“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
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 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.
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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
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 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
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 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............