When the Colonel reached the room, he found Ida seated at the piano, singing. She heard him shut the door, looked round, nodded prettily, and then went on with her singing. He came and sat down on a low chair some two paces from her, placing himself in such a position that he could see her face, which indeed he always found a wonderfully pleasant object of contemplation. Ida was playing without music--the only light in the room was that of a low lamp with a red fringe to it.
Therefore, he could not see very much, being with difficulty able to trace the outlines of her features, but if the shadow thus robbed him, it on the other hand lent her a beauty of its own, clothing her face with an atmosphere of wonderful softness which it did not always possess in the glare of day. The Colonel indeed (we must remember that he was in love and that it was after dinner) became quite poetical (internally of course) about it, and in his heart compared her first to St. Cecilia at her organ, and then to the Angel of the Twilight. He had never seen her look so lovely. At her worst she was a handsome and n.o.ble-looking woman, but now the shadow from without, and though he knew nothing of that, the shadow from her heart within also, aided maybe by the music"s swell, had softened and purified her face till it did indeed look almost like an angel"s. It is strong, powerful faces that are capable of the most tenderness, not the soft and pretty ones, and even in a plain person, when such a face is in this way seen, it gathers a peculiar beauty of its own. But Ida was not a plain person, so on the whole it is scarcely wonderful that a certain effect was produced upon Harold Quaritch. Ida went on singing almost without a break--to outward appearance, at any rate, all unconscious of what was pa.s.sing in her admirer"s mind. She had a good memory and a sweet voice, and really liked music for its own sake, so it was no great effort to her to do so.
Presently, she sang a song from Tennyson"s "Maud," the tender and beautiful words whereof will be familiar to most readers of her story.
It began:
"O let the solid ground Not fail beneath my feet Before my life has found What some have found so sweet."
The song is a lovely one, nor did it suffer from her rendering, and the effect it produced upon Harold was of a most peculiar nature. All his past life seemed to heave and break beneath the magic of the music and the magic of the singer, as a northern field of ice breaks up beneath the outburst of the summer sun. It broke, sank, and vanished into the depths of his nature, those dread unmeasured depths that roll and murmur in the vastness of each human heart as the sea rolls beneath its cloak of ice; that roll and murmur here, and set towards a sh.o.r.e of which we have no chart or knowledge. The past was gone, the frozen years had melted, and once more the sweet strong air of youth blew across his heart, and once more there was clear sky above, wherein the angels sailed. Before the breath of that sweet song the barrier of self fell down, his being went out to meet her being, and all the sleeping possibilities of life rose from the buried time.
He sat and listened, trembling as he listened, till the gentle echoes of the music died upon the quiet air. They died, and were gathered into the emptiness which receives and records all things, leaving him broken.
She turned to him, smiling faintly, for the song had moved her also, and he felt that he must speak.
"That is a beautiful song," he said; "sing it again if you do not mind."
She made no answer, but once more she sang:
"O let the solid ground Not fail beneath my feet Before my life has found What some have found so sweet;"
and then suddenly broke off.
"Why are you looking at me?" she said. "I can feel you looking at me and it makes me nervous."
He bent towards her and looked her in the eyes.
"I love you, Ida," he said, "I love you with all my heart," and he stopped suddenly.
She turned quite pale, even in that light he could see her pallor, and her hands fell heavily on the keys.
The echo of the crashing notes rolled round the room and slowly died away--but still she said nothing.
CHAPTER XIX
IN p.a.w.n
At last she spoke, apparently with a great effort.
"It is stifling in here," she said, "let us go out." She rose, took up a shawl that lay beside her on a chair, and stepped through the French window into the garden. It was a lovely autumn night, and the air was still as death, with just a touch of frost in it.
Ida threw the shawl over her shoulders and followed by Harold walked on through the garden till she came to the edge of the moat, where there was a seat. Here she sat down and fixed her eyes upon the h.o.a.ry battlements of the gateway, now clad in a solemn robe of moonlight.
Harold looked at her and felt that if he had anything to say the time had come for him to say it, and that she had brought him here in order that she might be able to listen undisturbed. So he began again, and told her that he loved her dearly.
"I am some seventeen years older than you," he went on, "and I suppose that the most active part of my life lies in the past; and I don"t know if, putting other things aside, you could care to marry so old a man, especially as I am not rich. Indeed, I feel it presumptuous on my part, seeing what you are and what I am not, to ask you to do so. And yet, Ida, I believe if you could care for me that, with heaven"s blessing, we should be very happy together. I have led a lonely life, and have had little to do with women--once, many years ago, I was engaged, and the matter ended painfully, and that is all. But ever since I first saw your face in the drift five years and more ago, it has haunted me and been with me. Then I came to live here and I have learnt to love you, heaven only knows how much, and I should be ashamed to try to put it into words, for they would sound foolish. All my life is wrapped up in you, and I feel as though, should you see me no more, I could never be a happy man again," and he paused and looked anxiously at her face, which was set and drawn as though with pain.
"I cannot say "yes," Colonel Quaritch," she answered at length, in a tone that puzzled him, it was so tender and so unfitted to the words.
"I suppose," he stammered, "I suppose that you do not care for me? Of course, I have no right to expect that you would."
"As I have said that I cannot say "yes," Colonel Quaritch, do you not think that I had better leave that question unanswered?" she replied in the same soft notes which seemed to draw the heart out of him.
"I do not understand," he went on. "Why?"
"Why?" she broke in with a bitter little laugh, "shall I tell you why?
Because I am /in p.a.w.n!/ Look," she went on, pointing to the stately towers and the broad lands beyond. "You see this place. /I/ am security for it, I /myself/ in my own person. Had it not been for me it would have been sold over our heads after having descended in our family for all these centuries, put upon the market and sold for what it would fetch, and my old father would have been turned out to die, for it would have killed him. So you see I did what unfortunate women have often been driven to do, I sold myself body and soul; and I got a good price too--thirty thousand pounds!" and suddenly she burst into a flood of tears, and began to sob as though her heart would break.
For a moment Harold Quaritch looked on bewildered, not in the least understanding what Ida meant, and then he followed the impulse common to mankind in similar circ.u.mstances and took her in his arms. She did not resent the movement, indeed she scarcely seemed to notice it, though to tell the truth, for a moment or two, which to the Colonel seemed the happiest of his life, her head rested on his shoulder.
Almost instantly, however, she raised it, freed herself from his embrace and ceased weeping.
"As I have told you so much," she said, "I suppose that I had better tell you everything. I know that whatever the temptation," and she laid great stress upon the words, "under any conceivable circ.u.mstances --indeed, even if you believed that you were serving me in so doing--I can rely upon you never to reveal to anybody, and above all to my father, what I now tell you," and she paused and looked up at him with eyes in which the tears still swam.
"Of course, you can rely on me," he said.
"Very well. I am sure that I shall never have to reproach you with the words. I will tell you. I have virtually promised to marry Mr. Edward Cossey, should he at any time be in a position to claim fulfilment of the promise, on condition of his taking up the mortgages on Honham, which he has done."
Harold Quaritch took a step back and looked at her in horrified astonishment.
"/What?/" he asked.
"Yes, yes," she answered hastily, putting up her hand as though to shield herself from a blow. "I know what you mean; but do not think too hardly of me if you can help it. It was not for myself. I would rather work for my living with my hands than take a price, for there is no other word for it. It was for my father, and my family too. I could not bear to think of the old place going to the hammer, and I did it all in a minute without consideration; but," and she set her face, "even as things are, I believe I should do it again, because I think that no one woman has a right to destroy her family in order to please herself. If one of the two must go, let it be the woman. But don"t think hardly of me for it," she added almost pleadingly, "that is if you can help it."
"I am not thinking of you," he answered grimly; "by heaven I honour you for what you have done, for however much I may disagree with the act, it is a n.o.ble one. I am thinking of the man who could drive such a bargain with any woman. You say that you have promised to marry him should he ever be in a position to claim it. What do you mean by that?
As you have told me so much you may as well tell me the rest."
He spoke clearly and with a voice full of authority, but his bearing did not seem to jar upon Ida.
"I meant," she answered humbly, "that I believe--of course I do not know if I am right--I believe that Mr. Cossey is in some way entangled with a lady, in short with Mrs. Quest, and that the question of whether or no he comes forward again depends upon her."
"Upon my word," said the Colonel, "upon my word the thing gets worse and worse. I never heard anything like it; and for money too! The thing is beyond me."
"At any rate," she answered, "there it is. And now, Colonel Quaritch, one word before I go in. It is difficult for me to speak without saying too much or too little, but I do want you to understand how honoured and how grateful I feel for what you have told me to-night--I am so little worthy of all you have given me, and to be honest, I cannot feel as pained about it as I ought to feel. It is feminine vanity, you know, nothing else. I am sure that you will not press me to say more."
"No," he answered, "no. I think that I understand the position. But, Ida, there is one thing that I must ask--you will forgive me if I am wrong in doing so, but all this is very sad for me. If in the end circ.u.mstances should alter, as I pray heaven that they may, or if Mr.
Cossey"s previous entanglement should prove too much for him, will you marry me, Ida?"
She thought for a moment, and then rising from the seat, gave him her hand and said simply:
"Yes, I /will/ marry you."
He made no answer, but lifting her hand touched it gently with his lips.