ABOUT ART
Edward Cossey drove from the Castle in a far from happy frame of mind.
To begin with, the Squire and his condescending way of doing business
irritated him very much, so much that once or twice in the course of
the conversation he was within an ace of breaking the whole thing off,
and only restrained himself with difficulty from doing so. As it was,
notwithstanding all the sacrifices and money risks which he was
undergoing to take up these mortgages, and they were very considerable
even to a man of his great prospects, he felt that he had been placed
in the position of a person who receives a favour rather than of a
person who grants one. Moreover there was an assumption of superiority
about the old man, a visible recognition of the gulf which used to be
fixed between the gentleman of family and the man of business who has
grown rich by trading in money and money’s worth, which was the more
galling because it was founded on actual fact, and Edward Cossey knew
it. All his foibles and oddities notwithstanding, it would have been
impossible for any person of discernment to entertain a comparison
between the half-ruined Squire and the young banker, who would shortly
be worth between half a million and a million sterling. The former was
a representative, though a somewhat erratic one, of all that is best in
the old type of Englishmen of gentle blood, which is now so rapidly
vanishing, and of the class to which to a large extent this country
owes her greatness. His very eccentricities were wandering lights that
showed unsuspected heights and depths in his character—love of country
and his country’s honour, respect for the religion of his fathers,
loyalty of mind and valour for the right. Had he lived in other times,
like some of the old Boisseys and de la Molles, who were at Honham
before him, he would probably have died in the Crusades or at Cressy,
or perhaps more uselessly, for his King at Marston Moor, or like that
last but one of the true de la Molles, kneeling in the courtyard of his
Castle and defying his enemies to wring his secret from him. Now few
such opportunities are left to men of his stamp, and they are, perhaps
as a consequence, dying out of an age which is unsuited to them, and
indeed to most strong growths of individual character. It would be much
easier to deal with a gentleman like the Squire of this history if we
could only reach down one of those suits of armour from the walls of
his vestibule, and put it on his back, and take that long two-handled
sword which last flashed on Flodden Field from its resting-place
beneath the clock, and at the end see him die as a loyal knight should
do in the forefront of his retainers, with the old war cry of “_a
Delamol—a Delamol_” upon his lips. As it is, he is an aristocratic
anachronism, an entity unfitted to deal with the elements of our
advanced and in some ways emasculated age. His body should have been
where his heart was—in the past. What chance have such as he against
the Quests of this polite era of political economy and penny papers?
No wonder that Edward Cossey felt his inferiority to this symbol and
type of the things that no more are, yes even in the shadow of his
thirty thousand pounds. For here we have a different breed. Goldsmiths
two centuries ago, then bankers from generation to generation, money
bees seeking for wealth and counting it and hiving it from decade to
decade, till at last gold became to them what honour is to the nobler
stock—the pervading principle, and the clink of the guinea and the
rustling of the bank note stirred their blood as the clank of armed men
and the sound of the flapping banner with its three golden hawks
flaming in the sun, was wont to set the hearts of the race of Boissey,
of Dofferleigh and of de la Molle, beating to that tune to which
England marched on to win the world.
It is a foolish and vain thing to scoff at business and those who do it
in the market places, and to shout out the old war cries of our
fathers, in the face of a generation which sings the song of capital,
or groans in heavy labour beneath the banners of their copyrighted
trade marks; and besides, who would buy our books (also copyrighted
except in America) if we did? Let us rather rise up and clothe
ourselves, and put a tall hat upon our heads and do homage to the new
Democracy.
And yet in the depths of our hearts and the quiet of our chambers let
us sometimes cry to the old days, and the old men, and the old ways of
thought, let us cry “_Ave atque vale_,—Hail and farewell.” Our fathers’
armour hangs above the door, their portraits decorate the wall, and
their fierce and half-tamed hearts moulder beneath the stones of yonder
church. Hail and farewell to you, our fathers! Perchance a man might
have had worse company than he met with at your boards, and even have
found it not more hard to die beneath your sword-cuts than to be gently
cozened to the grave by duly qualified practitioners at two guineas a
visit.
And the upshot of all this is that the Squire was not altogether wrong
when he declared in the silence of _his_ chamber that Edward Cossey was
not quite a gentleman. He showed it when he allowed himself to be
guided by the arts of Mr. Quest into the adoption of the idea of
obtaining a lien upon Ida, to be enforced if convenient. He showed it
again, and what is more he committed a huge mistake, when tempted
thereto by the opportunity of the moment, he made a conditional bargain
with the said Ida, whereby she was placed in pledge for a sum of thirty
thousand pounds, well knowing that her honour would be equal to the
test, and that if convenient to him she would be ready to pay the debt.
He made a huge mistake, for had he been quite a gentleman, he would
have known that he could not have adopted a worse road to the
affections of a lady. Had he been content to advance the money and then
by-and-bye, though even that would not have been gentlemanlike, have
gently let transpire what he had done at great personal expense and
inconvenience, her imagination might have been touched and her
gratitude would certainly have been excited. But the idea of
bargaining, the idea of purchase, which after what had passed could
never be put aside, would of necessity be fatal to any hope of tender
feeling. Shylock might get his bond, but of his own act he had debarred
himself from the possibility of ever getting more.
Now Edward Cossey was not lacking in that afterglow of refinement which
is left by a course of public school and university education. No
education can make a gentleman of a man who is not a gentleman at
heart, for whether his station in life be that of a ploughboy or an
Earl, the gentleman, like the poet, is born and not made. But it can
and does if he be of an observant nature, give him a certain insight
into the habits of thought and probable course of action of the members
of that class to which he outwardly, and by repute, belongs. Such an
insight Edward Cossey possessed, and at the present moment its
possession was troubling him very much. His trading instincts, the
desire bred in him to get something for his money, had led him to make
the bargain, but now that it was done his better judgment rose up
against it. For the truth may as well be told at once, although he
would as yet scarcely acknowledge it to himself, Edward Cossey was
already violently enamoured of Ida. He was by nature a passionate man,
and as it chanced she had proved the magnet with power to draw his
passion. But as the reader is aware, there existed another complication
in his life for which he was not perhaps entirely responsible. When
still quite a youth in mind, he had suddenly found himself the object
of the love of a beautiful and enthralling woman, and had after a more
or less severe struggle yielded to the temptation, as, out of a book,
many young men would have done. Now to be the object of the violent
affection of such a woman as Belle Quest is no doubt very flattering
and even charming for a while. But if that affection is not returned in
kind, if in short the gentleman does not love the lady quite as warmly
as she loves him, then in course of time the charm is apt to vanish and
even the flattery to cease to give pleasure. Also, when as in the
present case the connection is wrong in itself and universally
condemned by society, the affection which can still triumph and endure
on both sides must be of a very strong and lasting order. Even an
unprincipled man dislikes the acting of one long lie such as an
intimacy of the sort necessarily involves, and if the man happens to be
rather weak than unprincipled, the dislike is apt to turn to loathing,
some portion of which will certainly be reflected on to the partner of
his ill-doing.
These are general principles, but the case of Edward Cossey offered no
exception to them, indeed it illustrated them well. He had never been
in love with Mrs. Quest; to begin with she had shown herself too much
in love with him to necessitate any display of emotion on his part. Her
violent and unreasoning passion wearied and alarmed him, he never knew
what she would do next and was kept in a continual condition of anxiety
and irritation as to what the morrow might bring forth. Too sure of her
unaltering attachment to have any pretext for jealousy, he found it
exceedingly irksome to be obliged to avoid giving cause for it on his
side, which, however, he dreaded doing lest he should thereby bring
about some overwhelming catastrophe. Mrs. Quest was, as he well knew,
not a woman who would pause to consider consequences if once her
passionate jealousy were really aroused. It was even doubtful if the
certainty of her own ruin would check her. Her love was everything to
her, it was her life, the thing she lived for, and rather than tamely
lose it, it seemed extremely probable to Edward Cossey that she would
not hesitate to face shame, or even death. Indeed it was through this
great passion of hers, and through it only, that he could hope to
influence her. If he could persuade her to release him, by pointing out
that a continuance of the intrigue must involve him in ruin of some
sort, all might yet go well with him. If not his future was a dark one.
This was the state of affairs before he became attached to Ida de la
Molle, after which the horizon grew blacker than ever. At first he
tried to get out of the difficulty by avoiding Ida, but it did not
answer. She exercised an irresistible attraction over him. Her calm and
stately presence was to him what the sight of mountain snows is to one
scorched by continual heat. He was weary of passionate outbursts,
tears, agonies, alarms, presentiments, and all the paraphernalia of
secret love. It appeared to him, looking up at the beautiful snow, that
if once he could reach it life would be all sweetness and light, that
there would be no more thirst, no more fear, and no more forced marches
through those ill-odoured quagmires of deceit. The more he allowed his
imagination to dwell upon the picture, the fiercer grew his longing to
possess it. Also, he knew well enough that to marry a woman like Ida de
la Molle would be the greatest blessing that could happen to him, for
she would of necessity lift him up above himself. She had little money
it was true, but that was a very minor matter to him, and she had birth
and breeding and beauty, and a presence which commands homage. And so
it came to pass that he fell deeply and yet more deeply in love with
Ida, and that as he did so his connection with Mrs. Quest (although we
have seen him but yesterday offering in a passing fit of tenderness and
remorse to run away with her) became more and more irksome to him. And
now, as he drove leisurely back to Boisingham, he felt that he had
imperilled all his hopes by a rash indulgence in his trading instincts.
Presently the road took a turn and a sight was revealed that did not
tend to improve his already irritable mood. Just here the roadway was
bordered by a deep bank covered with trees which sloped down to the
valley of the Ell, at this time of the year looking its loveliest in
the soft autumn lights. And here, seated on a bank of turf beneath the
shadow of a yellowing chestnut tree, in such position as to get a view
of the green valley and flashing river where cattle red and white stood
chewing the still luxuriant aftermath, was none other than Ida herself,
and what was more, Ida accompanied by Colonel Quaritch. They were
seated on campstools, and in front of each of them was an easel.
Clearly they were painting together, for as Edward gazed, the Colonel
rose, came up close behind his companion’s stool, made a ring of his
thumb and first finger, gazed critically through it at the lady’s
performance, then sadly shook his head and made some remark. Thereupon
Ida turned round and began an animated discussion.
“Hang me,” said Edward to himself, “if she has not taken up with that
confounded old military frump. Painting together! Ah, I know what that
means. Well, I should have thought that if there was one man more than
another whom she would have disliked, it would have been that
battered-looking Colonel.”
He pulled up his horse and reflected for a moment, then handing the
reins to his servant, jumped out, and climbing through a gap in the
fence walked up to the tree. So engrossed were they in their argument,
that they neither saw nor heard him.
“It’s nonsense, Colonel Quaritch, perfect nonsense, if you will forgive
me for telling you so,” Ida was saying with warmth. “It is all very
well for you to complain that my trees are a blur, and the castle
nothing but a splotch, but I am looking at the water, and if I am
looking at the water, it is quite impossible that I should see the
trees and the cows otherwise than I have rendered them on the canvas.
True art is to paint what the painter sees and as he sees it.”
Colonel Quaritch shook his head and sighed.
“The cant of the impressionist school,” he said sadly; “on the
contrary, the business of the artist is to paint what he knows to be
there,” and he gazed complacently at his own canvas, which had the
appearance of a spirited drawing of a fortified place, or of the
contents of a child’s Noah’s ark, so stiff, so solid, so formidable
were its outlines, trees and animals.
Ida shrugged her shoulders, laughed merrily, and turned round to find
herself face to face with Edward Cossey. She started back, and her
expression hardened—then she stretched out her hand and said, “How do
you do?” in her very coldest tones.
“How do you do, Miss de la Molle?” he said, assuming as unconcerned an
air as he could, and bowing stiffly to Harold Quaritch, who returned
the bow and went back to his canvas, which was placed a few paces off.
“I saw you painting,” went on Edward Cossey in a low tone, “so I
thought I would come and tell you that I have settled the matter with
Mr. de la Molle.”
“Oh, indeed,” answered Ida, hitting viciously at a wasp with her paint
brush. “Well, I hope that you will find the investment a satisfactory
one. And now, if you please, do not let us talk any more about money,
because I am quite tired of the subject.” Then raising her voice she
went on, “Come here, Colonel Quaritch, and Mr. Cossey shall judge
between us,” and she pointed to her picture.
Edward glanced at the Colonel with no amiable air. “I know nothing
about art,” he said, “and I am afraid that I must be getting on.
Good-morning,” and taking off his hat to Ida, he turned and went.
“Umph,” said the Colonel, looking after him with a quizzical
expression, “that gentleman seems rather short in his temper. Wants
knocking about the world a bit, I should say. But I beg your pardon, I
suppose that he is a friend of yours, Miss de la Molle?”
“He is an acquaintance of mine,” answered Ida with emphasis.