WHAT HUGH TOLD
“Mr. Chichester to see you, my lord.”
St. Quentin and Sydney looked up; the latter with a quick flush, which
made her prettier than ever, her cousin thought.
She was reading the paper to him, with a praiseworthy effort, hitherto
not crowned with much success, to feel a keen interest in the “Imperial
Parliament.”
“Oh—Hugh,” St. Quentin said, with a glance at Sydney. “I suppose he has
run down to see Lorry. Ask him to come in, John.”
Hugh was looking rather excited, and his voice could not repress a
certain eagerness, as he took the hand the marquess held out. St. Quentin
could not help liking the look of the clean-cut, honest young face, with
straightforwardness and self-control in every line of it.
“It’s a frightful pity he hasn’t ten thousand a year,” the marquess
thought to himself, watching the way Sydney’s eyes shone as she greeted
the young man. “If he had anything respectable in the way of an income,
he should have the child, upon my word he should! But a young doctor with
no special prospects!” and he shook his head.
“You wanted me, eh? Hope you left the Doctor and Mrs. Chichester quite
well? Sydney, hadn’t you better get your ride while the sun’s out? It’s
a first-class morning, and you’ll see Mr. Chichester at lunch, you know,
and get all your town news then.”
Hugh’s eyes followed the graceful figure from the room. He had not seen
her before in long dresses and with the hair coiled round the shapely
head. Though the presentation had not taken place, partly owing to the
illness, and later to Sydney’s obstinate refusal to leave the cousin to
whom she was becoming daily more necessary, even Lady Frederica had seen
the impossibility of keeping the child-Sydney any longer.
They had grown used to the change at the Castle, but Hugh saw her for the
first time with the unspeakable charm of sweet young womanhood upon her.
St. Quentin noted the direction of his eyes and spoke.
“I’m sorry for you, Hugh; indeed I am. If things were different——”
“Oh, I know!” poor Hugh burst out. “You needn’t be afraid, Lord St.
Quentin. I know I’ve got to keep out of her way all I can. You needn’t
be afraid of my forgetting that I never can be anything but her brother
Hugh—some one to stand by her if she should need any one to do it, but
never to presume on that!”
He walked to the window, and stood staring out at the fresh green of the
Park and the spring glory of the garden, all ablaze with crocuses, in
lilac, white, and gold.
“Well,” St. Quentin said, “I think the child would have been a good deal
happier if circumstances hadn’t put her into this position. But they
have, and she will make a first-rate Lady St. Quentin one of these days,
I imagine, though there’s no doubt she’ll spoil the tenants shamefully,
you Chichesters having taught her to think of everyone except herself.
You are an unselfish family, and you’ve taught her to be the same. I
wish—I wish—you wanted something I _could_ give you.”
“I don’t want anything except to see Sydney happy,” poor Hugh said,
and then he came and sat down by his host. “I’m forgetting what I came
about,” he said. “Will you forgive me for touching on a subject which
must be rather painful to you?”
“The new cottages are all right, surely?” cried St. Quentin.
“Oh, yes, they are certain to be all right,” Hugh said; “it isn’t that.
There was a man brought into the Blue-friars the other day, frightfully
hurt internally, and we thought it was all up with him, or would be soon,
at least. Well, after a bit I was with him alone, and saw he was in great
distress of mind, to add to his other troubles. I got presently at what
was wrong. He gathered that we thought him in a very bad way, and had it
on his mind that he had once wronged a man frightfully. I got the poor
chap to make his confession to me, and took it down, and he signed it.
His name is Duncombe.”
The colour rushed into St. Quentin’s pale face.
“Go on!” he said, in a voice of strained calm.
“His confession was this. He was riding your horse, MacIvor, in a race
against a certain Sir Algernon Bridge and another man—I forget his
name—it didn’t signify. Duncombe was in trouble of some kind and wanted
money over and above the pay you promised him for riding. A letter from
you, written just before the race, promised him an extra fifty if he
won it. He went and injured in some way Sir Algernon’s horse, Doll, the
night before, but being in a funk he overdid the business, and the horse
bowled over sooner than he meant it to. There were enquiries, and Sir
Algernon’s jockey accused Duncombe. In his fright he declared—forgive me,
please—that he acted by your orders, producing the letter you had written
him to prove his words. He was awfully ashamed of that part of the
business, for of course he knew all along you only meant fair play. But
he said he had an old mother who depended on him, and it wouldn’t mean
prison for a gentleman. I don’t believe he understood it meant something
infinitely worse. Sir Algernon Bridge took the letter from him and bribed
him to say nothing more about it. He was only too glad to hold his tongue
at first, for Sir Algernon assured him that he was your friend, and
intended to suppress the letter for your sake, but later on he seems to
have had qualms at having acted unfairly by you. He said he never meant
to do you a wrong, for you had been extremely kind to him. He seems
to have guessed later that Sir Algernon meant no good to you; for his
old mother lives at Loam, and comes to Sydney’s work-parties. They kept
him up to some knowledge of your doings.... He asked me to give you his
confession, and begged that you would make what use of it you liked, and
not consider him.”
St. Quentin took the paper from Hugh’s hand and read it slowly. What
would he not have given for it long ago? Now he was dying, and nothing
seemed to matter very much.
“May I tell the poor chap you forgive him?” Hugh said.
“Is he still alive?” asked St. Quentin in surprise.
“Yes, and will live, I think. It’s a most extraordinary case; quite
unique in the annals of the hospital, and we are awfully proud of the
operation which has saved him. His injury had till now been considered
hopeless, but Sir Anthony is a genius, and he’s pulled him through, we
hope. I am going down the village to tell Lorry of the case, if you don’t
want me any longer. He is so interested in all fresh developments of
science.”
He rose.
“Thank you very much,” St. Quentin said. “Come back to luncheon, and tell
that poor fellow, when you see him next, that it’s—all right.”
Hugh went through the Park and down the village, where cottages of a
greatly improved kind were rising rapidly in place of the old ones. The
thinning trees of the Park told at what cost this long-neglected duty was
performed.
He soon reached the charming, roomy redbrick Queen Anne house where Dr.
Lorry lived, and was receiving the heartiest of welcomes from his old
friend in the quaint, dark, comfortable dining-room.
“My dear boy, this is capital!—capital, I say! I am quite delighted. You
must put in a few days with me now you’re here, for all your patients
will be clamouring to see you. I get nothing but enquiries after ‘Dr.
Hugh.’ You’ve quite taken the wind out of my sails here, I can tell you,
and that little rascal Pauly—‘I want Dr. Hugh,’ he cries, whenever I go
up to physic him!”
“I see you are still a famous story-teller, sir,” Hugh said, laughing.
“Ah! in my anecdotage,” chuckled the old doctor. “A friend I hadn’t seen
for thirty years came home the other day from Africa, and looked me up.
‘Why, you hardly look a day older, Lorry!’ he said, ‘and I quite expected
to find you in your dotage!’”
“‘The stage before it—_anecdotage_, Tom!’” I said. “I thought he would
have died!”
“A good many stages still before it, _I_ take leave to think!” Hugh said.
“No, no. I’m getting old, my boy, and thinking of retiring,” said the
doctor. “Little Pauly isn’t far wrong when he cries out for a younger
man!”
“I hope the little chap is all right again?” asked Hugh.
“I should just about think so, and more rampagious than ever. Father
can’t let him out of his sight, you know, but I don’t think he altogether
spoils him. Miss Lisle and Miss Osric do that. By the way, though it’s
not announced yet, I think we may feel pretty sure the Vicar won’t let
Miss Osric leave Lislehurst when Miss Lisle dispenses with a governess.”
“Is that so?” Hugh said, looking pleased. “I’m very glad. Sydney thinks
no end of Miss Osric, I know, and the Vicar is a downright brick. And
Pauly wants a mother.”
“Yes, he won’t get so many chances of tumbling off church towers or
catching fevers then,” the doctor said. “It will be a fine thing for the
little monkey in every way. And I agree with you about Miss Osric: she’s
a very nice girl, a very nice girl indeed. But Master Pauly has to do
the courting for his father now, for the Vicar and Lord St. Quentin have
struck up quite a friendship; that’s a new departure, isn’t it? It’s very
good for St. Quentin! Well, and what news have you brought me down from
town, my dear boy? Anything fresh on the placards this morning?”
“Only a big jewel robbery,” Hugh said, laughing. “I really came to see
Lord St. Quentin on a bit of business concerning him that I chanced to
come across. And, while I was here, I thought I would give myself the
pleasure of looking you up, and telling you of our last triumph at the
Blue-friars. A really remarkable case: I’m sure you will be interested.”
Hugh was right in his conviction, but even he had not expected such a
violent interest as his old friend displayed.
Dr. Lorry leaned forward, putting quick, sharp questions as to the exact
nature of the injury which had been operated on so successfully, and
finally, as Hugh concluded, seized the young man’s hand and nearly wrung
it off his wrist.
“Thank God! thank God!” he cried. “It has saved one man; it can save
another!”
“What do you mean?” Hugh cried. The old man’s intense excitement was
infectious.
Dr. Lorry stood up, trembling with eagerness. “Lord St. Quentin’s injury
is _the same as that which you have been describing_,” he said. “If your
Sir Anthony has saved this Duncombe, we must have him down to save St.
Quentin!”