ST. QUENTIN’S STORY
St. Quentin looked at Sydney’s earnest face in silence for a moment, then
spoke abruptly:
“Sit down. I’ve a good mind to tell you a story which will make you
understand—well, a good many things—among others what a contemptible cad
I really am. It isn’t a particularly pretty story, but you may as well
know all about it.”
“I don’t believe _one word_ Sir Algernon said about you,” she answered,
flushing. “Don’t tell me anything, St. Quentin. I don’t want to hear!”
“A part of what he said was true, none the less,” he answered steadily.
“Listen. You know Bridge is five or six years my senior, and he
patronised me when I was a little chap in turn-down collars at Eton. Of
course he left years before I did; but when I went into the Guards he was
a captain in my regiment, and the old intimacy grew up again. I was a
young fool and flattered by the friendship, as I thought it, of a man who
had seen the world. Well, luckily you’ve had no chance of knowing what
fools youngsters in the Guards _can_ make of themselves!
“My father paid my debts again and again, until he grew sick of it, and
said I must resign my commission: he couldn’t stand any more.
“I was sobered by that, for my father and mother were awfully cut up
about it, and I knew they had treated me far better than ever I deserved.
I _did_ try to pull up then, and pretty soon—no, don’t stir the fire,
I like the dark—I got to know a girl ... it doesn’t matter who, except
that she was a great deal too good for me.... She was interested in the
cottages, like you are, Sydney. You remind me of her now and then, and
she was just eighteen when first I knew her, nine years ago.
“Well, my extravagance had crippled my father, and he couldn’t do half he
wanted for his cottages. She minded that a good deal, I remember. I felt
quite certain that if she would only be engaged to me, I should find it
impossible to be reckless or extravagant again; but her father wouldn’t
hear of an engagement then, and even _she_ said I must give proof of
being trustworthy.
“It was at this time, when I was half maddened by the constant
restrictions laid upon our intercourse, that I chanced on Bridge again.
We had never quite dropped each other; and when he left the Guards and
went into a regiment of Dragoons which was quartered at Donisbro’ he
came and looked me up at St. Quentin. We saw a lot of each other, and I
introduced him at the——to the girl’s father, and he went to the house
a good deal. She never liked him much, though, I fancy.... I was sick
to death of home and a quiet life and trying to take an interest in the
estate and tenants, as my father wished, and was ready enough to join
in the diversions of the officers. There wasn’t much harm in that—they
were mostly a good set, but it was a rich regiment, and I found the money
going faster than I liked.
“I had always been noted in the Guards for my horses—so was Bridge. I
know we got talking horses one day, and bets passed about the respective
mettle of my favourite, Bridge’s, and another chap’s—young Gibbs, who
also fancied himself as a judge of horse-flesh. Somehow a race was
arranged, and we got our jockeys and each put a horse in training.
“I was mad, I think, for I took enormous bets on my MacIvor beating the
other two hollow. I somehow felt that I _must_ win, and then you see
I could have recouped myself for my losses at cards, and started fair
again; at least I thought I could—that sort of fair start isn’t worth
much, really. The only kind of fair start that is any good is to set your
face against temptation: that’s the kind _she_ wanted.
“My people were at Nice just then. My mother had been ill. If they had
been at home I could hardly have gone so far. But I was pretty desperate,
and everybody knew it. That made things look all the blacker for me later
on.... Two days before the race I got thrown, and broke my right arm.
I was cut about the head too, and Lorry kept me in bed, though I was
wild to be up and doing. Then, as I couldn’t go to the race, I did the
idiotic act which ruined me, though I didn’t really get much worse than
I deserved. I wrote to my jockey Duncombe, urging him to win the race at
all costs, and promising him a heavy sum extra to his pay if he did.
“I remember one of the expressions that I used was ‘pull the show
through somehow—anyhow!’
“It was a feverish, excited kind of scrawl, and, after I’d sent it, I got
worse and didn’t know much about anything for the next week. Then Bridge
came to see me, and what do you think he said?
“The bets had been far heaviest on us two, Gibbs wasn’t in it ... but it
was he who pulled the race off, after all. Bridge’s horse had been hurt,
and fell at the first fence; and then my jockey seemed to lose his head
altogether, all the lookers-on said. Do you know why? No, you wouldn’t;
but they did. Bridge was ready to kill his man, Grey, for not watching
the horse carefully enough, and he split on my jockey Duncombe, whom he
had seen lurking round the stable the night before the race. Duncombe, to
save himself, told Bridge he had injured Bridge’s horse by _my_ orders,
and showed up the letter I had written him, as proof. Everything was
against me, from the expressions I had used in it to the fact that it was
written in what looked like a disguised hand and was unsigned. (Lorry
came as I was finishing it, and I knew he would stop my writing, and
threw it into an envelope without waiting to put any more.)
“Bridge didn’t make the letter public. He just bought it off the jockey
and came to me. He absolutely refused to believe what I told him of my
innocence, but offered to suppress the letter if I would pay him an
appalling sum in hush-money. I told him to go to Jericho at first, but
when I got up again, I realised how fishy it all looked for me, and how,
if that letter were published, it would be taken as absolute proof of my
guilt. I felt—I told you that I was and am a coward—that it would break
my father’s heart, and I couldn’t bear—_her_—to think that I had done
the thing. I went to the Jews, raised the sum upon a post-obit, and paid
Bridge his hush-money. He told his brother-officers he was satisfied
I had no hand in the laming of the horse, but he didn’t destroy the
letter. He has it now, and at intervals blackmails me with a threat of
publication if I won’t pay him for his silence. I have done so hitherto.
“That’s about all, Sydney. You see now why Bridge is here, and why I
can’t do my duty by my tenants. That motor-smash was about the best
thing that could happen to me, I suppose, and if I weren’t so abominably
strong, I should have left a better Lisle than I am in possession some
time ago.... If it weren’t for the old name that has been handed down
pretty clean from father to son all along the line, I’d have let Bridge
publish the letter long ago,” he added bitterly. “_She_ wrote to me just
after I had been fool enough to pay Bridge his hush-money. She must have
heard the rumours against me and believed in them. She wrote, giving no
reason, but saying all must be over between us. That was all—I think it
was enough!”
A light dawned on Sydney, as she thought about another story she had
heard not so very long ago. She knelt down beside him, and laid her hands
on his.
“I know I’m not much good,” she said, “but, Cousin St. Quentin, I _do_
care for you, in spite of this. _Why_ didn’t you go and tell the girl all
about it—just everything, as you have told me? Mother says if you love
people really you must go on loving even if they do wrong, because the
real love that is put into us is a bit of God. That girl would have gone
on loving you—I know she would.”
“I wish to goodness I had let Bridge do his worst!” said St. Quentin. “I
wish I’d had the pluck to do the right thing then, instead of wasting the
money that was given me to use, not chuck away. Now you know why I’m
telling Fane to ruin the estate my ancestors took pride in by cutting
down the timber at the bidding of that man! Because I was too great a
coward to do the right thing first—when I could.”
Sydney looked her cousin in the face.
“Please forgive me if I am very impertinent, St. Quentin,” she said
earnestly. “You say you wish that you had done the right thing then.” She
hesitated for an instant, and then spoke the last words firmly: “You wish
that you had done it then—why don’t you do it now?”