Ida loved the spot, hallowed to her not only by the altar of her faith, but also by the human a.s.sociations that clung around and clothed it as the ivy clothed its walls. Here she had been christened, and here among her ancestors she hoped to be buried also. Here as a girl, when the full moon was up, she had crept in awed silence with her brother James to look through the window at the white and solemn figures stretched within. Here, too, she had sat on Sunday after Sunday for more than twenty years, and stared at the quaint Latin inscriptions cut on marble slabs, recording the almost superhuman virtues of departed de la Molles of the eighteenth century, her own immediate ancestors. The place was familiar to her whole life; she had scarcely a recollection with which it was not in some way connected.
It was not wonderful, therefore, that she loved it, and that in the trouble of her mind her feet shaped their course towards it.
Presently she was in the churchyard. Taking her stand under the shelter of a line of Scotch firs, through which the gale sobbed and sang, she leant against a side gate and looked. The scene was desolate enough. Rain dropped from the roof on to the sodden graves beneath, and ran in thin sheets down the flint facing of the tower; the dead leaves whirled and rattled about the empty porch, and over all shot one red and angry arrow from the sinking sun. She stood in the storm and rain, gazing at the old church that had seen the end of so many sorrows more bitter than her own, and the wreck of so many summers, till the darkness began to close round her like a pall, while the wind sung the requiem of her hopes. Ida was not of a desponding or pessimistic character, but in that bitter hour she found it in her heart, as most people have at one time or another in their lives, to wish the tragedy over and the curtain down, and that she lay beneath those dripping sods without sight or hearing, without hope or dread.
It seemed to her that the Hereafter must indeed be terrible if it outweighs the sorrows of the Here.
And then, poor woman, she thought of the long years between her and rest, and leaning her head against the gate-post, began to cry bitterly in the gloom.
Presently she ceased crying and with a start looked up, feeling that she was no longer alone. Her instincts had not deceived her, for in the shadow of the fir trees, not more than two paces from her, was the figure of a man. Just then he took a step to the left, which brought his outline against the sky, and Ida"s heart stood still, for now she knew him. It was Harold Quaritch, the man over whose loss she had been weeping.
"It"s very odd," she heard him say, for she was to leeward of him, "but I could have sworn that I heard somebody sobbing; I suppose it was the wind."
Ida"s first idea was flight, and she made a movement for that purpose, but in doing so tripped over a stick and nearly fell.
In a minute he was by her side. She was caught, and perhaps she was not altogether sorry, especially as she had tried to get away.
"Who is it? what"s the matter?" said the Colonel, lighting a fusee under her eyes. It was one of those flaming fusees, and burnt with a blue light, showing Ida"s tall figure and beautiful face, all stained with grief and tears, showing her wet macintosh, and the gate-post against which she had been leaning--showing everything.
"Why, Ida," he said in amaze, "what are you doing here, crying too?"
"I"m not crying," she said, with a sob; "it"s the rain that has made my face wet."
Just then the light burnt out and he dropped it.
"What is it, dear, what is it?" he said in great distress, for the sight of her alone in the wet and dark, and in tears, moved him beyond himself. Indeed he would have been no man if it had not.
She tried to answer, but she could not, and in another minute, to tell the honest truth, she had exchanged the gate-post for Harold"s broad shoulder, and was finishing her "cry" there.
Now to see a young and pretty woman weeping (more especially if she happens to be weeping on your shoulder) is a very trying thing. It is trying even if you do not happen to be in love with her at all. But if you are in love with her, however little, it is dreadful; whereas, if, as in the present case, you happen to worship her, more, perhaps, than it is good to worship any fallible human creature, then the sight is positively overpowering. And so, indeed, it proved in the present instance. The Colonel could not bear it, but lifting her head from his shoulder, he kissed her sweet face again and again.
"What is it, darling?" he said, "what is the matter?"
"Leave go of me and I will tell you," she answered.
He obeyed, though with some unwillingness.
She hunted for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, and then at last she spoke:
"I am engaged to be married," she said in a low voice, "I am engaged to Mr. Cossey."
Then, for about the first time in his life, Harold Quaritch swore violently in the presence of a lady.
"Oh, d.a.m.n it all!" he said.
She took no notice of the strength of the language, perhaps indeed she re-echoed it in some feminine equivalent.
"It is true," she said with a sigh. "I knew that it would come, those dreadful things always do--and it was not my fault--I am sure you will always remember that. I had to do it--he advanced the money on the express condition, and even if I could pay back the money, I suppose that I should be bound to carry out the bargain. It is not the money which he wants but his bond."
"Curse him for a Shylock," said Harold again, and groaned in his bitterness and jealousy.
"Is there nothing to be done?" he asked presently in a harsh voice, for he was very hard hit.
"Nothing," she answered sadly. "I do not see what can help us, unless the man died," she said; "and that is not likely. Harold," she went on, addressing him for the first time in her life by his Christian name, for she felt that after crying upon a man"s shoulder it is ridiculous to scruple about calling him by his name; "Harold, there is no help for it. I did it myself, remember, because, as I told you, I do not think that any one woman has a right to place her individual happiness before the welfare of her family. And I am only sorry," she added, her voice breaking a little, "that what I have done should bring suffering upon you."
He groaned again, but said nothing.
"We must try to forget," she went on wildly. "Oh no! no! I feel it is not possible that we should forget. You won"t forget me, Harold, will you? And though it must be all over between us, and we must never speak like this again--never--you will always know I have not forgotten you, will you not, but that I think of you always?"
"There is no fear of my forgetting," he said, "and I am selfish enough to hope that you will think of me at times, Ida."
"Yes, indeed I will. We all have our burdens to bear. It is a hard world, and we must bear them. And it will all be the same in the end, in just a few years. I daresay these dead people here have felt as we feel, and how quiet they are! And perhaps there may be something beyond, where things are not so. Who can say? You won"t go away from this place, Harold, will you? Not until I am married at any rate; perhaps you had better go then. Say that you won"t go till then, and you will let me see you sometimes; it is a comfort to see you."
"I should have gone, certainly," he said; "to New Zealand probably, but if you wish it I will stop for the present."
"Thank you; and now good-bye, my dear, good-bye! No, don"t come with me, I can find my own way home. And--why do you wait? Good-bye, good- bye for ever in this way. Yes, kiss me once and swear that you will never forget me. Marry if you wish to; but don"t forget me, Harold.
Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I speak as one about to die to you, and I wish things to be clear."
"I shall never marry and I shall never forget you," he answered.
"Good-bye, my love, good-bye!"
In another minute she had vanished into the storm and rain, out of his sight and out of his life, but not out of his heart.
He, too, turned and went his way into the wild and lonely night.
An hour afterwards Ida came down into the drawing-room dressed for dinner, looking rather pale but otherwise quite herself. Presently the Squire arrived. He had been at a magistrate"s meeting, and had only just got home.
"Why, Ida," he said, "I could not find you anywhere. I met George as I was driving from Boisingham, and he told me that he saw you walking through the park."
"Did he?" she answered indifferently. "Yes, I have been out. It was so stuffy indoors. Father," she went on, with a change of tone, "I have something to tell you. I am engaged to be married."
He looked at her curiously, and then said quietly--the Squire was always quiet in any matter of real emergency--"Indeed, my dear! That is a serious matter. However, speaking off-hand, I think that notwithstanding the disparity of age, Quaritch----"
"No, no," she said, wincing visibly, "I am not engaged to Colonel Quaritch, I am engaged to Mr. Cossey."
"Oh," he said, "oh, indeed! I thought from what I saw, that--that----"
At this moment the servant announced dinner.
"Well, never mind about it now, father," she said; "I am tired and want my dinner. Mr. Cossey is coming to see you to-morrow, and we can talk about it afterwards."
And though the Squire thought a good deal, he made no further allusion to the subject that night.
CHAPTER XXV
THE SQUIRE GIVES HIS CONSENT