 CHAPTER XIV The Tiger shows her claws. After this very chilling reception at the hands of the object of his affection, Edward Cosy, as may be imagined, continued his drive in an even worse temper than before. He reached his rooms, had some luncheon, and then, in pursuance of a previous engagement, went over to the oaks to see Mrs. Quest. He found her waiting for him in the drying room. She was standing at the window, with her hands behind her, a favorite attitude of hers. As soon as the door was shut, she turned, came up to him, and grasped his hand affectionately between her own. "'It is an age since I've seen you, Edward,' she said, "'one whole day. Really, when I do not see you, I do not live. I only exist.' He freed himself from her clasp, with a quick movement. "'Really, Belle,' he said impatiently, "'you might be a little more careful than to go through that sort of performance in front of an open window, especially as the gardener must have seen the whole thing.' "'I don't care much if he did,' she said defiantly. "'What does it matter? My husband is certainly not in a position to make a fuss about other people.' "'What does it matter?' he said, stamping his foot. "'What does it not matter? If you have no care for your good name, do you suppose that I am indifferent to mine?' Mrs. Quest opened her large, violet eyes to the fullest extent, and a curious light was reflected from them. "'You have grown wonderfully careful, all of a sudden, Edward,' she said, meaningly. "'What is the use of being careful when you are so reckless? I tell you what it is, Bella. We are talked of all over this gossiping town, and I don't like it. And what is more, once and for all, I won't have it. If you will not be more careful, I will break with you altogether, and that is the long and short of it.' "'Where have you been this morning?' she asked in the same ominously calm tone. "'I have been to Hanum Castle on a matter of business.' "'Oh, and yesterday you were there on a matter of pleasure? Now did you happen to see Ida in the course of your business?' "'Yes,' he answered, looking her full in the face. I did see her. What about it?' "'By appointment, I suppose.' "'No, not by appointment. Have you done your catechism?' "'Yes, and now I am going to preach a homily on it. I see through you perfectly, Edward. You are getting tired of me and want to get rid of me. I tell you plainly that you are not going the right way to work about it. No woman, especially if she be in my unfortunate position, can tamely bear herself to see herself discarded for another. Certainly I cannot, and I caution you, I caution you to be careful, because when I think of such a thing I am not quite myself.' And suddenly, and without the slightest warning, for her face had been hard and cold as stone. She burst into a flood of tears. Now Edward Causie, being but a man, was somewhat broken down at this site. Of course he did his best to console her, though with no great results, for she was sobbing bitterly when suddenly there came a knock at the door. Mrs. Quest turned her face toward the wall and pretended to be reading a letter, and he tried to look as unconcerned as possible. "'A telegram for you, sir?' said the girl, with a sharp glance at her mistress. The telegraph boy brought it on here when he found she were not at home, because he said he would be sure to find you here. And please, sir, he hopes that she will give him six pence for bringing it round, as he thought it might be important.' Edward felt in his pocket and gave the girl a shilling, telling her to say that there was no answer. As soon as she was gone he opened the telegram and started. It was from his sister in London and ran as follows. Not to town at once. Father has had a stroke of paralysis. Shall expect you by the seven o'clock train. "'What is it?' said Mrs. Quest, noting the alarm on his face. "'Why, my father is very ill. He has had a stroke of paralysis, and I must go to town by the next train. Shall you be long away?' "'I do not know. How can I tell? Good-bye, Bella. I am sorry that we should have had this scene, just as I am going, but I can't help it.' "'Oh, Edward!' she said, catching him by the arm and turning her tear-stained face up toward his own. "'You are not angry with me, are you? Do not let us part in anger. How can I help being jealous when I love you so? Tell me that you do not hate me, or I shall be wretched all the time that you are away.' "'No, no, of course not. But I must say that I wish that you would not make such shocking scenes. Good-bye.' "'Good-bye,' she answered, as she gave him her shaking hands. "'Good-bye, my dear. If only you knew what I feel here!' She pointed to her breast. He would make excuses for me.' Almost before she had finished her sentence he was gone. She stood near the door, listening to his retreating footsteps, till they had quite died away, and then flung herself in the chair, and rested her head upon her hands. "'I shall lose him,' she said to herself, in the bitterness of her heart. "'I know I shall. What chance have I against her? He already cares for Ida a great deal more than he does for me. In the end he will break from me and marry her some time. Oh, I had rather see him dead, and myself too.' Half an hour later Mr. Quest came in. "'Where is Cosy?' he asked. "'Mr. Cosy's father has had a stroke of paralysis, and he has gone up to London to look after him.' "'Oh,' said Mr. Quest, well, if the old gentleman dies, your friend will be one of the wealthiest men in England.' "'Well, so much the better for him. I am sure money is a great blessing. It protects one from so much.' "'Yes,' said Mr. Quest with emphasis, so much the better for him, and all connected with him. "'Why have you been crying?' "'Because Cosy has gone away, or have you quarreled with him.' "'How do you know that I've been crying? If I have, it's my affair. At any rate, my tears are my own.' "'Certainly they are. I do not wish to interfere with your crying. Cry when you like. It will be lucky for Cosy if that old father of his dies just now, because he wants money.' "'What does he want money for?' "'Because he is undertaken to pay off the mortgages of the castle estates.' "'Why has he done that? As an investment?' "'No, it is a rotten investment. I believe that he has done it because he is in love with Miss Delamol, and is naturally anxious to ingratiate himself with her. Don't you know that? I thought, perhaps, that that's what you had been crying about.' "'It is not true,' she answered, her lips quivering with pain. Mr. Quest, laugh gently. I think that you must have lost your power of observation, which used to be sufficiently keen. However, of course, it does not matter to you. It will, in many ways, be a most suitable marriage, and I am sure they will make a very handsome couple.' She made no answer, and turned her back to hide the workings of her face. For a few moments her husband stood looking at her, with a gentle smile playing on his refined features. Then remarking that he must go round to the office, but would be back in time for tea, he went, reflecting with satisfaction that he had given his wife something to think about, which would be scarcely to her taste. As for Bella Quest, she waited till the door had closed, and then turned around toward it and spoke aloud, as though she were dressing her vanished husband. "'I hate you,' she said with bitter emphasis, "'I hate you. You have ruined my life, and now you torment me as though I were a lost soul. Oh, how I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead!' On reaching his office, Mr. Quest found two letters for him, one of which had just arrived by the afternoon post. The first was addressed in the squire's handwriting, and signed with a big seal, and the other bore a superscription, the sight of which made him turn momentarily faint. Taking up the last with a visible effort, he opened it. It ran as follows. "'Dear Bill, no answer this morning. I hope you ain't up to any of your tricks about the tin, because I won't stand it, and that's all. I told you that I had dropped all my oof, and that I had not much out of you this year, only five hundred and a beggarly twenty pound on my birthday, and what I make at the Birmingham, four pound ten a week, and hard work for that. I'm cleaned out, and that's all about it. Only just now a brute of a fellow came in with summons for rates, and I told him that my friend, that means you, Bill dear, was going to come down handsome in a day or two. He would not believe it, just as though he knew what a mean lot you were, so I told him to bundle out double quick, or I'd heave the coal-shoot at his head, and he went, you bet, but he'll be back before long with the summons. I say the coal-shoot, for there ain't no coals in it, and I can't afford any money to get a bit of fire to warm my bones with. Then, there's the landlord, says he'll destrain for the rent unless it's paid up in double-quick time, and so the long and short of it is, that if I don't get about five hundred quid out of you, in the course of next week, I'll know the reason why. And I'll just be playing with you, Bill, my old boy, if I don't see the color of that money by this day week, why, I tell you what I am going to do. I am going to take a little country air, my complexion wants it, and I think Boisingham would suit first rate. In fact, I shall come down and pay you a visit, old boy. So perhaps you'll ask the lovely Mrs. Quest to get a room ready for me. And when I get down there, if I don't tell all the old respectables a thing or two about their beloved lawyer, and generally make them sit up and see stars, why, I ain't I. And now there's the straight tip for you, from your affectionate tiger. But remember, she'd always rather purr than growl. It's only when the cash don't come down, that her back goes up. All a question of money, my boy, like everything else in this wicked world. Your beloved Edith. By the time Mr. Quest had finished reading this precious effusion that cold sweat was standing in beads on his forehead. Great heavens, this woman will destroy me, what a devil! And she'd be as good as her word, unless I found her the money. I must go up to town at once. I wonder how she got that idea into her head. It makes me shudder to think of such a thing. And he dropped his face upon his hands, and groaned in the bitterness of his heart. Head is hard. He thought to himself, here I have, for years and years been striving and toiling and laboring to become a respectable and respected member of society, and always this old folly haunts my steps and drags me down. And by heaven I believe that it will destroy me after all. With a sigh he lifted his head, and taking a sheet of paper wrote on it. I have received your letter, and will come and see you to-morrow or the next day. This letter he placed in an envelope which he directed to the high-sounding name of Mrs. de Bejeune, Stanley Street, and put it in his pocket. Then with another sigh he took up the squire's letter and glanced through it. Its length was considerable, but in substance it announced his acceptance of the arrangement proposed by Mr. Edward Cossey, and requested that he would prepare the necessary deeds to be submitted to his lawyers. Mr. Quest read the letter absently enough and threw it down with a little laugh. What a queer world it is, he said to himself, and what a ludicrous side it has to it all. Here is Cossey advancing money to get hold over Ida de LeMolle, whom he means to marry if he can, and who is probably playing her own hand. Here is Bella madly in love with Cossey, who will break her heart. Here I am in love with Bella, who hates me in playing everybody's game in order to advance my own, and become a venerated member of society I am superior to. Here is the squire blundering about like a walrus in a horse-pond, and fancying everything is being conducted for his sole advantage, and that all the world revolves around Hanum Castle. And then here at the end of the chain is this female harpy, Edith Jones. Otherwise, da bejne, alias the tiger, gnawing at my vitals and holding my fortunes in her hand. Bah! It is a queer world, and full of combinations. But the worst of it is that, plot as we will, the solution of them does not rest with us. No, not with us. This is a troubling world enough, but thanks to the mitigating fate which now and again interferes to our advantage, there do come to most of us times and periods of our existence, which, if they do not quite fulfill all the conditions of our ideal happiness, yet go near enough, to that end, to permit in after-days of our imagining that they did so. I say to most of us, but in doing so I allude chiefly to those classes, commonly known as the Upper, by which is understood those who have enough bread to put into their mouths and close to warm them. Those too, who are not the present subjects of remorseless and hideous ailments, who are not daily agonized by the sight of their famished offspring, who are not doomed to beat out their lives against the mad-house bars, or to see their hearts beloved and their most cherished hope wither toward that cold space from whence no message comes. For such unfortunates, and for their million-numbered can upon the globe, the victims of war, famine, slave trade, oppression, usury, overpopulation, and the curse of competition, the rays of light must be few indeed, few and far between, only just enough to save them from utter hopelessness. And even to the favored ones, the well-warmed and well-fed, who are to a great extent lifted by fortune or by their native strength and wit above the degradations of the world. This light of happiness is but as the gleam of stars, uncertain, fitful, and continually lost in clouds. Only the utterly selfish or the utterly ignorant can be happy with the happiness of savages or children, however prosperous their own affairs, for to the rest those who think and have hearts to feel, and imagination to realize, and a redeeming human sympathy to be touched, the mere weight of the world's misery, pressing round them like an atmosphere, the mere echoes of the groans of the dying and the cries of the children are sufficient, and more than sufficient, to dull, aye, to destroy the promise of their joys. But still, even to this finer sort, there do come rare periods of almost complete happiness. Until summers in the tempestuous climate of our years, green-fringed wells of water in our desert, pure northern lights breaking in upon our gloom, and strange as it may seem, these breads of happy days, when these old questions cease to torment, and a man can trust in providence, and without one qualifying thought, lest the day that he was born, are very frequently connected with the passion that is known as love, that mysterious symbol of our double nature, that strange tree of life, which, with its roots sucking their strength from the dust-teap of humanity, yet springs aloft above our highest level, and bears its blooms in the very face of heaven. Why it is, and what it means, we shall never know for certain, but it does suggest itself that as the greatest terror of our being lies in the utter loneliness, the unspeakable identity, and unchanging self-completeness of every living soul, so the greatest hope, and the intensest natural yearning of our hearts, go out toward that passion which in its fire-heats has the strength, if only for a little while, to melt down the barriers of our individuality, and to give to the soul something of the power for which it yearns, of losing its sense of solitude in converse with its kind. For alone we are, from infancy to death. We, for the most part, grow not nearer together, but rather wider apart, with the widening years. Where go the sympathies between the parent and the child? And where is the close, old love of brother for his brother? The invisible fates are continually wrapping us round and round with the widening sheets of our solitude, and none may know our hearts save he who made it. We are set upon the world as the stars are set upon the sky, and though in following our faded orbits we pass and repass, and each shines out on each, yet are we at the same lonely light, rolling along obedient to laws we cannot understand, through those great spaces of which none may mark the limit. Only, as has the poet, in words of truth and beauty, only but this is rare when a beloved hand is laid in ours, when jaded with the Russian glare of the interminable hours our eyes can in another eyes read clear, when our world deafened ear is by the tones of a loved one caressed, a bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, and a lost pulse of feeling stirs again, and what we mean we say, and what we would we know. And then who thinks he knows, the hills where his life rose, and the sea where unto it goes? Some such Indian summer of delight and forgetfulness of trouble, and the tragic conditions of our days, was now opening to Harold Quaritch and Ida de Lamol. Every day, or almost every day, they met and went upon their painting expeditions, and argued the point of the validity or otherwise of the impressionist doctrines of art. Not that of all this painting came anything very wonderful, although in the evening the Colonel, in the silence of his chamber, would take out his canvas and contemplate their rigid proportions with singular pride and satisfaction. It was a little weakness of his to think that he could paint, and one of which he was somewhat tenacious. He was like many another, a man who could do a number of things exceedingly well, and one thing very badly, and yet have more faith in that one bad thing than in all the good. And still, strange to say, although he effected to believe so firmly in his own style of art, and hold Ida's in such cheap regard, it was a little painting of the ladders that was most dear to him, and which was most often put upon his easel for purposes of solitary admiration. It was one of those very impressionist productions that faded away in the distance, and was full of soft, grey tints, such as his soul loathed, and had a tree with a bolt of brown colour on it, and altogether, though as a matter of fact a clever thing enough, from his point of view of art utterly anathema. This little picture in oils faintly shadowed out himself sitting at his easel, working in the soft grey of the autumn evening, and Ida had painted it and given it to him, and that was why he admired it so much. For, so to speak, our friend the Colonel was going, going fast, sinking out of sight of his former self, into the depths of the love that possessed his soul. He was a very simple-minded and pure man, strange as it may appear, since that first unhappy business of his youth, of which he had never been heard to speak. No living woman had been anything to him. Therefore, instead of becoming further vulgarised and hardened by association with all the odds and ends of woman-kind, that a man travelling about the globe comes in contact with, generally not greatly to his improvement, his faith had had time to grow up stronger even than before, and he once more looked upon woman, as a young man looks, before he has had experience of the world, as a being to be venerated and almost worshipped, as something better, brighter, pure than himself, hardly to be one, and when one to be worn like a jewel, prized at once for value and for beauty. Now this is a dangerous state of mind for a man of three or four and forty to fall into, because it is a soft state, and this is a world in which the softest are apt to get the worst of it, and at four and forty a man, of course, should be hard enough to get the better of other people, as indeed he generally is. When Harold Quaritch, after that long interval of years, first said his eyes upon Ida's face, he felt a curious change come over him, all the vague ideas and more or less poetical aspirations which for five long years had gathered themselves round about that memory took shape and form, and though as yet he would not quite confess it, in his heart he knew that he loved her. And as the days went on, and he came to know her better, he grew to love her more and more, till at last his whole heart went out toward his latefound treasure, and she grew to be more than life to him, more than ought had been or could be. Blue and happy were those days, which they spent in painting and talking as they wandered about the Hanum Castle grounds. By degrees Ida's slight but perceptible hardness of manner wore away, and she stood out what she was, one of the sweetest and most natural women in England, and with it all a woman having brains and force of character. Soon he discovered that her life had been anything but an easy one. The constant anxiety about money and her father's affairs had worn her down and hardened her, till, as she said, she began to feel as though she had no heart left. Then too he heard all her trouble about her dead and only brother James. How dearly she had loved him, and what a sore trouble he had been with his extravagant ways and his continual demands for money which had to be met somehow or other. At last came the crushing blow of his death, and with it the certainty of the extinction of the male line of the dillamoles. And she said that for a while she had believed her father would never hold up his head again. But his vitality was equal to the shock. And after a while the depths began to come in, which, although he was not legally bound to do so, her father would insist upon meeting, to the last farthing, for the honour of the family and out of respect for his son's memory. Then there was more trouble about money that had gone on and on, always getting worse as the agricultural depression deepened, till things had reached their present position. All this she told him bit by bit, keeping back from him only the last development of the drama and the part that Edward Carsey had played in it, and, sad enough, it made him to think of that ancient house of dillamole vanishing into the night of ruin. Although she told him something of her own life, how companionless it had been since her brother went into the army, for she had no real friends about Hanum, and not even an acquaintance of her own tastes, which, without being gushingly so, were decidedly artistic and intellectual. I should have wished, she said, to try to do something in the world. I daresay I should have failed, for I know that very few women meet with success, which is worth having. But still I should have liked to try, for I am not afraid of work, but the current of my life is against it. The only thing that is open to me is to strive and make both ends meet upon an income which is already growing smaller, and to save my father, poor dear, from as much worry as I can. Don't think that I am complaining, she went on hurriedly, or that I want to rush into pleasure-seeking, because I do not. A little of that goes a long way with me. Besides, I know that I have many things to be thankful for. Few women have such a kind father as mine, though we do quarrel at times. Of course we cannot have everything our own way in this world, and I daresay that I do not make the best of things. Still, at times it does seem a little hard that I should be forced to lead such a narrow life, just when I feel that I could work in a wide one. Harold looked up at her face, and saw that a tear was gathering in her dark eyes, and in his heart he registered a vow that if by any means that ever lay within his power to improve her lot he would give everything he had to do it. But all he said was, Don't be downhearted, Miss Delamol, things change in a wonderful way, and often they mend when they look worst. You know, he went on a little nervously. I am an old-fashioned sort of individual, and I believe in providence and all that sort of thing, you see, and that matters generally come pretty well straight in the long run if people deserve it. I had a sugar head a little doubtfully, and sighed. Perhaps, she said, but I suppose that we do not deserve it. Anyhow, our good fortune is a long while coming. And the conversation dropped. Still, her friend's strong belief in the efficacy of providence, and generally his masculine sturdiness, did cheer her up considerably. Even the strongest women, if they have any element that can be called feminine left in them, want somebody of the other sex to lean on, and she was no exception to the rule. Besides if I, to society, had charms for Colonel Courage, his society had almost if not quite as much charm for her. It may be remembered that on the night when they first met she had spoken to herself of him as the kind of man whom she would like to marry. The thought was a passing one, and it may be safely said that she had not since entertained any serious idea of marriage in connection with Colonel Courage. The only person there seemed to be the slightest probability of her marrying was Edward Causey, and the mere thought of this was enough to make the whole idea of matrimony repugnant to her. But notwithstanding, day by day she found Harold Courage's society more congenial. Herself by nature, and also to a certain degree by education, a cultured woman, she rejoiced to find in him an entirely kindred spirit. Where beneath his somewhat rugged and unpromising exterior Harold Courage hid a vein of considerable richness. Few of those who associated with him would have believed that the man had a side to his nature which was almost poetic, or that he was a ripe and Finnish scholar, and what is more not devoid of a certain dry humor. Then he had travelled far and seen much of men in manners, drawing up all sorts of quaint odds and ends of information. But perhaps, rather than these accomplishments, it was the man's transparent honesty and simple mindedness, his love for what is true and noble, and his contempt of what is mean and base, which unwittingly peeping out through his conversation attracted her more than all the rest. Ida was no more a young girl to be caught by a handsome face, or dazzled by a superficial show of mind. She was a thoughtful, ripened woman, quick to perceive, and with the rare talent of judgment, were with to weigh the proceeds of her perception. In plain middle-aged Colonel Courage she found a very perfect gentleman, and valued him accordingly. And so day grew into day through that lovely autumn tide. Edward Cossey was away in London, quest had seized from troubling, journeying together through the sweet shadows of companionship, by slow but sure degrees they drew near to the sunlit plain of love. For it is not common, indeed it is so uncommon, as to be almost impossible, that a man and woman between whom there stands no natural impediment can halt for very long in those shadowed ways. There is, throughout all nature, an impulse that pushes ever onwards, towards completion, and from completion to fruition. Liking leads to sympathy. Sympathy points the path to love, and love demands its own. This is the order of affairs, and down its well-trodden road these two were quickly travelling. George saw the wily of it, and winked his eye with solemn meaning. The squire also saw something of it, not being wanting in the knowledge of the world. And after much cogitation and many solitary walks, elected to leave matters alone for the present, he liked Colonel Quorich, and thought that it would be a good thing for Ida to get married, though the idea of parting from her troubled his heart sorely. Whether or no, it would be desirable, from his point of view, that she should marry the Colonel, was a matter on which he had not as yet, fully made up his mind. Sometimes he thought it would, and sometimes he thought the reverse. Then at times vague ideas suggested by Edward Cossey's behavior about the loan would come to puzzle him. But at present he was so much in the dark that he could come to no absolute decision. So with unaccustomed wisdom, first so headstrong and precipitate a man, he determined to refrain from interference, and for a while at any rate allow events to take their natural course. CHAPTER XVI. THE HOUSE WITH THE RED PILLARS. Two days after his receipt of the second letter from that tiger, Mr. Quest announced to his wife that he was going to London on business, connected with the bank, and expected to be away for a couple of nights. She laughed straight out. Really, William, she said, you are a most consummate actor. I wonder that you would think it worthwhile to keep up the farce with me. Well, I hope that Edith is not going to be very expensive this time, because we don't seem to be too rich just now. And you see, there is no more of my money for her to have. Mr. Quest winced visibly beneath this bitter satire, which his wife uttered, with a smile of infantile innocence, playing upon her face, but he made no reply. She knew too much. Only in his heart he wondered what fate she should met out to him, if ever she got possession of the whole truth, and the thought made him tremble. It seemed to him that the owner of that baby face could be terribly merciless in her vengeance, and that those soft white hands would close round the throat of a man she hated and utterly destroy him. Now, if never before, he realized that between him and this woman there must be enmity and a struggle to the death, and yet, strangely enough, he still loved her. Mr. Quest reached London about three o'clock, and his first act was to drive to Causian Sons, where he was informed that old Mr. Causie was much better, and having heard that he was coming to town had sent to say that he particularly wished to see him, especially about the Haunham Castle estates. Accordingly Mr. Quest drove on to the old gentleman's mansion in Grozner Street, where he asked for Mr. Edward Causie. The footman said that Mr. Edward was upstairs, and showed him into a study while he went to tell him of the arrival of his visitor. Mr. Quest glanced round the luxuriously furnished room which he saw was occupied by Edward himself, for some letters directed in his handwriting lay upon the desk, and a velvety and lounging coat that Mr. Quest recognized as belonging to him was hanging over the back of a chair. Mr. Quest's eye, wandering over this coat, was presently caught by the corner of a torn flap of an envelope which projected from one of the pockets. It was of a peculiar bluish tinge. In fact, of a hue which was much affected by his wife. Listening for a moment, to hear if anybody was coming, he stepped to the coat and extracted the letter. It was in his wife's handwriting, so he took the liberty of hastily transferring it to his own pocket. In another minute Edward Causie entered, and the two men shook hands. How do you do, Quest? said Edward. I think that the old man is going to pull through this bout. He is helpless, but keen as a knife, and has all the important matters from the bank referred to him. I believe that he will last a year yet, but he will scarcely allow me out of his sight. He preaches away about business the whole day long, and says that he wants to communicate the fruits of his experience to me before it is too late. He wishes to see you. So if you will, you had better come up. Accordingly they went upstairs to a large and luxurious bedroom on the first floor. Where the stricken men lay upon a patented coach. When Mr. Quest and Edward Causie entered, a lady, old Mr. Causie's eldest daughter, put down a paper out of which she had been reading the money article aloud, and, rising, informed her father that Mr. Quest had come. Mr. Quest, said the old man in a thin voice, ah, yes, I want to see Mr. Quest very much. Go away now, Anna, you can come back by and by. It was before pleasure. Most instructive, though, that sudden fall in American railways. But I thought it would come, and I got Causie and son clear of them. And he sniffed with satisfaction, and looked as though he would have rubbed his hands if he had not been physically incapacitated from so doing. Mr. Quest came forward to where the invalid lay. He was a gaunt old man, with white hair and a pallid face, which looked almost ghastly in contrast to his black velvet skullcap. So far as Mr. Quest could see, he appeared to be almost totally paralyzed, with the exception of his head, neck, and left arm, which he could still move a little. His black eyes, however, were full of life and intelligence, and roamed about the room without ceasing. How do you do, Mr. Quest? He said, sorry that I can't shake hands with you, but you see I have been strickened down, though my brain is clear enough, better than ever it was, I think. And I ain't going to die yet. Don't think that I am, because I ain't. I may live two years more. The doctor says I am sure to live one, at least. A lot of money can be made in a year if you keep your eyes open. Once I made a hundred and twenty thousand for Causie and son in one year, and I may do it again before I die. I may make a lot of money. Ah, a lot of money! And his voice went off into a kind of thin scream that was not pleasant to listen to. I am sure I hope you will, sir, said Mr. Quest politely. Thank you. Take that for good luck, you know. Well, well, Mr. Quest, things haven't done so bad done in your part of the world, not at all bad considering the times. I thought we should have to sell that old dillamole up, but I hear that he is going to pay us off. Can't imagine who has been fool enough to lend him the money. A client of yours, eh? Well, he'll lose it, I expect, and serve him right for his pains. But I am not sorry, for it is unpleasant for a house like ours to have to sell an old client up. Not that his account is worth much, nothing at all, more trouble than profit, or we should not have done it. He is no better than a bankrupt, and the insolvency court is the best place for him. The world is to the rich, and the fullness thereof. There is an insolvency court especially provided for dillamole and his like, empty old wind-bags with long-sounding names, let him go there and make room for the men who have made money, he, he, he. And once more his voice went off into a sort of scream. Here, Mr. Quest, who had had about enough of this sort of thing, changed the conversation by commencing to comment on various business transactions which he had been conducting on behalf of the house. The old man listened with the greatest interest, his keen black eyes attentively fixed upon the speaker's face, till at last Mr. Quest happened to mention that among others a certain Colonel Quaritch had opened an account with their branch of the bank. Quaritch! said the old man eagerly, I know that name. Was he ever in the one hundred and fifth foot? Yes, said Mr. Quest, he knew everything about everybody. He was an ensign in that regiment during the Indian mutiny, where he was badly wounded when still quite young, and got to the Victoria Cross. I found it all out the other day. That's the man, that's the man! said old Mr. Cosy, jerking his head in an excited manner. He's a black guard. I tell you he's a black guard. He jilted my wife's sister. She was twenty years younger than my wife, jilted her a week before her marriage, and would never give a reason. And she went mad. It isn't a mad house now. I should like to have the ruin of him for it. I should like to drive him into the poor house. Mr. Quest and Edward looked at each other, and the old man let his head fall back exhausted. Now, good-bye, Mr. Quest. They'll give you a bit of dinner downstairs. He said at length, I'm getting tired, and I want to hear the rest of that money article. You've done very well for Cosy and Son, and Cosy and Son will do well for you, for we always pay by results. That's the way to get good work and make a lot of money. And Edward, if ever you get a chance, don't forget to pay that black guard quarrage out, pound for pound, and twice as much a gain for compound interest. The old gentleman keeps his head for business pretty well, said Mr. Quest to Edward Cosy, as soon as they were well outside the door. Keeps his head, answered Edward. I should just think he did. He's a regular shirk now, that's what he is. I really believe that if he knew I had found the thirty thousand money for Old De La Mol he would cut me off with a shilling. Here Mr. Quest pricked up his ears. And he's close, too, so close, that it is almost impossible to get anything out of him. I am not particular, but upon my word I think that it is rather disgusting to see an old man with one foot in the grave hanging onto his money-bags as though he expected to float to heaven on them. Yes, said Mr. Quest, it is a curious thing to think of, but you see, money is his heaven. By the way, said Edward, as they entered the study, that's queer about that fellow Quaridge, isn't it? I never liked the look of him, with his pious air. Very queer, Mr. Cosy, said he, but do you know, I almost think that there must be some mistake. I do not believe that Colonel Quaridge is a man to do things of that sort, without a very good reason. However, nobody can tell, and it's a long while ago. A long while ago or not I mean to let him know my opinion of him when I get back to boysing him, said Edward viciously. By Jove it's twenty minutes past six, and in this establishment we dine at the pleasant hour of half-past, won't you come and wash your hands? Mr. Quest got a very good dinner, and contrary to his custom he drank the best part of a bottle of old port after it. He had an unpleasant business to face that evening, and felt as though his nerves required bracing. About ten o'clock he took his leave, and getting into a handsome, bade the cab men drive to Stanley Street, Pimalco, where he arrived in due course. Having dismissed his cab, he walked slowly down the street, till he reached a small house with red pillars to the doorway. Here he rang the bell. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a cunning face and a simper. Mr. Quest knew her well. Finally the tiger-servant, she was really her jackal, and in return for the intelligence she lent to the chase, received her portion of the prey. "'This, Mr. Beshne, a to-mellon?' he said. "'No, sir,' she answered with a simper, but she will be back from the music hall before long. She does not appear in the second part. "'But please come in, sir. You are quite a stranger here, and I am sure that Mr. Beshne will be very glad to see you, for she have been very dreadfully impressed for money of late-poured deer. Nobody knows the trouble I have had with those sharks of tradesmen.' By this time they were upstairs in the drawing-room, and Ellen had turned the gas up. The room was well furnished in a certain gaudy style, which included a good deal of guilt and plate-glass. Evidently, however, it had not been tidied since the tiger had left it, for there on the table were cards thrown this way and that, amidst an array of empty soda-water bottles, glasses, with dredges of brandy in them, and other debris, such as the ends of cigars and cigarettes, and a little copper and silver money. On the sofa, too, lay a gorgeous tea-gown, resplendent with pink satin, also a pair of golden broidered slippers, not over small, and an odd gant dissuade, with such an extraordinary number of buttons, that it almost looked like the cast-off skin of a brown snake. "'I see that your mistress has been having company, Ellen,' he said coldly. "'Yes, sir. Just a few lady-friends in to cheer her up a bit,' answered the woman, with her abominable temper. Poor dear! She do get that low when you away so much, and no wonder. And then all these money-troubles, and she night by night, working hard for her living, often and often I have seen her crying over her tall. "'Ah,' said he, breaking in upon her eloquence, I suppose that the lady-friends smoke cigars. Well clear away this mess and leave me. Stop! Give me a brandy and soda first. I will wait for your mistress.' The woman stopped talking, and did as she was bed, for there was a look in Mr. Quest's eye, which she did not quite like. So having placed the brandy and soda water before him, she left him to his own reflections. Apparently they were not very pleasant ones. He walked round the room, which was reeking of patchouli or some other compound, while mixed with the odor of stale cigar smoke, looking absently at the gouga ornaments. On the mantelpiece were some photographs, and among them to his disgust he saw one of himself, with something as near an oath as he ever indulged in he seized it, and, setting fire to it over the gas, waited till the flames began to scorch his fingers, and flung it, still flaming, down into the grate. Then he looked at himself in the glass over the mantelpiece. The room was full of mirrors, and laughed bitterly at the incongruity of his gentleman-like, respectable, and even refined appearance in that vulgar, gaudy, vicious-looking room. Suddenly he be-thought himself of the letter in his wife's handwriting which he had stolen from the pocket of Edward Carsey's coat. He drew it out, and throwing the tea-gown and the interminable glove off the sofa, sat down and commenced to read it. It was, as he had expected, a love-letter, a wildly passionate love-letter, breathing language which in places almost touched the beauty of poetry, vows of undying affection that were throughout redeemed from vulgarity and even from silliness by their utter earnestness and self-abandonment. Had the letter been one written under happier circumstances and innocent of offense against morality it would have been a beautiful letter, for passion at its highest has always a beauty of its own. He read it through, and then carefully folded it and restored it to his pocket. The woman has a heart. He said to himself, No one can doubt it, and yet I can never touch it, though God knows, however much I wronged her I loved her, yes, and love her now. Well, it is a good bit of evidence if I dare to use it. It is a game of bluff between me and her, and I expect that in the end the bolder player will win. He rose from the sofa, the atmosphere of the place stifled him, and going to the window he threw it open and stepped out onto the balcony. It was a lovely moonlit night, though chilly and for London the street was a quiet one. Taking a chair he sat down there upon the balcony and began to think. His heart was softened by misery, and his mind fell into a tender groove. He thought of his long dead mother, whom he had dearly loved, and of how he used to say his prayers to her, and of how she sang hymns to him on Sunday evenings. Her death had seemed to choke all the beauty out of his being at the time, and yet now he thanked God that she was dead. And then he thought of the accursed woman who had been his ruin, and of how she had entered into his life and corrupted and destroyed him. Next there rose up before him a vision of Bella, Bella as he had first seen her, a maid of seventeen, the only child of that drunken old village doctor, now also long since dead, and of how the sight of her had for a while stayed the corruption of his heart because he grew to love her. And then he married Bella by foul means, and the woman rose up in his path again, and he learned that his wife hated him with all the energy of her passionate heart. Then came degradation after degradation, and the abandonment of principle after principle, replaced only by a fierce craving for respectability and rest, a long, long struggle which ever ended in new lapses from the right till at length he saw himself a hardened schemer remorselessly pursued by a fury from whom there was no escape. And yet he knew that under other circumstances he might have been a good and happy man leading an honourable life. But now all hope had gone, that which he was he must be till the end. He leaned his head upon the stone railing in front of him and wept. Yes, wept in the anguish of his soul, praying to God for deliverance from the burden of his sins, and yet all knowing that he had none to hope for, for his chance was gone and his fate fixed. END OF CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. of Colonel Courage, V.C. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit limbervox.org. Colonel Courage, V.C., by H. Ryder Haggart, CHAPTER XVII. THE TIGRESS IN HER DEN. Presently a handsome cab came rattling down the street and pulled up at the door. "'Now for it,' said Mr. Quest to himself, as he metaphorically shook himself together. Next minute he heard a voice which he knew only too well, a loud high voice, say from the cab. "'Well, open the door, stupid, can't you?' Certainly my fair lady,' replied another voice, a course, somewhat husky, male voice, adored Edithia in one moment. "'Come, stow that rotten let me out,' replied the adored Edithia sharply, and in another moment a large man in evening clothes, a horribly vulgar, colonel-looking man with red cheeks and a huge underlip, emerged into the lamp-light, and turned to hand the lady out. As he did so the woman Ellen advanced from the doorway, and going to the cab door, whispered something to its occupant. "'Hello, Johnny,' said that lady, as she descended from the cab, so loudly that Mr. Quest on the balcony could hear every word. You must be off. Mr. de Begine has turned up, and perhaps he won't think three good company, so you had just best take this cab back again. My son, and that will save me the trouble of paying for it, come, cut!' de Begine growled the flashy man with an oath. "'What do I care about de Begine? Advance, de Begine, and all's well. You needn't to be jealous of me. I'm a married man. I am. Now, stop that noise and be off. He's a lawyer, and he might not freeze on to you. Don't you understand?' "'Well, I'm a lawyer, too, and a pretty sharp one, R.K. Zombo,' said Johnny with a coarse laugh. And I can tell you what it is, Edith. It ain't good enough to cart a fellow down into this howling wilderness, and then send him away without even a drink. Lend us another five at any rate. It ain't good enough, I say.' "'Good enough or not. You'll have to go, and you don't get any fivers out of me tonight. Now, pack sharp, or I'll know the reason why.' And she pointed toward the cab, in a fashion that seemed to cow her companion, for without another word he turned and got into it. "'Where to, sir?' said the cab-man. "'Oh, to hell or the hay-market, it's all one,' he growled, flinging himself back into the corner. In another moment the cab had turned, and he was gone, muttering curses as he went. The woman who was none other than Mrs. de Bechene, alias Edith Jones, alias the tiger, turned and entered the house, accompanied by her servant Ellen, and presently Mr. Quest heard the rustle of her satin dress upon the stairs. He stepped back into the darkness of the balcony and waited. She opened the door, entered, and closed it behind her. And then, a little dazzled by the light, stood for some seconds looking about her for her visitor. She was a thin, tall woman, who might have been any age between forty and fifty, with the wrecks of a very fine, agile looking figure. Her face, which was plentifully bedobbed with paint and powder, was sharp, fierce, and handsome, and crowned with a mane of false yellow hair. Her eyes were cold and blue, her lips thin and rather drawn, so as to show a double line of large and gleaming teeth. She was dressed in a rich and hideous, tight-fitting gown of yellow satin, barred with black, and on her arms were long, bright, yellow gloves. She moved slightly and silently, and looked round her with a long search and gaze, like that of a cat, and her general appearance conveyed an idea of hunger and wicked ferocity. Such was the outward appearance of the tiger. And of a truth it justified her name. Why, where the dickens has he got to? She said aloud. I wonder if he has given me the slip. Here I am, Edith, said Mr. Quest, quietly, as he stepped from the balcony into the room. Oh, there you are, are you? She said, hiding way in the dark, just like your nasty mean ways. Oh, my long-lost one! And so you have come home at last, and brought the tin with you. Well, give us a kiss! And she advanced on him, with her long arms outspread. Mr. Quest shivered visibly, and stretching out his hand stopped her from coming near him. No, thank you, he said, I don't like paint. The taunt stopped her, and for a moment an evil light shone in her cold eyes. No wonder I have to paint, she said, when I am so worn out with poverty and hard work, not like the lovely Mrs. Q, who has nothing to do all day, except spend the money that I ought to have. I'll tell you what it is, my fine fellow, you had better be careful, or I'll have that pretty cuckoo out of her soft nest, and pluck her borrowed feathers off her, like the monkey did to the parrot. Perhaps you had better stop that talk, and come to business, I am in no mood for this sort of thing, Edith. And he turned around, shut the window, and drew the blind. Oh, all right, I am agreeable, I'm sure. Stop a bit, though. I must have a brandy and soda first. I am as dry as a lime kiln. And so would you be, if you had to sing comic songs at a music hall for a living. There, that's better. And she put down the empty glass, and threw herself onto the sofa. Now, then, tune up as much as you like. How much tin have you brought? Underquest sat down by the table. And then, as though suddenly struck by a thought, rose again, and going to the door opened it, and looked out into the passage. There was nobody there, so he shut the door again, locked it, and then, under cover of drawing the curtain which hung over it, slipped the key into his pocket. What are you at there? said the woman suspiciously. I was looking to see that Ellen was not at the key-hole, that's all. It would not be the first time that I have caught her there. It's like you're nasty little ways again. She said, you've got some game on. I'll be bound that you've got some game on. Mr. Quest seated himself again, and without taking any notice of this last remark, began the conversation. I have brought you two hundred and fifty pounds. He said, two hundred and fifty pounds? She said, jumping up with a savage laugh. No, my boy, you don't get off of that. I know it. Why, I owe all that at this moment. You had better sit down and be quiet, he said, or you will not get two hundred and fifty pounds. In your own interest I recommend you to sit down. There was something about the man's voice and manner that scared the female savage before him, fierce as she was, and she sat down. Listen, he went on, you are continually complaining of poverty. I come to your house. Your house, mind you, not your rooms. And I find the debris of a card-party lying about. I see champagne bottles freshly opened. There in the corner I see a dressing-gown on the sofa that must have cost twenty or thirty pounds. I hear some brute associate of yours out in the street asking you to lend him another fiver. You complain of poverty, and you have had over four hundred pounds from me this year alone, and I know that you earn twelve pounds a week at the music-hall, and not five, as you say. No, do not trouble to lie to me, for I have made inquiries. Spying again, said the woman with a sneer. Yes, spying if you like, but there it is. And now to the point I am not going on, supplying you with money at this rate. I cannot do it, and I will not do it. I am going to give you two hundred and fifty pounds now, and as much every year, and not one farthing more. Just more, she sat up. You must be mad, she said in a tone, that sounded more like a snarl than a human voice. Are you such a fool as to believe that I will be put off with two hundred and fifty pounds a year? I, your legal wife, I'll have you in the dark first, in the dark for bigamy. Yes, he answered, I do believe it, for a reason that I shall give you presently. But first I want to go through our joint history very briefly, just to justify myself if you like. Five and twenty years ago, or was it six and twenty, I was a boy of eighteen, and you were a woman of twenty, a housemaid in my mother's house, and you made love to me. Then my mother was called away to nurse my brother, who died at school at Portsmouth, and I fell sick with scarlet fever, and you nursed me through it. It would have been kinder if you had poisoned me, and in my weak state you got a great hold over my mind, and I became attached to you. For you were handsome in those days. Then you dared me to marry you, and partly out of bravado, partly from affection, I took out a license, to do which I made a false declaration, that I was overage, and gave a false name of the parishes in which we resided. Next day half tipsy, and not knowing what I did, I went through the form of marriage with you, and a few days afterward my mother returned, observed that you were unduly intimate, and dismissed you. You went without a word, as to our marriage, which we both looked on as a farce. And for years I lost sight of you. Fifteen years afterward, when I almost forgotten this adventure of my youth, I became acquainted with the young lady, with whom I fell in love, and whose fortune, though not large, was enough to help me considerably in my profession as a country lawyer, in which I was doing well. I thought that you were dead, or that, if you lived, the fact of my having made the false declaration of age and locality would be enough to invalidate the marriage, as would certainly have been the case if I had also made a false declaration of names, and my impulses and interests prompting me to take the risk I married that lady. Then it was that you hunted me down, and then, for the first time, I did what I ought to have done before, and took the best legal opinions as to the validity of the former marriage, which to my horror I found was undoubtedly a binding one. You also took opinions and came to the same conclusion. Since then the history has been a simple one. Out of my wife's fortune of ten thousand pounds I paid you no less than seven thousand as hush money on your undertaking to leave this country for America, and never return here again. I should have done better to face it out, but I feared to lose my position and practice. You left and wrote to me that you too had married in Chicago, but in eighteen months you returned, having squandered every farthing of the money when I found that the story of your marriage was an impudent lie. Yes! she put in with a laugh, and a rare time I had with that seven thousand too. You returned and demanded more blackmail, and I had no choice but to give and give and give. In eleven years you had something over twenty-three thousand pounds from me, and you continually demand more. I believe that you will admit that that is a truthful statement of the case. And he paused. Oh, yes, she said, I am not going to dispute that. But what then I am your wife, and you have committed bigamy, and if you don't go on paying me I'll have you in jail, and that's all about it, old boy. You can't get out of it anyway, you nasty mean brute. She went on, raising her voice, and drawing up her thin lips, so as to show the white teeth beneath. So you thought that you were going to play it down low on me in that fashion, did you? Well, you just made a little mistake for once in your life, and I'll tell you what it is. You shall smart for it. I'll teach you what it is to leave your lawful wife to starve while you go and live with another woman in luxury. You can't help yourself. I can ruin you if I like. Supposing I go to a magistrate and ask for a warrant. What can you do to keep me quiet? Suddenly the varigose stopped as though she were shot, and her fierce countenance froze into an appearance of terror, as well it might. Mr. Quest, who had been sitting listening to her with his hand over his eyes, had risen, and his face was as the face of a fiend, a light with the intense and quiet fury which seemed to be burning inwardly. On the mantelpiece lay a sharp pointed gorka-knife, one of which Mrs. de Bechner's admirers, who had traveled, had presented to her. It was an awful-looking weapon, and keen edged as a razor. This he had taken up and held in his right hand, and with it he was advancing toward her, lying on the sofa. If you make a sound, I will kill you at once," he said, speaking in a low and husky voice. She had been paralysed with terror, for, like most bullies, male and female, she was a great coward. But the sound of his voice roused her, and the first note of a harsh screech had already issued from her lips, when he sprang upon her and placing the sharp point of the knife against her throat, pricked her with it. Be quiet, he said, or you are a dead woman. She stopped screaming and lay there, her face twitching, and her eyes bright with terror. Now listen, he said in the same husky voice, you incarnate fiend, you ask me just how I could keep you quiet, I will tell you, I can keep you quiet, by running this knife up to the hilt in your throat. And once more, he pricked her with its point. It would be murder, he went on, but I do not care for that. You and others between you have not made my life so pleasant for me that I am especially anxious to preserve it. Now listen, I will give you the two hundred and fifty pounds that I have brought, and you shall have two hundred and fifty a year, but if you ever again attempt to extort more, or if you molest me, either by spreading stories against my character, or by means of legal prosecution, or in any other way, I swear by the Almighty that I will murder you. I may have to kill myself afterward, I do not care if I do. Provided I kill you first. Do you understand me, you tiger, as you call yourself? If I have to hunt you down as the do tigers, I will come up with you at last, and kill you. You have driven me to it, and by heaven I will. Come speak up, and tell me that you understand, or I may change my mind and do it now. And once more he touched her with the knife. She rolled off the sofa onto the floor, and laid there, writhing in abject terror, looking in the shadow of the table, where her long, lithe form was twisting about in its robe of yellow, barred with black, more like one of the great cats from which she took her name than a human being. Spare me, she gasped, spare me, I don't want to die. I swear that I will never meddle with you again. I don't want your oaths, woman, answered the stern form, bending over her with a knife. A liar you have been from your youth up, and a liar you will be to the end. Do you understand what I have said? Yes, yes, I understand. Ah, put away that knife, I can't bear, it makes me sick. Very well, then, get up. She tried to rise, but her knees would not support her, so she sat upon the floor. Now, said Mr. Quest, replacing the knife upon the mantelpiece, here is your money, and he flung a bag of notes and gold into her lap, at which she clutched eagerly and almost automatically. The two hundred and fifty pounds will be paid on the first of January each year, and not one farthing more will you get from me. Remember what I tell you, try to molest me by a word or act, and you are a dead woman. I forbid you to even write to me. Now go to the devil in your own way. And without another word he took up his hat and umbrella, walked to the door, unlocked it, and went, leaving the tiger huddled together upon the floor. For half an hour or more the woman remained thus, the bag of money in her hand. Then she struggled to her feet, her face livid and her body shaking. Ugh! she said. I'm as weak as a cat. I thought he meant to do it that time, and he will, too, for six pence. He's got me there. I'm afraid to die. I can't bear to die. It is better to lose the money than to die. Besides, if I blow on him he'll put in a chokey, and I shan't be able to get anything out of him, and when he comes out he'll do for me. And then, losing her temper, she shook her fist in the air, and broke out into a flood of language such as would neither be pretty to hear nor good to repeat. Mr. Quest was a man of judgment. At last he realized that in one way and one only can a wild beast be tamed. And that is by terror. CHAPTER XVIII. What some have found so sweet. Time went on. Mr. Quest had been back at Boisingham for ten days or more, and was in better spirits than Bella. We can no longer call her his wife. Had seen him in for years. Indeed he felt as though ten years had been lifted off his back. He had taken a great and terrible decision and had acted upon it, and it had been successful, for he knew that his evil genius was so thoroughly terrified that for a long while at least he would be free from her persecutions. But with Bella his relations remained as strained as ever. Now that the reader is in the secret of Mr. Quest's life it will perhaps help him to understand the apparent strangeness of his contact with reference to his wife and Edward Cossey. It is quite true that Bella did not know the full extent of her husband's guilt. She did not know that he was not her husband, but she did know that nearly all of her little fortune had been paid over to another woman, and that woman a common, vulgar woman, as one of Edith's letters, which had fallen into her hands by chance, very clearly showed her. Therefore had he attempted to expose her proceedings, or even to control her actions, she had in her hand an effective weapon of defense, wherewith she could and would have given blow for blow. This state of affairs of necessity forced each party to preserve an armed neutrality toward the other whilst they waited for a suitable opportunity to assert themselves. Not that their objects were quite the same. Bella merely wished to be free of her husband, whom she had always disliked, and whom she now positively hated, with that curious hatred which women occasionally conceive towards those whom they are legally bound, when they have been bad enough or unfortunate enough to fall in love with somebody else. He on the contrary had that desire for revenge upon her, which even at the gentler stamp of man is apt to conceive toward one who, herself the object of his strong affection, daily and hourly repels and repays it with scorn and infidelity. He did love her truly. She was the one living thing in all his bitter, lonely life to whom his heart had gone out. True, he put pressure on her to marry him, or what comes to the same thing, allowed and encouraged her drunken old father to do so. But he had loved her and still loved her, and yet she mocked at him, and in the face of that fact about the money, her money, which he had paid away to the other woman, a fact which it was impossible for him to explain, except by the admission of guilt which would be his ruin. What was he to urge to convince her of this, even had she been open to conviction? But it was bitter to him. Bitter beyond all conception, to have this, the one joy of his life snatched from him. He threw himself with ardour into the pursuit after wealth and dignity of position, partly because he had a legitimate desire for these things, and partly to assuage the constant irritation of his mind but to no purpose. These two spectres of his existence, his tiger wife and the fair woman who was his wife in name, constantly marched side by side before him, blotting out the beauty from every scene and souring the sweetness of every joy. But if in his pain he thirsted for revenge upon Bella, who would have none of him, how much more did he desire to be avenged upon Edward Causie, who, as it were, had in sheer wantonness robbed him of the one good thing he had. It made him mad to think that this man, to whom he knew himself to be an every way superior, should have the power thus to injure him, and he longed to pay him back measure for measure, and through his heart's affections, to strike him as mortal a blow as he had himself received. Mr. Quest was no doubt a bad man. His whole life was a fraud. He was selfish and unscrupulous in his schemes and relentless in their execution. But whatever may have been the measure of his iniquities, he was not doomed to wait for another world to have them medded out to him again. His life, indeed, was full of miseries, the more keenly felt because of the high pitch and capacity of his nature, and perhaps the sharpest of them all was the sickening knowledge that it had not been for that one fatal error of his boyhood that one false step down the steep of avarice he might have been a good and even a great man. Just now, however, his load was a little lightened, and he was able to devote himself to his money-making and to the weaving of the web that was to destroy his rival, Edward Cossey, with a mind a little less preoccupied with other cares. Meanwhile, things at the castle were going very pleasantly for everybody. The squire was as happy in attending to the various details connected with the transfer of the mortgages as though he had been lending thirty thousand pounds instead of borrowing it. The great George was happy in the unaccustomed flow of borrowed cash that enabled him to treat Janter with a lofty scorn not unmingled with pity, which was as balm to his harass soul, and also to transact an enormous amount of business in his own peculiar way with men uptrees and otherwise, for he had not to stock the moat-farm and was not, Michael Mayers at hand. Ida, too, was happy, happier than she had been since her brother's death, for reasons that have already been hinted at. Besides, Mr. Edward Cossey was out of the way, and that, to Ida, was a very great thing, for his presence to her was what a policeman is, to a ticket of leaf-man, a most unpleasant and suggestive sight. She fully realized the meaning and extent of the bargain into which she had entered to save her father and her house, and there lay upon her the deep shadow of evil that was to come. Every time she saw her father bustling about with his business letters and his parchments, every time the Universal George arrived with an air of melancholy satisfaction and a long list of the farming stock and implements he had bought at some neighboring Michael-Mess sale, the shadow deepened, and she heard the clanking of her chains. Therefore she was the more thankful for her respite. Harold Quarch was happy, too, though in a somewhat restless and peculiar way. Mrs. Jobson, the old lady who attended to his wants at Molehill, with the help of a gardener and a simple village made her niece, who smashed all the crockery and nearly drove the Colonel mad by banging the doors, shifting his papers and even dusting his trays of Roman coins, actually confided to some friends in the village that she thought the poor, jeered gentleman was going mad. When questioned on what she based this belief she replied that he would walk up and down the oak-panel dining-room by the hour together, that then, when he got tired of that exercise, whereby, said Mrs. Jobson, he had already worn a groove in the new turkey-carpet, he would take out a rocky, foggy, looking bit of a picture, and set it upon a chair and stare at it through his fingers, shaking his head and muttering all the while. Then further and conclusive proof of a yielding intellect he would get a half-sheet of paper with some writing on it and put it on the mantelpiece and stare at that. Next he would turn it upside down and stare at it so, then sideways, then always, then he would hold it before a looking-glass and stare at the looking-glass and so on. When asked how she knew all this she confessed that Jane had seen it through the keyhole, not once, but often. Of course, as the practised and discerning reader will clearly understand, this meant only that, when walking and wearing out the carpet, the Colonel was thinking of Ida. When contemplating the painting she had given him, he was admiring her work and trying to reconcile his admiration with his conscience and his somewhat peculiar views of art, and that when glaring at the paper he was vainly endeavouring to make head or tail of the message written to his son on the night before his execution by Sir James de la Molle in the reign of Charles I, and confidently, believed by Ida, to contain a key to the whereabouts of the treasure he was supposed to have secreted. Of course the tail of this worthy soul Mrs. Jobson did not lose in the telling, and when it reached Ida's ears, which it did at last, through the medium of George, for in addition to his numberless and other functions, George was the sole authorised purveyor of village and country-news, it read that Colonel Courage had gone raving mad. Ten minutes afterward this raving lunatic arrived at the castle in his dress-clothes and his right mind, whereupon Ida promptly repeated her thrilling history, somewhat to the subsequent discomfort of Mrs. Jobson and Jane. No one, as somebody once said, with equal truth and profundity knows what a minute may bring forth, much less therefore does anybody know what an evening of, say, two hundred and forty minutes may produce. For instance, Harold Courage, though by this time he had gone so far as to freely admit to himself that he was utterly and hopelessly in love with Ida, in love with her, with that settled and determined passion which sometimes strikes a man or woman in middle age, certainly did not know that before the evening was out he would have declared his devotion with results that should be made clear in their decent order. When he put on his dress-clothes to come up to dinner he had no more intention of proposing to Ida than he had of not taking them off when he went to bed. His love was deep enough and steady enough, but perhaps it did not possess that wild impetuosity which carries people so far in their youth, sometimes indeed a great deal further than their reason approves. It was essentially a middle-aged devotion and bore the same resemblance to the picturesque passion of five and twenty that a snow-fed torrent does to a navigable river. The one rushes and roars and sweeps away the bridges and devastates happy homes, while the other bears upon its placid breast the arguses of peace and plenty, and is generally serviceable to the necessities of man. But for all that there is something attractive about torrents. There is a grandeur in that first rush of passion which results from the sudden melting of the snows of the heart's purity and faith and high unstained devotion. But both torrents and navigable rivers are liable to one common fate, they may fall over precipices, and when that happens even the latter ceases to be navigable for a space, and that was what was about to happen to our friend the Colonel. To begin with, he had dined well, and whatever ardent twenty-three may think of so gross and material a fact, it is certainly true that if a man is in love before dinner, he is five and twenty percent more in love after that. Well, Harold Quarritch had dined, and he had had a pleasant as well as a good dinner. The squire, who of late had been cheerful as a cricket, was in his best form, and told long stories with an infinitesimal point. In anybody else's mouth these stories would have been wearysome to a degree, but there was a gusto, an originality, and a kind of Tudor period flavor about the old gentleman, which made his worst and longest story acceptable in any society. The Colonel himself, too, had come out in a most unusual way. He had a fund of dry humor in him which he rarely produced, but when he did produce it it was of a most satisfactory order. On this particular night it was all on view, greatly to the satisfaction of Ida, who was a witty as well as a clever woman, and so it came to pass that the dinner was a very pleasant one. Harold and the squire were still sitting over their wine, and the latter was, for the fifth time, giving to the former a full and particular account of how his deceased aunt, Mrs. Massey, had been persuaded, by a learned antiquarian, to convert or rather restore Dead Man's Mount to its supposed primitive condition of an ancient British dwelling, and of the extraordinary expression of her face when the bill came in, when suddenly the servant announced that George was waiting to see him. The old gentleman grumbled a great deal, but finally got up and departed to enjoy himself for the next hour or so in talking about things in general with his retainer, leaving his guest to find his way to the drawing-room. When the Colonel reached the room he found Ida seating at the piano singing. She heard him shut the door, looked round, nodded prettily, and then went on with her singing. He came and sat down on a low chair some two paces from her, placing himself in such a position that he could see her face, which indeed he always found a wonderfully pleasant object of contemplation. Ida was playing without music. The only light in the room was that of a low lamp with a red fringe to it. Therefore he could not see very much, being only with difficulty, able to trace the outlines of her features. But if the shadow thus robbed him, it, on the other hand, lent her a beauty of its own, clothing her face with an atmosphere of wonderful softness, which it did not always possess in the glare of day. The Colonel indeed, we must remember that he was in love and that it was after dinner, became quite poetical, internally of course, about it, and in his heart compared her, first to St. Cecilia at her organ, and then to the angel of the twilight. He had never seen her look so lovely. At her worst she was a handsome and noble-looking woman. But now the shadow from without, and though he knew nothing of it, the shadow from her heart within also, aided maybe by the music's swell, had softened and purified her face, till it did indeed look almost like an angel's. It is strong, powerful faces that are capable of the most tenderness, not the soft and pretty ones, and even in a plain person, when such a face is in this way seen, it gathers a peculiar beauty of its own. But Ida was not a plain person. So on the whole it is scarcely to be wondered at that a certain effect was produced upon Harold Quarrich. Ida, to outward appearance at any rate, all unconscious of what was passing in her admirer's mind, went on singing almost without a break. She had a good memory, and a sweet voice, and really liked music for its own sake, so it was no great effort to her to do so. Presently she came to a song from Tennyson's Maud. The tender and beautiful words thereof will be familiar to most of the readers of her story. It began, Oh, let the solid ground not fail beneath my feet, before my life has found what some have found so sweet. The song is a lovely one, and it did not suffer from her rendering, and the effect produced upon Harold by it was of a most peculiar nature. All his past life seemed to heave and break beneath the magic of the music and the magic of the singer, as a northern field of ice breaks up beneath the outburst of the summer sun. It broke up and sank and vanished into the depths of his nature. Those dread, unmeasured depths, that roll and murmur in the vastness of each human heart as the sea rolls beneath its cloak of ice, that roll and murmur here, and set toward a shore of which we have no chart or knowledge. The past was gone, the frozen years had melted, and once more the sweet strong air of youth blew across his heart, and once more there was blue sky above wherein the angels sailed. Under the influence of that song the barrier of self broke down, and his being went out to meet her being, and all the possibilities of life seemed to breathe afresh. He sat and listened, and as he listened trembled in his agitation till the sweet echoes of the music died upon the quiet air. They died and were gathered into the emptiness which receives and records all things, the oath and the prayer, the melody and the scream of agony, the shout of triumph and the wail of woe, and left him broken. She turned to him, smiling faintly, for the song had moved her also, and he felt that he must speak. That is a beautiful song, he said, sing it again if you do not mind. She made no answer, but once more sang, Oh, let the solid ground not fail beneath my feet, before my life has found what some have found so sweet. And then suddenly broke off. Why are you looking at me? She said. I can feel you looking at me, and you make me nervous. He bent toward her and looked in her eyes. I love you, Ida, he said, I love you with all my heart. And he stopped suddenly. She turned quite pale. Even in that light he could see her pallor, and her hands fell heavily on the keys. The echo of the crashing notes rolled round the room and died slowly away. But still she said nothing. CHAPTER 19 At last she spoke, apparently with a great effort. It is stifling in here, she said, let us go out. And she rose, took up a shawl that lay beside her on a chair, and stepped through a French window into the garden. It was a lovely autumn night, and the air was still as death, with just a touch of frost in it. Ida threw the shawl over her shoulders, and, followed by Harold, walked on through the garden till she came to the edge of the moat where there was a seat. Where she sat down and fixed her eyes upon the whorey old battlements of the gateway, clad in their solemn robe of moonlight. Harold looked at her, and felt that if he had anything to say the time had come for him to say it. And that she had brought him here in order that she might be able to listen undisturbed. So he began again, and told her that he loved her dearly. I am some seventeen years older than you, he went on, and I suppose that the most active part of my life lies in the past. And I don't know if, putting other things aside, you would care to marry so old a man, especially as I am not rich. Indeed I feel it presumptuous on my part, seeing what you are and what I am, to ask you to do so. And yet, Ida, I believe that, if you could care for me, with God's blessing, we should be very happy together. I have led a lonely life, and have had little to do with women. Once many years ago I was engaged, and the matter ended painfully, and that is all. But ever since I first saw your face in the drift five years and more ago, it has haunted me and been with me. And then I came to live here, and have learned to love you, heaven only knows how much. And I should be ashamed to try to put it into words, for they would sound foolish. All my life is wrapped up in you, and I feel as though, should you see me no more, I should never be a happy man again. And he paused, and looked anxiously at her face, which was set and drawn as though with pain. I cannot say yes, Colonel Quarch. She answered at length, in a tone that puzzled him. It was so tender, and so unfitted to the words. I suppose, he stammered, I suppose that you do not care for me. Perhaps I have no right to expect that you would. As I have said, I cannot say yes, Colonel Quarch. Do you not think I had better leave that question unanswered? She replied in the same soft note, which seemed to draw the heart out of him. I do not understand, he went on. Why? Why? She broke in with a bitter laugh. Shall I tell you? Because I am in pawn. Look! She went on, pointing to the stately towers, and the broad lands beyond. You see this place, I, and security for I, myself, in my own person. Had it not been for me, it would have been sold over our heads after having descended in our family for all these centuries. Put upon the market, and sold for what it would fetch, and my old father would have been turned out to die, for it would have killed him. So you see, I did what unfortunate women have often been driven to do. I sold myself, body and soul, and I got a good price, too, thirty thousand pounds, and suddenly she burst into a flood of tears and began to sob as though her heart would break. For a moment Harold Quarch looked on bewildered, not in the least understanding what I had meant, and then he followed the impulse common to mankind in similar circumstances and took her in his arms. She did not resent the movement. And she scarcely seemed to notice it, though to tell you the truth, for a moment or two, which the Colonel seemed the happiest of his life, her head rested on his shoulder. Almost instantly, however, she raised it, freed herself from his embrace, and ceased weeping. Ah, I have told you so much, she said. I suppose I had better tell you everything. I know that whatever the temptation, and she laid great stress upon the word, under any conceivable circumstances, indeed if you believed you were serving me in so doing, I can rely upon you never to reveal to anybody, and above all to my father, what I now tell you. And she paused, and looked up at him, with eyes in which the tears still swam. Of course you can rely upon me, he said. Very well. I am sure that I shall never have to reproach you with the words. I will tell you. I virtually promised to marry Mr. Edward Cossey, should he, at any time, be in a position to claim fulfilment of the promise, on condition of his taking up the mortgages of Hanum, which he has done. Harold Courage took a step back, and looked at her in horrified astonishment. What? He asked. Yes, yes, she answered hastily, putting up her hands as though to shield herself from a blow. I know what you mean, but do not think too hardly of me if you can help it. It was not for myself. I would rather work for my living with my hands than take a price, for there is no other word for it. It was for my father and my family, too. I could not bear to think of the old place going to the hammer, and I did it all in a minute, without consideration, but— And she sat her face. Even as things are, I believe I should do it again, because I think that no one woman has a right to destroy her family in order to please herself. If one of the two must go, let it be her. But don't think hardly of me for it. She added, almost pleadingly, that is, if you can help it. I am not thinking of you, he answered grimly, by heaven, I honor you for what you have done. For however much I disagree with the act, it is a noble one. I am thinking of the man who could drive such a bargain. You say that you have promised to marry him, should he ever be in a position to claim it. What do you mean by that? As you have told me so much, you may as well tell me the rest. He spoke clearly, and with a voice of authority, but his bearing did not seem to jar upon Ida. I meant, she said humbly, that I believe, of course I do not know if I am right. I believe that Mr. Cosy is in some way entangled with a lady, in short, with Mrs. Quest, and that the question of whether or no he comes forward, again, depends upon her. Upon my word, said the Colonel, upon my word the thing gets worse and worse. I never heard anything like it, and from money too, the thing is beyond me. At any rate, she answered, there it is, and now, Colonel Courage, one word before I go in. It is difficult for me to speak without saying too much or too little. But I do want you to understand how honored and how grateful I feel for what you have told me tonight. I am so little worthy of all you have given me, and to be honest, I cannot feel as pained about it as I ought to feel. It is feminine vanity, you know, nothing else. I am sure you will not press me to say more. No, he answered, no. I think that I understand the position. But Ida, there is one thing that I must ask. You will forgive me if I am wrong in doing so. But all this is very sad for me. If in the end circumstances should alter, as I pray heaven that they may, or if Mr. Cosy's previous entanglement should prove too much for him, will you marry me, Ida? She thought for a moment, and then, rising from the seat, gave him her hand and said simply, Yes, I will marry you. He made no answer, but lifting her hand touched it gently with his lips. Meanwhile, she went on, I have your promise, and I am sure that you will not betray it. Come what may. No, he said, I will not betray it. And they went in. In the drying-room they found the squire puzzling over a sheet of paper on which were scrawled some of George's accounts, in figures which at first sight bore about as much resemblance to Egyptian hieroglyphics as they did to those in use today. Hello! he said. There you are. Where on earth have you been? We have been looking at the castle in the moonlight, answered Ida Cooley. It is beautiful. Uh-huh! said the squire, dryly. I have no doubt that it is beautiful. But isn't the grass rather damp? Well look here. And he held up the sheet of hieroglyphics. Perhaps you can add this up, Ida, for it is more than I can. George has bought stock and all sorts of things at the sale today, and here is his account. Three hundred and seventy-two pounds he makes it, but I make it four hundred and twenty, and hang me if I can't find out which is right. It is most important that these accounts should be kept straight, most important, and I cannot get this stupid fellow to do it. Ida took the sheet of paper and added it up, with the result that she discovered both totals to be wrong. Harold, watching her, could not help wondering at the nerve of the woman, who, after going through such a scene as that which had just occurred, could deliberately add up long rows of badly-written figures. And this money, which her father was expending so cheerfully, was part of the price for which she had bound herself. With a sigh he rose, and said good-night, and went home with feelings almost too mixed to admit of accurate description. He had taken a great step in his life, and to a certain extent that step had succeeded. He had not altogether built his hopes upon sand, for from what Ida had said, and still more from what she had tacitly admitted, it was necessarily clear to him that she did more or less regard him as a man would wish to be regarded by a woman whom he dearly loved. This was a great deal, more indeed than he had dared to believe. But then, as is usually the case in this imperfect world, where things but too often seemed to be carefully arranged at sixes and sevens, came the other side of the shield. Of what use to him was it to have won this sweet woman's love? Of what use to have this pure water of lawful happiness put to his lips in the desert land of his lonely life, in order to see the cup that held it shattered at a blow? To him the story of the money-loan, in consideration of which, as it were, Ida had put herself in pawn, as the Egyptians used to put the mummies of their fathers in pawn, was almost incredible. To a person of his simple and honourable nature it seemed a preposterous and unheard of thing that any man calling himself a gentleman should find it possible to sink so low as to take such advantage of a woman's dire necessity and honourable desire to save her father from misery, and her race from ruin, and to extract from her a promise of marriage in consideration of the value received. Putting aside his overwhelming personal interest in the matter, it made his blood boil to think that such a thing could be. And yet it was, and what was more, he believed he knew Ida well enough to be convinced that she would not shirk the bargain. If Edward Cosy came forward to claim his bond it would be paid down to the last farthing. It was a question of thirty thousand pounds, the happiness of his life, and of Ida's depended upon a sum of money. If the money was forthcoming Cosy could not claim his flesh and blood. But where was it to come from? He himself was worth perhaps ten thousand pounds, or with the commutation value of his pension, possibly twelve, and he had not the means of raising a farthing more. He thought the position over, till he was tired of thinking, and then with a heavy heart, and yet with a strange glow of happiness, shining through his grief like sunlight through a gray day, at last he went to sleep, and dreamed that Ida had gone from him, and that he was once more utterly alone in the world. But if he had caused for trouble, how much more was it so with Ida, poor woman, under her somewhat cold and stately exterior, she had a deep and at times a passionate nature. For some weeks she had been growing strangely attached to Harold Quarritch, and now she knew that she loved him, so that there was no one thing that she desired more in this wide world than to become his wife. And yet she was bound, bound by a sense of honour, and a sense too of money received, to stay at the beck and call of a man she detested, and if at any time it pleased him to throw down the handkerchief, to be there to pick it up and hold it to her heart. It was bad enough to have had this hanging over her head when she was herself more or less in a passive condition, and therefore, to a surgeon extent, reckless as to her future. But now that her heart was alight with the holy flame of a good woman's love, now that her whole nature rebelled and cried out aloud against the sacrilege involved, it was both revolting and terrible. And yet, so far as she could see, there was no great probability of escape. She was a shrewd and observant woman, and could gauge Mr. Causie's condition of mind toward her with more or less accuracy. Also, she did not think it, in the least likely, that having spent thirty thousand pounds to advance this object he would be content to let his advantage drop. Such a course would be repellent to his trading instincts. She knew in her heart that the hour was not far off when he would claim his own, and that unless some accident occurred to prevent it, it was practically certain that she would be called upon to fulfill her pledge, and whilst loving another man to become the wife of Edward Causie. End of CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XX. It was on the day following the one upon which Harold proposed to Ida that Edward Causie returned to Boisingham. His father had so far recovered from his attack as to be at last prevailed upon to allow his departure, being chiefly moved there, too, by the supposition that Causie and son's branch establishments were suffering from his son's absence. Well, he said in his high, piercing voice, business is business, and must be attended to, so perhaps you had better go. They talk about the fleeting character of things, but there is one thing that never changes, and that is money. Money is immortal. Men may come and men may go, but money goes on forever, he-he. Money is the honey-pot, and men are the flies, and some get their fill and some stick their wings, but the honey is always there. So never mind the flies. No, never mind me. You go and look after the honey, Edward. Money, honey, honey, money. They rhyme, don't they? And look here, by the way, if you get a chance, and the world is full of chances, to men who have plenty of money, mind you don't forget to pay out that half-pay Colonel, what's his name, Courage? He played our family a dirty trick, and there's your poor Aunt Julia in a lunatic asylum to this moment, and a constant source of expense to us. And so Edward bade his esteemed parent farewell, and departed. For in truth did he require any admonition from Mr. Cosy Sr. to make him anxious to do, Colonel Courage, an ill turn if the opportunity should serve. Mrs. Quest, in her numerous affectionate letters, had more than once, possibly for reasons of her own, given him a full and vivid resume of the local gossip about the Colonel and Ida, who were, she said, according to Common Report, engaged to be married. Now absence had not by any means cooled Edward's devotion to Miss Delamole, which was a sincere one enough in its own way. On the contrary, the longer he was away from her, the more his passion grew, and with it a vigorous undergrowth of jealousy. He had it is true, Ida's implied promise that she would marry him, if he chose to ask her, but on this he put no great reliance, hence this hurry, to return to Boisingham. During London, by an afternoon train, he reached Boisingham, about half past six, and in pursuance of an arrangement already made, went to dine with the Quests. When he reached the house he found Bella, alone in the drawing-room, for her husband, having come in late, was still dressing. But somewhat to his relief he had no opportunity of private conversation with her, for a servant was in the room, attending to the fire, which would not burn. The dinner passed off quietly enough, though there was an ominous look about the lady's face, which he, being familiar with these sites, of the feminine weather, did not altogether like. After dinner, however, Mr. Quest excused himself, saying that he had promised to attend a local concert in aid of the funds for the restoration of the damaged pinnacle of the parish church, and he was left alone with the lady. Then it was that all her pent-up passion broke out. She overwhelmed him with her affection. She told him that her life had been a blank while he was away. She reproached him with the scarcity and coldness of his letters, and generally went on in a way to which she was well accustomed, and if the truth must be told, with which he was heartily tired. His mood was an irritable one, and to-night the whole thing wearied him beyond bearing. Come, Bella, he said at last, for goodness sake, be a little more rational. You are getting too old for this sort of tomfoolery, you know. She sprang up and faced him, her eyes flashing, and her breast heaving with jealous anger. What do you mean, she said? Are you tired of me? I did not say that, he answered. But as you have started the subject, I must tell you that I think all this has gone far enough. Unless it is stopped, I believe we shall both be ruined. I am sure that your husband is becoming suspicious, and I told you again and again, if once this business gets to my father's ears he will disinherit me. Bella stood quite still till he had finished. She had assumed her favourite attitude and crossed her arms behind her back, and her sweet childish face was calm and very white. What is the get of making excuses and telling me what is not true, Edward? She said, one never hears a man who loves a woman talk like that. Prudence comes with weariness, and men grow virtuous, when there is nothing more to gain. You are tired of me, and I have seen it a long time, but like a poor blind fool I have tried not to believe it. It is not a great reward to a woman who has given her whole life to a man, but perhaps it is as much as she can expect, for I do not want to be unjust to you. I am the most to blame, because a woman need never take a fault step except of her own free will. Well, well, he said impatiently, what of it? See this, Edward, I still have a little pride left, and if you are tired of me, why, go. He tried her to prevent it, but do what he would, a look of relief struggled into his face. She saw it, and it made her wild with jealous anger. You need not look so happy, Edward, it is scarcely decent, and besides, you have not heard all that I have to say. I know what all this arises from. You are in love with Ida de Le Mans. Now there I draw the line. You may leave me if you like, but you shall not marry Ida while I am alive to prevent it. That is more than I can bear. Besides, like a wise woman, she has fallen in love with Colonel Quart, who is worth two of you, Edward Cossey. I do not believe it, he answered, and what right have you to say that I am in love with Miss Delamore, and if I am in love with her, how can you prevent me from marrying her if I choose? Try, and you will see, she answered, with a little laugh. Now, as the curtain has dropped, and it is all over between us, why, the best thing that we can do is to put out the lights and go to bed. And she laughed again, and curtsied, with much assumed playfulness. Good night, Mr. Cossey, good night, and good-bye. He held out his hand. Come, Bella," he said, don't let us part like this. She shook her head, and once more put her arms behind her. No, she answered, I will not take your hand. With my own free will I will never touch it again, for to me it is like the hand of the dead. Good-bye once more, good-bye to you, Edward, and to all the happiness that I ever had. I built up all my life upon my love for you, and you have shattered it like glass. I do not reproach you. You have followed after your nature, and I must follow after mine, and in time all things will come right, in the grave. I shall not trouble you any more, provided that you do not try to marry Ida for that I will not bear, and now go for I am very tired. And turning she rang the bell for the servant to show him out. In another minute he was gone. She listened till she heard the front door close behind him, and then she gave way to her grief, and flinging herself upon the sofa, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed and moaned bitterly, weeping for the past, and weeping too, for the long desolate years that were to come. Our woman, do not let us judge her too hardly, for whatever was the measure for sin it had assuredly found her out, as our sins always do find us out in the end. She had loved this man with a passion which has no parallel in the hearts of well-ordered and well-broad-up women. She had never really lived till this fatal passion took possession of her, and now that its object had deserted her, her heart felt as though it had died within her. In that short half-hour she suffered more than any women do in their whole lives. But the paroxysm passed, and she rose pale and trembling, with set teeth and blazing eyes. He had better be careful, she said to herself, he may go, but if he tries to marry Ida I will keep my word, yes, for her sake as well as his. When Edward Cosy came to consider the position which he did seriously, on the following morning he did not find it very satisfactory. To begin with he was not altogether a heartless man, and such a scene as that which he had passed through on the previous evening was in itself quite enough to upset his nerves. At one time at any rate he had been much attached to Mrs. Quest. He had never borne her violent affection, that had all been on her side, but still he had been fond of her, and if he could have done so, would probably have married her. Even now he was attached to her, and would have been glad to remain her friend if she would have allowed it. But then came the time when her heroics commenced to weary him, and he on his side began to fall in love with Ida de Lamol, and as he drew back so she came forward till at length he was worn out, and things culminated as has been described. He was sorry for her, too, knowing how deeply she was attached to him, though it was probable that he did not in the least realize the extent to which she suffered, for neither men nor women, who have intentionally or otherwise been the cause of intense mental anguish, to one of the opposite sex, ever do quite realize this. They not unnaturally measure the trouble by the depth of their own, and are therefore very apt to come to erroneous conclusions. Of course we are now speaking of cases where all the real passion is on one side, and indifference, or comparative indifference on the other. For where it is mutual the grief will in natures of equal depths be mutual also. At any rate Edward Causie was quite sensitive enough to feel the parting with Mrs. Quest acutely, and perhaps he felt the manner of it even more than the fact of the separation. Then came another consideration. He was, it is true, free from his entanglement, which was in itself an enormous relief. But the freedom was of a conditional nature. Bella had threatened trouble in the most decisive tones, should he attempt to carry out his secret purpose which she had not been slow to divine, of marrying Ida. From some occult reason, at least to him it seemed occult, the idea of this alliance was peculiarly distasteful to her, though no doubt the true explanation was that she believed, and not inaccurately, that it was an order to bring it about, that he was bent upon deserting her. The question with him was, would she, or would she not attempt to put her threat into execution? It certainly seemed to him difficult to imagine what steps she could take to that end, seeing that any such steps would necessarily involve her own exposure, and that too, when there was nothing to gain, and when all hopes thereby securing him for herself had passed away. Nor did he seriously believe that she would attempt anything of the sort. It is one thing for a woman to make such threats in the acute agony of her jealousy, and quite another for her to carry them out in cold blood. Looking at the matter, from a man's point of view, it seemed to him extremely improbable that when the occasion came she would attempt such a move. He forgot how much more violently, when once it has taken possession of her being, the storm of passion sweeps through such a woman's heart than through a man's, and how utterly reckless to all consequence the former sometimes becomes. For there are women for whom all things melt in that white heat of anguished jealousy, honor, duty, conscience, and the restraint of religion, and of these Bella Quest was one. But of this he was not aware, and though he recognized a risk he saw in it no sufficient reason to make him stay his hand. For day by day the strong desire to make Ida his wife had grown upon him till at last it possessed him, body, and soul. For a long while the intent had been smoldering in his breast, and the tale that he now heard to the effect that Colonel Quarage had been beforehand with him had blown it to a flame. Ida was ever present in his thoughts. Even at night he could not be rid of her. For when he slept her vision, dark-eyed and beautiful, came stealing down his dreams. She was his heaven, and if by any latter known to man he might climb there too, a thither would he climb. And so he set his teeth and vowed that, Mrs. Quest, or no Mrs. Quest, he would set his fortune upon the hazard of the die, I, and win it, even if he loaded the dice. While he was still thinking thus, standing at his window and gazing out to the market-place of the quiet little town, he suddenly saw Ida herself driving up in her pony carriage. It was a wet and windy day, and the rain was on her cheek, and the wind tossed a little lock of her brown hair. The cob was pulling, and her proud face was set, as she concentrated her energies upon holding him. Never to Edward Cossey had she looked more beautiful. His heart beat fast at the sight of her, and whatever doubts might have lingered in his mind vanished. Yes, he would claim her promise and marry her. Presently the pony carriage pulled up at his door, and the boy who was sitting behind got down and rang the bell. He stepped back from the window, wondering what it could be. "'Will you please give that note to Mr. Cossey?' said Ida as the door opened, and asked him to send an answer, and she was gone. The note was from the squire, sealed with his big seal. The squire always sealed his letters in the old-fashioned way, and contained an invitation to him to shoot on the morrow. "'George wants me to do a little partridge driving,' it ended, and to brush through one or two of the small covers. There will only be Colonel Quarwich beside yourself and George. But I hope that you will have a fair rough day. If I don't hear from you, I shall suppose that you are coming. So don't trouble to write.'