“Why? why?” broke in Belle. “What is such a promise as that? He cannot force you to marry him, and it is better for a woman to die than to marry a man she hates, especially,” she added meaningly, “if she happens to care for somebody else. Be advised by me, I know what it is.” “Yes,” said Ida, “perhaps it is better to die, but death is not so easy. As for the promise, you do not seem to understand that no gentleman or lady can break a promise in consideration of which money has been received. Whatever he has done, and whatever he is, I _must_ marry Mr. Cossey, so I do not think that we need discuss the subject any more.” Belle sat silent for a minute or more, and then rising said that she must go. “I have warned you,” she added, “although to warn you I am forced to put myself at your mercy. You can tell the story and destroy me if you like. I do not much care if you do. Women such as I grow reckless.” “You must understand me very little, Mrs. Quest” (it had always been Belle before, and she winced at the changed name), “if you think me capable of such conduct. You have nothing to fear from me.” She held out her hand, but in her humility and shame, Belle went without taking it, and through the angry sunset light walked slowly back to Boisingham. And as she walked there was a look upon her face that Edward Cossey would scarcely have cared to see. CHAPTER XXVII. MR. QUEST HAS HIS INNINGS All that afternoon and far into the evening Mr. Quest was employed in drafting, and with his own hand engrossing on parchment certain deeds, for the proper execution of which he seemed to find constant reference necessary to a tin box of papers labelled “Honham Castle Estates.” By eleven that night everything was finished, and having carefully collected and docketed his papers, he put the tin box away and went home to bed. Next morning, about ten o’clock, Edward Cossey was sitting at breakfast in no happy frame of mind. He had gone up to the Castle to dinner on the previous evening, but it cannot be said that he had enjoyed himself. Ida was there, looking very handsome in her evening dress, but she was cold as a stone and unapproachable as a statue. She scarcely spoke to him, indeed, except in answer to some direct remark, reserving all her conversation for her father, who seemed to have caught the contagion of restraint, and was, for him, unusually silent and depressed. But once or twice he found her looking at him, and then there was upon her face a mingled expression of contempt and irresistible aversion which chilled him to the marrow.