GEORGE IS SEEN TO LAUGH
Ida and her father reached the vestibule to find Edward Cossey standing
with his face to the mantelpiece and nervously toying with some
curiosities upon it. He was, as usual, dressed with great care, and his
face, though white and worn from the effects of agitation of mind,
looked if anything handsomer than ever. As soon as he heard them
coming, which owing to his partial deafness he did not do till they
were quite close to him, he turned round with a start, and a sudden
flush of colour came upon his pale face.
The Squire shook hands with him in a solemn sort of way, as people do
when they meet at a funeral, but Ida barely touched his outstretched
fingers with her own.
A few random remarks followed about the weather, which really for once
in a way was equal to the conversational strain put upon it. At length
these died away and there came an awful pause. It was broken by the
Squire, who, standing with his back to the fire, his eyes fixed upon
the wall opposite, after much humming and hawing, delivered himself
thus:
“I understand, Mr. Cossey, that you have come to hear my daughter’s
final decision on the matter of the proposal of marriage which you have
made and renewed to her. Now, of course, this is a very important
question, very important indeed, and it is one with which I cannot
presume even to seem to interfere. Therefore, I shall without comment
leave my daughter to speak for herself.”
“One moment before she does so,” Mr. Cossey interrupted, drawing indeed
but a poor augury of success from Ida’s icy looks. “I have come to
renew my offer and to take my final answer, and I beg Miss de la Molle
to consider how deep and sincere must be that affection which has
endured through so many rebuffs. I know, or at least I fear, that I do
not occupy the place in her feelings that I should wish to, but I look
to time to change this; at any rate I am willing to take my chance. As
regards money, I repeat the offer which I have already made.”
“There, I should not say too much about that,” broke in the Squire
impatiently.
“Oh, why not?” said Ida, in bitter sarcasm. “Mr. Cossey knows it is a
good argument. I presume, Mr. Cossey, that as a preliminary to the
renewal of our engagement, the persecution of my father which is being
carried on by your lawyers will cease?”
“Absolutely.”
“And if the engagement is not renewed the money will of course be
called in?”
“My lawyers advise that it should be,” he answered sullenly; “but see
here, Ida, you may make your own terms about money. Marriage, after
all, is very much a matter of bargaining, and I am not going to stand
out about the price.”
“You are really most generous,” went on Ida in the same bitter tone,
the irony of which made her father wince, for he understood her mood
better than did her lover. “I only regret that I cannot appreciate such
generosity more than I do. But it is at least in my power to give you
the return which you deserve. So I can no longer hesitate, but once and
for all——”
She stopped dead, and stared at the glass door as though she saw a
ghost. Both her father and Edward Cossey followed the motion of her
eyes, and this was what they saw. Up the steps came Colonel Quaritch
and George. Both were pale and weary-looking, but the former was at
least clean. As for George, this could not be said. His head was still
adorned with the red nightcap, his hands were cut and dirty, and on his
clothes was an unlimited quantity of encrusted filth.
“What the dickens——” began the Squire, and at that moment George, who
was leading, knocked at the door.
“You can’t come in now,” roared the Squire; “don’t you see that we are
engaged?”
“But we must come in, Squire, begging your pardon,” answered George,
with determination, as he opened the door; “we’ve got that to say as
won’t keep.”
“I tell you that it must keep, sir,” said the old gentleman, working
himself into a rage. “Am I not to be allowed a moment’s privacy in my
own house? I wonder at your conduct, Colonel Quaritch, in forcing your
presence upon me when I tell you that it is not wanted.”
“I am sure that I apologise, Mr. de la Molle,” began the Colonel,
utterly taken aback, “but what I have to say is——”
“The best way that you can apologise is by withdrawing,” answered the
Squire with majesty. “I shall be most happy to hear what you have to
say on another occasion.”
“Oh, Squire, Squire, don’t be such a fule, begging your pardon for the
word,” said George, in exasperation. “Don’t you go a-knocking of your
head agin a brick wall.”
“Will you be off, sir?” roared his master in a voice that made the
walls shake.
By this time Ida had recovered herself. She seemed to feel that her
lover had something to say which concerned her deeply—probably she read
it in his eyes.
“Father,” she said, raising her voice, “I won’t have Colonel Quaritch
turned away from the door like this. If you will not admit him I will
go outside and hear what it is that he has to say.”
In his heart the Squire held Ida in some awe. He looked at her, and saw
that her eyes were flashing and her breast heaving. Then he gave way.
“Oh, very well, since my daughter insists on it, pray come in,” and he
bowed. “If such an intrusion falls in with your ideas of decency it is
not for me to complain.”
“I accept your invitation,” answered Harold, looking very angry,
“because I have something to say which you must hear, and hear at once.
No, thank you, I will stand. Now, Mr. de la Molle, it is this,
wonderful as it may seem. It has been my fortune to discover the
treasure hidden by Sir James de la Molle in the year 1643!”
There was a general gasp of astonishment.
“_What!_” exclaimed the Squire. “Why, I thought that the whole thing
was a myth.”
“No, that it ain’t, sir,” said George with a melancholy smile, “cos
I’ve seen it.”
Ida had sunk into a chair.
“What is the amount?” she asked in a low eager voice.
“I have been unable to calculate exactly, but, speaking roughly, it
cannot be under fifty thousand pounds, estimated on the value of the
gold alone. Here is a specimen of it,” and Harold pulled out a handful
of rials and other coins, and poured them on to the table.
Ida hid her face in her hand, and Edward Cossey realising what this
most unexpected development of events might mean for him, began to
tremble.
“I should not allow myself to be too much elated, Mr. de la Molle,” he
said with a sneer, “for even if this tale be true, it is treasure
trove, and belongs to the Crown.”
“Ah,” said the Squire, “I never thought of that.”
“But I have,” answered the Colonel quietly. “If I remember right, the
last of the original de la Molles left a will in which he especially
devised this treasure, hidden by his father, to your ancestor. That it
is the identical treasure I am fortunately in a position to prove by
this parchment,” and he laid upon the table the writing he had found
with the gold.
“Quite right—quite right,” said the Squire, “that will take it out of
the custom.”
“Perhaps the Solicitor to the Treasury may hold a different opinion,”
said Cossey, with another sneer.
Just then Ida took her hand from her face. There was a dewy look about
her eyes, and the last ripples of a happy smile lingered round the
corners of her mouth.
“Now that we have heard what Colonel Quaritch had to say,” she said in
her softest voice, and addressing her father, “there is no reason why
we should not finish our business with Mr. Cossey.”
Here Harold and George turned to go. She waved them back imperiously,
and began speaking before any one could interfere, taking up her speech
where she had broken it off when she caught sight of the Colonel and
George coming up the steps.
“I can no longer hesitate,” she said, “but once and for all I decline
to marry you, Mr. Cossey, and I hope that I shall never see your face
again.”
At this announcement the bewildered Squire put his hand to his head.
Edward Cossey staggered visibly and rested himself against the table,
while George murmured audibly, “That’s a good job.”
“Listen,” said Ida, rising from her chair, her dark eyes flashing as
the shadow of all the shame and agony that she had undergone rose up
within her mind. “Listen, Mr. Cossey,” and she pointed her finger at
him; “this is the history of our connection. Some months ago I was so
foolish as to ask your help in the matter of the mortgages which your
bank was calling in. You then practically made terms that if it should
at any time be your wish I should become engaged to you; and I, seeing
no option, accepted. Then, in the interval, while it was inconvenient
to you to enforce those terms, I gave my affection elsewhere. But when
you, having deserted the lady who stood in your way—no, do not
interrupt me, I know it, I know it all, I know it from her own
lips—came forward and claimed my promise, I was forced to consent. But
a loophole of escape presented itself and I availed myself of it. What
followed? You again became possessed of power over my father and this
place, you insulted the man I loved, you resorted to every expedient
that the law would allow to torture my father and myself. You set your
lawyers upon us like dogs upon a hare, you held ruin over us and again
and again you offered me money, as much money as I wished, if only I
would sell myself to you. And then you bided your time, leaving despair
to do its work.
“I saw the toils closing round us. I knew that if I did not yield my
father would be driven from his home in his old age, and that the place
he loved would pass to strangers—would pass to you. No, father, do not
stop me, I _will_ speak my mind!
“And at last I determined that cost what it might I would yield.
Whether I could have carried out my determination God only knows. I
almost think that I should have killed myself upon my marriage day. I
made up my mind. Not five minutes ago the very words were upon my lips
that would have sealed my fate, when deliverance came. And now _go_. I
have done with you. Your money shall be paid to you, capital and
interest, down to the last farthing. I tender back my price, and
knowing you for what you are, I—I despise you. That is all I have to
say.”
“Well, if that beant a master one,” ejaculated George aloud.
Ida, who had never looked more beautiful than she did in this moment of
passion, turned to seat herself, but the tension of her feelings and
the torrent of her wrath and eloquence had been too much for her. She
would have fallen had not Harold, who had been listening amazed to this
overpowering outburst of nature, run up and caught her in his arms.
As for Edward Cossey, he had shrunk back involuntarily beneath the
volume of her scorn, till he stood with his back against the panelled
wall. His face was white as a sheet; despair and fury shone in his dark
eyes. Never had he desired this woman more fiercely than he did now, in
the moment when he knew that she had escaped him for ever. In a sense
he was to be pitied, for passion tore his heart in twain. For a moment
he stood thus. Then with a spring rather than a step, he advanced
across the room till he was face to face with Harold, who, with Ida
still half fainting in his arms, and her head upon his shoulder, was
standing on the further side of the fire-place.
“Damn you,” he said, “I owe this to you—you half-pay adventurer,” and
he lifted his arm as though to strike him.
“Come, none of that,” said the Squire, speaking for the first time. “I
will have no brawling here.”
“No,” put in George, edging his long form between the two, “and begging
your pardon, sir, don’t you go a-calling of better men than yourself
adwenturers. At any rate, if the Colonel is an adwenturer, he hev
adwentured to some purpose, as is easy for to see,” and he pointed to
Ida.
“Hold your tongue, sir,” roared the Squire, as usual relieving his
feelings on his retainer. “You are always shoving your oar in where it
isn’t wanted.”
“All right, Squire, all right,” said George the imperturbable; “thin
his manners shouldn’t be sich.”
“Do you mean to allow this?” said Cossey, turning fiercely to the old
gentleman. “Do you mean to allow this man to marry your daughter for
her money?”
“Mr. Cossey,” answered the Squire, with his politest and most
old-fashioned bow, “whatever sympathy I may have felt for you is being
rapidly alienated by your manner. I told you that my daughter must
speak for herself. She has spoken very clearly indeed, and, in short, I
have absolutely nothing to add to her words.”
“I tell you what it is,” Cossey said, shaking with fury, “I have been
tricked and fooled and played with, and so surely as there is a heaven
above us I will have my revenge on you all. The money which this man
says that he has found belongs to the Queen, not to you, and I will
take care that the proper people are informed of it before you can make
away with it. When that is taken from you, if, indeed, the whole thing
is not a trick, we shall see what will happen to you. I tell you that I
will take this property and I will pull this old place you are so fond
of down stone by stone and throw it into the moat, and send the plough
over the site. I will sell the estate piecemeal and blot it out. I tell
you I have been tricked—you encouraged the marriage yourself, you know
you did, and forbade that man the house,” and he paused for breath and
to collect his words.
Again the Squire bowed, and his bow was a study in itself. You do not
see such bows now-a-days.
“One minute, Mr. Cossey,” he said very quietly, for it was one of his
peculiarities to become abnormally quiet in circumstances of real
emergency, “and then I think that we may close this painful interview.
When first I knew you I did not like you. Afterwards, through various
circumstances, I modified my opinion and set my dislike down to
prejudice. You are quite right in saying that I encouraged the idea of
a marriage between you and my daughter, also that I forbade the house
to Colonel Quaritch. I did so because, to be honest, I saw no other way
of avoiding the utter ruin of my family; but perhaps I was wrong in so
doing. I hope that you may never be placed in a position which will
force you to such a decision. Also at the time, indeed never till this
moment, have I quite realised how the matter really stood. I did not
understand how strongly my daughter was attached in another direction,
perhaps I was unwilling to understand it. Nor did I altogether
understand the course of action by which it seems you obtained a
promise of marriage from my daughter in the first instance. I was
anxious for the marriage because I believed you to be a better man than
you are, also because I thought that it would place my daughter and her
descendants in a much improved position, and that she would in time
become attached to you. I forbade Colonel Quaritch the house because I
considered that an alliance with him would be undesirable for everybody
concerned. I find that in all this I was acting wrongly, and I frankly
admit it. Perhaps as we grow old we grow worldly also, and you and your
agents pressed me very hard, Mr. Cossey. Still I have always told you
that my daughter was a free agent and must decide for herself, and
therefore I owe you no apology on this score. So much then for the
question of your engagement to Miss de la Molle. It is done with.
“Now as regards the threats you make. I shall try to meet them as
occasion arises, and if I cannot do so it will be my misfortune. But
one thing they show me, though I am sorry to have to say it to any man
in a house which I can still call my own—they show me that my first
impressions of you were the correct ones. _You are not a gentleman_,
Mr. Cossey, and I must beg to decline the honour of your further
acquaintance,” and with another bow he opened the vestibule door and
stood holding the handle in his hand.
Edward Cossey looked round with a stare of rage. Then muttering one
most comprehensive curse he stalked from the room, and in another
minute was driving fast through the ancient gateway.
Let us pity him, for he also certainly received his due.
George followed him to the outer door and then did a thing that nobody
had seen him do before; he burst out into a loud laugh.
“What are you making that noise about?” asked his master sternly. “This
is no laughing matter.”
“_Him!_” replied George, pointing to the retreating dog-cart—“_he’s_
a-going to pull down the Castle and throw it into the moat and to send
the plough over it, is he? _Him_—that varmint! Why, them old towers
will be a-standing there when his beggarly bones is dust, and when his
name ain’t no more a name; and there’ll be one of the old blood sitting
in them too. I knaw it, and I hev allus knawed it. Come, Squire, though
you allus du say how as I’m a fule, what did I tell yer? Didn’t I tell
yer that Prowidence weren’t a-going to let this place go to any laryers
or bankers or thim sort? Why, in course I did. And now you see. Not but
what it is all owing to the Colonel. He was the man as found it, but
then God Almighty taught him where to dig. But he’s a good un, he is;
and a gintleman, not like _him_,” and once more he pointed with
unutterable scorn to the road down which Edward Cossey had vanished.
“Now, look here,” said the Squire, “don’t you stand talking all day
about things you don’t understand. That’s the way you waste time. You
be off and look after this gold; it should not be left alone, you know.
We will come down presently to Molehill, for I suppose that is where it
is. No, I can’t stop to hear the story now, and besides I want Colonel
Quaritch to tell it to me.”
“All right, Squire,” said George, touching his red nightcap, “I’ll be
off,” and he started.
“George,” halloaed his master after him, but George did not stop. He
had a trick of deafness when the Squire was calling, that is if he
wanted to go somewhere else.
“Confound you,” roared the old gentleman, “why don’t you stop when I
call you?”
This time George brought his long lank frame to a standstill.
“Beg pardon, Squire.”
“Beg pardon, yes—you’re always begging pardon. Look here, you had
better bring your wife and have dinner in the servants’ hall to-day,
and drink a glass of port.”
“Thank you, Squire,” said George again, touching his red nightcap.
“And look here, George. Give me your hand, man. Here’s a merry
Christmas to you. We’ve gone through some queerish times about this
place together, but now it almost looks as though we were going to end
our days in peace and plenty.”
“Same to you, Squire, I’m sure, same to you,” said George, pulling off
his cap. “Yes, yes, we’ve had some bad years, what with poor Mr. James
and that Quest and Cossey (he’s the master varmint of the lot he is),
and the bad times, and Janter, and the Moat Farm and all. But, bless
you, Squire, now that there’ll be some ready money and no debts, why,
if I don’t make out somehow so that you all get a good living out of
the place I’m a Dutchman. Why, yes, it’s been a bad time and we’re
a-getting old, but there, that’s how it is, the sky almost allus clears
toward night-fall. God Almighty hev a mind to let one down easy, I
suppose.”
“If you would talk a little less about your Maker, and come to church a
little more, it would be a good thing, as I’ve told you before,” said
the Squire; “but there, go along with you.”
And the honest fellow went.