“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 contemptible3 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 steadily4. “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 regiment5,
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and the old intimacy6 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 awfully7 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 extravagant8
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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 restrictions9 laid upon our intercourse10, 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 tenants11, 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 noted12 in the Guards for my horses—so was Bridge. I know we got talking horses one day, and bets passed about the respective mettle13 of my favourite, Bridge’s, and another chap’s—young Gibbs, who also fancied himself as a judge of horse-flesh.
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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 idiotic14 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 promising15 him a heavy sum extra to his pay if he did.
“I remember one of the expressions that I
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used was ‘pull the show through somehow—anyhow!’
“It was a feverish16, excited kind of scrawl17, 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 lurking18 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.)
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“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 innocence19, but offered to suppress the letter if I would pay him an appalling20 sum in hush-money. I told him to go to Jericho at first, but when I got up again, I realised how fishy21 it all looked for me, and how, if that letter were published, it would be taken as absolute proof of my guilt22. 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 laming23 of the horse, but he didn’t destroy the letter. He has it now, and at intervals24 blackmails25 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 abominably26 strong, I should have left a better Lisle than I am in possession some time ago.... If it
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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 rumours27 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
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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?”
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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2
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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3
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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4
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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5
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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6
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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7
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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8
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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9
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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10
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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11
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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12
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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13
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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14
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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15
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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16
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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17
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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18
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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19
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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20
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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21
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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22
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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23
laming
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| 瘸的( lame的现在分词 )； 站不住脚的； 差劲的； 蹩脚的 | |
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24
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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25
blackmails
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的第三人称单数 ) | |
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26
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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27
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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