THE CHAIN BROKEN
For a full minute there was silence in the big room. Then St. Quentin
looked up.
“It’s rather late in the day,” he said, “but possibly better late than
never. Sydney, will you write a letter for me?”
She thought of another letter she had written for him more than two
months ago, but there was a considerable difference in the subject matter
of that letter and to-day’s.
“DEAR FANE,”—he dictated—“we must have five hundred pounds’ worth of
timber down as soon as possible, as I want fresh cottages to replace
those in Water Lane and Foxholes. Have workmen over immediately. This
rebuilding is by the wish of my heir, Miss Lisle.”
“Now bring it me to sign,” her cousin said.
She brought it, and, as she gave him his pen, she did what she had never
done before, she stooped and kissed his forehead.
“I didn’t like to tell you before,” she cried, “because you said you
could do nothing for the cottages, but Mrs. Sawyer is ill, and when
I went to see her this afternoon she said she never would be better
while she lived in that cottage. Will she have one of the new ones, St.
Quentin?”
“Yes, and I’ll mark hers for pulling down. We’ll do this business
thoroughly while we’re about it, beginning with Lislehurst, but going on
to the rest.”
He wrote his signature large and clearly. As he did so, Sir Algernon came
back into the room. He glanced at the letter.
“So you’ve done it. I say, my dear fellow, philanthropy is all very well,
but you can’t afford it at present.”
“Since when did I give you leave to read my private letters?” asked St.
Quentin drily. As he spoke he placed the letter in an envelope, directed
it, and put it into Sydney’s hand.
“One of the men is to take it over to Fane’s place at once,” he said.
Sir Algernon stood between the girl and the door. “You’re mad, Quin!
You’ll have enough to do to raise my screw, without attempting any more.”
“Let Miss Lisle pass,” said St. Quentin quietly. “On the proverbial
second thoughts, which we all know to be not only better, but best, I
have changed my mind. Publish Duncombe’s letter if you choose! I’ll not
pay a farthing more to stop you, nor will Miss Lisle when she comes of
age. That’s all. Sydney,”—the girl was at the door—“tell somebody to
let Bridge’s man know that he finds he has to catch the 8.15 to town
to-night.”
The girl went out, the precious note in her hand and a tumult of joy in
her heart.
That horrible Sir Algernon was leaving, and St. Quentin, of his own
freewill, was going to rebuild his neglected cottages. She felt she could
have danced, despite the dignity of her eighteen years.
In the entrance hall she met the old doctor, struggling out of his wet
mackintosh and goloshes. “_What_ a night!” he exclaimed. “But this
disgusting weather seems to suit you, my dear Miss Lisle. You are looking
blooming, if you will allow an old man to say so. How is your cousin,
eh? Moped a bit this dreary day, no doubt? Meant to look in upon him
earlier to see if he fancied a chat, but I was kept in the village. And
that reminds me, my dear young lady, I shouldn’t go to Loam for a day or
two, if I were you; they’ve got something about there that I don’t quite
like the look of. I’ve been warning the Vicar; that boy of his follows
him about like a dog to all the cottages. Not that this kind of low fever
is infectious, but you may take my word for it that where there’s fever
there’s a reason for it. So don’t you go to Loam till I give you leave.
Not that I’m anxious, you know, not at all.”
Sydney thought the old doctor was rather more anxious than he cared to
own. His face was considerably graver than usual as he walked across the
hall to the door of the library.
As he reached it, Sydney, who had followed him, caught his hand with a
cry of terror. “Oh, go in quickly!” she cried.
Sir Algernon had been almost stunned by astonishment for the first few
minutes after Sydney had left the room with the letter which practically
spelt defeat to him. There was a changed, drawn look about his face, when
at length he recovered himself sufficiently to speak.
“You don’t mean what you said just now?” he demanded hoarsely.
“I do. Will you dine before you leave, Bridge?”
“Oh, confound you!”
“Don’t make a scene, it is quite unnecessary.”
Sir Algernon laughed rather wildly, and played his last card.
“You won’t be able to take that high line much longer, my good fellow!”
he snarled, fumbling in his pocket-book. “I’ll just refresh your memory
on the subject of the expressions used by you in that precious letter
before it—goes to press!”
St. Quentin’s tone was calm enough. “Do.”
Sir Algernon drew out the dirty envelope on which “Re Duncombe” was
scrawled in his own hand, and pulled from it a letter in the cramped
left-hand writing.
“Here we are. Some of these expressions will look rather fine in print, I
fancy; the Society papers will have a treat. Why——”
A violent exclamation burst from him, as he stared wildly, first at the
letter in his hand, then at the envelope, and back at the letter again.
“What is it?” asked St. Quentin.
Sir Algernon came quickly towards him. “You made me do it!” he hissed.
“You made me burn your note to Duncombe. Your letter to me and to
Duncombe were in each other’s envelopes, and you made me burn the wrong
one!” His voice, loud, harsh, and grating in his fury, rang out into the
hall, despite the heavy curtain over the door of the library. “You made
me do it, and I’ll——”
“Don’t touch me,” said St. Quentin, vaguely aware as he spoke that all
might well be over before Dickson had the time to answer his ring. “It
wouldn’t take a great deal to finish me, you see, and Lorry would require
an explanation.”
“He does!” the old doctor cried, hurrying into the room with Sydney at
his heels. “May I ask what you’re doing, Sir Algernon? Get a little
farther off from my patient, if you please.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said St. Quentin, “Bridge and I were only
discussing my new scheme for rebuilding the cottages. But, interesting as
I find his views, I am afraid we shall have to close the discussion, as
he has a train to catch. Good-bye, Bridge.”
Sir Algernon turned fiercely upon him.
“You think you’ve won the game and can keep your secret in your hands.
You can’t! Miss Morrell read the letter. I showed it to her, and she read
it and asked what it meant. I told her and she believed in me—not you!
not you!”
“She did _not_!” said Sydney, “for she told me all about it. She believed
in it just at first, because she did not know how wicked you could be,
Sir Algernon. But by-and-by, when she grew older, she knew that St.
Quentin could not possibly have done what you accused him of. She didn’t
understand about the letter to the jockey; but she just knew that St.
Quentin could not possibly be mean or dishonourable. And she knows you
are both!”
“Hear, hear!” said Dr. Lorry, in a very audible aside, and Sir Algernon,
muttering some indistinguishable remark about his train, went out.
“Lord St. Quentin, your heir is a trump!” the old doctor said
enthusiastically, and St. Quentin, as he bade good-night to Sydney,
agreed.