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
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 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?”
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“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
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 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
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 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
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 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.”
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“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 ............