business. Yes, said Mr. Quest. Well, sir, went on George. I am told that these mortgages have passed into your hands, and that you have called in the money. Yes, that is correct. Said Mr. Quest again. Well, sir, the fact is that the squire can't get the money. It can't be had, know-how. Nobody won't take the land as security. It might be so much water for all people will look at it. Quite so. Land is in very bad order, as security now. And that being so, sir, what is to be done? Mr. Quest shrugged his shoulders. I do not know. If the money is not forthcoming, of course I shall, however unwillingly, be forced to take my legal remedy. Meaning, sir? Meaning that I will bring in an action for foreclosure, and do what I can with the lands. George's face darkened. And that reads, sir, that the squire in Miss Delamole will be turned out of Hanum, where they have been for centuries, and that you will turn in? Well, that is what it comes to, George. I am sincerely sorry to press the squire, but it is a matter of thirty thousand pounds, and I am not in a position to throw away thirty thousand pounds. Sir, said George, rising in indignation, I do not know how you came by them there, mortgages. There is some things that lawyers know, and eyes men don't know, and that is one of them. But it seems that you've got them, and are going to use them, and that being so, Mr. Quest, I have something to say to you, and that is that no good will will come to you from this move. What do you mean by that, George? said the lawyer sharply. Never you mind what I mean, sir. I mean what I say. I mean that some people has things in their lives snugged away where nobody can't see them. Things as quiet as though they was dead and buried. And that ain't dead or buried. Things so much alive that they fare as though they were fit to kick the lid off their coffin. That's what I mean, sir, and I mean that when folks sit to work to do a hard and wicked thing those dead things sometime gets up and walks where they least wanted. And may have if you goes on to turn the squire and Miss Ida out of the castle. May have, sir, something of that sort will happen to you. For mark my word, sir, there's justice in the world, sir, as may have you will find out. And now, sir, I'll wish you good morning and leave you to consider what I have said. And he was gone. George called Mr. Quest after him, rising from his chair. George! But George was out of hearing. Now what did he mean by that? What the devil did he mean? Said Mr. Quest with a gas as he sat down again. Surely, he thought, the man cannot have got hold of anything about Edith. Impossible. Impossible. If he had he would have said more. He would not have confined himself to hinting. That would take a cleverer man. He would have shown his hand. He must have been speaking at random, to frighten me, I suppose. By heavens, what a thing it would be if he got hold of something. Ruin, absolute ruin. I'll settle up this business as soon as I can and leave the country. I can't stand the strain. It's like having a sword over one's head. I have half a mind to leave it in somebody else's hands and go at once. No, for that would look like running away. It must be all rubbish. How could he know anything about it? So shaken was he, however, that though he tried, once and yet again, he found it impossible to settle himself down, to work, till he had taken a couple glasses of sherry from the decanter in the cupboard. And even as he did so, he wondered, if the shadow of the sword disturbed him so much, how he would be affected, if ever it were his lot, to face the glimmer of its naked blade. No further letter came to Edward Cossey from the castle. But impatient as he was to do so, another fortnight elapsed before he was able to go up to see Ida and her father. At last, one fine December morning, he was, for the first time, since his accident, allowed to take care of exercise, and his first drive was to Hanum Castle. When the squire, who was sitting in the festival, writing letters, saw a poor, pallid man, rolled up in fur, with a white face, scarred with shop-marks, and black rings round his large, dark eyes, being helped from a closed carriage, he did not know who it was, and called to Ida, who was passing along the passage, to tell him. Of course she recognized her admirer instantly, and wished to leave the room, but her father prevented her. You got into this mess, he said, forgetting how and for whom she got into it, and now you must get out of it in your own way. When Edward, having been assisted into the room, saw Ida standing there, all the blood in his wasted body seemed to rush for a few seconds into his pallid face. How do you do, Mr. Cossey? she said. I'm glad to see you out, and hope that you are better. I beg your pardon, I cannot hear you, he said, turning round, I am stone deaf in my right ear. A pang of pity shot through her heart. Edward Cossey, feeble, dejected, and limping from the jaws of death, was a very different being to Edward Cossey in the full blow of his youth, and health, and strength. Indeed, so much did his condition appeal to her sympathies that, for the first time since her mental attitude towards him had been one of entire indifference, she looked on him without repugnance. Meanwhile her father had shaken him by the hand and led him to an armchair before the fire. Then, after a few questions and answers as to his accident and merciful recovery, there came a pause. At length he broke it. I have come to see you both, he said, with a faint and nervous smile, about the letters you wrote me, if my condition would have allowed it, I would have come before, but it would not. Yes, said the squire attentively, while Ida folded her hands in her lap and sat still with her eyes fixed upon the fire. It seems, he went on, that the old proverb has applied to my case as to so many others, being absent, I have suffered. I understand from these letters that my engagement to you, Ida, is broken off. She made a motion of assent, and that it is to be broken off on the ground that, having been forced by a combination of circumstances, which I cannot enter into, to transfer the mortgages to Mr. Quest, consequently that I broke my bargain with you. Yes, said Ida, very well then, I come to tell you both that I am ready to find the money to meet those mortgages and pay them off. Ah, said the squire. Also, that I am ready to do what I offered to do before, and which, as my father is now dead, I am perfectly in a position to do, namely, to settle two hundred thousand pounds absolutely upon Ida, and indeed do anything else that she or you may wish. And he looked at the squire. It is no use looking at me for an answer, said he, with some irritation, I have no voice in the matter. He turned to Ida, who put her hand before her face and shook her head. Perhaps, said Edward somewhat bitterly, I should not be far wrong if I said that Colonel Quarrich has more to do with your change of mind than the fact of the transfer of these mortgages. She dropped her hand and looked him full in the face. You are quite right, Mr. Cosy, she said boldly. Colonel Quarrich and I are attached to each other, and we hope one day to be married. Con found that fellow Quarrich, growled the squire. Edward winced visibly at this outspoken statement. Ida, he said, I make one last appeal to you. I am devoted to you with all my heart, so devoted, that though it may seem foolish to say so, especially before your father, I really think that I would rather not have recovered from my accident than that I should have recovered for this. I will give you everything that a woman can want, and my money will make your family what it was centuries ago, the greatest in the countryside. I don't pretend to have been a saint. Perhaps you may have heard something against me in that way, or to be anything out of the way. I am only an ordinary, everyday man, but I am devoted to you. Think then before you refuse me altogether. I have thought, Mr. Cosy, answered Ida, almost passionately. I have thought, until I am sick of thinking, and I do not think that it is fair that you should press me like this, especially before my father. Then, he said, rising with difficulty, I have said, all that I have to say, and done, all that I can do. I shall still hope that you may change your mind. I shall not yet abandon hope. Good-bye. She touched his hand, and then, the squire offering him his arm, he went down the steps to his carriage. I hope, Mr. De La Mol, he said, that bad as things are for me. If they should take a turn, I shall have your support. My dear sir, answered the squire, I tell you frankly that I wish my daughter would marry you. As I said before, I have nothing against you, and it would, for obvious reasons, be desirable. But Ida is not like ordinary women. When she sets her mind upon a thing, she sets it like a flint. Things may change, however, and that is all I can say. Yes, if I were you, I should remember that this is a changeable world, and that women are the most changeable things in it. When the carriage had gone, he re-entered the vestibule. Ida, who was going away, much disturbed in mind, saw him coming, and knew from the expression of his face that there was going to be trouble. With characteristic courage she turned, determined to face it out. End of Chapter 32 For a minute or more her father fidgeted about, moving his papers backward and forward, but said nothing. At last he spoke. You have taken a most serious and painful step, Ida. He said, Of course, you have a right to do as you please. You are of full age, and I cannot expect that you will consider me, or your family, in your matrimonial engagements. But at the same time I think that it is my duty to point out to you what it is that you are doing. You are refusing one of the finest matches in England in order to marry a broken-down, middle-aged, half-pay Colonel, a man who can hardly support you, whose part in life is played, or is apparently too idle to seek another. Here Ida's eyes flashed ominously, but she made no comment, being apparently afraid to trust herself to speak. You are doing this, went on her father, working himself up as he spoke, in the face of my wishes, and with the knowledge that your action will bring your family to say nothing of your father to utter an irretrievable ruin. Surely, father, surely, broken Ida, almost in a cry, you would not have me marry one man when I love another, when I made the promise I had not become attached to Colonel Courage. Love, pfft, said her father, don't talk to me in that sentimental and schoolgirl way. You are too old for it. I am a plain man, and I believe in family affection and in duty Ida. Love, as you call it, is only too often another word for self-will and selfishness, and other things that we are better off without. I can understand, father, answered Ida, struggling to keep her temper under this jobation, that my refusal to marry Mr. Cosy is disagreeable to you for obvious reasons, though it is not so very long ago that you detested him yourself. But I do not see why an honest woman's affection for another man should be talked of as though there was something shameful about it. It is all very well to sneer at love. But, after all, a woman is flesh and blood, she is not chattel or a slave-girl, and marriage is not like anything else. It means, as you must know, many things to a woman. There is no magic about marriage, to make that which is unrighteous righteous, or that which is impure pure. There, said her father, it is no good, you're lecturing me on marriage, Ida. If you do not want to marry Cosy, I can't force you to. If you want to ruin me and your family and yourself you must do so. But there is one thing, while it is over me, which I suppose will not be for much longer. My house is my own, and I will not have that kernel of yours hanging about it, and I shall write to him to say so. You are your own mistress, and if you choose to walk over to church and marry him you can do so. But it will be done without my consent, which, of course, however, isn't unnecessary formality. Do you hear me, Ida? If you have quite done, Father, she answered codely, I should like to go before I say something which I might be sorry for. Of course you can write what you like to Colonel Courage, and I shall write to him, too. Her father made no answer, beyond sitting down at his table, and grabbing viciously at a pen. So she left the room, indignant indeed, but with as heavy a heart as any woman could well carry in her breast. Dear Sir, wrote they not altogether a naturally indignant squire. I have been informed by my daughter of her entanglement with you. It is one which, for reasons that I need not enter into, is most distasteful to me, as well as, I am sorry to say, ruinous to Ida herself and to her family. Ida is of full age, and must, of course, do as she pleases with herself, but I cannot consent to become a party to what I disapprove of so strongly, and this being the case, I must beg you to cease your visits to this house. I am, Sir, your obedient servant, James de la Mol, Colonel Courage. Ida, as soon as she had sufficiently recovered herself, also wrote to the Colonel. She told him the whole story, keeping nothing back, and ended her letter thus. Never, dear Harold, was a woman in a greater difficulty, and never have I more needed help and advice. You know, and have good reason to know, how hateful this marriage should be to me, loving you as I do entirely and alone, and having no higher desire than to become your wife. But, of course, I seen the painfulness of the position. I am not so selfish as my father believes, or says that he believes. I quite understand how great would be the material advantage to my father if I could bring myself to marry Mr. Causie. You may remember that I told you once that I thought that no woman had a right to prefer her own happiness to the prosperity of her whole family. But, Harold, it is easy to speak this, and very, very hard to act to it. What am I to do? What am I to do? And yet how can I, in common fairness, ask you to answer that question? God help us both, Harold. Is there no way out of it? These letters were both duly received by Harold Courage on the following morning, and threw him into a fever of anxiety and doubt. He was a just and reasonable man, and knowing something of human nature under the circumstances did not altogether wonder at the squire's violence and irritation. The financial position of the Delamole family was little, if anything, short of desperate, and he could easily understand how maddening it must be to a man like the squire who loved Hanum, which had for centuries been the habitation of his race. Better than he loved anything on earth to suddenly realize that it must pass away from him and his for ever, merely because a woman happened to prefer one man to another, and that man to his view the less eligible of the two. So keenly did he realize this, indeed, that he greatly doubted whether or no he was justified in continuing his advances to Aida. Finally, after much thought, he wrote to the squire as follows. I have received your letter, and also one from Aida, and I hope you will believe me when I say that I quite understand and sympathize with the motives which evidently led you to write it. I am unfortunately, although I never regretted it till now, a poor man, whereas my rival suitor is a very rich one. I shall, of course, strictly obey your injunctions, and moreover I can assure you that, whatever my own feelings may be in the matter, I shall do nothing, either directly or indirectly, to influence Aida's ultimate decision, she must decide for herself. To Aida he wrote at length. Dearest Aida, he ended, I can say nothing more, you must judge for yourself, and I shall accept your decision, loyally, whatever it may be. It is unnecessary for me now to tell you how inextricably my happiness in life is interwoven with that decision. But at the same time I do not wish to influence it. It certainly, to my mind, does not seem right that a woman should be driven into sacrificing her whole life to secure any monetary advantage, either for herself or for others. But then the world is full of things that are not right. I can give you no advice, for I do not know what advice I ought to give. I try to put myself out of the question and to consider you and you only. But even then I feel that my judgment is not impartial. At any rate, the less we see of each other, the better at present. For I do not wish to appear to be taking any undue advantage. If we are destined to pass our lives together, this temporary estrangement will not matter, and if on the other hand we are doomed to a lifelong separation, the sooner we begin, the better. It is a cruel world, and sometimes, as it does now, my heart sinks within me, as from year to year I struggle on towards a happiness that ever vanishes when I stretch out my hand to clasp it. But if I feel thus, what must you feel? You have so much more to bear. My dearest love, what can I say to you? I can only say, with you, God help us. This letter did not tend to raise Ida's spirits. Evidently her lover saw that there was another side to the question, the side of duty, and was too honest to hide it from her. She had said that she would have nothing to do with Edward Cossey, but she was well aware that the matter was still an open one. What should she do? What ought she to do? Abandon her love, desecrate and defile herself, and save her father and her house, or cling to her love, and leave the rest to chance? It was a cruel position, nor did the lapse of time tend to make it less cruel. Her father went about the place pale and melancholy. All his old jovial manner had vanished beneath the pressure of impending ruin. He treated her with studious and old fashioned courtesy, but she could see that he was bitterly aggrieved by her conduct, and that the anxiety of his position was telling on his health. If this was the case now, what, she wondered, would happen in the spring when proceedings were actually taken to sell the place. One bright, cold morning she was walking with her father through the fields down the footpath that led to the church, and it would have been hard to say which of them looked the paler or the more miserable of the two. On the previous day the squire had had an interview with Mr. Quest, and made as much of an appeal, ad misrecordium, to him as pride would allow, only to find the lawyer very courteous, very regretful, but as hard as adamant. Also that very morning a letter had reached him from London, announcing that the last hope of raising money to meet the mortgages to be paid off had failed. The path ran along towards the road, past a line of oaks. Halfway down this line they came across George, who, with his marking instrument in his hand, was contemplating some of the trees which it was proposed to take down. What are you doing there? said the squire in a melancholy voice. Marking squire? Then you may as well save yourself the trouble, for the place will belong to somebody else before the sap is up in those oaks. No, squire, don't you begin to talk like that, for I don't believe it. That ain't a going to happen. Ain't a going to happen, you stupid fellow, ain't a going to happen. Answered the squire with a dreary laugh. Why, look there! he pointed to a dog-cart which had drawn up on the road in such a position, that they could see it without its occupants seeing them. They are taking notes already. George looked, and so did Ida. Mr. Quest was the driver of the dog- cart, which had pulled up in such a position as to command a view of the castle and his companion, in whom George recognized a well-known London auctioneer, who sometimes did business in those parts, was standing up, and opened a notebook in his hand, alternately looking at the noble towers of the gateway and jotting down Memoranda. Duh him, and so he be, said George, utterly forgetting his manners. Ida looked up and saw her father's eyes, fixed upon her, with an expression that seemed to say, See you willful woman, see the ruin that you have brought upon us. Ida turned away, she could not bear it, and that very night she came to a determination which she in due course communicated to Harold and Harold alone. That determination was to let things be for the present upon the chance of something happening by which the dilemma might be solved. But if nothing happened, and indeed it did not seem probable, to her that anything would happen, then she would sacrifice herself at the last moment. She believed, indeed she knew, that she could always call Edward Cossey back to her if she liked. It was a compromise, and, like all compromises, had an element of weakness, but it gave time, and time to her was like water to the dying. Sir, said George presently, it's boising him quarter-sessions the day after to-morrow, ain't it? Mr. Delamol was chairman of quarter-sessions. Yes, of course it is. George thought for a minute. I'm thinking, Squire, that if I aren't wanted that day I want to go up to London about a bit of business. Go up to London, said the Squire. Why? What do you want to do there? You were in London the other day. Well, Squire, he answered, looking inexpressibly sly, lantate no matter of nobodies. It's a bit of private affairs. Oh, all right, said the Squire, his interest dying out. You are always full of mysteries. And he continued his walk. But George shook his fist in the direction of the road, down which the dog cart had driven. Ah, you devil, he said, alluding to Mr. Quest. If I don't make boising him, yes, and all England, too hot to hold you, my name ain't George. I'll give you what for, my cuckoo, that I will. End of Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Of Colonel Quaritch V.C. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Colonel Quaritch V.C., by H. Ryder Haggart, Chapter 34 George's Diplomatic Air End George carried out his intention of going to London. The morning following the day when Mr. Quest had driven to the auctioneer in the dog cart to Hanham, George might have been seen an hour before it was light, purchasing a third-class return ticket to Liverpool Street. Arriving there in safety he partook of a second breakfast for it was ten o'clock, and then, taking a cab, he had driven himself to the end of that street in Pimlico, where he had gone with the fair Edithia, and where Johnny had made acquaintance with his ash-stick. Dismissing the cab, he made his way to the house with the red pillars, where he was considerably taken aback for the place had every appearance of being deserted. There were no blinds to the windows, and on the step were muddy foot-marks and bits of rags and straw, which seemed to be the litter of a recent removal. Indeed, there on the road were the broad wheel-marks of the van which had carted off the furniture. He started at this with slight dismay. The bird had apparently flown and left no address, and he had had his trip for nothing. He pressed upon the electric bell. That is, he did this ultimately. George was not accustomed to electric bells. Indeed, he had never seen one before, and after attempting in vain to pull it with his fingers, for he knew that it must be a bell, because there was the word itself written on it. He condescended to try his teeth. Ultimately, however, he discovered how to use it, but without result. Either the battery had been taken away, or it was out of gear. Just as he was wondering what to do next, he made a discovery. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it, and it opened, revealing a dirty hall, stripped of every scrap of furniture. Entering, he shut the door and walked upstairs to the room where he had fled after thrashing Johnny. Here he paused and listened, for he thought he heard somebody in the room, nor was he mistaken, for presently a well-remembered voice shrilled out within him. Who's skulking about outside there? said the voice. If it's one of those bailiffs, he'd better hook it, for there's nothing left here. George's countenance positively beamed at the sound. Bailiffs marmed. He sung out through the door. It ain't no verminy bailiffs. It's a friend. And just when you're wanting one seemingly, can I come in? Oh, yes, come in. Whoever you are, said the voice. Accordingly he opened the door and entered, and this was what he saw. The room had, like the rest of the house, been stripped of everything, with the exception of a box and a mattress, beside which was an empty bottle and a dirty glass. On the mattress sat the fair Edithia, alias Mrs. Debeshne, alias the tiger, alias Mrs. Quest, and such a sight as she presented George had never seen before. Her fierce face bore traces of recent heavy drinking, and was moreover dirty, haggard, and dreadful to look upon. Her hair was a frowsy mat, on some patches of wet the golden dye had faded, leaving its natural hue which was a doubtful grey. She had no collar on, and her linen was open at the neck. On her feet were a filthy pair of white satin slippers. On her back that same gorgeous pink satin teagun which Mr. Quest had observed on the occasion of his visit. Now, however, soiled and torn. Anything more squalid or more repulsive than the whole picture cannot be imagined. And though his stomach was pretty strong, and in the course of his life he had seen many a sight of utter destitution, George literally recoiled from it. What some matter, said the hag sharply, and who the dickens are you? I know you, you're the chap who whacked Johnny, and she burst into a hoarse scream of laughter at the recollection. It was mean of you, though, to hook it and leave me. He pulled me the devil, and I was fined two pounds by the beak. Mean of him are not me, but he was a mean garment altogether, he was, to go and pull a lady too. I never heard of such a thing. But, Marm, if I might say so, you seem to be in trouble here. And he took a seat upon the deal-box. In trouble? I should think I was in trouble. There's been an execution in the house. That is, there's been three executions. One for rates and taxes, and one for a butcher's bill, and one for rent. They all came together, and they fought like wild cats for the duds. That was yesterday. And you see all they have left me, cleaned me out of everything, down to my new yellow satin, and then asked for more. They wanted to know where my jewellery was, but I did them there, hee hee. Meaning, Marm, meaning I hid it. That is, what was left of it, under a board. But that ain't the worst. When I was asleep that devil Ellen, who's had her share of the swag all these years, got to the board, and collared the thing and bolted with them. And look what she's left me instead. And she held up a scrap of paper. A receipt for five years' wages, and she's had them over and over again. Ah, if I ever get the chance at her. And she doubled her long hand, and made a motion, as of a person scratching. She's bolted and left me here to starve. I haven't had a bit since yesterday, nor a drink either. And that's worse. What's to become of me? I'm starving. I shall have to go to a work-house, yes, me. She added in a scream, me, who has spent thousands. I shall have to go to a work-house, like a common woman. It's cruel, Marm, cruel, said the sympathetic George, and you, a lawful wedded wife, till death do us part. But Marm, I saw a public over the way. Now no offence. But you'll let me just go over and fetch a bite and a sup. Well, she answered, hungrily. You're a gent, you are. Though you are a country one, you go, while I make a little toilet. And as for the drink, why, let it be brandy. Brandy it shall be, said the gallant George, and departed. In ten minutes he returned, with a supply of beef patties, some plates and glasses, and a bottle of good, strong British brown, which, as everybody knows, is a sufficient quantity to make three privates or two blue jackets, drunk and incapable. The woman, who now presented a slightly more respectable appearance, seized the bottle, and pouring about a wine-glass and a half of its contents into a tumbler, mixed it with an equal quantity of water, and drank it off at a draught. That's better, she said, and now for a patty. It's a real picnic, this is. He handed her one, but she could not eat more than half of it. For alcohol destroys the more healthy appetite, and she soon flew back to the brandy bottle. Now, Marm, that you are a little more comfortable, perhaps you will tell me how you got into this way, and you with your rich husband, as well as I knows, to love and cherish you. Ah, husband, to love and cherish me? She said, why, I have written to him three times, to tell him that I'm starving, had never a penny has he given me, and there's no allowance do yet, and when there is, they'll take it, for I owe hundreds. Well, said George, I call it cruel, cruel, and he's rolling in gold. Thirty thousand pounds he has just made, that I know of. You must be an angel, Marm, to stand it, an angel without wings. If it were my husband, I'd know the reason why. Ah, but I dare it, he'd murder me, he said he would. George laughed gently. Lord, Lord, he said, to see how men do play it off upon poor weak women, working on their nerves like that. He kill you, lawyer quest kill you, and he's the biggest coward in boising them. But there it is, this is a world of wrong, as the person says, and the poor shorn lambs must jam their tails down, and turn their stars to the wind. And so must you, Marm, so it's the work has you'll be in to-morrow. Well, you'll find it a poor place, thus gilly is that rough, it do fair to take the skin off your throat, and not a drop of liquor, not even a cup of hot tea, and work too, lots of it, scrubbing, Marm, scrubbing. This vivid picture of miseries to come, drew something between a sob and a howl from the woman. There is nothing more horrible to the imagination of such people than the idea of being forced to work. If their notions of a future state of punishment could be got at, they would be found, in nine cases out of ten, to resolve themselves into a vague conception of hard labour and a hot climate. It was the idea of the scrubbing that particularly affected the tiger. I won't do it, she said, I'll go to Chokey first. Look here, Marm, said George, in a persuasive voice, and pushing the brandy bottle towards her. Where is the need for you to go to the workhouse, or to Chokey either? You, with a rich husband, as is bound by law to support you, as becomes a lady, and Marm, mind another thing, a husband, as has wickedly deserted you, which, how he could do so, ain't for me to say, and is living along of another young party. She took some more brandy before she answered. That's all very well, you duffer, she said. But how am I to get at him? I tell you, I'm afraid of him, and even if I weren't, I haven't a scent to travel with, and if I got there, what am I to do? As for being afraid, Marm, he answered, I've told you, lawyer quest, is alongside more frightened of you than you are of him. Then, as for money, why, Marm, I'm going down to boysing on myself by the train that leaves Liverpool Street at half-past one, and that's an hour from now, and it's proud and pleased I should be to take a lady down, and by the means of bringing them, as has been in holy matrimony together again. And as to what you should do when you get there, why you should just walk up with your marriage-lines, and say, you are my husband, and I call on you to cease living in sin, and to take me back, and if he don't, why, then, you swears an information, and it's a case of warrant for bigamy. The tiger chuckled, and then, suddenly seized with suspicion, looked at her visitor sharply. What do you want me to blow the gaff for, she said, you're a leery old hand you are, for all your simple ways, and you've got some game on, I'll take my Davy. I, a game, I, answered George, an expression of the deepest pain spreading itself over his ugly features, no marm, and when one has wanted to help a friend, too, well, if you think that, and no doubt misfortune has made you suspicious, the best I can do is to bid you good-bye, and to wish you well out of your troubles, work-house and all marm, which I do, according, and he rose from his box, with much dignity, politely bowed to the hag on the mattress, and then turning, walked towards the door. She sprang up with an oath, I'll go, she said, I'll take the change out of him, I'll teach him to let his lawful wife starve on a beggarly pittance, I don't care if he does try to kill me, I'll ruin him. And she stamped upon the floor, and screamed, I'll ruin him, I'll ruin him. Presenting such a picture of abandoned evil and wickedness that even George, whose nerves were not finely strung, inwardly shrank from her. Ah, marm, he said, no wonder you're put out. When I think of what you've had to suffer, I own it makes my blood go boiling through my veins. But if you are coming, perhaps it would be as well to stop Kersen and put your hat on, for we have got to catch the train. And he pointed to a headgear chiefly made of somewhat dilapidated peacock feathers, and an ulster which the bailiffs had either overlooked, or left through pity. She put on the hat and cloak, and then, going to the hole beneath the board, out of which she said the woman Ellen had stolen her jewelry, she extracted the copy of the certificate of marriage which that lady had not apparently thought worth stealing, and put it in the pocket of her pink-silver pignoir. Then George, having first secured the remainder of the bottle of brandy which he put into his capaceous pocket, they started, and, finding a handsome, drove to Liverpool Street. Such a spectacle as the tiger looked upon the platform George was want in after-days to declare he never did see. But it can easily be imagined that a fierce, disillute, hungry looking woman with half-died hair, who had drunk as much as was good for her, dressed in a hat made of peacock feathers, dirty white shoes, an ulster with some buttons off, and a gorgeous, but filthy, pink silk teagown, presented a sufficiently curious appearance, especially when contrasted with her companion, the sober and melancholy-looking George, who was arrayed in his pepper and salt Sunday-suit. So curious indeed was their aspect that the people loitering about the platform collected round them, and George, who was heartily ashamed of the position, was thankful enough when once the train started. He had, from his motives of economy, taken her a third-class ticket, and at this she grumbled, saying that she was accustomed to travel like a lady should, first, but he appeased her with the brandy-bottle. All the journey through he talked to her about her wrongs till at last, what, between the liquor and his artful incitements, she was inflamed into a condition of savage fury against Mr. Quest. When once she got to this point he would let her have no more brandy, seeing that she was now ripe for his purpose, which was, of course, to use her to ruin the man who had ruined the house he served. Mr. Quest, sitting in state as clerk to the magistrates, assembled in quarter-sessions at the session-house in Boisingham, little guessed that the sword at Houshado he had trembled all these years