Colonel Quaritch, V.C.: A Tale of Country Life. H. Rider Haggard
“what is it?”
“Well, it is this, the house has ordered a foreclosure on the Honham Castle estates—at least it comes to that——”
On hearing this intelligence Edward Cossey’s whole demeanour underwent the most startling transformation—his languor vanished, his eye brightened, and his form became instinct with active life and beauty.
“What the deuce,” he said, and then paused. “I won’t have it,” he went on, jumping up, “I won’t have it. I am not particularly fond of old de la Molle, perhaps because he is not particularly fond of me,” he added rather drolly, “but it would be an infernal shame to break up that family and sell the house over them. Why they would be ruined! And then there’s Ida—Miss de la Molle, I mean—what would become of her? And the old place too. After being in the family for all these centuries I suppose that it would be sold to some confounded counter-skipper or some retired thief of a lawyer. It must be prevented at any price—do you hear, Quest?”
The lawyer winced a little at his chief’s contemptuous allusion, and then remarked with a smile, “I had no idea that you were so sentimental, Mr. Cossey, or that you took such a lively interest in Miss de la Molle,” and he glanced up to observe the effect of his shot.
Edward Cossey coloured. “I did not mean that I took any particular interest in Miss de la Molle,” he said, “I was referring to the family.”
“Oh, quite so, though I’m sure I don’t know why you shouldn’t. Miss de la Molle is one of the most charming women that I ever met, I think the most charming except my own wife Belle,” and he again looked up suddenly at Edward Cossey who, for his part, coloured for the second time.
“It seems to me,” went on the lawyer, “that a man in your position has a most splendid opportunity of playing knight errant to the lovely damsel in distress. Here is the lady with her aged father about to be sold up and turned out of the estates which have belonged to her family for generations—why don’t you do the generous and graceful thing, like the hero in a novel, and take up the mortgages?”
Edward Cossey did not reject this suggestion with the contempt that might have been expected; on the contrary he appeared to be turning the matter over in his mind, for he drummed a little tune with his knuckles and stared out of the window.
“What is the sum?” he said presently.
“Five-and-twenty thousand, and he wants four more, say thirty thousand.”
“And where am I going to find thirty thousand pounds to take up a bundle of mortgages which will probably never pay a farthing of interest? Why, I have not got three thousand that I can come at. Besides,” he added, recollecting himself, “why should I interfere?”
“I do not think,” answered Mr. Quest, ignoring the latter part of the question, “that with your prospects you would find it difficult to get thirty thousand pounds. I know several who would consider it an honour to lend the money to a Cossey, if only for the sake of the introduction—that is, of course, provided the security was of a legal nature.”
“Let me see the letter,” said Edward.
Mr. Quest handed him the document conveying the commands of Cossey and Son, and he read it through twice.
“The old man means business,” he said, as he returned it; “that letter was written by him, and when he has once made up his mind it is useless to try and stir him. Did you say that you were going to see the Squire to-day?”
“No, I did not say so, but as a matter of fact I am. His man, George—a shrewd fellow, by the way, for one of these bumpkins—came with a letter asking me to go up to the Castle, so I shall get round there to lunch. It is about this fresh loan that the old gentleman wishes to negotiate. Of course I shall be obliged to tell him that instead of giving a fresh loan we have orders to serve a notice on him.”
“Don’t do that just yet,” said Edward with decision. “Write to the house and say that their instructions shall be attended to. There is no hurry about the notice, though I don’t see how I am to help in the matter. Indeed there is no call upon me.”
“Very well, Mr. Cossey. And now, by the way, are you going to the Castle this afternoon?”
“Yes, I believe so. Why?”
“Well, I want to get up there to luncheon, and I am in a fix. Mrs. Quest will want the trap to go there this afternoon. Can you lend me your dogcart to drive up in? and then perhaps you would not mind if she gave you a lift this afternoon.”
“Very well,” answered Edward, “that is if it suits Mrs. Quest. Perhaps she may object to carting me about the country.”
“I have not observed any such reluctance on her part,” said the lawyer dryly, “but we can easily settle the question. I must go home and get some plans before I attend the vestry meeting about that pinnacle. Will you step across with me and we can ask her?”
“Oh yes,” he answered. “I have nothing particular to do.”
And accordingly, so soon as Mr. Quest had made some small arrangements and given particular directions to his clerks as to his whereabouts for the day, they set off together for the lawyer’s private house.
CHAPTER VIII. — MR. QUEST’S WIFE
Mr. Quest lived in one of those ugly but comfortably-built old red brick houses which abound in almost every country town, and which give us the clearest possible idea of the want of taste and love of material comfort that characterised the age in which they were built. This house looked out on to the market place, and had a charming old walled garden at the back, famous for its nectarines, which, together with the lawn tennis court, was, as Mrs. Quest would say, almost enough to console her for living in a town. The front door, however, was only separated by a little flight of steps from the pavement upon which the house abutted.
Entering a large, cool-looking hall, Mr. Quest paused and asked a servant who was passing there where her mistress was.
“In the drawing-room, sir,” said the girl; and, followed by Edward Cossey, he walked down a long panelled passage till he reached a door on the left. This he opened quickly and passed through into a charming, modern-looking room, handsomely and even luxuriously furnished, and lighted by French windows opening on to the walled garden.
A little lady dressed in some black material was standing at one of these windows, her arms crossed behind her back, and absently gazing out of it. At the sound of the opening door she turned swiftly, her whole delicate and lovely face lighting up like a flower in a ray of sunshine, the lips slightly parted, and a deep and happy light shining in her violet eyes. Then, all in an instant, it was instructive to observe how instantaneously, her glance fell upon her husband (for the lady was Mrs. Quest) and her entire expression changed to one of cold aversion, the light fading out of her face as it does from a November sky, and leaving it cold and hard.
Mr. Quest, who was a man who saw everything, saw this also, and smiled bitterly.
“Don’t be alarmed, Belle,” he said in a low voice; “I have brought Mr. Cossey with me.”
She flushed up to the eyes, a great wave of colour, and her breast heaved; but before she could answer, Edward Cossey, who had stopped behind to wipe some mud off his shoes, entered the room, and politely offered his hand to Mrs. Quest, who took it coldly enough.
“You are an early visitor, Mr. Cossey,” she said.
“Yes,” said her husband, “but the fault is mine. I have brought Mr. Cossey over to ask if you can give him a lift up to the Castle this afternoon. I have to go there to lunch, and have borrowed his dogcart.”
“Oh