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Colonel Quaritch, V.C. A Tale of Country Life 11882.txt
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Colonel Quaritch, V.C. A Tale of Country Life 11882.txt
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Produced by John Bickers and Dagny
COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.
By H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1888.
Etext prepared by John Bickers, jbickers@ihug.co.nz
and Dagny, dagnypg@yahoo.com
COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.
A TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE
BY
H. RIDER HAGGARD
I Dedicate
This Tale of Country Life
To
My Friend and Fellow-Sportsman,
CHARLES J. LONGMAN
PREPARER'S NOTE
This text was prepared from an 1889 edition published by Longmans,
Green and Co., printed by Kelly and Co., Gate Street, Lincoln's
Inn Fields, W.C.; and Middle Mill, Kingston-on-Thames.
COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.
A TALE OF COUNTRY LIFE
CHAPTER I
HAROLD QUARITCH MEDITATES
There are things and there are faces which, when felt or seen for the
first time, stamp themselves upon the mind like a sun image on a
sensitized plate and there remain unalterably fixed. To take the
instance of a face--we may never see it again, or it may become the
companion of our life, but there the picture is just as we /first/
knew it, the same smile or frown, the same look, unvarying and
unvariable, reminding us in the midst of change of the indestructible
nature of every experience, act, and aspect of our days. For that
which has been, is, since the past knows no corruption, but lives
eternally in its frozen and completed self.
These are somewhat large thoughts to be born of a small matter, but
they rose up spontaneously in the mind of a soldierly-looking man who,
on the particular evening when this history opens, was leaning over a
gate in an Eastern county lane, staring vacantly at a field of ripe
corn.
He was a peculiar and rather battered looking individual, apparently
over forty years of age, and yet bearing upon him that unmistakable
stamp of dignity and self-respect which, if it does not exclusively
belong to, is still one of the distinguishing attributes of the
English gentleman. In face he was ugly, no other word can express it.
Here were not the long mustachios, the almond eyes, the aristocratic
air of the Colonel of fiction--for our dreamer was a Colonel. These
were--alas! that the truth should be so plain--represented by somewhat
scrubby sandy-coloured whiskers, small but kindly blue eyes, a low
broad forehead, with a deep line running across it from side to side,
something like that to be seen upon the busts of Julius Caesar, and a
long thin nose. One good feature, however, he did possess, a mouth of
such sweetness and beauty that set, as it was, above a very square and
manly-looking chin, it had the air of being ludicrously out of place.
"Umph," said his old aunt, Mrs. Massey (who had just died and left him
what she possessed), on the occasion of her first introduction to him
five-and-thirty years before, "Umph! Nature meant to make a pretty
girl of you, and changed her mind after she had finished the mouth.
Well, never mind, better be a plain man than a pretty woman. There, go
along, boy! I like your ugly face."
Nor was the old lady peculiar in this respect, for plain as the
countenance of Colonel Harold Quaritch undoubtedly was, people found
something very taking about it, when once they became accustomed to
its rugged air and stern regulated expression. What that something was
it would be hard to define, but perhaps the nearest approach to the
truth would be to describe it as a light of purity which,
notwithstanding the popular idea to the contrary, is quite as often to
be found upon the faces of men as upon those of women. Any person of
discernment looking on Colonel Quaritch must have felt that he was in
the presence of a good man--not a prig or a milksop, but a man who had
attained by virtue of thought and struggle that had left their marks
upon him, a man whom it would not be well to tamper with, one to be
respected by all, and feared of evildoers. Men felt this, and he was
popular among those who knew him in his service, though not in any
hail-fellow-well-met kind of way. But among women he was not popular.
As a rule they both feared and disliked him. His presence jarred upon
the frivolity of the lighter members of their sex, who dimly realised
that his nature was antagonistic, and the more solid ones could not
understand him. Perhaps this was the reason why Colonel Quaritch had
never married, had never even had a love affair since he was five-and-
twenty.
And yet it was of a woman that he was thinking as he leant over the
gate, and looked at the field of yellowing corn, undulating like a
golden sea beneath the pressure of the wind.
Colonel Quaritch had twice before been at Honham, once ten, and once
four years ago. Now he was come to abide there for good. His old aunt,
Mrs. Massey, had owned a place in the village--a very small place--
called Honham Cottage, or Molehill, and on those two occasions he
visited her. Mrs. Massey was dead and buried. She had left him the
property, and with some reluctance, he had given up his profession, in
which he saw no further prospects, and come to live upon it. This was
his first evening in the place, for he had arrived by the last train
on the previous night. All day he had been busy trying to get the
house a little straight, and now, thoroughly tired, he was refreshing
himself by leaning over a gate. It is, though a great many people will
not believe it, one of the most delightful and certainly one of the
cheapest refreshments in the world.
And then it was, as he leant over the gate, that the image of a
woman's face rose before his mind as it had continually risen during
the last five years. Five years had gone since he saw it, and those
five years he spent in India and Egypt, that is with the exception of
six months which he passed in hospital--the upshot of an Arab spear
thrust in the thigh.
It had risen before him in all sorts of places and at all sorts of
times; in his sleep, in his waking moments, at mess, out shooting, and
even once in the hot rush of battle. He remembered it well--it was at
El Teb. It happened that stern necessity forced him to shoot a man
with his pistol. The bullet cut through his enemy, and with a few
convulsions he died. He watched him die, he could not help doing so,
there was some fascination in following the act of his own hand to its
dreadful conclusion, and indeed conclusion and commencement were very
near together. The terror of the sight, the terror of what in defence
of his own life he was forced to do, revolted him even in the heat of
the fight, and even then, over that ghastly and distorted face,
another face spread itself like a mask, blotting it out from view--
that woman's face. And now again it re-arose, inspiring him with the
rather recondite reflections as to the immutability of things and
impressions with which this domestic record opens.
Five years is a good stretch in a man's journey through the world.
Many things happen to us in that time. If a thoughtful person were to
set to work to record all the impressions which impinge upon his mind
during that period, he would fill a library with volumes, the mere
tale of its events would furnish a shelf. And yet how small they are
to look back upon. It seemed but the other day that he was leaning
over this very gate, and had turned to see a young girl dressed in
black, who, with a spray of honeysuckle thrust in her girdle, and
carrying a stick in her hand, was walking leisurely down the lane.
There was something about the girl's air that had struck him while she
was yet a long way off--a dignity, a grace, and a set of the
shoulders. Then as she came nearer he saw the soft dark eyes and the
waving brown hair that contrasted so strangely and effectively with
the pale and striking features. It was not a beautiful face, for the
mouth was too large, and the nose was not as straight as it might have
been, but there was a power about the broad brow, and a force and
solid nobility stamped upon the features which had impressed him
strangely. Just as she came opposite to where he was standing, a gust
of wind, for there was a stiff breeze, blew the lady's hat off, taking
it over the hedge, and he, as in duty bound, scrambled into the field
and fetched it for her, and she had thanked him with a quick smile and
a lighting up of the brown eyes, and then passed on with a bow.
Yes, with a little bow she had passed on, and he watched her walking
down the long level drift, till her image melted into the stormy
sunset light, and was gone. When he returned to the cottage he had
described her to his old aunt, and asked who she might be, to learn
that she was Ida de la Molle (which sounded like a name out of a
novel), the only daughter of the old squire who lived at Honham
Castle. Next day he had left for India, and saw Miss de la Molle no
more.
And now he wondered what had become of her. Probably she was married;
so striking a person would be almost sure to attract the notice of
men. And after all what could it matter to him? He was not a marrying
man, and women as a class had little attraction for him; indeed he
disliked them. It has been said that he had never married, and never
even had a love affair since he was five-and-twenty. But though he was
not married, he once--before he was five-and-twenty--very nearly took
that step. It was twenty years ago now, and nobody quite knew the
history, for in twenty years many things are fortunately forgotten.
But there was a history, and a scandal, and the marriage was broken
off almost on the day it should have taken place. And after that it
leaked out in the neighbourhood that the young lady, who by the way
was a considerable heiress, had gone off her head, presumably with
grief, and been confined in an asylum, where she was believed still to
remain.
Perhaps it was the thought of this one woman's face, the woman he had
once seen walking down the drift, her figure limned out against the
stormy sky, that led him to think of the other face, the face hidden
in the madhouse. At any rate, with a sigh, or rather a groan, he swung
himself round from the gate and began to walk homeward at a brisk
pace.
The drift that he was following is known as the mile drift, and had in
ancient times formed the approach to the gates of Honham Castle, the
seat of the ancient and honourable family of de la Molle (sometimes
written "Delamol" in history and old writings). Honham Castle was now
nothing but a ruin, with a manor house built out of the wreck on one
side of its square, and the broad way that led to it from the high
road which ran from Boisingham,[*] the local country town, was a drift
or grass lane.
[*] Said to have been so named after the Boissey family, whose heiress
a de la Molle married in the fourteenth century. As, however, the
town of Boisingham is mentioned by one of the old chroniclers,
this does not seem very probable. No doubt the family took their
name from the town or hamlet, not the town from the family.
Colonel Quaritch followed this drift till he came to the high road,
and then turned. A few minutes' walk brought him to a drive opening
out of the main road on the left as he faced towards Boisingham. This
drive, which was some three hundred yards long, led up a rather sharp
slope to his own place, Honham Cottage, or Molehill, as the villagers
called it, a title calculated to give a keen impression of a neat
spick and span red brick villa with a slate roof. In fact, however, it
was nothing of the sort, being a building of the fifteenth century, as
a glance at its massive flint walls was sufficient to show. In ancient
times there had been a large Abbey at Boisingham, two miles away,
which, the records tell, suffered terribly from an outbreak of the
plague in the fifteenth century. After this the monks obtained ten
acres of land, known as Molehill, by grant from the de la Molle of the
day, and so named either on account of their resemblance to a molehill
(of which more presently) or after the family. On this elevated spot,
which was supposed to be peculiarly healthy, they built the little
house now called Honham Cottage, whereto to fly when next the plague
should visit them.
And as they built it, so, with some slight additions, it had remained
to this day, for in those ages men did not skimp their flint, and oak,
and mortar. It was a beautiful little spot, situated upon the flat top
of a swelling hill, which comprised the ten acres of grazing ground
originally granted, and was, strange to say, still the most
magnificently-timbered piece of ground in the country side. For on the
ten acres of grass land there stood over fifty great oaks, some of
them pollards of the most enormous antiquity, and others which had, no
doubt, originally grown very close together, fine upstanding trees
with a wonderful length and girth of bole. This place, Colonel
Quaritch's aunt, old Mrs. Massey, had bought nearly thirty years
before when she became a widow, and now, together with a modest income
of two hundred a year, it had passed to him under her will.
Shaking himself clear of his sad thoughts, Harold Quaritch turned
round at his own front door to contemplate the scene. The long,
single-storied house stood, it has been said, at the top of the rising
land, and to the south and west and east commanded as beautiful a view
as is to be seen in the county. There, a mile or so away to the south,
situated in the midst of grassy grazing grounds, and flanked on either
side by still perfect towers, frowned the massive gateway of the old
Norman castle. Then, to the west, almost at the foot of Molehill, the
ground broke away in a deep bank clothed with timber, which led the
eye down by slow descents into the beautiful valley of the Ell. Here
the silver river wound its gentle way through lush and poplar-bordered
marshes, where the cattle stand knee-deep in flowers; past quaint
wooden mill-houses, through Boisingham Old Common, windy looking even
now, and brightened here and there with a dash of golden gorse, till
it was lost beneath the picturesque cluster of red-tiled roofs that
marked the ancient town. Look which way he would, the view was lovely,
and equal to any to be found in the Eastern counties, where the
scenery is fine enough in its own way, whatever people may choose to
say to the contrary, whose imaginations are so weak that they require
a mountain and a torrent to excite them into activity.
Behind the house to the north there was no view, and for a good
reason, for here in the very middle of the back garden rose a mound of
large size and curious shape, which completely shut out the landscape.
What this mound, which may perhaps have covered half an acre of
ground, was, nobody had any idea. Some learned folk write it down a
Saxon tumulus, a presumption to which its ancient name, "Dead Man's
Mount," seemed to give colour. Other folk, however, yet more learned,
declared it to be an ancient British dwelling, and pointed
triumphantly to a hollow at the top, wherein the ancient Britishers
were supposed to have moved, lived, and had their being--which must,
urged the opposing party, have been a very damp one. Thereon the late
Mrs. Massey, who was a British dwellingite, proceeded to show with
much triumph /how/ they had lived in the hole by building a huge
mushroom-shaped roof over it, and thereby turning it into a summer-
house, which, owing to unexpected difficulties in the construction of
the roof, cost a great deal of money. But as the roof was slated, and
as it was found necessary to pave the hollow with tiles and cut
surface drains in it, the result did not clearly prove its use as a
dwelling place before the Roman conquest. Nor did it make a very good
summer house. Indeed it now served as a store place for the gardener's
tools and for rubbish generally.
CHAPTER II
THE COLONEL MEETS THE SQUIRE
As Colonel Quaritch was contemplating these various views and
reflecting that on the whole he had done well to come and live at
Honham Cottage, he was suddenly startled by a loud voice saluting him
from about twenty yards distance with such peculiar vigour that he
fairly jumped.
"Colonel Quaritch, I believe," said, or rather shouted, the voice from
somewhere down the drive.
"Yes," answered the Colonel mildly, "here I am."
"Ah, I thought it was you. Always tell a military man, you know.
Excuse me, but I am resting for a minute, this last pull is an
uncommonly stiff one. I always used to tell my dear old friend, Mrs.
Massey, that she ought to have the hill cut away a bit just here.
Well, here goes for it," and after a few heavy steps his visitor
emerged from the shadow of the trees into the sunset light which was
playing on the terrace before the house.
Colonel Quaritch glanced up curiously to see who the owner of the
great voice might be, and his eyes lit upon as fine a specimen of
humanity as he had seen for a long while. The man was old, as his
white hair showed, seventy perhaps, but that was the only sign of
decay about him. He was a splendid man, broad and thick and strong,
with a keen, quick eye, and a face sharply chiselled, and clean
shaved, of the stamp which in novels is generally known as
aristocratic, a face, in fact, that showed both birth and breeding.
Indeed, as clothed in loose tweed garments and a gigantic pair of top
boots, his visitor stood leaning on his long stick and resting himself
after facing the hill, Harold Quaritch thought that he had never seen
a more perfect specimen of the typical English country gentleman--as
the English country gentleman used to be.
"How do you do, sir, how do you do--my name is de la Molle. My man
George, who knows everybody's business except his own, told me that
you had arrived here, so I thought I would walk round and do myself
the honour of making your acquaintance."
"That is very kind of you," said the Colonel.
"Not at all. If you only knew how uncommonly dull it is down in these
parts you would not say that. The place isn't what it used to be when
I was a boy. There are plenty of rich people about, but they are not
the same stamp of people. It isn't what it used to be in more ways
than one," and the old Squire gave something like a sigh, and
thoughtfully removed his white hat, out of which a dinner napkin and
two pocket-handkerchiefs fell to the ground, in a fashion that
reminded Colonel Quaritch of the climax of a conjuring trick.
"You have dropped some--some linen," he said, stooping down to pick
the mysterious articles up.
"Oh, yes, thank you," answered his visitor, "I find the sun a little
hot at this time of the year. There is nothing like a few
handkerchiefs or a towel to keep it off," and he rolled the mass of
napery into a ball, and cramming it back into the crown, replaced the
hat on his head in such a fashion that about eight inches of white
napkin hung down behind. "You must have felt it in Egypt," he went on
--"the sun I mean. It's a bad climate, that Egypt, as I have good
reason to know," and he pointed again to his white hat, which Harold
Quaritch now observed for the first time was encircled by a broad
black band.
"Ah, I see," he said, "I suppose that you have had a loss."
"Yes, sir, a very heavy loss."
Now Colonel Quaritch had never heard that Mr. de la Molle had more
than one child, Ida de la Molle, the young lady whose face remained so
strongly fixed in his memory, although he had scarcely spoken to her
on that one occasion five long years ago. Could it be possible that
she had died in Egypt? The idea sent a tremor of fear through him,
though of course there was no real reason why it should. Deaths are so
common.
"Not--not Miss de la Molle?" he said nervously, adding, "I had the
pleasure of seeing her once, a good many years ago, when I was
stopping here for a few days with my aunt."
"Oh, no, not Ida, she is alive and well, thank God. Her brother James.
He went all through that wretched war which we owe to Mr. Gladstone,
as I say, though I don't know what your politics are, and then caught
a fever, or as I think got touched by the sun, and died on his way
home. Poor boy! He was a fine fellow, Colonel Quaritch, and my only
son, but very reckless. Only a month or so before he died, I wrote to
him to be careful always to put a towel in his helmet, and he
answered, in that flippant sort of way he had, that he was not going
to turn himself into a dirty clothes bag, and that he rather liked the
heat than otherwise. Well, he's gone, poor fellow, in the service of
his country, like many of his ancestors before him, and there's an end
of him."
And again the old man sighed, heavily this time.
"And now, Colonel Quaritch," he went on, shaking off his oppression
with a curious rapidity that was characteristic of him, "what do you
say to coming up to the Castle for your dinner? You must be in a mess
here, and I expect that old Mrs. Jobson, whom my man George tells me
you have got to look after you, will be glad enough to be rid of you
for to-night. What do you say?--take the place as you find it, you
know. I believe that there is a leg of mutton for dinner if there is
nothing else, because instead of minding his own business I saw George
going off to Boisingham to fetch it this morning. At least, that is
what he said he was going for; just an excuse to gossip and idle, I
fancy."
"Well, really," said the Colonel, "you are very kind; but I don't
think that my dress clothes are unpacked yet."
"Dress clothes! Oh, never mind your dress clothes. Ida will excuse
you, I daresay. Besides, you have no time to dress. By Jove, it's
nearly seven o'clock; we must be off if you are coming."
The Colonel hesitated. He had intended to dine at home, and being a
methodical-minded man did not like altering his plans. Also, he was,
like most military men, very punctilious about his dress and personal
appearance, and objected to going out to dinner in a shooting coat.
But all this notwithstanding, a feeling that he did not quite
understand, and which it would have puzzled even an American novelist
to analyse--something between restlessness and curiosity, with a dash
of magnetic attraction thrown in--got the better of his scruples, and
he accepted.
"Well, thank you," he said, "if you are sure that Miss de la Molle
will not mind, I will come. Just allow me to tell Mrs. Jobson."
"That's right," halloaed the Squire after him, "I'll meet you at the
back of the house. We had better go through the fields."
By the time that the Colonel, having informed his housekeeper that he
should not want any dinner, and hastily brushed his not too luxuriant
locks, had reached the garden which lay behind the house, the Squire
was nowhere to be seen. Presently, however, a loud halloa from the top
of the tumulus-like hill announced his whereabouts.
Wondering what the old gentleman could be doing there, Harold Quaritch
walked up the steps that led to the summit of the mound, and found him
standing at the entrance to the mushroom-shaped summer-house,
contemplating the view.
"There, Colonel," he said, "there's a perfect view for you. Talk about
Scotland and the Alps! Give me a view of the valley of Ell from the
top of Dead Man's Mount on an autumn evening, and I never want to see
anything finer. I have always loved it from a boy, and always shall so
long as I live--look at those oaks, too. There are no such trees in
the county that I know of. The old lady, your aunt, was wonderfully
fond of them. I hope--" he went on in a tone of anxiety--"I hope that
you don't mean to cut any of them down."
"Oh no," said the Colonel, "I should never think of such a thing."
"That's right. Never cut down a good tree if you can help it. I'm
sorry to say, however," he added after a pause, "that I have been
forced to cut down a good many myself. Queer place this, isn't it?" he
continued, dropping the subject of the trees, which was evidently a
painful one to him. "Dead Man's Mount is what the people about here
call it, and that is what they called it at the time of the Conquest,
as I can prove to you from ancient writings. I always believed that it
was a tumulus, but of late years a lot of these clever people have
been taking their oath that it is an ancient British dwelling, as
though Ancient Britons, or any one else for that matter, could live in
a kind of drainhole. But they got on the soft side of your old aunt--
who, by the way, begging your pardon, was a wonderfully obstinate old
lady when once she hammered an idea into her head--and so she set to
work and built this slate mushroom over the place, and one way and
another it cost her two hundred and fifty pounds. Dear me! I shall
never forget her face when she saw the bill," and the old gentleman
burst out into a Titanic laugh, such as Harold Quaritch had not heard
for many a long day.
"Yes," he answered, "it is a queer spot. I think that I must have a
dig at it one day."
"By Jove," said the Squire, "I never thought of that. It would be
worth doing. Hulloa, it is twenty minutes past seven, and we dine at
half past. I shall catch it from Ida. Come on, Colonel Quaritch; you
don't know what it is to have a daughter--a daughter when one is late
for dinner is a serious thing for any man," and he started off down
the hill in a hurry.
Very soon, however, he seemed to forget the terrors in store, and
strolled along, stopping now and again to admire some particular oak
or view; chatting all the while in a discursive manner, which, though
somewhat aimless, was by no means without its charm. He made a capital
companion for a silent man like Harold Quaritch who liked to hear
other people talk.
In this way they went down the slope, and crossing a couple of wheat
fields came to a succession of broad meadows, somewhat sparsely
timbered. Through these the footpath ran right up to the grim gateway
of the ancient Castle, which now loomed before them, outlined in red
lines of fire against the ruddy background of the sunset sky.
"Ay, it's a fine old place, Colonel, isn't it?" said the Squire,
catching the exclamation of admiration that broke from his companion's
lips, as a sudden turn brought them into line with the Norman ruin.
"History--that's what it is; history in stone and mortar; this is
historic ground, every inch of it. Those old de la Molles, my
ancestors, and the Boisseys before them, were great folk in their day,
and they kept up their position well. I will take you to see their
tombs in the church yonder on Sunday. I always hoped to be buried
beside them, but I can't manage it now, because of the Act. However, I
mean to get as near to them as I can. I have a fancy for the
companionship of those old Barons, though I expect that they were a
roughish lot in their lifetimes. Look how squarely those towers stand
out against the sky. They always remind me of the men who built them--
sturdy, overbearing fellows, setting their shoulders against the sea
of circumstance and caring neither for man nor devil till the priests
got hold of them at the last. Well, God rest them, they helped to make
England, whatever their faults. Queer place to choose for a castle,
though, wasn't it? right out in an open plain."
"I suppose that they trusted to their moat and walls, and the hagger
at the bottom of the dry ditch," said the Colonel. "You see there is
no eminence from which they could be commanded, and their archers
could sweep all the plain from the battlements."
"Ah, yes, of course they could. It is easy to see that you are a
soldier. They were no fools, those old crusaders. My word, we must be
getting on. They are hauling down the Union Jack on the west tower. I
always have it hauled down at sunset," and he began walking briskly
again.
In another three minutes they had crossed a narrow by-road, and were
passing up the ancient drive that led to the Castle gates. It was not
much of a drive, but there were still some half-dozen of old pollard
oaks that had no doubt stood there before the Norman Boissey, from
whose family, centuries ago, the de la Molles had obtained the
property by marriage with the heiress, had got his charter and cut the
first sod of his moat.
Right before them was the gateway of the Castle, flanked by two great
towers, and these, with the exception of some ruins were, as a matter
of fact, all that remained of the ancient building, which had been
effectually demolished in the time of Cromwell. The space within,
where the keep had once stood, was now laid out as a flower garden,
while the house, which was of an unpretentious nature, and built in
the Jacobean style, occupied the south side of the square, and was
placed with its back to the moat.
"You see I have practically rebuilt those two towers," said the
Squire, pausing underneath the Norman archway. "If I had not done it,"
he added apologetically, "they would have been in ruins by now, but it
cost a pretty penny, I can tell you. Nobody knows what stuff that old
flint masonry is to deal with, till he tries it. Well, they will stand
now for many a long day. And here we are"--and he pushed open a porch
door and then passed up some steps and through a passage into an oak-
panelled vestibule, which was hung with tapestry originally taken, no
doubt, from the old Castle, and decorated with coats of armour, spear
heads, and ancient swords.
And here it was that Harold Quaritch once more beheld the face which
had haunted his memory for so many months.
CHAPTER III
THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE
"Is that you, father?" said a voice, a very sweet voice, but one of
which the tones betrayed the irritation natural to a healthy woman who
has been kept waiting for her dinner. The voice came from the recesses
of the dusky room in which the evening gloom had gathered deeply, and
looking in its direction, Harold Quaritch could see the outline of a
tall form sitting in an old oak chair with its hands crossed.
"Is that you, father? Really it is too bad to be so late for dinner--
especially after you blew up that wretched Emma last night because she
was five minutes after time. I have been waiting so long that I have
almost been asleep."
"I am very sorry, my dear, very," said the old gentleman
apologetically, "but--hullo! I've knocked my head--here, Mary, bring
me a light!"
"Here is a light," said the voice, and at the same moment there was a
sound of a match being struck.
In another moment the candle was burning, and the owner of the voice
had turned, holding it in such a fashion that its rays surrounded her
like an aureole--showing Harold Quaritch that face of which the memory
had never left him. There were the same powerful broad brow, the same
nobility of look, the same brown eyes and soft waving hair. But the
girlhood had gone out of them, the face was now the face of a woman
who knew what life meant, and had not found it too easy. It had lost
some of its dreaminess, he thought, though it had gained in
intellectual force. As for the figure, it was much more admirable than
the face, which was strictly speaking not a beautiful one. The figure,
however, was undoubtedly beautiful, indeed, it is doubtful if many
women could show a finer. Ida de la Molle was a large, strong woman,
and there was about her a swing and a lissom grace which is very rare,
and as attractive as it is rare. She was now nearly six-and-twenty
years of age, and not having begun to wither in accordance with the
fate which overtakes all unmarried women after thirty, was at her very
best. Harold Quaritch, glancing at her well-poised head, her perfect
neck and arms (for she was in evening dress) and her gracious form,
thought to himself that he had never seen a nobler-looking woman.
"Why, my dear father," she went on as she watched the candle burn up,
"you made such a fuss this morning about the dinner being punctually
at half-past seven, and now it is eight o'clock and you are not
dressed. It is enough to ruin any cook," and she broke off for the
first time, seeing that her father was not alone.
"Yes, my dear, yes," said the old gentleman, "I dare say I did. It is
human to err, my dear, especially about dinner on a fine evening.
Besides, I have made amends and brought you a visitor, our new
neighbour, Colonel Quaritch. Colonel Quaritch, let me introduce you to
my daughter, Miss de la Molle."
"I think that we have met before," said Harold, in a somewhat nervous
fashion, as he stretched out his hand.
"Yes," answered Ida, taking it, "I remember. It was in the long drift,
five years ago, on a windy afternoon, when my hat blew over the hedge
and you went to fetch it."
"You have a good memory, Miss de la Molle," said he, feeling not a
little pleased that she should have recollected the incident.
"Evidently not better than your own, Colonel Quaritch," was the ready
answer. "Besides, one sees so few strangers here that one naturally
remembers them. It is a place where nothing happens--time passes, that
is all."
Meanwhile the old Squire, who had been making a prodigious fuss with
his hat and stick, which he managed to send clattering down the flight
of stone steps, departed to get ready, saying in a kind of roar as he
went that Ida was to order in the dinner, as he would be down in a
minute.
Accordingly she rang the bell, and told the maid to bring in the soup
in five minutes and to lay another place. Then turning to Harold she
began to apologise to him.
"I don't know what sort of dinner you will get, Colonel Quaritch," she
said; "it is so provoking of my father; he never gives one the least
warning when he is going to ask any one to dinner."
"Not at all--not at all," he answered hurriedly. "It is I who ought to
apologise, coming down on you like--like----"
"A wolf on the fold," suggested Ida.
"Yes, exactly," he went on earnestly, looking at his coat, "but not in
purple and gold."
"Well," she went on laughing, "you will get very little to eat for
your pains, and I know that soldiers always like good dinners."
"How do you know that, Miss de la Molle?"
"Oh, because of poor James and his friends whom he used to bring here.
By the way, Colonel Quaritch," she went on with a sudden softening of
the voice, "you have been in Egypt, I know, because I have so often
seen your name in the papers; did you ever meet my brother there?"
"I knew him slightly," he answered. "Only very slightly. I did not
know that he was your brother, or indeed that you had a brother. He
was a dashing officer."
What he did not say, however, was that he also knew him to have been
one of the wildest and most extravagant young men in an extravagant
regiment, and as such had to some extent shunned his society on the
few occasions that he had been thrown in with him. Perhaps Ida, with a
woman's quickness, divined from his tone that there was something
behind his remark--at any rate she did not ask him for particulars of
their slight acquaintance.
"He was my only brother," she continued; "there never were but we two,
and of course his loss was a great blow to me. My father cannot get
over it at all, although----" and she broke off suddenly, and rested
her head upon her hand.
At this moment the Squire was heard advancing down the stairs,
shouting to the servants as he came.
"A thousand pardons, my dear, a thousand pardons," he said as he
entered the room, "but, well, if you will forgive particulars, I was
quite unable to discover the whereabouts of a certain necessary
portion of the male attire. Now, Colonel Quaritch, will you take my
daughter? Stop, you don't know the way--perhaps I had better show you
with the candle."
Accordingly he advanced out of the vestibule, and turning to the left,
led the way down a long passage till he reached the dining-room. This
apartment was like the vestibule, oak-panelled, but the walls were
decorated with family and other portraits, including a very curious
painting of the Castle itself, as it was before its destruction in the
time of Cromwell. This painting was executed on a massive slab of oak,
and conceived in a most quaint and formal style, being relieved in the
foreground with stags at gaze and woodeny horses, that must, according
to any rule of proportion, have been about half as large as the
gateway towers. Evidently, also, it was of an older date than the
present house, which is Jacobean, having probably been removed to its
present position from the ruins of the Castle. Such as it was,
however, it gave a very good idea of what the ancient seat of the
Boisseys and de la Molles had been like before the Roundheads had made
an end of its glory. The dining-room itself was commodious, though not
large. It was lighted by three narrow windows which looked out upon
the moat, and bore a considerable air of solid comfort. The table,
made of black oak, of extraordinary solidity and weight, was matched
by a sideboard of the same material and apparently of the same date,
both pieces of furniture being, as Mr. de la Molle informed his
guests, relics of the Castle.
On this sideboard were placed several pieces of old and massive plate,
each of which was rudely engraved with three falcons /or/, the arms of
the de la Molle family. One piece, indeed, a very ancient salver, bore
those of the Boisseys--a ragged oak, in an escutcheon of pretence--
showing thereby that it dated from that de la Molle who in the time of
Henry the Seventh had obtained the property by marriage with the
Boissey heiress.
Conversation having turned that way, as the dinner, which was a simple
one, went on, the old Squire had this piece of plate brought to Harold
Quaritch for him to examine.
"It is very curious," he said; "have you much of this, Mr. de la
Molle?"
"No indeed," he said; "I wish I had. It all vanished in the time of
Charles the First."
"Melted down, I suppose," said the Colonel.
"No, that is the odd part of it. I don't think it was. It was hidden
somewhere--I don't know where, or perhaps it was turned into money and
the money hidden. But I will tell you the story if you like as soon as
we have done dinner."
Accordingly, when the servants had removed the cloth, and after the
old fashion placed the wine upon the naked wood, the Squire began his
tale, of which the following is the substance.
"In the time of James I. the de la Molle family was at the height of
its prosperity, that is, so far as money goes. For several generations
previous the representatives of the family had withdrawn themselves
from any active participation in public affairs, and living here at
small expense upon their lands, which were at that time very large,
had amassed a quantity of wealth that, for the age, might fairly be
called enormous. Thus, Sir Stephen de la Molle, the grandfather of the
Sir James who lived in the time of James I., left to his son, also
named Stephen, a sum of no less than twenty-three thousand pounds in
gold. This Stephen was a great miser, and tradition says that he
trebled the sum in his lifetime. Anyhow, he died rich as Croesus, and
abominated alike by his tenants and by the country side, as might be
expected when a gentleman of his race and fame degraded himself, as
this Sir Stephen undoubtedly did, to the practice of usury.
"With the next heir, Sir James, however, the old spirit of the de la
Molles seems to have revived, although it is sufficiently clear that
he was by no means a spendthrift, but on the contrary, a careful man,
though one who maintained his station and refused to soil his fingers
with such base dealing as it had pleased his uncle to do. Going to
court, he became, perhaps on account of his wealth, a considerable
favourite with James I., to whom he was greatly attached and from whom
he bought a baronetcy. Indeed, the best proof of his devotion is, that
he on two occasions lent large sums of money to the King which were
never repaid. On the accession of Charles I., however, Sir James left
court under circumstances which were never quite cleared up. It is
said that smarting under some slight which was put upon him, he made a
somewhat brusque demand for the money that he had lent to James.
Thereon the King, with sarcastic wit, congratulated him on the fact
that the spirit of his uncle, Sir Stephen de la Molle, whose name was
still a byword in the land, evidently survived in the family. Sir
James turned white with anger, bowed, and without a word left the
court, nor did he ever return thither.
"Years passed, and the civil war was at its height. Sir James had as
yet steadily refused to take any share in it. He had never forgiven
the insult put upon him by the King, for like most of his race, of
whom it was said that they never forgave an injury and never forgot a
kindness, he was a pertinacious man. Therefore he would not lift a
finger in the King's cause. But still less would he help the
Roundheads, whom he hated with a singular hatred. So time went, till
at last, when he was sore pressed, Charles, knowing his great wealth
and influence, brought himself to write a letter to this Sir James,
appealing to him for support, and especially for money.
"'I hear,' said the King in his letter, 'that Sir James de la Molle,
who was aforetyme well affected to our person and more especially to
the late King, our sainted father, doth stand idle, watching the
growing of this bloody struggle and lifting no hand. Such was not the
way of the race from which he sprang, which, unless history doth
greatly lie, hath in the past been ever found at the side of their
kings striking for the right. It is told to me also, that Sir James de
la Molle doth thus place himself aside blowing neither hot nor cold,
because of some sharp words which we spake in heedless jest many a
year that's gone. We know not if this be true, doubting if a man's
memory be so long, but if so it be, then hereby do we crave his
pardon, and no more can we do. And now is our estate one of grievous
peril, and sorely do we need the aid of God and man. Therefore, if the
heart of our subject Sir James de la Molle be not rebellious against
us, as we cannot readily credit it to be, we do implore his present
aid in men and money, of which last it is said he hath large store,
this letter being proof of our urgent need.'
"These were, as nearly as I can remember, the very words of the
letter, which was written with the King's own hand, and show pretty
clearly how hardly he was pressed. It is said that when he read it,
Sir James, forgetting his grievance, was much affected, and, taking
paper, wrote hastily as follows, which indeed he certainly did, for I
have seen the letter in the Museum. 'My liege,--Of the past I will not
speak. It is past. But since it hath graciously pleased your Majesty
to ask mine aid against the rebels who would overthrow your throne,
rest assured that all I have is at your Majesty's command, till such
time as your enemies are discomfited. It hath pleased Providence to so
prosper my fortunes that I have stored away in a safe place, till
these times be past, a very great sum in gold, whereof I will at once
place ten thousand pieces at the disposal of your Majesty, so soon as
a safe means can be provided of conveying the same, seeing that I had
sooner die than that these great moneys should fall into the hands of
rebels to the furtherance of a wicked cause.'
"Then the letter went on to say that the writer would at once buckle
to and raise a troop of horse among his tenantry, and that if other
satisfactory arrangements could not be made for the conveyance of the
moneys, he would bring them in person to the King.
"And now comes the climax of the story. The messenger was captured and
Sir James's incautious letter taken from his boot, as a result of
which within ten days' time he found himself closely besieged by five
hundred Roundheads under the command of one Colonel Playfair. The
Castle was but ill-provisioned for a siege, and in the end Sir James
was driven by sheer starvation to surrender. No sooner had he obtained
an entry, then Colonel Playfair sent for his prisoner, and to his
astonishment produced to Sir James's face his own letter to the King.
"'Now, Sir James,' he said, 'we have the hive, and I must ask you to
lead us to the honey. Where be those great moneys whereof you talk
herein? Fain would I be fingering these ten thousand pieces of gold,
the which you have so snugly stored away.'
"'Ay,' answered old Sir James, 'you have the hive, but the secret of
the honey you have not, nor shall you have it. The ten thousand pieces
in gold is where it is, and with it is much more. Find it if you may,
Colonel, and take it if you can.'
"'I shall find it by to-morrow's light, Sir James, or otherwise--or
otherwise you die.'
"'I must die--all men do, Colonel, but if I die, the secret dies with
me.'
"'This shall we see,' answered the Colonel grimly, and old Sir James
was marched off to a cell, and there closely confined on bread and
water. But he did not die the next day, nor the next, nor for a week,
indeed.
"Every day he was brought up before the Colonel, and under the threat
of immediate death questioned as to where the treasure was, not being
suffered meanwhile to communicate by word or sign with any one, save
the officers of the rebels. Every day he refused, till at last his
inquisitor's patience gave out, and he was told frankly that if he did
not communicate the secret he would be shot at the following dawn.
"Old Sir James laughed, and said that shoot him they might, but that
he consigned his soul to the Devil if he would enrich them with his
treasures, and then asked that his Bible might be brought to him that
he might read therein and prepare himself for death.
"They gave him the Bible and left him. Next morning at the dawn, a
file of Roundheads marched him into the courtyard of the Castle and
here he found Colonel Playfair and his officers waiting.
"'Now, Sir James, for your last word,' said the Roundhead. 'Will you
reveal where the treasure lies, or will you choose to die?'
"'I will not reveal,' answered the old man. 'Murder me if ye will. The
deed is worthy of Holy Presbyters. I have spoken and my mind is
fixed.'
"'Bethink you,' said the Colonel.
"'I have thought,' he answered, 'and I am ready. Slay me and seek the
treasure. But one thing I ask. My young son is not here. In France
hath he been these three years, and nought knows he of where I have
hid this gold. Send to him this Bible when I am dead. Nay, search it
from page to page. There is nought therein save what I have writ here
upon this last sheet. It is all I have left to give.'
"'The book shall be searched,' answered the Colonel, 'and if nought is
found therein it shall be sent. And now, in the name of God, I adjure
you, Sir James, let not the love of lucre stand between you and your
life. Here I make you one last offer. Discover but to us the ten
thousand pounds whereof you speak in this writing,' and he held up the
letter to the King, 'and you shall go free--refuse and you die.'
"'I refuse,' he answered.
"'Musqueteers, make ready,' shouted the Colonel, and the file of men
stepped forward.
"But at that moment there came up so furious a squall of wind, and
with it such dense and cutting rain, that for a while the execution
was delayed. Presently it passed, the wild light of the November
morning swept out from the sky, and revealed the doomed man kneeling
in prayer upon the sodden turf, the water running from his white hair
and beard.
"They called to him to stand up, but he would not, and continued
praying. So they shot him on his knees."
"Well," said Colonel Quaritch, "at any rate he died like a gallant
gentleman."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the servant came in.
"What is it?" asked the Squire.
"George is here, please, sir," said the girl, "and says that he would
like to see you."
"Confound him," growled the old gentleman; "he is always here after
something or other. I suppose it is about the Moat Farm. He was going
to see Janter to-day. Will you excuse me, Quaritch? My daughter will
tell you the end of the story if you care to hear any more. I will
join you in the drawing-room."
CHAPTER IV
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