a sleety rain was falling, but, despite the cold, st. quentin’s couch was drawn up close beneath the mullioned windows of the library, from which he could look out upon the green expanse of park and the mighty trees, which had seen generations of his family reign their reign at the great old castle, and die.
the present owner’s face was sad enough, as he gazed out on the splendid prospect, beautiful even in the bareness of winter and the dreariness of rain.
at his elbow lay an invalid writing-desk and a sheet of paper, on which the words were written: “dear fane—cut the timber from....” he had gone no further, though he had started that letter to his agent when sir algernon had left him an hour ago.
a sentence kept rising up before him whenever he took up his pen to write, a sentence
[182]
which, though spoken more than five years ago, was fresh as though he heard it yesterday.
“we’ve never let the timber go, my boy.”
yes, he remembered that his father had paid his, st. quentin’s, debts by care and economy, but without sacrificing any of the splendid trees, which were the pride of the county. “we’ve never let the timber go, my boy.” he turned his head with an impatient sigh and flung the paper down again, staring from the rain-washed window gloomily.
as he looked aimlessly enough, something crossed his line of vision that made him start into a sudden interest and life.
two ladies, wrapped in waterproofs and wrestling with refractory umbrellas, passed beneath his window, carrying a large basket. in spite of sleet and rain they walked fast as though in a hurry, and quickly disappeared amid the trees, though not before sydney’s cousin had recognised the scarlet tam-o’-shanter and long tail of refractory brown hair, blown every way.
“what on earth can the child be thinking of to go out on such an afternoon!” st. quentin said to himself, and he rang sharply for dickson.
“where has miss lisle gone?”
[183]
“i will enquire, my lord.”
the servant vanished, but returned in a few minutes with the information—“miss lisle and miss osric have gone down to the village, my lord. miss lisle holds a sewing meeting for the village women on two afternoons a week, my lord.”
st. quentin considered this information, then enquired, “is lady frederica in?”
“i will enquire, my lord.”
“if she is disengaged, ask if she could spare me five minutes.”
dickson withdrew, and shortly afterwards lady frederica tripped in, looking as though she considered somebody very much to blame for the dreariness of the afternoon.
“aunt rica,” said her nephew, “did you know of this preposterous idea of sydney’s—teaching old women to sew or something, on a beastly afternoon like this?”
“oh, yes, she asked my leave to do something of the kind,” lady frederica answered, with a yawn. “she said something, i remember, about the people being poor and miserable here, and wanting to help them, and you having told her you could do nothing. all she wanted was to do something or another for the women—i forget what—but i know it did not
[184]
seem to me likely to damage her figure or complexion. oh, i see, you don’t like it, but girls will amuse themselves, st. quentin, and slumming is quite the last thing, you know!”
a remembrance of the girl’s earnest face as they talked on christmas day came over her cousin. how keen the child had been over the rebuilding of those cottages, which were a disgrace to him, he knew, and not the only blot by a long way on the great st. quentin estates. so that was why she wished to change her watch. why on earth couldn’t he have seen, and given her the money, instead of leaving her to sacrifice her own little treasures for the benefit of his tenants! having failed to persuade him to do his duty by them, she was trying, with the little means she had, to do it for him. he crushed that unfinished letter to his agent impatiently between his fingers. the order he had been about to give him became if possible more distasteful than it had been before. how could he cut off all chance of doing something for his wretched tenants! and yet—and yet—what else was left for him to do but write?
“well, st. quentin, if you don’t want me any more i’ll go back to my novel,” lady frederica said with another yawn. “you’re
[185]
most depressing company, my dear boy; almost as depressing as the weather!”
“thanks awfully for coming,” he said absently. she turned to leave him; as she did so her eye fell upon the crumpled paper on the floor.
“st. quentin,” she cried sharply, “you’re not telling mr. fane to cut down timber, are you? gracious, what would your poor dear father have said!”
“what i feel,” he said bitterly, “that it’s a very good thing my reign is near its end.... don’t stay if you’d rather not, aunt rica.”
she was by no means unwilling to leave him for the more cheerful company of a novel in her own private sitting-room, where the fire was bright and the chairs very comfortable. left once more to himself, he snatched up a pen, took a fresh sheet of paper, and began again, “dear fane”; then paused.
sydney’s words on christmas day kept rising up before him, instead of those which he meant to write.
“can you do nothing for the cottages?”
“nothing,” he said half aloud; “and yet—she thought me brave!”
his letter had progressed no further when
[186]
dickson came in an hour later, as the short winter’s afternoon drew towards its close. with an exclamation at the cold, the man wheeled his master’s couch to the fire, which he stirred noiselessly into a blaze, brought him some tea, and lit his reading-lamp.
“miss lisle in yet?” asked st. quentin.
“i will enquire, my lord.” this was dickson’s almost invariable answer.
“miss lisle has not yet returned, my lord,” he informed st. quentin after a voyage in search of her.
“ask her to come to me when she does.”
“yes, my lord.” dickson closed the door softly, and st. quentin was left alone. he made no attempt to go on with his letter, but stared idly in the fire, listening intently. in about ten minutes the door opened and sir algernon strolled in.
“you!” said st. quentin, in a tone which was not expressive of the keenest pleasure.
“yes, i, old man. i want to talk to you. by the way, have you sent that note to fane about the timber?”
“no.”
“you haven’t?”
“no; the truth is, bridge, i’m getting rather sick of this blackmailing business.”
[187]
“you are?” sir algernon surveyed the weary, impatient face in silence for a minute. “i wonder if you’d like to try another tack,” he suggested softly. “i’ve had a good deal of cash out of you one way and another, and now you’re—er—er——”
“dying,” his host supplied the word.
“well, going to send in your checks some time pretty soon, i suppose?” sir algernon amended. “look here, i know the estate’s heavily encumbered and all that, but i’m not a mercenary man, and the girl’s pretty——”
“of whom are you speaking?”
“why, sydney.”
“kindly leave her name alone: we’re not talking of her.”
“aren’t we? you’re a bit out, old chap. what i have to say does concern her, as it happens. what do you say to this, quin? i’ll give my word not to squeeze you further, and, what’s more, i’ll burn a certain letter that we know of here—before your eyes—if you’ll swear to make a match between that little girl and me. you won’t have opposition to contend with, i imagine. she’s too much of a child to have any violent fancies elsewhere, especially since you and lady frederica between you choked off the chemist’s
[188]
assistant. i’d have made running with a bit myself this last fortnight, only she’s always about in cottages and accompanied by the governess. the combination is a little too much for me to swallow, specially when the cottages are yours, my dear chap. so i’ll leave you to do the courting for me, since she evidently looks on you in loco parentis. eh, if she knew a little more about you she wouldn’t be so keen to pin her faith upon you, would she?”
“have you any more to say?” enquired st. quentin.
“no—i think that’s about all. you won’t be altogether sorry to save your timber, eh, quin?”
“not on your terms, thank you, bridge.”
“eh, what? oh! you don’t believe i have the letter; there it is.”
he pulled out two or three envelopes from a pocket-book. “that’s it,” he said, “inside that thumbed grey envelope; the other is the letter that you wrote me before settling to pay up—talking a lot of high faluting about expecting me to believe your innocence for the sake of auld lang syne, etc., as if i should be such a fool!”
“destroy that letter, anyhow,” st. quentin
[189]
said, his thin hands clenching. “it’s a bit of a mockery to keep it now. i still believed in you more or less when i wrote it, you see.”
sir algernon laughed easily. “you were always a bit of a fool, quin, from eton days onwards. as you say, i may as well get rid of this precious production of yours. there’s not much sentiment left nowadays about our intercourse with one another, is there? and i’ve nearly muddled it with the jockey’s before now. here goes!—stop, let me just make sure i’ve got the right one; yes, that’s it, the cream-coloured envelope with ‘re quin’ on the back. aren’t i a model man of business, eh? there goes your letter to me into the flames, old chap, and yours to duncombe back into my pocket-book until you choose to have it follow suit!”
“i don’t choose.”
“what?”
“i reject most absolutely your proposal, thank you. i’ve been a fool and worse, but i’m not quite the cad that comes to. i’d sooner see her marry that young chichester!”
sir algernon’s face wore no very amiable expression. “is that your final answer?” he said.
[190]
“it is.”
“you don’t mean to help me marry sydney?”
“no, and what’s more, i don’t intend to have you in the castle any longer. you’re not fit to associate with a girl like that. the chichesters have brought her up the right way, anyhow, and i don’t intend to have you with her any longer. you must go—and—how much do you ask for destroying duncombe’s letter, for good and all? i won’t have the child blackmailed when i’m gone. you must destroy the letter in my sight this time. how much payment do you want to do what any decent chap would have done long ago?”
an ugly look was on the handsome face before him. “you’ll have to pay this time, my boy,” sir algernon said slowly; “well, rather heavily.”
“how much?”
sir algernon, without moving from his lounging posture in the arm-chair, named a sum which made st. quentin start with indignation.
“you are well aware i can’t pay that, or half it!” he cried.
“well, don’t, then! i daresay miss lisle will be a little less stingy, when she comes of
[191]
age, and i enquire if she would like the letter published.”
st. quentin’s hands clenched over one another.
“don’t be such a fool, old chap,” his companion said, rising and coming close to him. “i don’t really want to be hard upon you. give me your word you’ll manage the match, and i’ll destroy the letter on the spot, and, what’s more, turn over a new leaf as well. you needn’t be afraid she won’t be happy—i’ll reform when i marry that little girl.”
“have done with sydney, please. i’d sooner see her dead than married to you!”
“pay up, then,” sneered sir algernon.
“can you do nothing for the cottages?”
“we’ve never let the timber go, my boy.”
“can you do nothing for the cottages?”
without answering sir algernon, st. quentin seized pen and paper, and began again—
“dear fane—
“cut the timber from....”
the knock at the door was unheard by both, and neither noticed sydney’s entrance.
she had changed her wet clothes, but her hair hung straight and damp about her face. the face itself was bright with exercise, and
[192]
looked a strange contrast to the faces of the two men in the lamp-lit library.
“you sent for me?” she said, going straight up to her cousin.
“yes, dear, but it doesn’t matter now,” he said. “go back to miss osric.”
she looked at him. “you are very tired, st. quentin! let me write that letter for you.”
she laid her hand upon the desk. “you ought not to be bothered with letters when you are so tired, and,” with a reproachful glance at sir algernon, “i am sure that you ought not to talk business any longer.”
“it’s not the talking which has tired him, miss lisle,” said sir algernon; “it’s the thought of something rather disagreeable he must do, unless you care to save him from it!”
“hold your tongue, bridge!” said st. quentin, but sydney had already made a quick step towards sir algernon.
“will you tell me, please, what i can do to save my cousin’s trouble?” she said simply. “i would do anything i could for him.”
[193]
“‘i do not believe one word you say against my cousin!’”
(page 195)
[194]
“sydney!” cried st. quentin hoarsely, but sir algernon had sprung forward and caught
[195]
the girl’s hands in his. “sydney! would you? shall i tell you?”
her cousin’s voice behind her made her start; it was so full of concentrated fury. “let her go, you scoundrel! sydney, leave the room, dear; that man isn’t fit to speak to you!”
she pulled her hands away, and stood between the two, trembling from head to foot. sir algernon lost in his anger the last vestige of his self-control.
“if i’m unfit to speak to her, what are you, st. quentin?” he snarled. “a cheat—a liar—a trickster—a——”
“how dare you!” sydney cried, flinging herself on her knees beside her cousin’s couch as though to protect him. “leave the room, please!”
“you wouldn’t cling about him if you knew what i know. what everybody else shall shortly know!” sir algernon said between his teeth. “he is——”
sydney had left childhood behind her as she faced him with clear, scornful eyes that met his fearlessly.
“you need not trouble to say any more,” she said, “for i do not believe one word that you say against my cousin st. quentin!”
[196]
in the stillness that followed a footman knocked and came in with a something on a salver. “a telegram for sir algernon, my lord,” he said.
sir algernon tore it open and read it, changing colour as he did so, then crumpled it and tossed it into the very heart of the blazing fire. “i have to write an answer for the post,” he said. “au revoir, quin; we’ll finish our talk when reluctantly deprived of miss lisle’s society. miss lisle, if you still doubt what i said about st. quentin, ask him what i meant. he knows.”
he went out hurriedly.
