THE END OF THE MATCH
They began the afternoon with several small drives, but on the whole
the birds did very badly. They broke back, went off to one side or the
other, and generally misbehaved themselves. In the first drive the
Colonel and Edward Cossey got a bird each. In the second drive the
latter got three birds, firing five shots, and his antagonist only got
a hare and a pheasant that jumped out of a ditch, neither of which, of
course, counted anything. Only one brace of birds came his way at all,
but if the truth must be told, he was talking to Ida at the moment and
did not see them till too late.
Then came a longer drive, when the birds were pretty plentiful. The
Colonel got one, a low-flying Frenchman, which he killed as he topped
the fence, and after that for the life of him he could not touch a
feather. Every sportsman knows what a fatal thing it is to begin to
miss and then get nervous, and that was what happened to the Colonel.
Continually there came distant cries of “_Mark! mark over!_” followed
by the apparition of half-a-dozen brown balls showing clearly against
the grey autumn sky and sweeping down towards him like lightning.
_Whizz_ in front, overhead and behind; bang, bang; bang again with the
second gun, and they were away—vanished, gone, leaving nothing but a
memory behind them.
The Colonel swore beneath his breath, and Ida kneeling at his side,
sighed audibly; but it was of no use, and presently the drive was done,
and there he was with one wretched French partridge to show for it.
Ida said nothing, but she looked volumes, and if ever a man felt
humiliated, Harold Quaritch was that man. She had set her heart upon
his winning the match, and he was making an exhibition of himself that
might have caused a schoolboy to blush.
Only Edward Cossey smiled grimly as he told his bearer to give the two
and a half brace which he had shot to George.
“Last drive this next, gentlemen,” said that universal functionary as
he surveyed the Colonel’s one Frenchman, and then glancing sadly at the
tell-tale pile of empty cartridge cases, added, “You’ll hev to shoot
up, Colonel, this time, if you are a-going to win them there gloves for
Miss Ida. Mr. Cossey hev knocked up four brace and a half, and you hev
only got a brace. Look you here, sir,” he went on in a portentous
whisper, “keep forrard of them, well forrard, fire ahead, and down
they’ll come of themselves like. You’re a better shot than he is a long
way; you could give him ‘birds,’ sir, that you could, and beat him.”
Harold said nothing. He was sorely tempted to make excuses, as any man
would have been, and he might with truth have urged that he was not
accustomed to partridge-driving, and that one of the guns was new to
him. But he resisted manfully and said never a word.
George placed the two guns, and then went off to join the beaters. It
was a capital spot for a drive, for on each side were young larch
plantations, sloping down towards them like a V, the guns being at the
narrow end and level with the points of the plantations, which were at
this spot about a hundred and twenty yards apart. In front was a large
stretch of open fields, lying in such a fashion that the birds were
bound to fly straight over the guns and between the gap at the end of
the V-shaped covers.
They had to wait a long while, for the beat was of considerable extent,
and this they did in silence, till presently a couple of single birds
appeared coming down the wind like lightning, for a stiffish breeze had
sprung up. One went to the left over Edward Cossey’s head, and he shot
it very neatly, but the other, catching sight of Harold’s hat beneath
the fence, which was not a high one, swerved and crossed, an almost
impossible shot, nearer sixty than fifty yards from him.
“Now,” said Ida, and he fired, and to his joy down came the bird with a
thud, bounding full two feet into the air with the force of its impact,
being indeed shot through the head.
“That’s better,” said Ida, as she handed him the second gun.
Another moment and a covey came over, high up. He fired both barrels
and got a right and left, and snatching the second gun sent another
barrel after them, hitting a third bird, which did not fall. And then a
noble enthusiasm and certainty possessed him, and he knew that he
should miss no more. Nor did he. With two almost impossible exceptions
he dropped every bird that drive. But his crowning glory, a thing
whereof he still often dreams, was yet to come.
He had killed four brace of partridge and fired eleven times, when at
last the beaters made their appearance about two hundred yards away at
the further end of rather dirty barley stubble.
“I think that is the lot,” he said; “I’m afraid you have lost your
gloves, Ida.”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when there was a yell of
“mark!” and a strong covey of birds appeared, swooping down the wind
right on to him.
On they came, scattered and rather “stringy.” Harold gripped his gun
and drew a deep breath, while Ida, kneeling at his side, her lips
apart, and her beautiful eyes wide open, watched their advent through a
space in the hedge. Lovely enough she looked to charm the heart of any
man, if a man out partridge-driving could descend to such frivolity,
which we hold to be impossible.
Now is the moment. The leading brace are something over fifty yards
away, and he knows full well that if there is to be a chance left for
the second gun he must shoot before they are five yards nearer.
“Bang!” down comes the old cock bird; “bang!” and his mate follows him,
falling with a smash into the fence.
Quick as light Ida takes the empty gun with one hand, and as he swings
round passes him the cocked and loaded one with the other. “Bang!”
Another bird topples head first out of the thinned covey. They are
nearly sixty yards away now. “Bang!” again, and oh, joy and wonder! the
last bird turns right over backwards, and falls dead as a stone some
seventy paces from the muzzle of the gun.
He had killed four birds out of a single driven covey, which as
shooters well know is a feat not often done even by the best driving
shots.
“Bravo!” said Ida, “I was sure that you could shoot if you chose.”
“Yes,” he answered, “it was pretty good work;” and he commenced
collecting the birds, for by this time the beaters were across the
field. They were all dead, not a runner in the lot, and there were
exactly six brace of them. Just as he picked up the last, George
arrived, followed by Edward Cossey.
“Well I niver,” said the former, while something resembling a smile
stole over his melancholy countenance, “if that bean’t the masterest
bit of shooting that ever I did see. Lord Walsingham couldn’t hardly
beat that hisself—fifteen empty cases and twelve birds picked up. Why,”
and he turned to Edward, “bless me, sir, if I don’t believe the Colonel
has won them gloves for Miss Ida after all. Let’s see, sir, you got two
brace this last drive and one the first, and a leash the second, and
two brace and a half the third, six and a half brace in all. And the
Colonel, yes, he hev seven brace, one bird to the good.”
“There, Mr. Cossey,” said Ida, smiling sweetly, “I have won my gloves.
Mind you don’t forget to pay them.”
“Oh, I will not forget, Miss de la Molle,” said he, smiling also, but
not too prettily. “I suppose,” he said, addressing the Colonel, “that
the last covey twisted up and you browned them.”
“No,” he answered quietly, “all four were clear shots.”
Mr. Cossey smiled again, as he turned away to hide his vexation, an
incredulous smile, which somehow sent Harold Quaritch’s blood leaping
through his veins more quickly than was good for him. Edward Cossey
would rather have lost a thousand pounds than that his adversary should
have got that extra bird, for not only was he a jealous shot, but he
knew perfectly well that Ida was anxious that he should lose, and
desired above all things to see him humiliated. And then he, the
smartest shot within ten miles round, to be beaten by a middle-aged
soldier shooting with a strange gun, and totally unaccustomed to driven
birds! Why, the story would be told over the county; George would see
to that. His anger was so great when he thought of it, that afraid of
making himself ridiculous, he set off with his bearer towards the
Castle without another word, leaving the others to follow.
Ida looked after him and smiled. “He is so conceited,” she said; “he
cannot bear to be beaten at anything.”
“I think that you are rather hard on him,” said the Colonel, for the
joke had an unpleasant side which jarred upon his taste.
“At any rate,” she answered, with a little stamp, “it is not for you to
say so. If you disliked him as much as I do you would be hard on him,
too. Besides, I daresay that his turn is coming.”
The Colonel winced, as well he might, but looking at her handsome face,
set just now like steel at the thought of what the future might bring
forth, he reflected that if Edward Cossey’s turn did come he was by no
means sure that the ultimate triumph would rest with him. Ida de la
Molle, to whatever extent her sense of honour and money indebtedness
might carry her, was no butterfly to be broken on a wheel, but a woman
whose dislike and anger, or worse still, whose cold, unvarying disdain,
was a thing from which the boldest hearted man might shrink aghast.
Nothing more was said on the subject, and they began to talk, though
somewhat constrainedly, about indifferent matters. They were both aware
that it was a farce, and that they were playing a part, for beneath the
external ice of formalities the river of their devotion ran
strong—whither they knew not. All that had been made clear a few nights
back. But what will you have? Necessity over-riding their desires,
compelled them along the path of self-denial, and, like wise folk, they
recognised the fact: for there is nothing more painful in the world
than the outburst of hopeless affection.
And so they talked about painting and shooting and what not, till they
reached the grey old Castle towers. Here Harold wanted to bid her
good-bye, but she persuaded him to come in and have some tea, saying
that her father would like to say good-night to him.
Accordingly he went into the vestibule, where there was a light, for it
was getting dusk; and here he found the Squire and Mr. Cossey. As soon
as he entered, Edward Cossey rose, said good-night to the Squire and
Ida, and then passed towards the door, where the Colonel was standing,
rubbing the mud off his shooting boots. As he came, Harold being
slightly ashamed of the business of the shooting match, and very sorry
to have humiliated a man who prided himself so much upon his skill in a
particular branch of sport, held out his hand and said in a friendly
tone:
“Good-night, Mr. Cossey. Next time that we are out shooting together I
expect I shall be nowhere. It was an awful fluke of mine killing those
four birds.”
Edward Cossey took no notice of the friendly words or outstretched
hand, but came straight on as though he intended to walk past him.
The Colonel was wondering what it was best to do, for he could not
mistake the meaning of the oversight, when the Squire, who was
sometimes very quick to notice things, spoke in a loud and decided
tone.
“Mr. Cossey,” he said, “Colonel Quaritch is offering you his hand.”
“I observe that he is,” he answered, setting his handsome face, “but I
do not wish to take Colonel Quaritch’s hand.”
Then came a moment’s silence, which the Squire again broke.
“When a gentleman in my house refuses to take the hand of another
gentleman,” he said very quietly, “I think that I have a right to ask
the reason for his conduct, which, unless that reason is a very
sufficient one, is almost as much a slight upon me as upon him.”
“I think that Colonel Quaritch must know the reason, and will not press
me to explain,” said Edward Cossey.
“I know of no reason,” replied the Colonel sternly, “unless indeed it
is that I have been so unfortunate as to get the best of Mr. Cossey in
a friendly shooting match.”
“Colonel Quaritch must know well that this is not the reason to which I
allude,” said Edward. “If he consults his conscience he will probably
discover a better one.”
Ida and her father looked at each other in surprise, while the Colonel
by a half involuntary movement stepped between his accuser and the
door; and Ida noticed that his face was white with anger.
“You have made a very serious implication against me, Mr. Cossey,” he
said in a cold clear voice. “Before you leave this room you will be so
good as to explain it in the presence of those before whom it has been
made.”
“Certainly, if you wish it,” he answered, with something like a sneer.
“The reason why I refused to take your hand, Colonel Quaritch, is that
you have been guilty of conduct which proves to me that you are not a
gentleman, and, therefore, not a person with whom I desire to be on
friendly terms. Shall I go on?”
“Most certainly you will go on,” answered the Colonel.
“Very well. The conduct to which I refer is that you were once engaged
to my aunt, Julia Heston; that within three days of the time of the
marriage you deserted and jilted her in a most cruel way, as a
consequence of which she went mad, and is to this moment an inmate of
an asylum.”
Ida gave an exclamation of astonishment, and the Colonel started, while
the Squire, looking at him curiously, waited to hear what he had to
say.
“It is perfectly true, Mr. Cossey,” he answered, “that I was engaged
twenty years ago to be married to Miss Julia Heston, though I now for
the first time learn that she was your aunt. It is also quite true that
that engagement was broken off, under most painful circumstances,
within three days of the time fixed for the marriage. What those
circumstances were I am not at liberty to say, for the simple reason
that I gave my word not to do so; but this I will say, that they were
not to my discredit, though you may not be aware of that fact. But as
you are one of the family, Mr. Cossey, my tongue is not tied, and I
will do myself the honour of calling upon you to-morrow and explaining
them to you. After that,” he added significantly, “I shall require you
to apologise to me as publicly as you have accused me.”
“You may require, but whether I shall comply is another matter,” said
Edward Cossey, and he passed out.
“I am very sorry, Mr. de la Molle,” said the Colonel, as soon as he had
gone, “more sorry than I can say, that I should have been the cause of
this most unpleasant scene. I also feel that I am placed in a very
false position, and until I produce Mr. Cossey’s written apology, that
position must to some extent continue. If I fail to obtain that
apology, I shall have to consider what course to take. In the meanwhile
I can only ask you to suspend your judgment.”