 CHAPTER 35 The Sword of Democles At last the weary journey was over, entered George's intense relief he found himself upon the platform at Boisingham. He was a pretty tough subject, but he felt that a very little more of the company of the fair Edithia would be too much for him. As it happened, the station master was a particular friend of his, and the astonishment of that worthy when he saw the respectable George in such company cannot be expressed in words. Why, bore, well, I never. Is she a foreigner? He ejaculated in astonishment. If you mean me, you dirty, wheel-greasing steam-bosh you? said Edithia, who was, by now, in fine bellicose condition. I am no more foreign than you are. Such ugly mouth, can't you? Or—? And she took a step towards the stout station master. He retreated precipitately, caught his heel against the threshold of the booking-office, and vanished backward with a crash. Steady, Marm, steady, said George, save it up now, do, and, as for you, don't you irritate her, none of you, or I won't answer for the consequences, for she is an injured woman she is, and injured women, is apt to be dangerous. As chance would have it, a fly, which had brought somebody to the station, was still standing there, and into it George bundled his fair charge, telling the driver to go to the session's house. Now, Marm, he said, listen to me, I am going to take you to the man who has wronged you. He is sitting as clerk to the magistrates. Do you go up and call him your husband? Then he'll tell the policeman to take you away. Then do sing out for justice, because when people sing out for justice everybody's bound to listen, and say that you want a warrant against him for bigamy, and show them the marriage certificate. Don't you be put down, and don't you spare him. If you don't startle him, you'll never get anything out of him. Spare him? she snarled. I'll make him sit up. I'll have his blood. But look here, if he's put in a chokey, where's the tin to come from? Why, Marm? answered George, with splendid mendacity. It's the best thing that can happen for you. For, if they call her him, you get the property, and that's the law. Oh! she answered. If I'd known that, he'd have been called long ago, I can tell you. Come, said George, seeing that they were nearing their destination. Have one more nip, just to keep your spirits up. And he produced the brandy bottle at which she took a long pole. Now, he said, go for him like a wildcat. Never you fear, she said. They dismounted from the cab, and entered the courthouse, without attracting any particular notice. The court itself was crowded, for a case which had excited public interest was coming to a conclusion. The jury had given their verdict, and sentence was being pronounced by Mr. de La Mol, the chairman. Mr. Quest was sitting at his table below the bench, taking some notes. There's your husband, he whispered, now do you draw on. Which as part in the drama was played, and with a sigh of relief, he fell back to watch its final development. He saw the fierce tall woman slip through the crowd like a snake or panther to its prey, and some compunction touched him when he thought of the prey. He glanced at the elderly, respectable-looking gentleman at the table, and reflected that he too was stalking his prey. The old squire and the ancient house of de La Mol. In his compunction vanished, and he rejoiced to think that he would be the means of destroying a man who, to fill his pockets, did not hesitate to destroy the family with which his life and the lives of his forefathers for many generations had been interwoven. By this time the woman had fought her way through the press, bursting the remaining buttons off her ulster in so doing, and reached the bar which separated the spectators from the space reserved for the officials. On the further side of the bar was a gangway, then came the table at which Mr. Quest sat. He had been busy writing something all this time. Now he rose and passed it to Mr. de La Mol, and then turned to sit down again. Meanwhile, his wife had crained her long, lithe body forward over the bar, till her head was almost level with the hither edge of the table. There she stood, glaring at him, her wicked face alive with fury and malice, for the brandy she had drunk had caused her to forget her fears. As Mr. Quest turned, his eye copped the flash of colour from the peacock feather-hacked. From thence it travelled to the face beneath. He gave a gasp, and the court seemed to whirl round him. The sword had fallen indeed. Wow, Billy! whispered the hateful voice. You see, I come to look you up. With a desperate effort he recovered himself. A policeman was standing near him, he beckoned to him, and told him to remove the woman who was drunk. The policeman advanced and touched her on the arm. Come, you be off, he said, you're a drunk. At that moment Mr. de La Mol ceased giving judgement. I ain't drunk, said the woman, loud enough to attract the attention of the whole court, which now for the first time observed her extraordinary attire. And I have a right to be in the public court. Come on, said the policeman. The clerk says you're to go. The clerk says so does he, she answered. And do you know who the clerk is? I'll tell you all. And she raised her voice to a scream. He's my husband, my lawful, wedded husband, and here's proof of it. And she took the folded certificate from her pocket and flung it so that it fell upon the desk of one of the magistrates. Mr. Quest sank into his chair, and there was a silence of astonishment through the court. The squire was the first to recover himself. Silence, he said, addressing her. Silence, this cannot go on here. And I want justice, she shrieked. I want justice, I want justice. I want a warrant against that man for bigamy. Renewed sensation. He's left me to starve. Me, his lawful wife, look here. And she tore open the pink satin teagun. I haven't enough clothes on me. The bailiff took all my clothes. I have suffered his cruelty for years, and borne it, and I can bear it no longer. Justice, your worships, I only ask for justice. Be silent, woman, said Mr. Delamole, if you have any criminal charge to bring against anybody there is a proper way to make it. Be silent or leave this court. But she only screamed the more for justice, and loudly detailed fragments of her woes to the eagerly listening crowd. Then the policemen were ordered to remove her, and there followed the most frightful scene. She shrieked and bit and fought in such a fashion that it took four men to drag her to the door of the court, where she dropped exhausted against the wall in the corridor. Well, said the observant George to himself, she has done the trick proper and no mistake, couldn't have been better, that's the master one that is. Then he turned his attention to the stricken man before him. Mr. Quest was sitting in his chair, his face ashen, his eyes wide open, and his hands placed flat on the table before him. When silence had been restored, he rose and turned to the bench, apparently with the intention of addressing the court. But he said nothing, either because he could not find words, or because his courage failed him. There was a moment's intense silence, for every one in the crowded court was watching him, and the sense of it seemed to take what resolution he had left out of him. At any rate he left the table and hurried from the court. In the passage he found the tiger, who, surrounded by a little crowd, and with her hat awry and her clothes half torn from her back, was huddled gasping against the wall. She saw him and began to speak, but he stopped and faced her. He faced her grinding his teeth, and with such an awful fire of fury in his eyes that she shrank from him in terror, flattening herself against the wall. What did I tell you? he said in a choked voice, and then passed on. A few paces down the passage he met one of his own clerks, a sharp fellow enough. Here, Jones, he said, you see that woman there? She has made a charge against me. Watch her. See where she goes, and find out what she is going to do. Then come and tell me at the office. If you lose sight of her you lose your place too, do you understand? Yes, sir, said the astonished clerk, and Mr. Quest was gone. He made his way direct to the office. It was closed, for he had told his clerks that he should not come back after court, and that they could go at half-past four. He had his key, however, and entering lit the gas. Then he went to his safe, and sorted some papers, burning a good number of them. Two large documents, however, he put by his side, to read. One was his will, and the other was endorsed. Statement of the circumstances connected with Edith. First he looked through his will. It had been made some years ago, and was entirely in favour of his wife, or rather, of his reputed wife, Bella. It may as well stand, he said aloud, if anything happens to me she'll take about ten thousand under it, and that was what she brought me. Taking a pen he went through the document carefully, and wherever the name of Bella Quest occurred he put a mark and inserted these words. Gannet, commonly known as Bella Quest. Gannet, being Bella's maiden name, and initialed the correction. Next he glanced at the statement. It contained a full and fair account of his connection with the woman who had ruined his life. I may as well believe it, he thought. Someday it will show Bella that I was not quite so bad as I seemed. He replaced the statement in a brief envelope, sealed and directed it to Bella, and finally marked it, not to be open to my death, W. Quest. Then he put the envelope away in the safe, and took up the will for the same purpose. Next it, on the table, lay the deeds, executed by Edward Causie, transferring the haunt of mortgages to Mr. Quest in consideration of his abstaining from the commencement of a suit for divorce, in which he proposed to join Edward Causie as a co-respondent. Ah! he thought to himself, that game is up, Bella is not my legal wife, therefore I cannot commence a suit against her in which Causie would figure as a co-respondent, and so the consideration fails. I am sorry for that, for I should have liked him to lose his thirty thousand pounds, as well as his wife, but it can't be helped. It was a game of bluff, and now that the bladder has been pricked, I haven't a leg to stand on. Then, taking a pen, he wrote on a sheet of paper, which he inserted in the well. Dear B. Blank, you must return the haunt of mortgages to Mr. Edward Causie, as you are not my legal wife, the consideration upon which he transferred them failed. And you cannot hold them in equity, nor I suppose would you wish to do so. W. Q. Having put all the papers away, he shut the safe at the moment that the clerk whom he had deputed to watch the tiger knocked at the door and entered. Well, said his master, well, sir, I watched the woman. She stopped in the passage for a minute, and then George, Squire de La Mol's man, came out and spoke to her. I got quite close so as to hear what he said, and he said, huge better get out of this. Where too, she answered, I'm afraid. Back to London, he said, and gave her a sovereign, and she got up without a word and slunk off to the station, followed by a mob of people. She's in the refreshment room now, but George sent word to say that they ought not to serve her any drink. What time does the next train go, seven-fifteen, does it not? said Mr. Quest. Yes, sir. Well, go back to the station and keep an eye upon that woman, and when the time comes, get me a first-class return ticket to London. I shall go up myself and give her in charge there. Here is some money. And he gave him a five-pound note. And look here, Jones, you need not trouble about the change. Thank you, sir, I'm sure," said Jones, to whom, his salary being a guinea-week on which he supported a wife and family, a gift of four pounds was sudden wealth. Don't thank me, but do as I tell you to. I will be down at the station at seven-ten, meet me outside and give me the ticket. That will do. When Jones had gone, Mr. Quest sat down to think. So it was George who had loosed this woman on him, and that was the meaning of his mysterious warnings. How had he found her? That did not matter. He had found her, and in revenge for the action taken against the DeLamol family, he had brought her here to denounce him. It had been cleverly managed, too. Mr. Quest reflected to himself that he should never have given the man credit for the brains. Well, that was what came of underrating people. And so this was the end of all his hopes, ambitions, shifts, and struggles. The story would be in every paper in England before another twenty-four hours were over, headed, remarkable occurrence at Boisingham, quarter-sessions, alleged bigamy of a solicitor. No doubt, too, the Treasury would take it up and institute a prosecution. This was the end of his strivings after respectability and the wealth that brings it. He had overreached himself. He had plotted and schemed and hardened his heart against the DeLamol family, and fate had made use of his success to destroy him. In another few months he had expected to be able to leave this place a wealthy and respected man. And now he laid his hand upon the table and reviewed his past life, tracing it up from year to year, and seeing how the shadow of this accursed woman had haunted him, bringing disgrace and terror and mental agony with it, making his life a misery. And now what was to be done? He was ruined. Let him fly to the utmost parts of the earth, let him bury in the recesses of the cities of the earth, and his shame would find him out. He was an impostor, a bigamist, one who had seduced an innocent woman into a mock marriage, and then taken her fortune to buy the silence of his lawful wife. More he had threatened to bring an action for divorce against a woman, to whom he knew he was not really married, and made it a lever to extort vast sums of money or their value. What is there that a man in his position can do? He can do two things. He can revenge himself upon the author of his ruin, and if he be bold enough he can put an end to his existence and his sorrows at a blow. Mr. Quest rose and walked to the door, halting he turned and looked around the office, in that peculiar fashion wherewith the eyes take their adieu. Then with a sigh he went out. Reaching his own house he hesitated, whether or not to enter, had the news reached Bella. If so, how was he to face her? Her hands were not clean, indeed, but at any rate she had no mock marriage in her record, and her dislike of him had been unconcealed throughout. She had never wished to marry him, and never for one single day regarded him otherwise than with aversion. After reflection he turned and went round by the back way into the garden. The curtains of the French windows were drawn, but it was a wet and windy night, and the draught occasionally lifted the edge of one of them. He crept like a thief up to his own window and locked in. The drawing-room was lighted. And in a low chair by the fire sat Bella. She was as usual dressed in black, and to Mr. Quest, who loved her, and who knew that he was about to bid farewell to the sight of her, she looked more beautiful now than ever. A book lay open on her knee, and he noticed, not without surprise, that it was a Bible. But she was not reading it. Her dimpled chin rested on her hand, and her violet eyes were fixed on vacancy, and even from where he was he thought that he could see the tears in them. She had heard nothing. He was sure of that, from the expression of her face. She was thinking of her own sorrows, not of his shame. Yes, he would go in. End of CHAPTER XXXVI. Mr. Quest entered the house by a side door, and, having taken off his hat and coat, went into the drawing-room. He had still half an hour to spare before starting to catch the train. Well, said Bella, looking up, why are you so pale? I have had a trying day. He answered, what have you been doing? Nothing in particular. Reading the Bible, I see. How do you know that? She asked, coloring a little, for she had thrown a newspaper over the book when she heard him coming in. Yes, I have been reading the Bible. Don't you know that when everything in this life has failed them, women generally take to religion? Or drink, he put in. Have you seen Mr. Cosy lately? No, why do you ask that? I thought that we had agreed to drop that subject. As a matter of fact, it had not been alluded to since Edward left the house. You know that Miss Dillamole will not marry him after all? Yes, I know. She will not marry him, because you forced him to give up the mortgages. You ought to be much obliged to me. Are you not pleased? No, I no longer care about anything. I am tired of passion and sin and failure. I care for nothing any more. It seems that we have both reached the same goal, but by different roads. You, she answered, looking at, had any rate, you are not tired of money, or you would not do what you have done to get it. I never cared for money itself, he said, I only wanted money that I might be rich, and therefore respected. And you think any means justifiable so long as you get it? I thought so. I don't think so now. I don't understand you tonight, William. It is time for me to go to dress for dinner. Don't go just yet. I'm leaving in a minute. Leaving? Where for? London. I have to go up to-night about some business. Indeed, when are you coming back? I don't quite know. Tomorrow, perhaps. I wonder, Bella. He went on, his voice shaking a little. If you will always think as badly of me as you do now. I, she said, opening her eyes widely. Who am I that I should judge you? However bad you may be, I am worse. Perhaps there are excuses to be made for both of us, he said. Perhaps after all there is no such thing as free will, and we are nothing but pawns moved to a higher power, who knows. But I will not keep you any longer. Goodbye, Bella. Yes. May I kiss you before I go? She looked at him in astonishment. Her first impulse was to refuse. He had not kissed her for years. But something in the man's face aroused her. It was always a refined and melancholy face, but to-night it wore a look which to her seemed almost unearthly. Yes, William, if you wish, she said, but I wonder that you care too. Let the dead bury their dead, he answered, and stooping he put his arm around her delicate waist, and, drawing her to him, kissed her tenderly, but without passion, on the forehead. There, good night, he said, I wish that I had been a better husband to you. Good night. And he was gone. When he reached his room he flung himself for a few moments, face downward upon his bed, and from the convulsive motion of his back, an observer might almost have believed that he was sobbing. When he rose, however, there was no trace of tears or tenderness upon his features. On the contrary, they were stern and set, like the features of one bent on some terrible endeavour. Going to a drawer he unlocked it, and took from it a colt's revolver of the small pattern. It was loaded, but he took the cartridges out and replaced them with fresh ones from a tin box. Then he went downstairs, put on a large ulster with a high collar, and a soft-felt hat, the brim of which he turned down over his face, placed the pistol in the pocket of his ulster, and started. It was a dreadful night. The wind was blowing, a very heavy gale, and between the gusts the rain came down in sheets of driving spray. Nobody was about the streets, the weather was far too bad, and Mr. Quest reached the station without meeting a living soul. Outside the circle of light from the lamp over the doorway he paused, and looked about for the clerk Jones. Presently he saw him walking backward and forward under the shelter of a lean-to, and going up touched him on the shoulder. The man jumped and started back. "'Have you got the ticket, Jones?' He asked. "'Lord, sir,' said Jones, I didn't know you in that get-up. "'Yes, here's the ticket.' "'Is the woman still there?' "'Yes, sir. She's taken a ticket, third class to town. She has been going on like a wild thing, because they would not give her any liquor at the refreshment-bar, till at last she frightened them into letting her have six of brandy. Then she began and told the grill all sorts of tales about you, sir, and said she was going back to London, because she was afraid that if she stopped here you would murder her, and that you were her lawful husband, and that she would have a warrant out against you. And I don't know what all. I sat by there and heard her, with my own ears. "'Did she? Did she, indeed?' said Mr. Quest, with an attempt at a laugh. "'Well, she's a common thief, and worse. That's what she is. And by this time to-morrow I hope to see her safe in jail. Ah, here comes the train. Good-night, Jones. I can manage for myself now.' "'What is his game?' said Jones to himself, as he watched his master slip onto the platform by a gate, instead of going through the booking-office. "'Well, I've had four quid out of it anyway. And it's no affair of mine.' And Jones went home to tea. Meanwhile Mr. Quest was standing on the wet and desolate platform, quite away from the lamps, watching the red lights of the approaching train come rushing on through the storm and night. Presently the train drew up. No passengers got out. "'Now, ma'am, look sharp if you're going,' cried the porter, and the woman Edith came out of the refreshment room. "'There's the third, forward there,' said the porter, going to the other end to see about the packing a way of the males. On she came, passing quite close to Mr. Quest, so close that he could hear her swearing at the incivility of the porter. There was a third-class carriage just opposite, and into this she got. It was one of those carriages that are still often to be seen on provincial lines in which the partitions do not go up to the roof, and was, if possible, more vilely lighted than usual. Indeed, the light which should have illuminated the after-half of it had never even been lit or had gone out. There was not a soul in the whole length of the carriage. As soon as the tiger was in Mr. Quest watched his opportunity, and, slipping up to the dark carriage, opened and shut the door as quietly as possible, and took his seat in the gloom. The engine whistled. There was a cry of, right forward, and they were off. Suddenly he saw the woman stand up in her compartment and peep over into the gloom. Not a blessed soul, he heard her mutter, and yet I feel as though that devil Billy was creeping about after me. Ugh! It must be the horrors. I can see the luck he gave me now. A few minutes later the train stopped at a station, but nobody got in, and presently it moved on again. Any passengers for every? shuddered the porter, and there had been no response. But they did not stop at every. There would be no halt for forty minutes. Now was his time. He waited a little, till they had got up the speed. The line here ran through miles and miles of fan country, more or less drained by dykes and rivers, but still wild and desolate enough. Over this great flat the storm was sweeping furiously, even drowning in its turmoil the noise of the travelling train. Very quietly he rose and climbed over the low partition, which separated his compartment from that in which the woman was. She was seated in the corner, her head back, so that the feeble light from the lamp fell on it, and her eyes were closed. He slid himself along the seat till he was opposite her, and then he paused and looked at the fierce wicked face on which drink and paint and years of evil thinking and living had left their marks. Looked at the talon-like hands, the long yellowish teeth, the half-dyed hair hanging in tags beneath the gaudy bonnet of peacock feathers, and looking shuttered. There was his bad genius. There was the creature who had driven him from evil to evil, and finally destroyed him. Had it not been for her he might have been a good and respected man, and not what he was now, a fraudulent, ruined outcast. All his life seemed to flash before his inner eye in those few seconds of contemplation. All the long, weary years of struggle and crime and deceit. And this was the end of it, and there was the cause of it. Well, she should not escape him. He would be revenged upon her at last. There was nothing but death before him. She should die too. He said his teeth drew the loaded pistol from his pocket, cocked it, and lifted it to her breast. What was the matter with the thing? He had never known the pull of a pistol to be so heavy before. No, it was not that. He could not do it. He could not shoot a sleeping woman, devil though she was. He could not kill her in her sleep. His nature rose up against it. He placed the pistol on his knee, and as he did so she opened her eyes. He saw the look of wonder gather in them and grow to a stare of agonized terror. Her face became rigid, like a dead person's, and her lips opened to scream, but no sound came. She could only point to the pistol. Make a sound, and you are dead. He said fiercely not that it matters though. He added, as he remembered that the scream must be loud, which could be heard in that raging gale. What are you going to do? She gasped at last. What are you going to do with that pistol, and where do you come from? I come out of the night. He answered, raising the weapon out of the night into which you are going. You are not going to kill me! She moaned, turning up her ghastly face. I can't die. I am afraid to die. It will hurt, and I've been wicked. Oh, you are not going to kill me, are you? Yes, I'm going to kill you. He answered, I told you months ago, that I would kill you if you molested me. You have ruined me now. There is nothing but death left for me, and you shall die, too. You fiend! Oh, no, no, no, anything but that. I was drunk when I did it. That man brought me there, and they had taken all my things, and I was starving. And she glanced wildly around, the empty carriage, to see if help could be found, but there was none. She was alone with her fate. She slipped down upon the floor of the carriage, and clasped his knees, writhing in her terror, there upon the ground, in horse accents, she begged and prayed for mercy. You used to kiss me, she said. You cannot kill a woman you used to kiss years ago. Oh, spare me, spare me! He said his lips, and placed the muzzle of the pistol against her head. And at the contact she shivered, and her teeth began to chatter. He could not do it. He must let her go, and leave her to her fate. After all, she could hurt him no more, for before another sun had set, he would be beyond her reach. His pistol hand fell against his side, and he looked down with loathing, not unmixed with pity, at the abject human snake, who was writhing at his feet. She caught his eye, and her faculties, sharpened by the imminent peril, read, Relentment there. For the moment, at any rate, he was softened. If she could master him now, while he was off his guard, he was not a very strong man, but the pistol. Slowly, still groaning out supplications, she rose to her feet. Yes, he said, be quiet while I think if I can spare you. And he half turned his head away from her. And for a moment nothing was heard but the rush of the gale, and the roll of the wheels running over and under bridges. This was her opportunity. All her natural ferocity arose within her, intensified a hundred times, by the instinct of self-protection. With a sudden blow she struck the pistol from his hand, and it fell upon the floor of the carriage. And then, with a frightful yell, she sprang like a wildcat straight at his throat. So sudden was the attack that the long-lean hands were gripping his windpipe before he knew that it had been made. Back she bore him, though he seized her round the waist. She was the heavier of the two, and crash they went against the carriage door. It gave, oh God, the worn catch gave, out together, out with a yell of despair, into the night and the raging gale, down together, through sixty feet of space, into the black river beneath, down together deep into the watery depths, down into the abyss of death. The train rushed on, the wild winds blew, and the night was as the night had been. It was there in the black water, though there was never a star to see them, there locked together in death, as they had been locked together in life, the fierce glare of hate and terror, yet staring from their glazed eyes, two bodies rolled over and over, as they sped silently toward the sea. End of CHAPTER XXXVI CHAPTER XXXXXXX had passed, the tragedy of which the foregoing is a record had echoed through all the land. Various articles and paragraphs had been written in numberless papers, and numberless theories had been built upon them. But the echoes were already commencing to die away. Both actors in the dim event were dead, and there was no pending trial to keep the public interest alive. The two bodies, still linked in that fierce, dying grip, had been picked up upon a mud-bank, an inquest had been held at which an open verdict was returned, and they had been buried. Other tragedies had occurred. The papers were filled with the reports of a noted and remarkably full-flavoured divorce case, and the affair of the country lawyer who committed bigamy and together with his lawful wife came to a tragic and mysterious end, began to be forgotten. In Boisingham and its neighborhood much sympathy was shown with Bella, whom people still called Mrs. Quest, though she had no title to that name, but she received it coldly and kept herself secluded. As soon as her supposed husband's death was beyond a doubt Bella had opened his safe, for he had left his keys on his dressing-table, and found therein his will and other papers, including the mortgage-deeds, to which, as Mr. Quest's memorandum advised her, she had no claim, nor indeed had her right to them been good in law. Would she have retained them, seeing that they were a price rung from her late lover under threat of an action that could not be brought? So she made them into a parcel and sent them to Edward Cossey, together with a formal note of explanation, greatly wondering in her heart what course he would take with reference to them. She was not left long and out. The receipt of the deeds was acknowledged, and three days afterward she heard that a notice calling in the borrowed money had been served upon Mr. Delamol on behalf of Edward Cossey. So he had evidently made up his mind not to forego this new advantage which chanced through in his way. Pressure and pressure alone could enable him to attain his end, and he was applying it unmercifully. Well, she had done with him now. It did not matter to her, but she could not help faintly wondering at the extraordinary tenacity and hardness of purpose which his action showed. Then she turned her mind to the consideration of another matter, in connection with which her plans were approaching maturity. It was some days after this, exactly a fortnight from the date of Mr. Quest's death, that Edward Cossey was sitting one afternoon, brooding over the fire in his rooms. He had much business awaiting his attention in London, but he would not go to London. He could not tear himself away from Boisingham, and such of the matters as could not be attended to there were left without attention. He was still as determined as ever to marry Ida, more determined if possible, for from constant brooding on the matter he had arrived at a condition approaching monomania. He had been quick to see the advantage resulting to him from Mr. Quest's tragic death and the return of the deeds, and though he knew that Ida would hate him the more for doing it, he instructed his lawyers to call in the money and make use of every possible legal means to harass and put pressure upon Mr. Delamol. At the same time he had written privately to the squire, calling his attention to the fact that matters were now once more as they had been in the beginning, but that he was, as before, willing to carry out the arrangements which he had already specified, stated that Ida could be persuaded to consent to marry him. To this Mr. Delamol notwithstanding his grief and irritation at the course his would-be son-in-law had taken about the mortgages on the death of Mr. Quest, and the suspicion that he now had, as to the original cause of their transfer to the lawyer, had answered courteously enough, saying what he had said before, that he could not force his daughter into a marriage with him, but that if she chose to agree to it he should offer no objection. And there the matter stood. Once or twice he had met Ida, walking or driving. She had bowed to him coldly, and that was all. Indeed, he had only one crumb of comfort in his daily bread of disappointment, and that hope deferred, which where a lady is concerned, makes the heart more normally sick, and that was he knew his hated rival, Colonel Courage, had been forbidden from the castle, and that intercourse between him and Ida was practically at an end. But he was a dogged and persevering man, and he knew the power of money and the shifts to which people can be driven, who are made desperate by the want of it. He knew, too, that it is no unusual thing for women who are attached to one man to sell themselves to another of their own free will, realizing that love may pass, but wealth, if the settlements are properly drawn, does not. Therefore, he still hoped that with so many circumstances, bringing an ever-increasing pressure upon her, Ida's spirits would in time be broken, her resistance would collapse, and he would have his will. Nor, as the sequel will show, was that hope a baseless one. As for his infatuation, there was literally no limit to it. It broke out in all sorts of ways, and was for miles round a matter of public notoriety and gossip. Over the mantle-piece in his sitting-room was a fresh example of it. He had by one means or another obtained several photographs of Ida, notably one of her in a court-dress which she had worn two or three years before, when her brother James had insisted upon her being presented. The photographs he had caused to be enlarged, and then commissioned a well-known artist to paint from them a full-length, life-size portrait of Ida in her court-dress at the cost of five hundred pounds. This order had been executed, and the portrait which, although it might be expected, the coloring was not entirely satisfactory, was still an effective likeness, and a defined piece of work, now hung in a splendid frame over his mantle-piece. There on the evening in question he was sitting before the fire, his eyes fixed upon the portrait, of which the outline was beginning to grow dim in the waning December light, when the servant-girl came in and announced that a lady wanted to speak to him. He asked what her name was, and the girl said that she did not know, because she had her veil down, and was wrapped up in a big cloak. In due course the lady was shone up. He had relapsed into his reverie, for nothing seemed to interest him much now unless it had to do with Ida, and he knew that the lady was not Ida, because the girl said that she was short. As it happened he was sitting with his right ear, in which she was stoned deaf to the door, so that between his infirmity and his dreams he never heard Bella, for it was she, enter the room. For a minute or more she stood looking at him as he sat with his eyes fixed upon the picture, and as she looked an expression of pity stole across her sweet pale face. I wonder what curse there is laid upon us that we should be always doomed to seek for what we cannot find, she said aloud. He heard her now, and looking up, saw her standing in the glow and flicker of the fire-light, which played upon her white face and black draped form. He started violently, and as he did so she loose the heavy cloak and hood that she wore, and it fell behind her. But where was the lovely rounded form, and where the clustering golden curls, gone, and in their place a coarse robe of blue surge on which hung a crucifix and the white hood of a nun? He sprang from his chair, with an exclamation, not knowing if he dreamed, or if he really saw the woman who stood there like a ghost in the fire-light. Forgive me, Edward, she said presently, in her sweet low voice, I dare say that this all looks theoretical enough, but I have put on this dress for two reasons. Firstly, because I have to leave this town in an hour's time, and wish to do so unknown, and secondly, to show you that you need not fear that I have come to be important, will you light the candles? He did so mechanically, and then pulled down the blinds. Meanwhile Bella had seated herself near the table, her face buried in her hands. What is the meaning of all this, Bella? he said. Sister Agnes, you must call me now, she said, taking her hands from her face. The meaning of it is that I have left the world and entered a sisterhood which works among the poor in London, and that I have come to bid you farewell, alas, farewell. He stared at her in amazement. He did not find it easy to connect the idea of this beautiful, passionate, human, loving creature with the cold sanctuary of a sisterhood. He did not know that it is nature's like this whose very greatness and intensities are often the cause of their destruction, when they come in adverse contact with the laws which are fitted to the average of their race that are most capable of these strange developments. The man or woman who can really love and endure, and they are rare, can also, when their passion has utterly broken them, turn them to climb the stony paths that leads to loves and tippities. Edward, she went on, you know in what relation we have stood to each other, and all that that relationship means to women. You know that I have loved you with all my heart and all my strength and all my soul, that your voice has been music to me and your kindness heaven. Here she trembled and broke down. You know too, she continued presently, what has been the end of all this, this shameful end? I am not come to blame you. I do not blame you, for the fault was mine, and if I have anything to forgive, I forgive it freely, and whatever memories may still live in my heart, I swear I put away all bitterness, and that my most earnest wish is that you may be happy as happiness is to you. The mistake was mine, that is, it would have been mine, were we free agents, which perhaps we are not. I should have loved my husband, or rather the man whom I thought my husband, for with all his faults he was of a different clay to you, Edward. He looked up, but said nothing. I know, she went on, pointing to the picture over the mantelpiece, that your mind is still set upon her, and that I am nothing and less than nothing to you. When I am gone, you will scarcely give me a thought. I do not know if you will succeed in your end, and I think that the methods you are adopting are wicked and shameful. But whether you succeed or not, your fate will be what my fate is, to love a person who is not only indifferent to you, but who positively dislikes you and reserves all her secret heart for another man. And I know no greater penalty than is to be found in that daily misery. You are very consoling, he said, sulkily. I only tell you the truth, she answered. What sort of life do you suppose mine has been when I am so utterly broken, so entirely robbed of hope, that I have determined to leave the world and hide myself and my misery in a sisterhood? And now, Edward, she went on after a pause. I have something to tell you. For I will not go away, if indeed you allow me to go away at all, after you have heard it, until I have confessed. And she lent forward, and looked him full in the face. I shot you on purpose, Edward. What? he said, springing from his chair. You tried to murder me? Yes, yes, but don't think too hardly of me. I am only flesh and blood, and you drove me mad with jealousy. You taunted me with having been your mistress, and said that I was not fit to associate with the lady whom you were going to marry. It made me mad, and the opportunity offered. The gun was there, and I shot you. God forgive me. I think that I have suffered more than you did. Oh, when day after day I saw you lying there, and did not know if you would live or die, I thought that I should have gone mad with remorse and agony. He listened so far, and then suddenly walked across the room toward the bell. She placed herself between him and it. What are you going to do? She said. Going to do. I am going to send for a policeman, and give you into custody for attempted murder. That is all. She caught his arm, and looked him in the face. In another second she had loosed it. Of course, she said, you have a right to do that. Ring and send for the policeman. Only remember that the whole truth will come out at the trial. This checked him, and he stood, thinking. Well, she said, why don't you ring? I do not ring. He answered, because on the whole I think I had better let you go. I do not wish to be mixed up with you any more. You have done me mischief enough. You have finished by attempting to murder me. Go. I think that the convent is the best place for you. You are too bad and too dangerous to be left at large. Oh! she said, like one in pain. Oh! you are the man for whom I have come to this. Oh, God! it is a cruel world. And she pressed her hands to her heart, and stumbled, rather than walked, to the door. Reaching it she turned, and her hands still pressing the coarse blue gown against her heart. She leaned back against the door. Edward, she said, in a strained whisper, for her breath came thick. Edward, I am going forever. Have you no kind word to say to me? He looked at her, a scowl upon his handsome face, and then, by way of answer, he turned upon his heel. And so, still holding her hands against her poor broken heart, she went out of the house, out of Boisingham, and out of touch and knowledge of the world. These two were, though she knew it not, once and once only, faded to meet again, in after-years and under circumstances sufficiently tragic. But the story of that meeting does not lie within the scope of this history. To the world Bella was dead, but there is another world of sickness and sorrow, and sordid, unchanging misery and shame, where the lovely face of Sister Agnes moves to and fro like a ray of God's own light, and there those who would know her must go to seek her. Poor Bella, poor, shamed, deserted woman. She was an evildoer, and the fatality of love and the rush of her quick blood, and the unbalanced vigor of her mind, which might, had she been more happily placed, have led her to all things that are pure and true, and of good report, had combined to drag her into shame and misery. As the evil that she did has been paid back to her in full measure, pressed down and running over, few of us need to wait for a place of punishment to get the dew of our follies and our sins. Here we expiate them. They are with us day and night, about our path and about our bed, scourging us with the whips of memory and mocking us with empty longing and the hopelessness of despair. Who can escape the consequence of sin, or even the misfortune which led to sin? Certainly Bella did not, nor did Mr. Quest, nor even, that fierce hearted, harpy, who hunted him to his grave. And so good-bye to Bella, may she find peace in its season. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Meanwhile things had been going very ill at the castle. Edward Cossey's lawyers were carrying out their client's instructions to the letter, with a perseverance and ingenuity worthy of a county court solicitor. Day by day they found some new point upon which to harass the wretched squire. Some share of the first expenses connected with the mortgages had, they said, been improperly thrown upon their client, and they again and again demanded, in language which was almost insolent, the immediate payment of the amount. Then there was three months' interest overdue, and this also they pressed and clamored for, till the old gentleman who was nearly driven out of his senses, and as a consequence drove everybody about the place out of theirs. At last this state of affairs began to tell upon his constitution, which, strong as he was, could not at his age withstand such constant worry. He grew to look years older, his shoulders acquired as stoop, and his memory began to fail him, especially on matters connected with the mortgages and farm-accounts. Ida, too, became pale and ill. She caught a heavy cold, which she could not throw off, and her face acquired a permanently pained and yet listless look. One day it was on the fifteenth of December, things reached a climax. When Ida came down to breakfast she saw her father, busily pouring over some letters from the lawyers. �What is it now, father?� she asked. �What is it now?� he answered irritably. �Why, it's another claim for two hundred pounds, that's what it is. I keep telling them to write to my lawyers, but they won't. At least they write to me, too. There. I can't make, head or tail of it. Look here!� And he showed her two sides of a big sheet of paper, covered with statements of accounts. Anyhow, I have not got two hundred pounds, that's clear. I don't even know where we are going to find the money to pay the three months interest. I'm worn out, Ida, I'm worn out. That's the long and short of it. There is only one thing left for me to do, and that is to die, and that's the long and short of it. I get so confused with all these figures. I am an old man now, and all these troubles are too much for me. �You must not talk like that, father?� she answered, not knowing what else to say, for affairs were indeed desperate. �Yes, yes, it's all very well to talk so, but facts are stubborn. Our family is ruined, and we must accept it. �Can't the money be got anyhow? Is there nothing to be done?� she asked desperately. �What is the good of asking me that? There is only one thing that can save us, and you know what it is, as well as I do. But you are your own mistress. I have no right to put pressure on you. You must please yourself. Meanwhile, I think we had better leave this place at once and go and live in a cottage somewhere. If we can get enough to support us, if we must not starve, I suppose. I cannot keep up appearances any longer.� Ida rose, and with a strange sad light of resolution shining in her eyes, came to where her father was sitting, and putting her hand upon his shoulder, looked him in the face. �Father,� she said, �do you wish me to marry that man?� �Wish you to marry him? What do you mean?� he said, not without irritation, and avoiding her gaze. �It is no affair of mine. I don't like the man, if that's what you mean. He is acting like, well, like the cur that he is, in putting on the screw as he is doing. But of course, there is no way out of it, and the only way. �There you are. Father,� she said again, �will you give me ten days? That is until Christmas Day, if nothing happens between then and this. And then I will marry Mr. Edward Cossey.� A sudden light of hope, shone in his eyes, she saw it, though he tried to hide it by turning his head away. �Oh, yes,� he answered, �as you wish. Settle it one way or the other on Christmas Day, and then we can go out with the new year. You see, your brother James is dead, and I have no one left to advise me now, and I suppose, that I am getting old, at any rate, things seem to be too much for me. Settle it as you like. Settle it as you like.� And he got up, leaving his breakfast half swallowed, and went off to moon, aimlessly about the park. So she had made up her mind at last. This was the end of her time. She could not let her old father be turned out of the house and home to starve, for practically they would starve. She knew her hateful lover well enough to be aware that he would show no mercy. It was a question of �the woman� or �the money�, and she was the woman. Either she must let him take her, or they must be destroyed. There was no middle course. And in these circumstances there is no room for hesitation. Once more her duty became clear to her. She must give up her life. She must give up her love. She must give up herself. Well, so be it. She was weary of the lung endeavor against fortune. Now she would yield, and let the tide of utter misery sweep over her like a sea, and bear her away till it was brought to her. That oblivion in which perchance all things come right. Or as though they had never been. She had scarcely spoken to her lover Harold Courage for some weeks. She had, as she understood it, entered into a kind of unspoken agreement with her father, not to do so, and that agreement Harold had understood and respected. Since their last letters to each other they had met once or twice, casually, or at church, and interchanged a few in different words, though their eyes spoke another story, and touched each other's hands and parted. And that was absolutely all. But now that she had come to this momentous decision she felt that he had a right to learn it, and so once more she wrote to him. She might have gone to see him, or told him to meet her, but she would not. For one thing she did not dare to trust herself on such an errand in his dear company. For another she was too proud, thinking that if her father came to hear of it he might consider that it had a clandestine and underhand appearance. And so she wrote. With all she said we need not concern ourselves. The letter was passionate, more passionate than one would perhaps have expected from a woman of ida's calm and stately sort. But a mountain may have a heart of fire, although it is clad in snows. And so it sometimes is with women who look cold and unemotional as marble. Besides it was her last chance she could write him no more letters, and she had much to say. And so I have decided, Harold, she said, after telling him of all her doubts and troubles I must do it. There is no help for it, as I think you will see. I have asked for the ten days' respite. Well, I hardly know why, except that it is a respite. And now what is left to say to you except good-bye? I love you, Harold, I make no secret of it, and I shall never love any other. Remember all your life that I love you and have not forgotten you, and never can forget. For people, placed as we are, there is but one hope, the grave. In the grave earthly considerations fail, and earthly contracts end, and here I trust and believe we shall find each other, or at least forgetfulness. My heart is so sore, I know not what to say to you, for it is difficult to put all I feel in words. I am overwhelmed, and my spirit is broken, and I wish to God that I were dead. Sometimes I cease to believe in a God who can allow his creatures to be so tormented and give us love only that it may be daily dishonored in our sight. But who am I that I should complain? And after all, what are our troubles compared to some we know of? Well, it will come to an end at last, and meanwhile pity me and think of me. Pity me and think of me, yes, but never see me more. As soon as this engagement is publicly announced, go away, the farther the better. Yes, go to New Zealand, as you suggested once before. And in pity of our human weakness, never let me see your face again. Perhaps you may write to me sometimes, if my—if Mr. Causey will allow it. Go there, occupy yourself, it will divert your mind. You are still too young a man to lay yourself upon the shelf. Mix yourself up in the politics of the place. Take to writing, anything, so long as you can absorb yourself. I send you a photograph of myself, I have nothing better, and a ring that night and day I have worn since I was a child. I think that it will fit your little finger, and I hope that you will always wear it in memory of me. And now it is late, and I am tired. And what is there more that a woman can say to the man she loves, and whom she must leave forever? Only one word. Goodbye. When Harold got this letter it fairly broke him down. His hopes had been revived when he thought that all was lost, and now again were utterly dashed and broken. He could see no way out of it, none at all. He could not quarrel with Ida's decision, shocking as it was, for the simple reason that he knew in his heart that she was acting rightly and even nobly. But oh, the thought of it made him mad. It is probable that to a man of imagination and deep feeling, hell itself can invent no more hideous torture than that he must undergo in the position in which Harold Quarrich found himself. To truly love some good woman or some woman he thinks good, for it comes to the same thing, to love her more than life, to hold her dearer even than his honour, to be like Harold, beloved in turn, and then to know that that woman, that one thing for which he would count the world well lost, and would even sacrifice his hope of heaven, that light that makes his days beautiful, that starry joy set like a diadem upon life's dark brows, has been taken from him by the mockery of fate, not by death, for that he could bear, taken from him and given, for money or money's worth, to some other man. It is perhaps better that a man should die than that he should pass through such an experience as that which threatened Harold Quarrich now, for though the man die, not yet will it kill all that is best in him, and whatever triumphs may await him, and whatever women may be ready in the future to pin their favours to his breast, life will never be for him what it might have been, because his lost love took its glory with her. No wonder then that he despaired, no wonder too that there rose up in his breast a great anger and indignation against the man who had brought this last extremity of misery upon them both. He was just a man, and could make allowances for his rival's infatuation, which indeed, either being concerned, it was not difficult for him to understand. But he was also, and above all things, a gentleman, and the spectacle of a woman, being inexorably driven into a distasteful marriage by money-pressure, put on by the man who wished to gain her, revolted him beyond measure, and though he was slow to wrath, moved him to fiery indignation. So much did it move him, that he took a resolution. Mr. Cosy should know his mind about the matter, and that at once. Ringing the bell he ordered his dog-cart and drove to Edward Cosy's rooms, with the full intention of giving that gentleman a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. Mr. Cosy was in, and fearing, lest he should refuse to see him, the Colonel followed the servant up the stairs and entered almost as she announced his name. There was a grim and even formidable look upon his plain but manly face, and something of menace too, in his formal and soldierly bearing, nor did his aspects soften when his eyes fell upon the full-length picture of Ida over the mantelpiece. Edward Cosy rose with astonishment and irritation, not unmixed with nervousness depicted on his face. The last person whom he wished to see and expected a visit from was Colonel Quarich, whom in his heart he held in considerable awe. Besides, he had of late received such a series of unpleasant visits that it is not wonderful that he began to dread these interviews. Good day! he said coldly, will you be seated? The Colonel bowed his head slightly, but he did not sit down. Too what am I indebted for this pleasure! began Edward Cosy with much politeness. Last time I was here, Mr. Cosy, said the Colonel in his deep voice, speaking very deliberately. I came to give an explanation. Now I come to ask one. Indeed! Yes, to come to the point, Miss Delamol and I are attached to each other, and there has been between us an understanding that that attachment might end in marriage. Oh, has there? said the younger man with a sneer. Yes, answered the Colonel, keeping down his rising temper as well as he could. But now I am told, upon what appears to be good authority, that you have actually condescended to bring, directly and indirectly, pressure of a monetary sort to bear upon Miss Delamol and her father, in order to force her into a distasteful marriage with you. And what the devil business of yours is it, sir? Asked Cosy, what I have or have not done, making every allowance for the disappointment of an unsuccessful suitor, for I presume that you appear in that character. Again he sneered. I ask, what business is it of yours? It is every business of mine, Mr. Cosy, because if Miss Delamol is forced into this I shall lose my wife. Then you will certainly lose her. Do you suppose that I am going to consider you, indeed? He went on, being now in a towering passion, I should have thought that considering the differences between us of age and fortune, you might find other reasons that you suggest to account for my being preferred to you, if I should be so preferred. Ladies are apt to choose the better man, you know. I don't quite know what you mean by the better man, Mr. Cosy, except that the Colonel quietly, without wishing to make any comparisons, I may say that in birth, in breeding, perhaps even in education, and the record of my life, in which at least I have not disgraced myself, I am fully your equal, though I admit that you have the advantage of me in money and in years. However, that is not the point. The point is that I have had the fortune to be preferred to you, by the lady in question, and not you to me. I am happy to know that the idea of marriage with you is as distasteful to Miss Delamolle as it is to me. This I know from her own lips. She will only marry you, if she does it tall, under the direst necessity, and to save her father from the ruin you are deliberately bringing upon him. Well, Colonel Courage, he answered, have you quite done lecturing me? If you have, let me tell you, as you seem anxious to know, that if by any legal means I can marry I de Delamolle, I certainly fully intend to marry her, and let me tell you another thing, that when once I am married to her, it will be the last you shall see of her, if I can prevent it. Thank you for your admissions, said Harold, still more quietly, so it seems that it is all true. It seems that you are using your wealth to harass this unfortunate gentleman and his daughter, until you drive them into consenting to this marriage. That being so, I wish to tell you privately what I shall probably take some opportunity of telling you in public, namely that a man who does such a thing is a cur, and worse than a cur, he is a black guard, and you are such a man, Mr. Causie. Edward Causie's face turned perfectly livid with fury, and he drew himself up as though to spring at his adversary's throat. The Colonel held up his hand. Don't try that on with me, he said, in the first place it is vulgar, and in the second you have only just recovered from an accident, and are no match for me, though I am over forty years old. Listen, our father's had a way of settling their troubles. I don't disapprove of that sort of thing as a rule, but in some cases it is salutary. If you think yourself aggrieved, it does not take long to cross the water, Mr. Causie. Edward Causie looked puzzled. Do you mean to suggest that I should fight a duel with you? he said. Do challenge a man to a duel? Answer the Colonel with deliberation is an indictable offence. Therefore I make no such challenge. I have made a suggestion, and if that suggestion falls in with your views, as, and he bowed, I hope it may, we might perhaps meet accidentally abroad in a few days' time, when we could talk this matter over further. I'll see you hanged first, answered Causie. What have I to gain by fighting you except a very good chance of being shot? I have had enough of being shot as it is, and we will play this game out upon the old lines until I win it. As you like, said Harold, I have made a suggestion to you, which you do not seem fit to accept. As to the end of the game it is not finished yet, and therefore it is impossible to say who will win it. Perhaps you will be checkmated after all. In the meanwhile allow me to assure you that I consider you both a cur and a black guard, and to wish you good morning. And he bowed himself out, leaving Edward Causie in a curious condition of concentrated rage. CHAPTER 39 The condition of mind which could induce a peaceable, Christian natured individual, who had, moreover, in the course of his career, been mixed up with enough bloodshed to have acquired a thorough horror of it to offer to fight a duel is difficult to picture. Yet this condition has been reached by Harold Courage. Edward Causie had wisely enough declined to entertain the idea, but the Colonel had been perfectly in earnest about it. Odd as it may appear in the latter end of this nineteenth century, nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to pit his life against that of his unworthy rival. Of course it was foolish and wrong, but human nature is the same in all ages, and in the last extremity we fall back by instinct on those methods which men have, from the beginning, adopted to save themselves from intolerable wrong and dishonor, or be it admitted to bring the same upon others. But Causie utterly declined to fight. As he said, he had had enough of being shot, and so there was an end of it. Indeed, in after days the Colonel frequently looked back upon this episode in his career, with shame not unmingled with amusement, reflecting, when he did so, on the strange potency of that passion, which can bring men to seriously entertain the idea of such extravagances. Well, there was nothing more to be done. He might, it is true, have seen Ida, and working upon her love and natural inclinations, have tried to persuade her to cut the knot by marrying him offhand. Perhaps he would have succeeded, for in such affairs women are apt to find. The arguments advanced by their lovers weighty and well worthy of consideration, but he was not the man to adopt such a course. He did the only thing that he could do. Answered her letter by saying that what must be must be. He had learned that on the day, subsequent to his interview with his rival, the squire had written to Edward Cossey, informing him that a decided answer would be given to him on Christmas Day, and thereon all vexatious proceedings on the part of that gentleman's lawyers had been stayed for the time. He could now no longer doubt what the answer would be. There was only one way out of trouble, the way that Ida had made up her mind to adopt. So he set out to work to make his preparations for leaving Hanum and the country for good and all. He wrote to land agents and put molehill upon their books to be sold or let on lease, and also to various influential friends to obtain introductions to the leading men in New Zealand. But these matters did not take up all his time, and the rest of it hung heavily on his hands. He mooned about the place until he was tired. He tried to occupy himself in his garden, but it is weary work sowing crops for strange hands to reap, and so he gave it up. Somehow the time wore on until at last it was Christmas Eve, the Eve, too, of the fatal day of Ida's decision. He dined alone that night as usual, and shortly after dinner some weights came to the house and began to sing their cheerful carols outside. The carols did not chime in at all well, with his condition of mind, and he sent five shillings out to them with a request that they would go away, as he had a headache. Accordingly they went, and shortly after their departure the great gale for which that night is still famous began to rise. Then he fell to pacing up and down the quaint old oak-paneled parlor, thinking until his brain ached. The hour was at hand, the evil was upon him, and her whom he loved. There was either no way out of it, no possible way, alas, there was but one way, and that to golden one. But where was the money to come from? He had it not, and as land stood it was impossible to raise it. Ah, if only that great treasure, which old Sir James de LeMol had hid away and died rather than reveal, could be brought to light. Now in the hour of his house's sores need. But the treasure was very mythical, and if it had ever really existed it was not now to be found. He went to his dispatch-box, and took from it the copy he had made of the entry in the Bible, which had been in Sir James's pocket when he was murdered in the courtyard. The whole story was a very strange one. Why did the brave old man wish that his Bible should be sent to his son, and why did he write that somewhat peculiar message in it? Suppose that Ida was right, and that it contained a cipher or cryptograph which would give a clue to the whereabouts of the treasure. If so, it was obvious that it would be one of the simplest nature. A man confined by himself in a dungeon, and under immediate sentence of death, would not have been likely to pause to invent anything complicated. It would indeed be curious that he should have invented anything at all under such circumstances, and when he could have so little hope that the riddle would be solved. But on the other hand, his position was desperate. He was quite surrounded by foes. There is no chance of him being able to convey the secret in any other way, and he might have done so. Harold placed the piece of paper upon the mantelpiece, and sitting down in an armchair opposite, began to contemplate it earnestly. As indeed he had often done before. In case the reader should not remember its exact wording, it is repeated here. It ran. Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly and wickedly done to death by rebel murderers, for not happened but according to God's will. And now, farewell, Edward, till we meet in heaven. My monies have I hid, and on account thereof I die unto this world, knowing that not one piece shall cromwell touch, to whom God shall appoint, shall all my treasure be, for not can I communicate. Well, Harold stared and stared at this inscription. He read it forward, backward, crosswise, and in every other way, but absolutely without result. At last, wearied out with misery of mind and the pursuit of a futile occupation, he dropped off sound asleep in his chair. That happened about a quarter to eleven o'clock. The next thing he knew was that he suddenly woke up, woke up completely, passing as quickly from a condition of deep sleep to one of wakefulness as though he had never shut his eyes. He used to say afterward that he felt as though somebody had come and aroused him. It was not like a natural waking. Indeed, so unaccustomed was the sensation that for a moment the idea flashed through his brain that he had died in his sleep and was now awakened to a new state of existence. This soon passed, however. Evidently he must have slept for some time, for the lamp was out and the fire dying. He got up and hunted a boat in the dark for some matches, which at last he found. He struck a light standing exactly opposite to the bit of paper with the copy of Sir James Delamolle's dying message on it. This message was neatly copied longwise upon a half sheet of large writing paper, such as the squire generally used. Its first line ran as it was copied. Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly and wickedly done. Now as the match burned up by some curious chance, connected probably with the darkness and the sudden striking of the light upon his eyeballs, it came to pass that Harold, happening to glance thereon, was only able to read four letters of the first line of writing, with all the rest seeming to him, but as a blur connecting those four letters, they were D-E-A-D. Being respectively the initial letters of the first, the sixth, the eleventh, and the sixteenth word of the line given above, the match burned out, and he began to hunt a boat for another D-E-A-D, he said aloud, repeating the letters almost automatically, why, it spells dead. That is rather curious. Something about this accidental spelling awakened his interest very sharply. It was an odd coincidence. He lit some candles and hurriedly examined the line. The first thing that struck him was that the four letters which went to make up the word dead were about equidistant in the line of writing. Could it be? He hurriedly counted the words in the line. There were sixteen of them. That is, after the first, one of the letters occurred at the commencement of every fifth word. This was certainly curious. Trumbling with nervousness, he took a pencil and wrote down the initial letter of every fifth word in the message thus, D, do not grieve for me, E, Edward, my son, that I, A, am thus suddenly and wickedly D, done to death, by rebel M, murderers, for not happeneth but, A, according to God's will, and N, now farewell, Edward, till we, S, shall meet in heaven, my M, monies, have I hid, and O, on account thereof I die, you unto this world, knowing that N, not one piece shall cromwell, T, touch, to whom God shall, A, appoint, shall all my treasures, B, be, for not, can I, C, communicate? When he had done, he wrote these initials in a line, D, E, A, D, M, A, N, S, M, O, U, N, T, A, B, C, dead man's mount, A, B, C, great heaven, he had hit upon the reading of the riddle. The answer was dead man's mount, followed by the mysterious letters A, B, C. Breathless with excitement, he checked the letters again to see if by any chance he had made an error. No, it was perfectly correct, dead man's mount. That was, and had been for centuries, the name of the curious, tumulus, or mound in his own back garden, the same that learned antiquarians had discussed the origin of so fiercely, and that his aunt, the late Mrs. Massey, had, at the cost of two hundred and fifty pounds, erected a mushroom-shaped roof over, in order to prove that the hollow in the top had once been the agreeable country seat of an ancient British family. Could it then be but a coincidence that after the first word the initial of every fifth word in the message should spell out the name of this remarkable place, or was it so arranged? He sat down to think it over, trembling like a frightened child. Obviously it was no accident. Obviously the prisoner of more than two centuries ago had, in his helplessness, invented this simple cryptograph in the hope that his son, or if not his son, some one of his descendants, would discover it, and thereby become the master of the hidden wealth. What place would be more likely for the old knight to have chosen to secret the gold than one that even in those days had the uncanny reputation of being haunted? Who would ever think of looking for modern treasure in the burying place of the ancient dead? In those days, too, Morehill, or Dead Man's Mount, belonged to the Delamore family, who had reacquired it on the break-up of the abbey. It was only at the restoration, when the Dauferly branch came into possession under the will of the second and last baronette, Sir Edward Delamore, who died in exile, that they failed to recover this portion of the property. And if so, and Sir James, the murdered man, had buried his treasure in the Mount, what did the mysterious letters A, B, C mean? Were they perhaps directions as to the line to be taken to discover it? Harold could not imagine, nor as a matter of fact did he or anybody else find out this either then or thereafter. Ida, indeed, used afterward to laughingly declare that the old Sir James meant to indicate that he considered the whole thing as plain as A, B, C, but that was an explanation which did not command itself to Harold's practical mind. CHAPTER 40 But not to bed. Harold glanced at the clock. It was nearly one in the morning, time to go to bed if he was going. And he did not feel inclined to go to bed. If he did, with this great discovery on his mind, he should not sleep. But there was another thing. It was Christmas Eve, or rather Christmas Day, the day of Ida's answer. If any sucker was to be given at all, it must be given at once. Before the fortress had capitulated. Once let the engagement be renewed, and even if the money should subsequently be forthcoming, the difficulties would be doubled. But there he was building his hopes upon sand and he knew it. Even supposing that he held in his hand the key to the burial place of the long-lost treasure, who knew whether it would still be there, or whether rumour had not enormously added to its proportions, he was allowing his hopes and his imagination to carry him away. Still, he could not sleep, and he had a mind to see if anything could be made of it. According to the gun-room he put on a pair of shooting-boots, an old coat and an ulster. Next he provided himself with a dark lantern and the key of the summer-house at the top of Dead Man's Mount, and silently unlocking the back door started out into the garden. The night was very rough, for the great gale was now rising fast, and bitterly cold, so cold that he hesitated for a moment before making up his mind to go on. However, he did go on, and in another two minutes was climbing the steep sides of the great tumulus. There was a wan moon in the cold sky. The wind whistled most drearily through the naked boughs of the great oaks which groaned in answer like things in pain. Harold was not a nervous or impressionable man, but the place had a spectral look about it, and he could not help thinking of the evil reputation it had borne for all these ages. There was scarcely a man in Hanum, or in Boyzingham either, who could have been persuaded to stay half an hour by himself on Dead Man's Mount after the sun was well down. Harold had at different times asked one or two of them what they saw to be afraid of, and they had answered that it was not what they saw so much as what they felt. He had laughed at the time, but now he admitted to himself that he was anything but comfortable, though if he had had to put his feelings into words he could probably not have described them further than by saying that he had a general sensation of somebody being behind him. However, he was not going to be frightened by this nonsense, so consigning all superstitions to their father the devil he marched on boldly and unlocked the summer-house door. Now though this curious edifice had been designed for a summer-house and for that purpose lined throughout with encaustic tiles nobody as a matter of fact had ever dreamed of using it to sit in. To begin with it roofed over a great depression some thirty feet or more in diameter, for the top of the mount was hollowed out like one of those wooden cups upon which jugglers catch balls. But notwithstanding all the encaustic tiles in the world, damp will gather in a hollow like this, and the damp alone was an objection. The real fact was, however, that the spot had an evil reputation, and even those who were sufficiently well educated to know the folly of this sort of thing would not willingly have gone there for purposes of enjoyment. So it had suffered the general fate of disused places, having fallen more or less out of repair and become a receptacle for garden tools, broken cucumber frames, and lumber of various sorts. Harold got the door open and entered, shutting it behind him. It was, if anything, more disagreeable in the empty silence of the wide place, for the space roofed over was considerable. Then it had been outside, and the question at once arose in his mind what was he to do now that he had got there. If the treasure was there at all, probably it was deep down in the bowels of the great mound. Well, as he was on the spot, he thought that he might as well have a dig, though probably nothing would come of it. In the corner were a pickaxe and some spades and shovels. Harold got them, advanced to the centre of the space, and half laughing at his own folly, set to work. First having lit another lantern which was kept there, he removed with the sharp end of the pickaxe a large patch of the encaustic tiles exactly in the centre of the Depression. Then having loosened the soil beneath with the pick, he took off his ulster and fell to digging with a will. The soil proved to be very sandy and easy to work. Indeed, from its appearance, he soon came to the conclusion that it was not virgin earth but work soil which had been thrown there. Finally his spade struck against something hard. He picked it up and held it to the lantern. It proved to be an ancient spearhead, and near it were some bones, though whether or no they were human he could not at the time determine. This was very interesting, but it was scarcely what he wanted, so he dug on manfully until he found himself chest deep in a kind of grave. He had been digging for an hour now and was getting very tired. As old as it was, the perspiration poured from him. As he paused for breath, he heard the church-clock strike too, and very solemnly it sounded down the wild ways of the wind-torned winter night. He dug on a little more, and then seriously thought of giving up what he was somewhat ashamed of having undertaken. How was he to account for this great hole to his gardener on the following morning? Then and there he made up his mind that he would not account for it. The gardener, in common with the rest of the village, believed that the place was haunted, let him set down the hole to the spooks and their spiritual activity. Still he dug on at his grave for a little longer. It was by now becoming a matter of exceeding labour to throw the shovelfuls of soil clear out of the hole. Then he determined to stop, and with this view scrambled, not without difficulty out of the amateur tomb. Once out his eyes fell on a stout iron crow-bar which was standing among the other tools. Such an implement is used to make holes in the earth wherein to set hurdles and stakes, and it occurred to him that it would not be a bad idea to drive this crow-bar into the bottom of the grave which he had dug in order to ascertain if there was anything within its reach. Accordingly he once more descended into the hole and began to work with the iron crow, driving it down with all his strength. When he had got it almost as deep as it would go, that is about three feet, it struck something, something hard, there was no doubt of it. He worked away in great excitement, widening the hole as much as he could. Yes, it was masonry, or if it was not masonry, it was something uncommonly like it. He drew the crow out of the hole, and seizing the shovel commenced to dig again with renewed vigor. As he could no longer conveniently throw the soil from the hole, he took a skep or leaf basket which lay handy, and placing it beside him put as much of this sandy soil as he could lift into it, and then lifted it and shot it on the edge of the pit. For three quarters of an hour he labored thus, most manfully, till at last he came down to the stonework. He cleared a patch of it, and examined it attentively by the light of the dark lantern. It appeared to be rubble work, built in the form of an arch. He struck it with the iron crow, and it gave back a hollow sound. There was a cavity of some sort underneath. His excitement and curiosity redoubled. By great efforts he widened the spot of stonework already laid bare. Luckily the soil, or rather sand, was so friable that there was very little exertion required to loosen it. Just done he took the iron crow, and, inserting it beneath a loose flat stone, levered it up. This was the beginning, and having got rid of the large flat stone, he struck down again and again with all his strength, driving the sharp point of the heavy crow into the rubble beneath. It began to give. He could hear bits of it falling into the cavity below. There it went with a crash, more than a square foot of it. He leaned over the hole at his feet, devoutly hoping that the ground on which he was standing would not give way also, and tried to look down. The next second he threw his head back, coughing and gasping. The foul air, rushing up from the cavity, or chamber, or whatever it was, had half poisoned him. Then, not without difficulty, he climbed out of the grave and sat down on the pile of sand he had thrown up. Clearly he must let the air in the place sweeten a little. Clearly he must also have assistance if he was to descend into the great hole. He could not undertake that by himself. He sat there upon the edge of the pit, wondering who there was he could trust, not his own gardener, to begin with he would never come near the place at night, and besides such people talk. The squire, no, he could not rouse him at this hour, and also for obvious reasons they had not met lately. Ah, he had it. George was the man. To begin with he could be trusted to hold his tongue, and the episode of the production of the real Mrs. Quest had taught the Colonel that George was a person of no common powers. He could think, and he could act also. He threw on his coat, extinguished the large stable lantern, and having passed out, locked the door of the summer-house, and started down the mount at a trot. The wind had risen steadily during his hours of work, and was now blowing a furious gale. It was about a quarter to four in the morning, and the stars shone brightly in the hard, clean-blown sky. By their light and that of the waning moon he struggled on in the teeth of the raging tempest. As he passed under one of the oaks he heard a mighty crack overhead, and guessing what it was, ran like a hare. He was none too soon. A circular gust of more than usual fierceness had twisted the top right out of the great tree, and down it came upon the turf, with a rending, crashing sound that made his blood turn cold. After his escape he avoided the neighborhood of the groaning trees. George lived in a neat little farm-house about a quarter of a mile away. There was a shortcut to it across the fields, and this he took, breathlessly fighting his way against the gale which swept and roared and howled in its splendid might, as it came leaping across the ocean from its birth-place in the distances of air. Even the stiff hawthorn fences bowed before its breath, and the tall poplars on the skyline bent like a rod beneath the first rush of a salmon. And as he was, the immensity and grandeur of the sight and sounds struck upon him with strange and awful force. Never before had he felt so far apart from man, and so near that dread spirit round whose feet millions of rolling worlds rush on forever, at whose word they are, endure and are not. He struggled on until at last reached the house. It was quite silent, but in one of the windows a light was burning. No doubt its occupants found it impossible to sleep in that wild gale. The next thing was to consider how to make himself heard. To knock at the door would be useless in that turmoil. There was only one thing to be done, throw stones at the window. He found a good-sized pebble, and standing underneath, through it with such good will, that it went right through the glass, lighting as he afterward heard, full upon Mrs. George's sleeping nose, and nearly frightening that good woman, whose nerves were already shaken by the gale, into a fit. Next minute a red nightcap appeared at the window. George! roared the Colonel, in a lull of the gale. Who's there? came the faint answer. I, Colonel Quaritch, come down. I want to speak to you. The head was withdrawn, and a couple of minutes afterward Harold saw the front door begin to open slowly. He waited till there was space enough and then slipped in, and together they forced it too. Stop a bit, sir, said George, I'll light the lamp. And he did. Next minute he stepped back in amazement. Why, what on earth have you been after, sir? He said, contemplating Harold's filth-begrimed face and hands and clothes. Is anything wrong up at the castle, or is the cottage blown down? No, no, said Harold, listen. You've heard tell of the treasures that old Sir James Silamore buried in the times of the round heads? Yes, yes, I've heard tell of that. Have the gale blown it up? No, but by heavens, I believe I am in a fair way to find it. George took another step back, remembering the tales that Mrs. Jobson had told, and not being by any means sure that the Colonel was not in a dangerous condition of lunacy. Give me a glass of something to drink, water or milk, and I'll tell you, I have been digging all night, and my throat's like a lime kiln. Digging? Why, where? Where? In Dead Man's Mount. In Dead Man's Mount, said George? Well blow me, if that ain't a funny place to dig on a night like this. And too amazed to say anything more, he went off to get the milk.