THE END OF THE TALE
As soon as her father had gone, Ida rose and suggested that if Colonel
Quaritch had done his wine they should go into the drawing-room, which
they accordingly did. This room was much more modern than either the
vestibule or the dining-room, and had an air and flavour of nineteenth
century young lady about it. There were the little tables, the
draperies, the photograph frames, and all the hundred and one
knick-knacks and odds and ends by means of which a lady of taste makes
a chamber lovely in the eyes of brutal man. It was a very pleasant
place to look upon, this drawing-room at Honham Castle, with its
irregular recesses, its somewhat faded colours illuminated by the soft
light of a shaded lamp, and its general air of feminine dominion.
Harold Quaritch was a man who had seen much of the world, but who had
not seen very much of drawing-rooms, or, indeed, of ladies at large.
They had not come in his way, or if they did come in his way he had
avoided them. Therefore, perhaps, he was the more susceptible to such
influences when he was brought within their reach. Or perchance it was
Ida’s gracious presence which threw a charm upon the place that added
to its natural attractiveness, as the china bowls of lavender and rose
leaves added perfume to the air. Anyhow, it struck him that he had
rarely before seen a room which conveyed to his mind such strong
suggestions of refinement and gentle rest.
“What a charming room,” he said, as he entered it.
“I am glad you think so,” answered Ida; “because it is my own
territory, and I arrange it.”
“Yes,” he said, “it is easy to see that.”
“Well, would you like to hear the end of the story about Sir James and
his treasure?”
“Certainly; it interests me very much.”
“It positively _fascinates_ me,” said Ida with emphasis.
“Listen, and I will tell you. After they had shot old Sir James they
took the Bible off him, but whether or no Colonel Playfair ever sent it
to the son in France, is not clear.
“The story is all known historically, and it is certain that, as my
father said, he asked that his Bible might be sent, but nothing more.
This son, Sir Edward, never lived to return to England. After his
father’s murder, the estates were seized by the Parliamentary party,
and the old Castle, with the exception of the gate towers, razed to the
ground, partly for military purposes and partly in the long and
determined attempt that was made to discover old Sir James’s treasure,
which might, it was thought, have been concealed in some secret chamber
in the walls. But it was all of no use, and Colonel Playfair found that
in letting his temper get the better of him and shooting Sir James, he
had done away with the only chance of finding it that he was ever
likely to have, for to all appearance the secret had died with its
owner. There was a great deal of noise about it at the time, and the
Colonel was degraded from his rank in reward for what he had done. It
was presumed that old Sir James must have had accomplices in the hiding
of so great a mass of gold, and every means was taken, by way of
threats and promises of reward—which at last grew to half of the total
amount that should be discovered—to induce these to come forward if
they existed, but without result. And so the matter went on, till after
a few years the quest died away and was forgotten.
“Meanwhile the son, Sir Edward, who was the second and last baronet,
led a wandering life abroad, fearing or not caring to return to England
now that all his property had been seized. When he was two-and-twenty
years of age, however, he contracted an imprudent marriage with his
cousin, a lady of the name of Ida Dofferleigh, a girl of good blood and
great beauty, but without means. Indeed, she was the sister of Geoffrey
Dofferleigh, who was a first cousin and companion in exile of Sir
Edward’s, and as you will presently see, my lineal ancestor. Well,
within a year of this marriage, poor Ida, my namesake, died with her
baby of fever, chiefly brought on, they say, by want and anxiety of
mind, and the shock seems to have turned her husband’s brain. At any
rate, within three or four months of her death, he committed suicide.
But before he did so, he formally executed a rather elaborate will, by
which he left all his estates in England, ‘now unjustly withheld from
me contrary to the law and natural right by the rebel pretender
Cromwell, together with the treasure hidden thereon or elsewhere by my
late murdered father, Sir James de la Molle,’ to John Geoffrey
Dofferleigh, his cousin, and the brother of his late wife, and his
heirs for ever, on condition only of his assuming the name and arms of
the de la Molle family, the direct line of which became extinct with
himself. Of course, this will, when it was executed, was to all
appearance so much waste paper, but within three years from that date
Charles II. was King of England.
“Thereon Geoffrey Dofferleigh produced the document, and on assuming
the name and arms of de la Molle actually succeeded in obtaining the
remains of the Castle and a considerable portion of the landed
property, though the baronetcy became extinct. His son it was who built
this present house, and he is our direct ancestor, for though my father
talks of them as though they were—it is a little weakness of his—the
old de la Molles are not our direct male ancestors.”
“Well,” said Harold, “and did Dofferleigh find the treasure?”
“No, ah, no, nor anybody else; the treasure has vanished. He hunted for
it a great deal, and he did find those pieces of plate which you saw
to-night, hidden away somewhere, I don’t know where, but there was
nothing else with them.”
“Perhaps the whole thing was nonsense,” said Harold reflectively.
“No,” answered Ida shaking her head, “I am sure it was not, I am sure
the treasure is hidden away somewhere to this day. Listen, Colonel
Quaritch—you have not heard quite all the story yet—_I_ found
something.”
“You, what?”
“Wait a minute and I will show you,” and going to a cabinet in the
corner, she unlocked it, and took out a despatch box, which she also
unlocked.
“Here,” she said, “I found this. It is the Bible that Sir James begged
might be sent to his son, just before they shot him, you remember,” and
she handed him a small brown book. He took it and examined it
carefully. It was bound in leather, and on the cover was written in
large letters, “Sir James de la Molle. Honham Castle, 1611.” Nor was
this all. The first sheets of the Bible, which was one of the earliest
copies of the authorised version, were torn out, and the top corner was
also gone, having to all appearance been shot off by a bullet, a
presumption that a dark stain of blood upon the cover and edges brought
near to certainty.
“Poor gentleman,” said Harold, “he must have had it in his pocket when
he was shot. Where did you find it?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ida, “in fact I have no doubt of it. I found
it when I was a child in an ancient oak chest in the basement of the
western tower, quite hidden up in dusty rubbish and bits of old iron.
But look at the end and you will see what he wrote in it to his son,
Edward. Here, I will show you,” and leaning over him she turned to the
last page of the book. Between the bottom of the page and the
conclusion of the final chapter of Revelations there had been a small
blank space now densely covered with crabbed writing in faded ink,
which she read aloud. It ran as follows:
“_Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly done to
death by rebel murderers, for nought happeneth but according to God’s
will. And now farewell, Edward, till we shall meet in heaven. My monies
have I hid and on account thereof I die unto this world, knowing that
not one piece shall Cromwell touch. To whom God shall appoint, shall
all my treasure be, for nought can I communicate._”
“There,” said Ida triumphantly, “what do you think of that, Colonel
Quaritch? The Bible, I think, was never sent to his son, but here it
is, and in that writing, as I solemnly believe,” and she laid her white
finger upon the faded characters, “lies the key to wherever it is that
the money is hidden, only I fear I shall never make it out. For years I
have puzzled over it, thinking that it might be some form of acrostic,
but I can make nothing of it. I have tried it all ways. I have
translated it into French, and had it translated into Latin, but still
I can find out nothing—nothing. But some day somebody will hit upon
it—at least I hope so.”
Harold shook his head. “I am afraid,” he said, “that what has remained
undiscovered for so long will remain so till the end of the chapter.
Perhaps old Sir James was hoaxing his enemies!”
“No,” said Ida, “for if he was, what became of all the money? He was
known to be one of the richest men of his day, and that he was rich we
can see from his letter to the King. There was nothing found after his
death, except his lands, of course. Oh, it will be found someday,
twenty centuries hence, probably, much too late to be of any good to
us,” and she sighed deeply, while a pained and wearied expression
spread itself over her handsome face.
“Well,” said Harold in a doubtful voice, “there may be something in it.
May I take a copy of that writing?”
“Certainly,” said Ida laughing, “and if you find the treasure we will
go shares. Stop, I will dictate it to you.”
Just as this process was finished and Harold was shutting up his
pocket-book, in which he put the fair copy he had executed on a
half-sheet of note paper, the old Squire came into the room again.
Looking at his face, his visitor saw that the interview with “George”
had evidently been anything but satisfactory, for it bore an expression
of exceedingly low spirits.
“Well, father, what is the matter?” asked his daughter.
“Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing,” he answered in melancholy tones.
“George has been here, that is all.”
“Yes, and I wish he would keep away,” she said with a little stamp of
her foot, “for he always brings some bad news or other.”
“It is the times, my dear, it is the times; it isn’t George. I really
don’t know what has come to the country.”
“What is it?” said Ida with a deepening expression of anxiety.
“Something wrong with the Moat Farm?”
“Yes; Janter has thrown it up after all, and I am sure I don’t know
where I am to find another tenant.”
“You see what the pleasures of landed property are, Colonel Quaritch,”
said Ida, turning towards him with a smile which did not convey a great
sense of cheerfulness.
“Yes,” he said, “I know. Thank goodness I have only the ten acres that
my dear old aunt left to me. And now,” he added, “I think that I must
be saying good-night. It is half-past ten, and I expect that old Mrs.
Jobson is sitting up for me.”
Ida looked up in remonstrance, and opened her lips to speak, and then
for some reason that did not appear changed her mind and held out her
hand. “Good-night, Colonel Quaritch,” she said; “I am so pleased that
we are going to have you as a neighbour. By-the-way, I have a few
people coming to play lawn tennis here to-morrow afternoon, will you
come too?”
“What,” broke in the Squire, in a voice of irritation, “more lawn
tennis parties, Ida? I think that you might have spared me for
once—with all this business on my hands, too.”
“Nonsense, father,” said his daughter, with some acerbity. “How can a
few people playing lawn tennis hurt you? It is quite useless to shut
oneself up and be miserable over things that one cannot help.”
The old gentleman collapsed with an air of pious resignation, and
meekly asked who was coming.
“Oh, nobody in particular. Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries—Mr. Jeffries is our
clergyman, you know, Colonel Quaritch—and Dr. Bass and the two Miss
Smiths, one of whom he is supposed to be in love with, and Mr. and Mrs.
Quest, and Mr. Edward Cossey, and a few more.”
“Mr. Edward Cossey,” said the Squire, jumping off his chair; “really,
Ida, you know I detest that young man, that I consider him an
abominable young man; and I think you might have shown more
consideration to me than to have asked him here.”
“I could not help it, father,” she answered coolly. “He was with Mrs.
Quest when I asked her, so I had to ask him too. Besides, I rather like
Mr. Cossey, he is always so polite, and I don’t see why you should take
such a violent prejudice against him. Anyhow, he is coming, and there
is an end of it.”
“Cossey, Cossey,” said Harold, throwing himself into the breach, “I
used to know that name.” It seemed to Ida that he winced a little as he
said it. “Is he one of the great banking family?”
“Yes,” said Ida, “he is one of the sons. They say he will have half a
million of money or more when his father, who is very infirm, dies. He
is looking after the branch banks of his house in this part of the
world, at least nominally. I fancy that Mr. Quest really manages them;
certainly he manages the Boisingham branch.”
“Well, well,” said the Squire, “if they are coming, I suppose they are
coming. At any rate, I can go out. If you are going home, Quaritch, I
will walk with you. I want a little air.”
“Colonel Quaritch, you have not said if you will come to my party
to-morrow, yet,” said Ida, as he stretched out his hand to say
good-bye.
“Oh, thank you, Miss de la Molle; yes, I think I can come, though I
play tennis atrociously.”
“Oh, we all do that. Well, good-night. I am so very pleased that you
have come to live at Molehill; it will be so nice for my father to have
a companion,” she added as an afterthought.
“Yes,” said the Colonel grimly, “we are almost of an age—good-night.”
Ida watched the door close and then leant her arm on the mantelpiece,
and reflected that she liked Colonel Quaritch very much, so much that
even his not very beautiful physiognomy did not repel her, indeed
rather attracted her than otherwise.
“Do you know,” she said to herself, “I think that is the sort of man I
should like to marry. Nonsense,” she added, with an impatient shrug,
“nonsense, you are nearly six-and-twenty, altogether too old for that
sort of thing. And now there is this new trouble about the Moat Farm.
My poor old father! Well, it is a hard world, and I think that sleep is
about the best thing in it.”
And with a sigh she lighted her candle to go to bed, then changed her
mind and sat down to await her father’s return.