Chapter Eighteen.How the Bees Swarmed.“Ah, Hilt, old chap, there you are! Lady T. says you must come at once, and—Hang it, man, don’t do that!”Sir Hilton turned on hearing the familiar voice and stared at the speaker, who snatched the bottle from his hand.“What are you doing?” he said sharply, as the doctor held the bottle up to the light.“What am I doing?” cried Granton, in a rage. “Hang it, man, you’ve never been such a fool as to drink all this?”“Yes; horrid stuff—dry—horribly dry.”He smacked his lips two or three times over and shook his head, repeating the action, and then turned to walk right across the hall towards the door.“C’rect cards, gents; all the runners—on’y a shilling!” come from Dandy Dinny, who appeared in the porch, staring in with curious eyes.“Get out—curse you!” cried Sir Hilton, making a couple of sharp lashes with his whip in the man’s direction. “Take the miserable mongrel away. Dogs indeed! Dog! Man don’t want dogs who’s going to ride a big race.”“No, nor bad cham neither,” cried Granton, furiously, catching his old friend by the arm. “Why, Hilt, you must have been mad.”“Eh? Mad? Yes, she makes me very mad sometimes.”“Bah! Mad to go on the drink at a time like this. Here, pull yourself together, man.”“Drink?” said Sir Hilton, sharply, his voice perfectly clear and distinct. “Yes, cursed stuff! Gooseberry wine, I believe. Vintage of France? Pish! Pretty France! Old gooseberry! Don’t order any more, Jack. Dry champagne; dry enough to mix with paint. Have S. and B.”“Here, I’m not going to bully you now. Shake yourself up. You must be coming on now.”“Eh? What for? Coming on?”“Yes!” cried Granton, in a passion. “Hang it, man, you’re regularly fuddled!”“Fuddled? I? Absurd! Only a glass or two. Look at me. Fuddled! You’re a fool, Jack! Oh, yes, I remember—the race.”“Then come on,” cried Granton. “You look all right.”“Oh, yes, I’m all right. Did you think I was tight?”“Well, something of the kind. Come along.”“Don’t hang on to a man like that,” said Sir Hilton, shaking himself free with an angry jerk. “Want to spoil my satin? Hi! Ha! Sh!”He made a rush, and two or three cuts in the air with his whip, which the trainer, who was standing back in the office watching, took to mean given at him, and slipped behind the door.Granton did not see him, his attention being taken up by the insane action of his friend, whom he once more caught by the arm.“What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Are you going daft?”“Eh? What?” cried Sir Hilton, looking at him angrily. “Nonsense! Can’t you see the little beasts?”“D.T., by jingo!” muttered the doctor. “Why, he must have been on the drink for a week! I must get him there somehow. Here, Hilt, old man, its saddling up and weighing time. Come on. La Sylphide looks lovely, and Lady T. all anxiety about you. Rouse up, old chap.”“All right. Wait till I’ve killed a few of these little beasts.”To the horror and astonishment of his friend, Sir Hilton made another dash and rush, darting here and there all over the hall, cutting and swishing about with his heavy riding-whip as if it were a sabre, and he a mounted cavalry man, putting the well-learnt pursuing practice well into effect upon the enemy he seemed to see.“What the deuce shall I do?” muttered the doctor, breathlessly, after playing the enemy in his efforts to escape a slash.“That cham, Jack,” cried Sir Hilton, catching his friend by the arm. “Sham, and no mistake. Not fizz at all, but that old brewing of honey—mead—metheglin—old Saxon swizzle. There they go again—the bees—swarming—all round and round my head. Yah! Look out—you’ll be stung.”“Oh, I’m all right,” said Granton, humouring him. “Be cool. Stand still a moment, and let them go.”“Thousands upon thousands of them,” cried Sir Hilton. “B-r-r-r-r-r! Look how they dart about in diamonds, zig-zags, rhomboids—buzz-z!”“Yes. How queer!” said Granton, taking the speaker’s arm again. “Let’s walk quietly out into the air. They won’t follow us out.”“I don’t know,” cried the unfortunate man, shaking himself free and holding his hand and whip as if to guard his head. “Buzz! B-r-r-r! How they are going it! Jack, old man, someone ought to get a hive. Rub it with beer and sugar. Take the swarm, you know. Swarm of bees, you know.”“Swarm of bees in May.”“Is worth a load of hay.”“Yes, old man; but we haven’t time now. Come along. La Sylphide’s waiting. Oh, if I could only get him mounted! He’d ride like the very deuce, thinking that the bees were after him.”“Let me be, you fool!” cried Sir Hilton, angrily. “Take care of yourself, you coward. You’ll be getting us both stung. Oh, I see; on the look-out for a job. Cure the patient’s stings. Ammonia, eh? I know. Country gentleman picks up a bit. Here, horrible!” he cried, with a frantic leap aside. “They’re settling on me. Swarms—millions—hanging in pockets like they do outside a hive. Buzz-uzz-zz! Here, Jack, old man, I daren’t move. Come and sweep ’em off. Steady—softly. Quiet does it. There she is—the queen. Take her gently. She won’t sting. That’s good; now pop her in the hive, and they’ll all follow her. Hah-h-h-h! That’s better. Awkward position for a man to have the bees settling upon him and getting into his hair.”“Very, old chap; but they’re all gone now.”“Not quite, Jack. Don’t you hear the mur-mur-mur-mur—?”“Oh, yes; quite plain.”“Pooh!” cried Sir Hilton, with a sudden change coming over him. “What a fool I am! I thought it was the bees, and all the time it’s only the murmur of the crowd on the racecourse.”“Why, so it is,” said the doctor. “I thought it was bees.”“No, the people; and I’ve got to ride in the big race.”“To be sure, so you have, old chap. Suppose we go and look at the mare.”Sir Hilton was quite quiet now, and looked at him seriously.“Oh, my poor darling!” groaned the doctor. “Whatever shall I do? If I got him a dose he wouldn’t be fit to ride. Coming, Hilt?” he said calmly.“Yes, directly, Jack. Let’s see. I must be quite cool and steady, and not fidget the mare. It’s a safe thing, and as soon as I’ve won this race I’ll be tempted no more, Jack, but settle down with the wife—bless her! She means well, Jack. This coup will make me independent, and balance matters. I shall take my position then, you see, and not feel so poverty-stricken—asking one’s wife for every sov.”“I see. Come along,” said the doctor. “If I could only get him out into the air. I daren’t give him more drink.”“Don’t hurry me,” said Sir Hilton, coolly rearranging his silk and pulling up his breeches. “I want you to understand, Jack. I’m doing this for independence, to save dear Lady T.—bless her! A good woman. Always been like a sister to me. Jolly little widow! And to make a pile for you, old man, so that you can marry her, have two children, and live happy ever after like a good boy.”“Yes, that’s it, Hilt, old man,” cried the doctor, desperately, for the clanging of a bell on the racecourse came faintly to his ear. “Come along, then, and win. Quick!”He caught his old friend by the arm to get him out at all hazards; but it was like touching a spring which set free a lid in the poor fellow’s brain.For, with a fierce cry—which brought the perspiration out in great drops over the trainer’s face where he listened and watched—Sir Hilton began rushing about the hall again, cutting and slashing furiously.“Here they are again,” he cried; “thousands—millions of them. B-r-r-r-r-r-r! Sets my head on fire. Keep off, you little imps. There, there, and there! Hah!” he cried at last, dropping breathlessly into a chair. “Br! I was too much for them,” he said, laughing weakly. “Rather queer, though, for them to choose a race day to swarm. But—I’ve got to win, and I mean to.”“Here, Hilt, old chap,” said Granton, who as a last resource had determined to try a hair of the dog which had bitten his friend, and he drained three-parts of a glass of the champagne into one of the glasses, and was offering it to his friend—“tip this drop off and come on.”The words acted like magic. Sir Hilton started up and dashed the wine aside.“What!” he cried. “Do you think I’m mad? Drink at a time like this? No, sir!”“No, dear; wait here,” cried Syd, outside. “I’ll join you again directly I’ve found him,” and Syd rushed in breathlessly.“Who’s that?” cried Sir Hilton.“Oh, there you are, uncle! Hooray! You look splendid. The winning colours. Hooray! I’ve got on that tenner.”“Here, Syd,” cried Sir Hilton, catching the boy by the arm and whispering mysteriously, “can you hear the bees?”“Hear the what?” cried the boy, staring.“The bees; they’re coming back—swarming. Buzz—buzz—buzz! Listen! There they go!”“Gammon, uncle. It’s the crowd on the course—swarming in thousands.”“Yes, that’s it, Syd. Take care, you’ll get stung, my boy! Ugh! You beast! Would you!” and whish, whish, whish went the whip, as an imaginary insect was beaten down to the floor and followed and stamped on by its slayer. “That has settled you.”“Why, doctor,” cried Syd, who had been staring at his uncle, open-mouthed, “don’t say he’s coxybobus!”“I wasn’t going to, my boy, but he’s horribly screwed.”“Screwed? He can’t ride. It must be D.T. Here, uncle,” cried the boy, seizing him and shaking him violently, “pull yourself together. You’ve got to ride.”“Yes, all right, my boy; and your aunt must never know. There, don’t tear my shirt. Hear them—the bees again? Do you recollect, my little man, ‘How doth the little busy bee,’ eh?”At that moment Molly, wondering at the buzz of conversation within, forgot her young husband’s orders to wait, and came into the hall, to stare wonderingly.“Oh, Syd, what is the matter with your uncle?”“Don’t bother. Got ’em. What’s to be done, doctor? Here, I know,” he said, staring the while at Sir Hilton, who had seized a chair, turned it, and sat down crosswise, to keep on lashing at imaginary bees. “Soda—”“Water,” cried the doctor.“I’ll fetch a bottle,” cried Syd.“Cold, to the head,” cried the doctor. “Pump. No; I’ll fetch a pail. No; I know, and I’ll risk it, for it’s our only chance.”As the pair rushed off, the one into the bar, the other through the porch, two of the maids appeared as audience in the gallery, two more in the bar entrance, and the trainer, perspiring profusely, remained in his private box—to wit, the office, watching for the outcome of Trimmer’s plan, while his gaily-dressed child approached the stricken man sympathetically.
“Ah, Hilt, old chap, there you are! Lady T. says you must come at once, and—Hang it, man, don’t do that!”
Sir Hilton turned on hearing the familiar voice and stared at the speaker, who snatched the bottle from his hand.
“What are you doing?” he said sharply, as the doctor held the bottle up to the light.
“What am I doing?” cried Granton, in a rage. “Hang it, man, you’ve never been such a fool as to drink all this?”
“Yes; horrid stuff—dry—horribly dry.”
He smacked his lips two or three times over and shook his head, repeating the action, and then turned to walk right across the hall towards the door.
“C’rect cards, gents; all the runners—on’y a shilling!” come from Dandy Dinny, who appeared in the porch, staring in with curious eyes.
“Get out—curse you!” cried Sir Hilton, making a couple of sharp lashes with his whip in the man’s direction. “Take the miserable mongrel away. Dogs indeed! Dog! Man don’t want dogs who’s going to ride a big race.”
“No, nor bad cham neither,” cried Granton, furiously, catching his old friend by the arm. “Why, Hilt, you must have been mad.”
“Eh? Mad? Yes, she makes me very mad sometimes.”
“Bah! Mad to go on the drink at a time like this. Here, pull yourself together, man.”
“Drink?” said Sir Hilton, sharply, his voice perfectly clear and distinct. “Yes, cursed stuff! Gooseberry wine, I believe. Vintage of France? Pish! Pretty France! Old gooseberry! Don’t order any more, Jack. Dry champagne; dry enough to mix with paint. Have S. and B.”
“Here, I’m not going to bully you now. Shake yourself up. You must be coming on now.”
“Eh? What for? Coming on?”
“Yes!” cried Granton, in a passion. “Hang it, man, you’re regularly fuddled!”
“Fuddled? I? Absurd! Only a glass or two. Look at me. Fuddled! You’re a fool, Jack! Oh, yes, I remember—the race.”
“Then come on,” cried Granton. “You look all right.”
“Oh, yes, I’m all right. Did you think I was tight?”
“Well, something of the kind. Come along.”
“Don’t hang on to a man like that,” said Sir Hilton, shaking himself free with an angry jerk. “Want to spoil my satin? Hi! Ha! Sh!”
He made a rush, and two or three cuts in the air with his whip, which the trainer, who was standing back in the office watching, took to mean given at him, and slipped behind the door.
Granton did not see him, his attention being taken up by the insane action of his friend, whom he once more caught by the arm.
“What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Are you going daft?”
“Eh? What?” cried Sir Hilton, looking at him angrily. “Nonsense! Can’t you see the little beasts?”
“D.T., by jingo!” muttered the doctor. “Why, he must have been on the drink for a week! I must get him there somehow. Here, Hilt, old man, its saddling up and weighing time. Come on. La Sylphide looks lovely, and Lady T. all anxiety about you. Rouse up, old chap.”
“All right. Wait till I’ve killed a few of these little beasts.”
To the horror and astonishment of his friend, Sir Hilton made another dash and rush, darting here and there all over the hall, cutting and swishing about with his heavy riding-whip as if it were a sabre, and he a mounted cavalry man, putting the well-learnt pursuing practice well into effect upon the enemy he seemed to see.
“What the deuce shall I do?” muttered the doctor, breathlessly, after playing the enemy in his efforts to escape a slash.
“That cham, Jack,” cried Sir Hilton, catching his friend by the arm. “Sham, and no mistake. Not fizz at all, but that old brewing of honey—mead—metheglin—old Saxon swizzle. There they go again—the bees—swarming—all round and round my head. Yah! Look out—you’ll be stung.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Granton, humouring him. “Be cool. Stand still a moment, and let them go.”
“Thousands upon thousands of them,” cried Sir Hilton. “B-r-r-r-r-r! Look how they dart about in diamonds, zig-zags, rhomboids—buzz-z!”
“Yes. How queer!” said Granton, taking the speaker’s arm again. “Let’s walk quietly out into the air. They won’t follow us out.”
“I don’t know,” cried the unfortunate man, shaking himself free and holding his hand and whip as if to guard his head. “Buzz! B-r-r-r! How they are going it! Jack, old man, someone ought to get a hive. Rub it with beer and sugar. Take the swarm, you know. Swarm of bees, you know.”
“Swarm of bees in May.”
“Is worth a load of hay.”
“Yes, old man; but we haven’t time now. Come along. La Sylphide’s waiting. Oh, if I could only get him mounted! He’d ride like the very deuce, thinking that the bees were after him.”
“Let me be, you fool!” cried Sir Hilton, angrily. “Take care of yourself, you coward. You’ll be getting us both stung. Oh, I see; on the look-out for a job. Cure the patient’s stings. Ammonia, eh? I know. Country gentleman picks up a bit. Here, horrible!” he cried, with a frantic leap aside. “They’re settling on me. Swarms—millions—hanging in pockets like they do outside a hive. Buzz-uzz-zz! Here, Jack, old man, I daren’t move. Come and sweep ’em off. Steady—softly. Quiet does it. There she is—the queen. Take her gently. She won’t sting. That’s good; now pop her in the hive, and they’ll all follow her. Hah-h-h-h! That’s better. Awkward position for a man to have the bees settling upon him and getting into his hair.”
“Very, old chap; but they’re all gone now.”
“Not quite, Jack. Don’t you hear the mur-mur-mur-mur—?”
“Oh, yes; quite plain.”
“Pooh!” cried Sir Hilton, with a sudden change coming over him. “What a fool I am! I thought it was the bees, and all the time it’s only the murmur of the crowd on the racecourse.”
“Why, so it is,” said the doctor. “I thought it was bees.”
“No, the people; and I’ve got to ride in the big race.”
“To be sure, so you have, old chap. Suppose we go and look at the mare.”
Sir Hilton was quite quiet now, and looked at him seriously.
“Oh, my poor darling!” groaned the doctor. “Whatever shall I do? If I got him a dose he wouldn’t be fit to ride. Coming, Hilt?” he said calmly.
“Yes, directly, Jack. Let’s see. I must be quite cool and steady, and not fidget the mare. It’s a safe thing, and as soon as I’ve won this race I’ll be tempted no more, Jack, but settle down with the wife—bless her! She means well, Jack. This coup will make me independent, and balance matters. I shall take my position then, you see, and not feel so poverty-stricken—asking one’s wife for every sov.”
“I see. Come along,” said the doctor. “If I could only get him out into the air. I daren’t give him more drink.”
“Don’t hurry me,” said Sir Hilton, coolly rearranging his silk and pulling up his breeches. “I want you to understand, Jack. I’m doing this for independence, to save dear Lady T.—bless her! A good woman. Always been like a sister to me. Jolly little widow! And to make a pile for you, old man, so that you can marry her, have two children, and live happy ever after like a good boy.”
“Yes, that’s it, Hilt, old man,” cried the doctor, desperately, for the clanging of a bell on the racecourse came faintly to his ear. “Come along, then, and win. Quick!”
He caught his old friend by the arm to get him out at all hazards; but it was like touching a spring which set free a lid in the poor fellow’s brain.
For, with a fierce cry—which brought the perspiration out in great drops over the trainer’s face where he listened and watched—Sir Hilton began rushing about the hall again, cutting and slashing furiously.
“Here they are again,” he cried; “thousands—millions of them. B-r-r-r-r-r-r! Sets my head on fire. Keep off, you little imps. There, there, and there! Hah!” he cried at last, dropping breathlessly into a chair. “Br! I was too much for them,” he said, laughing weakly. “Rather queer, though, for them to choose a race day to swarm. But—I’ve got to win, and I mean to.”
“Here, Hilt, old chap,” said Granton, who as a last resource had determined to try a hair of the dog which had bitten his friend, and he drained three-parts of a glass of the champagne into one of the glasses, and was offering it to his friend—“tip this drop off and come on.”
The words acted like magic. Sir Hilton started up and dashed the wine aside.
“What!” he cried. “Do you think I’m mad? Drink at a time like this? No, sir!”
“No, dear; wait here,” cried Syd, outside. “I’ll join you again directly I’ve found him,” and Syd rushed in breathlessly.
“Who’s that?” cried Sir Hilton.
“Oh, there you are, uncle! Hooray! You look splendid. The winning colours. Hooray! I’ve got on that tenner.”
“Here, Syd,” cried Sir Hilton, catching the boy by the arm and whispering mysteriously, “can you hear the bees?”
“Hear the what?” cried the boy, staring.
“The bees; they’re coming back—swarming. Buzz—buzz—buzz! Listen! There they go!”
“Gammon, uncle. It’s the crowd on the course—swarming in thousands.”
“Yes, that’s it, Syd. Take care, you’ll get stung, my boy! Ugh! You beast! Would you!” and whish, whish, whish went the whip, as an imaginary insect was beaten down to the floor and followed and stamped on by its slayer. “That has settled you.”
“Why, doctor,” cried Syd, who had been staring at his uncle, open-mouthed, “don’t say he’s coxybobus!”
“I wasn’t going to, my boy, but he’s horribly screwed.”
“Screwed? He can’t ride. It must be D.T. Here, uncle,” cried the boy, seizing him and shaking him violently, “pull yourself together. You’ve got to ride.”
“Yes, all right, my boy; and your aunt must never know. There, don’t tear my shirt. Hear them—the bees again? Do you recollect, my little man, ‘How doth the little busy bee,’ eh?”
At that moment Molly, wondering at the buzz of conversation within, forgot her young husband’s orders to wait, and came into the hall, to stare wonderingly.
“Oh, Syd, what is the matter with your uncle?”
“Don’t bother. Got ’em. What’s to be done, doctor? Here, I know,” he said, staring the while at Sir Hilton, who had seized a chair, turned it, and sat down crosswise, to keep on lashing at imaginary bees. “Soda—”
“Water,” cried the doctor.
“I’ll fetch a bottle,” cried Syd.
“Cold, to the head,” cried the doctor. “Pump. No; I’ll fetch a pail. No; I know, and I’ll risk it, for it’s our only chance.”
As the pair rushed off, the one into the bar, the other through the porch, two of the maids appeared as audience in the gallery, two more in the bar entrance, and the trainer, perspiring profusely, remained in his private box—to wit, the office, watching for the outcome of Trimmer’s plan, while his gaily-dressed child approached the stricken man sympathetically.
Chapter Nineteen.While Time was on the Wing.“Have you got ’em, Sir Hilton?” said Molly, going close up to his side.“Round and round and round,” said Sir Hilton, “and now zig-zag, zig-zag, zigger, zagger, zag.”He described the imaginary bees’ flight with the point of his whip, and seemed not to have heard the words addressed to him.But all of a sudden he caught sight of the bright colours of the girl’s dress, and it took his attention at once.“Hullo!” he cried, “what colour—what jock’s this? Why, it’s—what’s the matter with my eyes? It’s a pretty girl—it’s—why it’s Syd’s little flame.”“Yes, Sir Hilton,” said the girl, smiling. “Yes, uncle.”“Quite right, my dear. I’m Syd’s uncle. My mouth’s horribly dry, my dear, but don’t ask me to drink, because I’m going to ride for the cup, anditmight attract the bees. But they’re gone now. I say, I don’t wonder at Syd. There, it’s nature, I suppose. Boys will be boys; and you’re the beautiful La Sylphide, so full of go. La Sylphide—yes, La Sylphide,” he repeated excitedly, and he gave a sudden lurch.“Oh, mind, Sir Hilton!” cried the girl, catching at and supporting him. “He isn’t fit to ride. I’ll fetch father.”She made an effort to get free, but Sir Hilton clung to her tightly, to rebalance himself in the chair, the name of the mare, the bright colour, and his attitude now combining to switch his mind off from the buzzing bees to the race, which now became dominant in his brain.“Wo-ho! Holdup, little one,” he cried. “Want to break your knees?”“Of course I don’t, Sir Hilton,” cried the girl, indignantly. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”“Those girths don’t seem quite tight enough, my beauty,” muttered Sir Hilton. “Never mind; I can keep my balance. Give you more room to breathe. Wo-ho!—How she pulls! Steady! Come, don’t show your temper with me.”“Of course not, Sir Hilton. Oh! I do wish Syd would come.”She made an effort to free herself, but as she did so, Sir Hilton snatched at the little figure gliding through his hands, but only caught a couple of long ribbon streamers depending from the back of a flowing robe.“Oh, my frock—you’ll tear it!” cried the girl, half in tears; and she tried to drag herself away, but not vigorously, for fear of damaging the diaphanous fabric to which the ribbons were attached.“Father! Father!” cried the girl, faintly; but the trainer did not stir, and the maids who looked on only glanced at one another as if saying: “It isn’t my place.”All passed very rapidly, as Sir Hilton, in imagination, rode away, talking rapidly the while.“Steady, my beauty—steady—that’s good—bravo, starter—a capital line—now then, flag down—no false start—that black beast Jim Crow—yes, I’ll make him jump to another tune. Now then, once more—good—flag down—now—go—well over! Bravo, my darling!” he cried, making play with the ribbons, just as Lady Lisle returned, consequent upon, as the police say, “information received,” and stopped short, literally stunned, at the picture before her, while Molly caught sight of her, and tried to get away, but in vain.“Steady, darling, steady!” cried Sir Hilton, who felt the tugging at the reins. “Don’t get in a flurry. We shall win in a canter. Bravo, pet! Easy—easy, beauty!—Don’t tug like that—I don’t want to hurt your dear, tender mouth. That’s better. We’re going now like the—Bravo—bravo—that’s the way!”“Oh! Sir Hilton,” cried the girl, “don’t, pray, don’t! Look; can’t you see? Please, ma’am—my lady, it ain’t my fault.”“That’s right,” shouted Sir Hilton, through his teeth. “Good—good—splendid—now then—we’re nearly level—that’s it—level—half a length ahead—now then—we’re clear—bravo, little one! There, I’ve done with you—splendid—cheer away! Oh, if my wife were only here to see!”It was as if the excitement under which he had laboured were now all discharged, and he dropped the imaginary reins, leaving Molly to rush away up the stairs, just as Lady Lisle, speechless with rage and shame, made a rush at her husband.Matters in those moments were almost simultaneous.Lady Lisle advanced, Syd appeared from the bar with a glass of soda-water, and dashed back, regardless of his aunt, who fainted dead away.Sir Hilton sank forward with his chest over the chair-back, and his arms hanging full length down, and a general aspect of trying to imitate a gaily-dressed Punch in the front of the show.Then Lady Tilborough rushed in wildly.“Where is this man?” she cried, in a passion. “Hilt! Hilt!” Then as she saw her gentleman-rider’s state of utter collapse she uttered a wild, despairing cry which brought the trainer to his office-door softly rubbing his hands. “All, all is lost!” cried Lady Tilborough, tragically.“Here, stand aside!” shouted the doctor, dashing in with a medical glass in one hand, and a bottle from the nearest chemist’s in the other, the cork giving forth a squeak as he drew it out with his teeth.“Now then,” he cried, “hold him up. Eh, what?” he added, as Lady Tilborough caught him by the arm crying—“Jack Granton, you’re a doctor; do something to pick him up, or the game’s all over for us all.”
“Have you got ’em, Sir Hilton?” said Molly, going close up to his side.
“Round and round and round,” said Sir Hilton, “and now zig-zag, zig-zag, zigger, zagger, zag.”
He described the imaginary bees’ flight with the point of his whip, and seemed not to have heard the words addressed to him.
But all of a sudden he caught sight of the bright colours of the girl’s dress, and it took his attention at once.
“Hullo!” he cried, “what colour—what jock’s this? Why, it’s—what’s the matter with my eyes? It’s a pretty girl—it’s—why it’s Syd’s little flame.”
“Yes, Sir Hilton,” said the girl, smiling. “Yes, uncle.”
“Quite right, my dear. I’m Syd’s uncle. My mouth’s horribly dry, my dear, but don’t ask me to drink, because I’m going to ride for the cup, anditmight attract the bees. But they’re gone now. I say, I don’t wonder at Syd. There, it’s nature, I suppose. Boys will be boys; and you’re the beautiful La Sylphide, so full of go. La Sylphide—yes, La Sylphide,” he repeated excitedly, and he gave a sudden lurch.
“Oh, mind, Sir Hilton!” cried the girl, catching at and supporting him. “He isn’t fit to ride. I’ll fetch father.”
She made an effort to get free, but Sir Hilton clung to her tightly, to rebalance himself in the chair, the name of the mare, the bright colour, and his attitude now combining to switch his mind off from the buzzing bees to the race, which now became dominant in his brain.
“Wo-ho! Holdup, little one,” he cried. “Want to break your knees?”
“Of course I don’t, Sir Hilton,” cried the girl, indignantly. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Those girths don’t seem quite tight enough, my beauty,” muttered Sir Hilton. “Never mind; I can keep my balance. Give you more room to breathe. Wo-ho!—How she pulls! Steady! Come, don’t show your temper with me.”
“Of course not, Sir Hilton. Oh! I do wish Syd would come.”
She made an effort to free herself, but as she did so, Sir Hilton snatched at the little figure gliding through his hands, but only caught a couple of long ribbon streamers depending from the back of a flowing robe.
“Oh, my frock—you’ll tear it!” cried the girl, half in tears; and she tried to drag herself away, but not vigorously, for fear of damaging the diaphanous fabric to which the ribbons were attached.
“Father! Father!” cried the girl, faintly; but the trainer did not stir, and the maids who looked on only glanced at one another as if saying: “It isn’t my place.”
All passed very rapidly, as Sir Hilton, in imagination, rode away, talking rapidly the while.
“Steady, my beauty—steady—that’s good—bravo, starter—a capital line—now then, flag down—no false start—that black beast Jim Crow—yes, I’ll make him jump to another tune. Now then, once more—good—flag down—now—go—well over! Bravo, my darling!” he cried, making play with the ribbons, just as Lady Lisle returned, consequent upon, as the police say, “information received,” and stopped short, literally stunned, at the picture before her, while Molly caught sight of her, and tried to get away, but in vain.
“Steady, darling, steady!” cried Sir Hilton, who felt the tugging at the reins. “Don’t get in a flurry. We shall win in a canter. Bravo, pet! Easy—easy, beauty!—Don’t tug like that—I don’t want to hurt your dear, tender mouth. That’s better. We’re going now like the—Bravo—bravo—that’s the way!”
“Oh! Sir Hilton,” cried the girl, “don’t, pray, don’t! Look; can’t you see? Please, ma’am—my lady, it ain’t my fault.”
“That’s right,” shouted Sir Hilton, through his teeth. “Good—good—splendid—now then—we’re nearly level—that’s it—level—half a length ahead—now then—we’re clear—bravo, little one! There, I’ve done with you—splendid—cheer away! Oh, if my wife were only here to see!”
It was as if the excitement under which he had laboured were now all discharged, and he dropped the imaginary reins, leaving Molly to rush away up the stairs, just as Lady Lisle, speechless with rage and shame, made a rush at her husband.
Matters in those moments were almost simultaneous.
Lady Lisle advanced, Syd appeared from the bar with a glass of soda-water, and dashed back, regardless of his aunt, who fainted dead away.
Sir Hilton sank forward with his chest over the chair-back, and his arms hanging full length down, and a general aspect of trying to imitate a gaily-dressed Punch in the front of the show.
Then Lady Tilborough rushed in wildly.
“Where is this man?” she cried, in a passion. “Hilt! Hilt!” Then as she saw her gentleman-rider’s state of utter collapse she uttered a wild, despairing cry which brought the trainer to his office-door softly rubbing his hands. “All, all is lost!” cried Lady Tilborough, tragically.
“Here, stand aside!” shouted the doctor, dashing in with a medical glass in one hand, and a bottle from the nearest chemist’s in the other, the cork giving forth a squeak as he drew it out with his teeth.
“Now then,” he cried, “hold him up. Eh, what?” he added, as Lady Tilborough caught him by the arm crying—
“Jack Granton, you’re a doctor; do something to pick him up, or the game’s all over for us all.”
Chapter Twenty.Where the Moonbeams Played.The lately risen moon, in its third quarter, shone across the well-kept lawn at the Denes between two great banks of trees, and through the wide French window in a way that left half the drawing-room in darkness, the conservatory full of lights and shadows of grotesque-looking giant plants in pots, and the other half of the handsome salon fairly illuminated. The shutters had not been closed, and the room door was wide open, seeming apparently untenanted, or as if the occupants of Sir Hilton Lisle’s residence were all retired to rest.Everything was still as a rule; but every rule has exceptions, and it was the case here. For, as if coming faintly from a distance, there was a continuous, pleasant chirp, such as might have suggested the early bird about to go in search of the worm; but it was a cricket by the still warm hearth of the kitchen.There was, too, the distant barking of a dog, varied by a remarkably dismal howl such as a dog will utter on moonlight nights if he has not been fed and furnished with a pleasant padding to dull the points of his ribs when he indulges in his customary curl and sleep.But there was another sound which broke the silence at rare intervals—a strange, bewildering sound in that drawing-room, such as might have been made by water in a gas pipe. But that was impossible, for there was no illuminant of the nature nearer than Tilborough, the Denes being lit up by crystal oil.To be brief, in spite of these exceptions, all was very still at the Denes. The horse patrol had gone by, with the horse making noise enough on the hard road to warn any burglarious person of his propinquity, and he had passed three shabby-looking individuals, very drunk, and walking right in the middle of the road as far as two were concerned, talking together about what they had made on Tilborough racecourse the previous day, while the third, being very tired and very tipsy, was—probably from a most virtuous intention of walking off the superabundant spirit he had imbibed—more than doubling the distance between Tilborough and the next town, where there was a fair next day, by carefully walking in zig-zags.The patrol looked at him, and his horse avoided him, and all went on their way, leaving the tree-bordered country road to its moonlit solitude.But there was another personage on his way from Tilborough races, having a rest in a mossy piece of woodland half a mile from the Denes. He had his coat very tightly buttoned up over his chest, and over two packets of unsold race-cards, a packet over each breast, where with the fire of a pipe of tobacco they helped to keep the traveller taking his al fresco rest nice and warm.“Bit damp, though,” he said, after the horse patrol’s movements had died out, and he got up, shook himself, and went his way, to reappear in the form of a silhouette against one of the big panes of glass in the French window of the Denes drawing-room.Faint moonlight is not good for observing colour. Pink looks black by this illumination, whether it is on a man’s nose or forms the tinting of his old hunting-coat. But even faint moonlight delineates well the shape of an old round-topped black velvet cap, and makes it look far blacker than it does by day.Such a cap is admirable for riding purposes, and must be of a most convenient shape for anyone operating in a very tradesmanlike way upon the drawing-room window by which the figure stood, with a putty-knife, though an observer would probably have thought the hour unseasonable.Still, when a window has been broken upon the ground floor, people in the country are only too glad to get the repairing done at any time that the glazier thinks proper to work, so that the weak spot in the domestic defences may as soon as possible be repaired.But in this case the stout plate glass window was not broken, and the peculiarly handy knife being used was not called upon to spread putty, but was being inserted cleverly away from the glass and causing a clicking noise, thus showing, in connection with a wonderful degree of elasticity, that it was dealing with metal.While its owner was at his busiest another noise arose, something between a whine and a squeak, the effect of which was to make the operator leave off his task, take two or three steps, and kneel down beneath a bush, to whisper words to something alive connected with its liver—words which produced silence—and return to the window.The faint clicking began again, and the extremely thin putty-knife did its work in the skilled hands so well that in a very short time the doorlike window yielded and uttered a ghost of a groan as it turned upon its hinges.“Poor thing, then! Did ’um disturb it in the middle of the night?” said the tradesman to himself, stepping softly in. “Just like ’em! Plenty to eat, plenty to drink, plenty o’ soft beds to sleep in, and too lazy to hyle a hinge. When I keep servants I’ll—Here, let’s just shut you.”He carefully closed the window, before standing listening for a few moments and looking about till his eyes rested upon a softly-quilted couch, half-covered with a satin-lined Polar bearskin, bathed, as a poet would say, in the lambent rays of the moon, which in this instance came through the conservatory.Towards this the man stepped in the dark, and, to his intense disgust, kicked heavily against a hassock.The words he uttered were unprintable, save the latter portion, which were something about the tradesman’s “wussest corn.” The next minute it appeared as if he was about to examine the damage done, for his figure blotted out a portion of the sofa’s shape, and it, too, was bathed in the lambent light, as he busily unlaced and drew off, not only one, but two extremely big, ugly hunting boots, with star-like cuts in them, evidently to ease the “wussest” and other corns.But, oddly enough, the night bird did not examine his injury, but placed the boots as if ready for cleaning—of which they were very much in need—in the very lightest spot he could find; that is to say, full in the aforesaid lambent light.Then he began to muse.“Soft as a hair cushin in a horsepittle,” he muttered. “Now, I could jest lie down, kiver myself with this here soft counterpin, and do my doss like a prince. Nobody at home but the servants and them gals. The two ladies gone off with the doctor in one kerridge, t’other one waiting at the Talbot, and the boss and the young squire sleepin’ it off at Sam Simpkins’s. The on’y one I’m in doubt about is Marky Willers, and that there black-looking crockydile in the white choker.“Ha!” he sighed, taking out a steel tobacco-box and knife, and cutting off a bit of pigtail. “Mustn’t smoke,” he mused, “and I mustn’t sleep, for it’s ten to one I shouldn’t wake till someun found me, and there’d be a squawk and a ‘Dear me! I on’y come in by mistake, thinking it was my own room.’ Well, that’s the beauty o’ a bit o’ pigtail. Now then, I s’pose I’d better get to work. That’s the beauty o’ my profession. Down to a race here and a race there, and a call or two on the way to do a bit o’ trade with a dawg, and a look round for any bit or two o’ rubbish that wants clearing away. Don’t want anything heavier than a silver inkstand, say. Clocks is so gallus cornery, and a racing cup or anything o’ that sort won’t lie flat without you hammer one side in, and that’s a pity, and it’s half-round even then. Presentation inkstand’s my fav’rite, for one can button it up in front or behind, while you can leave the bottles in case the people wants to write.“Nice bit o’ plate here, I’ll bet,” said the man, with a yawn, his jaws grinding slowly away at the quid, “but I’m not on plate, thank ye. Now then, where’s that there flat, old-fashioned inkstand? Let’s see; but if that there blessed dawg howls there won’t be no dawg when I gets out.”The man rose in the moonlight, fumbled for and drew out a matchbox, opened it, and was in the act of striking a match when a clock in the hall performed a musical chime loudly four times, with every bell sounding silvery and clear, and then paused.“What a ghastly row!” muttered the man; and then he raised the match again, when—Boom! boom! boom! three heavy strokes deliberately given upon a deep-toned spring, produced a wonderful effect.There was a sharp ejaculation, a loud rustling sound, and a bump as of someone springing to his feet, while in the moonlight something like a hugely thick short serpent crawled over the couch and turned on reaching the floor into a quadruped, which crept silently into the conservatory and disappeared.“Well!” exclaimed a voice. “Think o’ me sleeping like that! Three o’clock—lamp gone out—nobody come home even now. What a shame! This is going to the races, this is, and leaving us poor, unprotected women all alone in this big place, and not a man near but the gardeners, and them so far off that you might squeal the house down before they’d hear. Well, I shall go to bed. Ugh! I feel quite shivery, and the place looks horrid in the dark. I don’t like to go into the pantry for a light. I know; her ladyship’s writing-table.”Jane Gee stepped quickly into the moonlight, caught sight of something on the carpet, and uttered a fearful shriek, just as a figure passed the French window, turned back, stopped short, and began to tap.
The lately risen moon, in its third quarter, shone across the well-kept lawn at the Denes between two great banks of trees, and through the wide French window in a way that left half the drawing-room in darkness, the conservatory full of lights and shadows of grotesque-looking giant plants in pots, and the other half of the handsome salon fairly illuminated. The shutters had not been closed, and the room door was wide open, seeming apparently untenanted, or as if the occupants of Sir Hilton Lisle’s residence were all retired to rest.
Everything was still as a rule; but every rule has exceptions, and it was the case here. For, as if coming faintly from a distance, there was a continuous, pleasant chirp, such as might have suggested the early bird about to go in search of the worm; but it was a cricket by the still warm hearth of the kitchen.
There was, too, the distant barking of a dog, varied by a remarkably dismal howl such as a dog will utter on moonlight nights if he has not been fed and furnished with a pleasant padding to dull the points of his ribs when he indulges in his customary curl and sleep.
But there was another sound which broke the silence at rare intervals—a strange, bewildering sound in that drawing-room, such as might have been made by water in a gas pipe. But that was impossible, for there was no illuminant of the nature nearer than Tilborough, the Denes being lit up by crystal oil.
To be brief, in spite of these exceptions, all was very still at the Denes. The horse patrol had gone by, with the horse making noise enough on the hard road to warn any burglarious person of his propinquity, and he had passed three shabby-looking individuals, very drunk, and walking right in the middle of the road as far as two were concerned, talking together about what they had made on Tilborough racecourse the previous day, while the third, being very tired and very tipsy, was—probably from a most virtuous intention of walking off the superabundant spirit he had imbibed—more than doubling the distance between Tilborough and the next town, where there was a fair next day, by carefully walking in zig-zags.
The patrol looked at him, and his horse avoided him, and all went on their way, leaving the tree-bordered country road to its moonlit solitude.
But there was another personage on his way from Tilborough races, having a rest in a mossy piece of woodland half a mile from the Denes. He had his coat very tightly buttoned up over his chest, and over two packets of unsold race-cards, a packet over each breast, where with the fire of a pipe of tobacco they helped to keep the traveller taking his al fresco rest nice and warm.
“Bit damp, though,” he said, after the horse patrol’s movements had died out, and he got up, shook himself, and went his way, to reappear in the form of a silhouette against one of the big panes of glass in the French window of the Denes drawing-room.
Faint moonlight is not good for observing colour. Pink looks black by this illumination, whether it is on a man’s nose or forms the tinting of his old hunting-coat. But even faint moonlight delineates well the shape of an old round-topped black velvet cap, and makes it look far blacker than it does by day.
Such a cap is admirable for riding purposes, and must be of a most convenient shape for anyone operating in a very tradesmanlike way upon the drawing-room window by which the figure stood, with a putty-knife, though an observer would probably have thought the hour unseasonable.
Still, when a window has been broken upon the ground floor, people in the country are only too glad to get the repairing done at any time that the glazier thinks proper to work, so that the weak spot in the domestic defences may as soon as possible be repaired.
But in this case the stout plate glass window was not broken, and the peculiarly handy knife being used was not called upon to spread putty, but was being inserted cleverly away from the glass and causing a clicking noise, thus showing, in connection with a wonderful degree of elasticity, that it was dealing with metal.
While its owner was at his busiest another noise arose, something between a whine and a squeak, the effect of which was to make the operator leave off his task, take two or three steps, and kneel down beneath a bush, to whisper words to something alive connected with its liver—words which produced silence—and return to the window.
The faint clicking began again, and the extremely thin putty-knife did its work in the skilled hands so well that in a very short time the doorlike window yielded and uttered a ghost of a groan as it turned upon its hinges.
“Poor thing, then! Did ’um disturb it in the middle of the night?” said the tradesman to himself, stepping softly in. “Just like ’em! Plenty to eat, plenty to drink, plenty o’ soft beds to sleep in, and too lazy to hyle a hinge. When I keep servants I’ll—Here, let’s just shut you.”
He carefully closed the window, before standing listening for a few moments and looking about till his eyes rested upon a softly-quilted couch, half-covered with a satin-lined Polar bearskin, bathed, as a poet would say, in the lambent rays of the moon, which in this instance came through the conservatory.
Towards this the man stepped in the dark, and, to his intense disgust, kicked heavily against a hassock.
The words he uttered were unprintable, save the latter portion, which were something about the tradesman’s “wussest corn.” The next minute it appeared as if he was about to examine the damage done, for his figure blotted out a portion of the sofa’s shape, and it, too, was bathed in the lambent light, as he busily unlaced and drew off, not only one, but two extremely big, ugly hunting boots, with star-like cuts in them, evidently to ease the “wussest” and other corns.
But, oddly enough, the night bird did not examine his injury, but placed the boots as if ready for cleaning—of which they were very much in need—in the very lightest spot he could find; that is to say, full in the aforesaid lambent light.
Then he began to muse.
“Soft as a hair cushin in a horsepittle,” he muttered. “Now, I could jest lie down, kiver myself with this here soft counterpin, and do my doss like a prince. Nobody at home but the servants and them gals. The two ladies gone off with the doctor in one kerridge, t’other one waiting at the Talbot, and the boss and the young squire sleepin’ it off at Sam Simpkins’s. The on’y one I’m in doubt about is Marky Willers, and that there black-looking crockydile in the white choker.
“Ha!” he sighed, taking out a steel tobacco-box and knife, and cutting off a bit of pigtail. “Mustn’t smoke,” he mused, “and I mustn’t sleep, for it’s ten to one I shouldn’t wake till someun found me, and there’d be a squawk and a ‘Dear me! I on’y come in by mistake, thinking it was my own room.’ Well, that’s the beauty o’ a bit o’ pigtail. Now then, I s’pose I’d better get to work. That’s the beauty o’ my profession. Down to a race here and a race there, and a call or two on the way to do a bit o’ trade with a dawg, and a look round for any bit or two o’ rubbish that wants clearing away. Don’t want anything heavier than a silver inkstand, say. Clocks is so gallus cornery, and a racing cup or anything o’ that sort won’t lie flat without you hammer one side in, and that’s a pity, and it’s half-round even then. Presentation inkstand’s my fav’rite, for one can button it up in front or behind, while you can leave the bottles in case the people wants to write.
“Nice bit o’ plate here, I’ll bet,” said the man, with a yawn, his jaws grinding slowly away at the quid, “but I’m not on plate, thank ye. Now then, where’s that there flat, old-fashioned inkstand? Let’s see; but if that there blessed dawg howls there won’t be no dawg when I gets out.”
The man rose in the moonlight, fumbled for and drew out a matchbox, opened it, and was in the act of striking a match when a clock in the hall performed a musical chime loudly four times, with every bell sounding silvery and clear, and then paused.
“What a ghastly row!” muttered the man; and then he raised the match again, when—
Boom! boom! boom! three heavy strokes deliberately given upon a deep-toned spring, produced a wonderful effect.
There was a sharp ejaculation, a loud rustling sound, and a bump as of someone springing to his feet, while in the moonlight something like a hugely thick short serpent crawled over the couch and turned on reaching the floor into a quadruped, which crept silently into the conservatory and disappeared.
“Well!” exclaimed a voice. “Think o’ me sleeping like that! Three o’clock—lamp gone out—nobody come home even now. What a shame! This is going to the races, this is, and leaving us poor, unprotected women all alone in this big place, and not a man near but the gardeners, and them so far off that you might squeal the house down before they’d hear. Well, I shall go to bed. Ugh! I feel quite shivery, and the place looks horrid in the dark. I don’t like to go into the pantry for a light. I know; her ladyship’s writing-table.”
Jane Gee stepped quickly into the moonlight, caught sight of something on the carpet, and uttered a fearful shriek, just as a figure passed the French window, turned back, stopped short, and began to tap.
Chapter Twenty One.The Coming Home.“Oh, oh, oh!” cried the girl; “it’s Mark—it’s Mark! Oh, oh, oh!” she kept on in a peculiar sob. But she tottered to the window and undid the brass latch with trembling hands, when Mark pressed the glass door open, sprang in, closed the leaf, fastened it, and, flinging one arm round the sobbing girl, clapped a hand over her mouth.“Hold your row, you silly fool! Couldn’t you see it was me?”“Ye-ye-yes, Mark. Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come.”“Seems like it—squealing everybody else out of bed to come and ketch me.”“Oh, oh, oh, Mark dear!” sobbed the girl. “Take care,” and she clung to him.“Why, of course I will,” whispered the groom. “My word! I didn’t know you could come hysterics like that,” and as he spoke he tried to comfort the trembling girl, succeeding to some extent, while another singular thing took place in that certainly unhaunted room.For the big ugly pair of boots began, not to walk according to their nature when set in motion, but to glide in a singular way in the moonlight, following their tightened strings, passing round the head of the quilted couch and into the conservatory, but without a sound.“Oh, oh, Mark!” sobbed the girl, with a shudder.“What, beginning again? What a little silly it is!”“But come away.”“Well, I’m coming away. Come on.”“No, no; not that way. Oh!”“Be quiet, or you’ll be waking someone,” whispered Mark.“I can’t help it,” sobbed Jane. “It wasn’t you that frightened me, Mark dear, it was the burglars.”“The what? Where?”“Oh, I’d dropped asleep, Mark, and the lamp burnt out, and the clock woke me up, and then I saw it. Oh, horrid!”“Be quiet, I tell you. What did you see?”“That great big pair of boots in the moonlight there.”“Where?” cried Mark, doubtingly.“Down there by the blue couch.”“Stuff! There ain’t no boots—old boots nor any other boots.”“Ain’t there, Mark? Oh, there was, there was.”“Bosh! You’ve been dreaming.”“Have I?” said the girl, after a long stare about the moonlit carpet. “I thought I saw them.” Then, with a quick change: “Wherever have you been?”“Oh, only to the races with the guv’nor.”“But you ain’t been racing till this time o’ night?” cried the girl, suspiciously.“Well, not quite. Some on ’em—bookies and jocks—got up a bit o’ dinner.”“I don’t believe it. What for?”“All along o’ settling up, and that sort of thing.”“Settling up? What’s that—paying up?”“Yes, my gal.”“I know what that means. Now then, out with it.”“Wait till the morning,” said Mark, grinning.“How much was it? No keeping it back. If you do, it’s all off, and I’ll never speak to you again. Now then, let this be a lesson to you. I will know. How much have you lost?”“Guess.”“I won’t guess. It’s too serious a matter.”“So it is, my lass; so it is, and I’ll make a clean breast of it, Jenny.”“Yes, you’d better.”“I’ve won!” he cried, catching the girl in his arms.“What! I don’t believe it.”“I have, and enough, with what the brewers would advance, to take a nice little country pub—one we can make into a hotel.”“Ah, well,” said Jane, primly, “it ain’t no time to be talking about no hotels nor publics in the middle o’ the night like this.”“Why not?”“Because it ain’t proper. Look here; is Mr Trimmer coming home?”“What, ain’t he at home neither?”“No, nobody’s come back but you. What about master? Is he along with her ladyship?”“No; he was took bad just afore the race, but Dr Granton give him a pick-me-up that kep’ him going till he’d won the race.”“Her ladyship had give him a talking-to, I suppose?”Mark grinned, winked, and lifted his elbow in a peculiar way, suggestive of drinking.“Oh-h-h!” exclaimed Jane, in a half-whisper. “What a shame!”“Sh!” whispered the groom. “Not a word. Don’t say a word to a soul. I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else with it, Jenny. I believe it was on’y a glass or two of fizz on the top of a bucketful of excitement because he was going to ride.”“But there it is, you see, Mark! horses and racing leads to drinking, and I mean to think twice before I tie myself to anyone who drinks and gambles. Is master with her ladyship now?”“No, I tell you; he’s badly, and stopping at Simpkins’s, with Master Syd taking care of him; and her ladyship was took bad too, after a rumpus at the hotel.”“Oh, how disgraceful!” interrupted Jane. “Her ladyship stooping to do that, and master getting tipsy and running races. I shall give notice, Mark. I’ve got a character to lose.”“You’d better! You don’t leave here till—you know.”“Oh, no, I don’t; and now I’m going to bed. But tell me, where did you say her ladyship was?”“How many more times?” cried the groom, impatiently. “I’ve told you five or six times.”“You haven’t, Mark.”“I have. Her ladyship was took bad at the hotel when she found the guv’nor looking quite tight afore he went off to win the race, and only just in time to get up to the scratch. Then as soon as it was over the doctor has to physic him and see to her ladyship, and the doctor and Lady Tilborough takes her to Oakleigh.”“Why didn’t they bring her home?” said Jane, sharply.“How should I know? Because Lady Tilborough thought perhaps that master would join ’em there and make it up. But I dunno. Had too much business of my own to ’tend to.”“What business?” said Jane, suspiciously. “Getting along with a bad set of touts, drinking, I suppose.”“Get out! I was making sure of the money I’d won while I could. That’s right; hang away from a fellow! Just like a woman! Think you’re going to ketch something?”“That will do,” said the girl, coldly. “You smell horrid of beer and smoke. Oh, Mark!” she whispered; and he had no room for complaints of a want of warmth, for the girl flung her arms about him, clinging tightly, and placed her lips closely to his ear. “There,” she cried, in an agitated way; “hark! Is that fancy? There are burglars in the house.”Mark drew the girl more into the shade near the fireplace, and softly picked up the brightly-polished poker from where it lay. For he had distinctly heard a soft rattle as if of a latchkey, the opening and closing of the hall door, and then as he stood listening there was the scratch of a match which faintly lit up the hall as far as they could see through the drawing-room door.Directly after there was a click, as of a candlestick being removed, an augmentation of the light which approached, and in the full intention of—to use the groom’s own words—“letting ’em have it,” Mark thrust the girl behind him, and made ready to bring the poker down heavily upon the burglar’s head.But he did not, for the head and face, looking yellow and ghastly by the light of a chamber candle, were those of Lady Lisle’s agent and confidential man.Possibly from weariness, there was no spasmodic start, Trimmer staring glassy-eyed and strange, and with his black felt hat looking battered and soiled, while in their revulsion of feeling Jane and Mark found no words to say.“What are you two doing here?” said Trimmer at last, speaking in rather a tongue-tied fashion, but as if in full possession of his faculties.“Waiting up to let you in, sir,” said Jane, sharply.“It is not true,” said the agent. “You must have known I could let myself in. You two are holding a disgraceful clandestine meeting; and I shall consider it my duty to report these proceedings when her ladyship sees me after breakfast. I am called away for a few hours to London, and upon my return the whole house is in disorder.”“Thank ye, sir; then I shall speak to her ladyship myself as soon as she comes home,” said Jane, pertly.“What! Her ladyship not returned yet?”“No, sir; and I’ve got to sit up till she do.”“Er—where has she gone? Someone ill?”“Haw, haw, haw! Hark at that, Jane! He didn’t see her ladyship’s carriage at the races. Oh, no! He didn’t go and see old Sam Simpkins, the trainer, and make a bet or two; not him! And I wasn’t close behind him in the crowd when the guv’nor came in a winner, and I didn’t see him bang his hat down on the ground and stamp on it. Oh, no! You give me that hat, Mr Trimmer, sir, and I’ll brush and sponge it and iron it into shape so that it’ll look as good as new.”The agent’s countenance went through several changes before it settled down into a ghastly smile.“Well, well,” he said, “I must confess to being attracted to seeing the big race, but I did not know you would be there, Mark. But you surprise me. Sir Hilton and her ladyship not returned? A great surprise, though, Mark—Jane. You know, of course? Sir Hilton returning to the old evil ways.”“Yah? Chuck it up, Mr Trimmer, sir,” said Mark, in a tone of disgust; “and when you tell her ladyship you caught me and Jane here talking after she let me in, just you tell her how much you won on the race.”“Won—won—won, my lad?” said the agent, with loud, louder, loudest in his utterance of the word. “I’ve lost; I’m nearly ruined. Oh, it has been a horrible day. Here, I’m ill. I must have a little brandy, I’m ready to faint.”“Sorry for you, sir,” said Mark, as the ghastly-looking man turned to go back across the hall.“Same here, sir,” said Jane, with a grave curtsey; “but I don’t see as it’ll do you any good now you’re ruined to try and ruin us.”“And if I was you, sir, I wouldn’t touch another drop, sir,” put in Mark. “I’ve seen chaps in your state before after a race—chaps who have lost every penny—go and fly to the drink.”Trimmer gazed vacantly at the speaker, passed his tongue over his parched lips, and said feebly—“Do I—do I look as if I had been drinking, Mark?”“That’s so, sir; and as if, seeing what a stew you’re in over your losses, it hadn’t took a bit of effect upon you.”“No, no,” said the agent, slowly. “I don’t feel as if I had had more than a glass.”“And all the time, sir, as the conductors say, you’re ‘full up’; and if you put any more on it you’ll soon find it out, and come on with a fit of the horrors, same as some poor beggars have before there’s an inquest.”The agent shuddered, and unconsciously began to play with the extinguisher of the plated candlestick, lifting it off the cone upon which it rested, putting it back, and ending by lifting it off quickly, and, as if to illustrate the groom’s meaning, putting out the light.“Pst! Hark! What’s that?” cried Jane, excitedly. “Here they are!”Trimmer started violently. “Oh,” he cried, “I can’t meet anybody now. Mark—Jane—don’t say that I have been out I shall not—tell her ladyship—a word.”“Thank ye for nothing,” said Mark, mockingly, as the door closed upon the departing agent. “How the dickens did he do that?” he added, for a flower-pot in the conservatory fell with a crash upon the encaustic tiled floor, and Jane uttered a gasp.But the next instant the front door-bell was rung violently.“Come with me, Mark,” whispered the girl, and they both hurried into the hall, the groom to open the door, and Jane to busy herself with trembling hands striking matches to light a couple of the chamber candlesticks standing ready upon the slab.
“Oh, oh, oh!” cried the girl; “it’s Mark—it’s Mark! Oh, oh, oh!” she kept on in a peculiar sob. But she tottered to the window and undid the brass latch with trembling hands, when Mark pressed the glass door open, sprang in, closed the leaf, fastened it, and, flinging one arm round the sobbing girl, clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Hold your row, you silly fool! Couldn’t you see it was me?”
“Ye-ye-yes, Mark. Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come.”
“Seems like it—squealing everybody else out of bed to come and ketch me.”
“Oh, oh, oh, Mark dear!” sobbed the girl. “Take care,” and she clung to him.
“Why, of course I will,” whispered the groom. “My word! I didn’t know you could come hysterics like that,” and as he spoke he tried to comfort the trembling girl, succeeding to some extent, while another singular thing took place in that certainly unhaunted room.
For the big ugly pair of boots began, not to walk according to their nature when set in motion, but to glide in a singular way in the moonlight, following their tightened strings, passing round the head of the quilted couch and into the conservatory, but without a sound.
“Oh, oh, Mark!” sobbed the girl, with a shudder.
“What, beginning again? What a little silly it is!”
“But come away.”
“Well, I’m coming away. Come on.”
“No, no; not that way. Oh!”
“Be quiet, or you’ll be waking someone,” whispered Mark.
“I can’t help it,” sobbed Jane. “It wasn’t you that frightened me, Mark dear, it was the burglars.”
“The what? Where?”
“Oh, I’d dropped asleep, Mark, and the lamp burnt out, and the clock woke me up, and then I saw it. Oh, horrid!”
“Be quiet, I tell you. What did you see?”
“That great big pair of boots in the moonlight there.”
“Where?” cried Mark, doubtingly.
“Down there by the blue couch.”
“Stuff! There ain’t no boots—old boots nor any other boots.”
“Ain’t there, Mark? Oh, there was, there was.”
“Bosh! You’ve been dreaming.”
“Have I?” said the girl, after a long stare about the moonlit carpet. “I thought I saw them.” Then, with a quick change: “Wherever have you been?”
“Oh, only to the races with the guv’nor.”
“But you ain’t been racing till this time o’ night?” cried the girl, suspiciously.
“Well, not quite. Some on ’em—bookies and jocks—got up a bit o’ dinner.”
“I don’t believe it. What for?”
“All along o’ settling up, and that sort of thing.”
“Settling up? What’s that—paying up?”
“Yes, my gal.”
“I know what that means. Now then, out with it.”
“Wait till the morning,” said Mark, grinning.
“How much was it? No keeping it back. If you do, it’s all off, and I’ll never speak to you again. Now then, let this be a lesson to you. I will know. How much have you lost?”
“Guess.”
“I won’t guess. It’s too serious a matter.”
“So it is, my lass; so it is, and I’ll make a clean breast of it, Jenny.”
“Yes, you’d better.”
“I’ve won!” he cried, catching the girl in his arms.
“What! I don’t believe it.”
“I have, and enough, with what the brewers would advance, to take a nice little country pub—one we can make into a hotel.”
“Ah, well,” said Jane, primly, “it ain’t no time to be talking about no hotels nor publics in the middle o’ the night like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because it ain’t proper. Look here; is Mr Trimmer coming home?”
“What, ain’t he at home neither?”
“No, nobody’s come back but you. What about master? Is he along with her ladyship?”
“No; he was took bad just afore the race, but Dr Granton give him a pick-me-up that kep’ him going till he’d won the race.”
“Her ladyship had give him a talking-to, I suppose?”
Mark grinned, winked, and lifted his elbow in a peculiar way, suggestive of drinking.
“Oh-h-h!” exclaimed Jane, in a half-whisper. “What a shame!”
“Sh!” whispered the groom. “Not a word. Don’t say a word to a soul. I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else with it, Jenny. I believe it was on’y a glass or two of fizz on the top of a bucketful of excitement because he was going to ride.”
“But there it is, you see, Mark! horses and racing leads to drinking, and I mean to think twice before I tie myself to anyone who drinks and gambles. Is master with her ladyship now?”
“No, I tell you; he’s badly, and stopping at Simpkins’s, with Master Syd taking care of him; and her ladyship was took bad too, after a rumpus at the hotel.”
“Oh, how disgraceful!” interrupted Jane. “Her ladyship stooping to do that, and master getting tipsy and running races. I shall give notice, Mark. I’ve got a character to lose.”
“You’d better! You don’t leave here till—you know.”
“Oh, no, I don’t; and now I’m going to bed. But tell me, where did you say her ladyship was?”
“How many more times?” cried the groom, impatiently. “I’ve told you five or six times.”
“You haven’t, Mark.”
“I have. Her ladyship was took bad at the hotel when she found the guv’nor looking quite tight afore he went off to win the race, and only just in time to get up to the scratch. Then as soon as it was over the doctor has to physic him and see to her ladyship, and the doctor and Lady Tilborough takes her to Oakleigh.”
“Why didn’t they bring her home?” said Jane, sharply.
“How should I know? Because Lady Tilborough thought perhaps that master would join ’em there and make it up. But I dunno. Had too much business of my own to ’tend to.”
“What business?” said Jane, suspiciously. “Getting along with a bad set of touts, drinking, I suppose.”
“Get out! I was making sure of the money I’d won while I could. That’s right; hang away from a fellow! Just like a woman! Think you’re going to ketch something?”
“That will do,” said the girl, coldly. “You smell horrid of beer and smoke. Oh, Mark!” she whispered; and he had no room for complaints of a want of warmth, for the girl flung her arms about him, clinging tightly, and placed her lips closely to his ear. “There,” she cried, in an agitated way; “hark! Is that fancy? There are burglars in the house.”
Mark drew the girl more into the shade near the fireplace, and softly picked up the brightly-polished poker from where it lay. For he had distinctly heard a soft rattle as if of a latchkey, the opening and closing of the hall door, and then as he stood listening there was the scratch of a match which faintly lit up the hall as far as they could see through the drawing-room door.
Directly after there was a click, as of a candlestick being removed, an augmentation of the light which approached, and in the full intention of—to use the groom’s own words—“letting ’em have it,” Mark thrust the girl behind him, and made ready to bring the poker down heavily upon the burglar’s head.
But he did not, for the head and face, looking yellow and ghastly by the light of a chamber candle, were those of Lady Lisle’s agent and confidential man.
Possibly from weariness, there was no spasmodic start, Trimmer staring glassy-eyed and strange, and with his black felt hat looking battered and soiled, while in their revulsion of feeling Jane and Mark found no words to say.
“What are you two doing here?” said Trimmer at last, speaking in rather a tongue-tied fashion, but as if in full possession of his faculties.
“Waiting up to let you in, sir,” said Jane, sharply.
“It is not true,” said the agent. “You must have known I could let myself in. You two are holding a disgraceful clandestine meeting; and I shall consider it my duty to report these proceedings when her ladyship sees me after breakfast. I am called away for a few hours to London, and upon my return the whole house is in disorder.”
“Thank ye, sir; then I shall speak to her ladyship myself as soon as she comes home,” said Jane, pertly.
“What! Her ladyship not returned yet?”
“No, sir; and I’ve got to sit up till she do.”
“Er—where has she gone? Someone ill?”
“Haw, haw, haw! Hark at that, Jane! He didn’t see her ladyship’s carriage at the races. Oh, no! He didn’t go and see old Sam Simpkins, the trainer, and make a bet or two; not him! And I wasn’t close behind him in the crowd when the guv’nor came in a winner, and I didn’t see him bang his hat down on the ground and stamp on it. Oh, no! You give me that hat, Mr Trimmer, sir, and I’ll brush and sponge it and iron it into shape so that it’ll look as good as new.”
The agent’s countenance went through several changes before it settled down into a ghastly smile.
“Well, well,” he said, “I must confess to being attracted to seeing the big race, but I did not know you would be there, Mark. But you surprise me. Sir Hilton and her ladyship not returned? A great surprise, though, Mark—Jane. You know, of course? Sir Hilton returning to the old evil ways.”
“Yah? Chuck it up, Mr Trimmer, sir,” said Mark, in a tone of disgust; “and when you tell her ladyship you caught me and Jane here talking after she let me in, just you tell her how much you won on the race.”
“Won—won—won, my lad?” said the agent, with loud, louder, loudest in his utterance of the word. “I’ve lost; I’m nearly ruined. Oh, it has been a horrible day. Here, I’m ill. I must have a little brandy, I’m ready to faint.”
“Sorry for you, sir,” said Mark, as the ghastly-looking man turned to go back across the hall.
“Same here, sir,” said Jane, with a grave curtsey; “but I don’t see as it’ll do you any good now you’re ruined to try and ruin us.”
“And if I was you, sir, I wouldn’t touch another drop, sir,” put in Mark. “I’ve seen chaps in your state before after a race—chaps who have lost every penny—go and fly to the drink.”
Trimmer gazed vacantly at the speaker, passed his tongue over his parched lips, and said feebly—
“Do I—do I look as if I had been drinking, Mark?”
“That’s so, sir; and as if, seeing what a stew you’re in over your losses, it hadn’t took a bit of effect upon you.”
“No, no,” said the agent, slowly. “I don’t feel as if I had had more than a glass.”
“And all the time, sir, as the conductors say, you’re ‘full up’; and if you put any more on it you’ll soon find it out, and come on with a fit of the horrors, same as some poor beggars have before there’s an inquest.”
The agent shuddered, and unconsciously began to play with the extinguisher of the plated candlestick, lifting it off the cone upon which it rested, putting it back, and ending by lifting it off quickly, and, as if to illustrate the groom’s meaning, putting out the light.
“Pst! Hark! What’s that?” cried Jane, excitedly. “Here they are!”
Trimmer started violently. “Oh,” he cried, “I can’t meet anybody now. Mark—Jane—don’t say that I have been out I shall not—tell her ladyship—a word.”
“Thank ye for nothing,” said Mark, mockingly, as the door closed upon the departing agent. “How the dickens did he do that?” he added, for a flower-pot in the conservatory fell with a crash upon the encaustic tiled floor, and Jane uttered a gasp.
But the next instant the front door-bell was rung violently.
“Come with me, Mark,” whispered the girl, and they both hurried into the hall, the groom to open the door, and Jane to busy herself with trembling hands striking matches to light a couple of the chamber candlesticks standing ready upon the slab.
Chapter Twenty Two.In the Fog.“Murder! Now for a row,” thought the groom, as, to his horror, he saw in the moonlight, instead of the barouche and pair with Lady Lisle inside, the dogcart, down from which Sir Hilton was stepping, helped by Syd, while a second dogcart was coming up the drive with a lady on the seat and a big heavy man leading the horse, and the gate clicking loudly as it swung to and fro.“Beg pardon, Sir Hilton,” cried Mark, eagerly. “Didn’t know you meant to come back to-night. Thought I’d run over and see if all was right at home.”“Humph!” grunted the baronet, entering the porch and reeling slightly as he raised one hand to his head.“Steady, uncle!” cried Syd. “Mind the cob, Mark. Lead him away, but come back and take Mr Simpkins’s nag too.”The boy turned to meet the big, burly man, who drew his vehicle up to the door and stopped to look back.“Can you help her down, youngster—my boy, I mean?”“Yes, all right, sir.”“I can jump down, dad,” cried the occupant of the seat. “Now, Syd, catch me; look out!”The boy’s intentions were admirable, and the young lady light; but, as Mark afterwards said to Jane, with a chuckle, when he knew all, “Master Syd wasn’t up to her weight.” For, as the young wife alighted, she was caught, but the catcher staggered back, and would have fallen but for the lady’s agility, for she not only saved herself but clung to the boy’s hands, so that he only sat down on the steps.“Houp-la!” she cried, striking a little attitude.“Hullo! Hurt?” growled Simpkins.“No, he’s all right, dad. Ain’t you, Syd dear?”“Hurt, no,” cried the boy. “But those stones are hard. Come along in.”“Wait a moment, my gal,” growled the trainer, and he drew his child aside.“What’s the matter, dad?”“Nothing. I’m going round to see the mare put up and fed. I shall be in directly. But look here, don’t you commit yourself before I come.”“Who’s going to?” said the girl, merrily, as she seemed to take the nocturnal excursion as a capital bit of fun.“Well, I only warn you, my gal. Mind, you’re as good as they are. Don’t you let ’em begin sitting upon you because you’ve got a fine chance.”“All right, dad. I’m to be a different sort of furniture from that.”“I dunno what you mean, my gal—some of your larks, I suppose. But just you mind; don’t put it in these here words, but when my orty fine lady begins on you, just you say to her, ses you, ‘None o’ that! I’m as good as you.’”“What’s he saying, darling?” cried Syd, impatiently.“Not much, young gentleman; only telling her to mind now you have brought her home as she has her rights.”Syd caught his young wife’s hands and hurried her into the hall, and from thence into the drawing-room, where he found his uncle impatiently walking up and down.“Oh, it’s you, Syd,” said the baronet, impatiently. “Call Jane, there’s a confounded cat in the conservatory. Just knocked down one of the pots.”“All right, uncle,” said the boy. “You sit down there, Molly,” he whispered, “and look here, you must help me when your father comes in. He would drive over, and kept on insisting to me that he couldn’t let me come alone with uncle; but it was only to show off before auntie.”“Yes, I know; he’s been preaching to me. Where is she?”“Sitting up for us somewhere, pet,” said Syd. “Here she comes. Back me up, and be nice,” he whispered, “and then make your guv’nor take you home. You know how.”“Yes, Syd dear,” whispered the girl; “but I’m awful tired, you know.”“Pst! Oh, it’s you, Jane.”“Yes, sir. I’ll light that lamp if you’ll stand aside.”“Oh, yes, do. It’s beastly dark.”Jane began lighting up and stealing glances full of admiration as she handled match after match slowly, every glance affording her satisfaction, especially when the hood of the cloak Molly wore was thrown back and the girl gave her a pleasant, admiring smile, and showed a pair of laughing eyes and a set of pearly teeth.“Why, it’s master’s biking young lady,” said Jane to herself, in astonishment. “There’ll be a row after this.”“Where’s auntie, Jane?” said Syd, suddenly.“Not come back from Tilborough yet, sir,” replied the girl, snappishly.Sir Hilton, who was still walking up and down, turned sharply at the words “auntie” and “Tilborough”; but he said nothing, only passed his hand in a fidgety way over his forehead and continued his wild-beast-like walk, muttering every now and then to himself, till he stopped suddenly close to the young couple, who were whispering together.“Tackle him directly he comes in, pet,” Syd was saying.“But dad’s so obstinate, Syd. You give him a good talking-to. Don’t be afraid.”“I’m not—not a bit; but I don’t want to have a row just at present.”“But it’s got to be done, Syd dear. You have a good go at dad. Tell him it’s of no use for him to kick, and he must make the best of it.”“Yes, yes, I will, pet; but in the middle of the night like this? I want to get uncle to bed. He’s very queer yet.”“Yes, he does look groggy,” said the girl, innocently; “but you needn’t be in such a hurry to get rid of me now I am here.”“I am not, darling. I should like to keep you here—always; only uncle isn’t fit to talk to yet.”“He does look dazy. I say, Syd, he does understand that we are married?”“No, pet, he hasn’t an idea.”“What a shame!” cried the girl. “You said you’d tell him at once.”“Look at him! What’s the good of telling him now, when every word would roll off him like water from a duck’s back, and not one go in?”“I don’t know; try. If you don’t, I shall. There, I will,” cried the girl, and starting up before Syd could stop her, she planted herself theatrically before Sir Hilton, and with an arch look, and her eyes twinkling, she laid a hand upon the baronet’s arm, saying—“Please, Sir Hilton, shall I do?”He stared at her wonderingly for some moments.“Eh?” he said. “Do? Who is it?”“Miss Simpkins, Sir Hilton. You know—La Sylphide.”Sir Hilton laid his left hand upon his forehead, and gazed at the girl thoughtfully.“La Sylphide?” he said at last. “Did she win?”“Yes, Sir Hilton, by three lengths,” cried the girl, eagerly; “but, please, don’t you know me?”“No,” said Sir Hilton, shaking his head. “No.”“There, I told you so,” whispered Syd. “He’s quite off his nut.”“But I’m your niece, Sir Hilton,” persisted the girl, pressing up to him, as if asking for an avuncular kiss; “and I’m Mrs Sydney Smithers.”“Yes,” said Sir Hilton, thoughtfully, as Syd took his young wife’s announcement as his cue to rise, and stood by her ready to receive a share of the coming blessing—or the other thing.“Thank you, yes,” said Sir Hilton, dreamily. “Yes, I know you now. La Sylphide, the mare, won, and you are La Sylphide too, the pretty little girl at the big music-hall who called herself after my mare. Thank you, Miss Simpkins. I hope you won a pair of gloves.”“Oh, dear!” cried the girl, pouting; “he don’t understand a bit. I suppose, Syd, we must wait till he comes round. But do you think it was our champagne that made him so ill? Oh, here’s dad. Daddy dear, Sir Hilton’s quite off his head still.”“Yes, my gal, I know.”“But do you think our champagne was bad enough to make him as queer as this?”“What!” roared the trainer, with his face turning mottled. “No, cert’n’y not. Hold your tongue! Well, Sir Hilton, how are you now?”“Never better, Sam! never better. A little thick in the head only. You need not trouble any more about me.”“Oh, but I do, Sir Hilton.”“Nonsense, man!” said the baronet, drawing himself up. “I’m quite right. I can’t understand how it was you persisted in coming, and bringing your charming daughter with you all this way, and at so late an hour. Why, it must be getting on for ten.”“For ten, Sir Hilton?” cried Simpkins, with a chuckle, and, to the baronet’s surprise, he dropped into a lounge.“Don’t scold father, uncle,” said the girl, with a little emphasis on the last word, whose effect was to make the gentleman addressed lay his fidgety left hand once more upon his forehead. “I wanted to come, you know.”“Eh? Very good of you,” said Sir Hilton, politely; “and I shall make a point of telling Lady Lisle how kind and attentive you were at your house during my little indisposition. It was the sun, I feel sure.”“Ay, you’ve hit it now, Sir Hilton. That’s what it was—the sun.”“Yes, the sun,” assented Sir Hilton, before turning again smilingly to Molly. “Yes,” he repeated, “I feel sure that Lady Lisle will be most grateful, and that she will call upon you to express her gratitude for the kindness of La Sylphide.”“Oh! Sir Hilton—” began Molly; but she stopped, for he went off, wandering strangely again at the mention of that word, but only to be brought up short by the trainer.“There, what did I say, Sir Hilton? You were not fit to go, but you would insist upon coming home.”“Ah, yes,” cried the baronet, recollecting himself again. “I remember now—I was ill—in bed—there was the doctor—I grew better, and wanted to come home, and the landlord insisted upon bringing his little nurse.”“That’s right, Sir Hilton.”“But I didn’t want him, and I don’t want the little nurse; do I, Syd?”“No, uncle, of course not. But I do, darling,” whispered the boy, nudging his wife.“Quite right, my boy. So now, Mr Simpkins, I thank you once more. Will you have the goodness to take your daughter and go?”“No, Sir Hilton, with all due respect to you,” said the trainer, drawing himself up; “seeing how things has happened, and what it all means to me and mine now, I say as you ain’t fit to be left. Is he, my dear?”“No, dad. I think he looks very ill.”“That’s right, my dear,” whispered the trainer. “Here you are, and here you’re going to stop.”Sir Hilton had turned angrily away at the trainer’s reply, and went out into the hall, followed by Syd.“What impudence! Not ill a bit now, only a little thick in the head. Hang him! Let him stop, Syd; but what about that girl? I don’t know what your aunt will say.”“No, uncle; no more do I.”Sir Hilton pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “Here, confound it! My watch has stopped. What time—”Before he could finish his question the clock began to answer by chiming twice.“Half-past what?” cried Sir Hilton, staring at the clock-face, and then passing his hand over his eyes impatiently. “I say, here, Syd, my eyes are not clear to-night. What time is it?”“Half-past three, uncle.”“Half-past what? Here, I’m getting mixed. Why is it half-past three? What has the clock been gaining like that for? Here, Syd, why don’t you answer, sir? I can’t remember. What does it all mean?”“I think it’s because your head’s a bit wrong, uncle,” said the boy, shrinking.“I think it’s because you’re an impudent young rascal, sir,” cried Sir Hilton in a passion. “Ah! I remember now; I promised you a good thrashing for—for—”He stopped short, and looked vacantly at his nephew for some seconds. Then—“Here, what the deuce did I promise you a good thrashing for, sir?”“A thrashing, uncle? Let me see—”“Bah!” cried Sir Hilton, turning angrily away and making for the drawing-room again, to find the trainer mopping his forehead where he sat, and Molly leaning back in the corner of the quilted couch dropping off to sleep, but ready to start up at his coming.“Here, you,” he cried, “that boy Syd’s an idiot.”“That I’m sure he’s not,” cried the girl, indignantly, “and you oughtn’t to call him so, even if you are his uncle. Syd!”“You tell me, then,” said Sir Hilton. “What did I—Oh, hang it all!” he cried, “I can’t remember a bit.”“That you can’t, Sir Hilton,” said the trainer, nervously, as Sir Hilton stared at him blankly, pressing his hands to his head. “It’s just what I told you, Sir Hilton. What you want is a good night’s rest, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”“But I feel better now—ever so much. What should I want to go to bed for? Why, I’ve only just got up.”“Oh, dear!” groaned the trainer to himself. “I give it him too strong; I give it him too strong, and it was nothing like what one might ha’ give a horse.”“Look here,” cried Sir Hilton, making as if to fix his visitor with a pointing finger, which he kept in motion following imaginary movements on the part of Simpkins. “I wish to goodness you’d sit still. What the dickens do you keep bobbing about like that for? What did you say—go to bed?”“Yes, Sir Hilton.”“But why—why? Didn’t I just get up?”“’Bout ’nour ago, Sir Hilton. You see, we’ve driv’ over here since. You would get up and come.”“Of course! Home—to my wife. That’s right; I can see that quite plain, and—Here you two on the sofa, what are you doing? You, Syd, let that young lady alone, sir. Sit up, my dear. It isn’t delicate for you to be going to sleep on his shoulder like that.”“Yes, it is—now,” whimpered the girl, half crying. “I can’t help it. I’m so dreadfully sleepy.”“Of course you are, of course. Poor little thing! Half-past three! Why, you ought to have been in bed hours ago. It was shameful of your father to bring you here. But—but—but,” cried the unfortunate man, staring and gesticulating fiercely, “why doesn’t someone tell me?”“I did tell yer, Sir Hilton. The hosses was put in the dogcarts when you would come, and I’ve seen you safe. Can’t you understand now?”“No, no; not a bit. Here, Syd!”“Yes, uncle.”“Come here.”“Yes, uncle. There, lean your head back, Molly, if you will go to sleep.”“I can’t help it, Syd dear; and I’m so cold.”“Here, pull that over you, then,” whispered the boy hastily, and, as the poor girl sank back, he seized and gave the great silk-lined skin a hasty twitch which swept it right over his young wife. “Did you call me, uncle?”“Yes, of course. I want Mark and that girl.”“What girl, uncle?” cried the lad, indignantly.“What girl, sir? Jane, the maid. Where are they?”“Gone to the pantry, I s’pose, uncle,” said Syd, giving a glance in the direction of the couch and seeing nothing now but the hump of white, woolly skin. “Gone to bed, p’raps. I say, uncle; do go too. You’ll be able to think better when you wake up.”“Wake up!” said Sir Hilton, musingly—“remember? Yes; something about a boy—no, a girl on a bicycle. I did, didn’t I?—talk to a girl—or see one on a bicycle—no, it was in pale blue and scarlet I did, didn’t I, Sam?”“Yes, sir; I think you did—to my gal there.”Sir Hilton looked in the direction in which the trainer pointed, and saw the Polar bear skin; nothing more.“Where?” he said vacantly, as he turned his eyes back upon the trainer, who was wiping the drops again from his steaming face. “Your girl—Mary Ann Simpkins—La Sylphide?”“Oh, pore chap, he’s quite off his head!” groaned the trainer. “It means a ’sylum, and if old Trimmer splits—”“Ha!” cried Sir Hilton, in a tone which made the trainer spring to his feet, staring wildly at the speaker.“Here, uncle, don’t go on like that,” said Syd, soothingly. “I wish old Granton were here with a straight waistcoat. Here, Sam Simpkins help me! It’s all your fault. Don’t seize a fellow like that, uncle? Help, Sam! He’s got ’em horrid, and it must be with the stuff he had in your place.”“Now, don’t you go and say such a thing as that, young gen’leman,” cried the trainer, fiercely, as he tried to take hold of Sir Hilton’s arm. “Here, let’s get him to bed, and you’d better send for your doctor.”“Be quiet, both of you,” cried Sir Hilton, shaking himself free. “My head’s clear now, but I must have been ill; my head has been horribly mixed up. Yes, I recollect now; but speak low. Don’t make a noise, or you’ll be having her ladyship down.”“I believe she has been listening all the time. Oh, uncle, there will be such a scene in the morning.”“Yes, my boy,” said Sir Hilton, nervously; “but we must hush it up. Yes, that’s it; I promised Lady Tilborough I’d ride her mare.”“Yes, uncle; that’s right.”“And somehow I couldn’t get to the saddling paddock.”“Why, you’re going back again now, uncle.”“No, my boy. I can see it all clearly enough now. I couldn’t get there after that champagne—”Simpkins had hard work to suppress a groan.“Some little syren of a girl got hold of me and kept me back so that I lost the race, Lady Tilborough’s money, and my four thousand pounds.”“Don’t, uncle! Pull yourself together. You’re sliding back again.”“Yes; stop him,” cried the trainer, seizing his victim and shaking him hard. “Don’t go back, Sir Hilton; if you don’t come round now, see what it means for me and my pore gal.”“Oh, uncle, you’re going off again,” said Syd, excitedly. “Do hold on to something, and don’t keep sliding back. Try—try. Now give your head a good shake to make it work. Here, Sam Simpkins, don’t you think we might give him a dose of spirits to wind him up?”“No, no,” cried the trainer, excitedly. “With a head like this there is no knowing what might happen to him.”“But I can’t let him stop like this. There, don’t waggle your head any more, uncle; try if you can remember now.”“No; nothing but the bees, my boy.”“The bees?”“Yes, my boy, and the rushing after the poll. Oh, yes, I’m beginning to recollect now. The election, and the race against Watcombe, the brewer.”“Race?” cried Syd. “That’s the right clue, uncle. Now you’re beginning to go again. That shaking did it. Now hold tight to the ‘race.’”“Yes, my boy; I remember all right now; heading the poll and leaving the brewer nowhere.”“No, no; the race, uncle—the race.”“Of course, my boy. It’s all coming back now. That bad champagne and the buzzing of the bees.”“Oh, dear!” groaned the trainer; “he don’t forget that, and he’s off again.”“To be sure,” cried Sir Hilton, eagerly. “I recollect. It was ever so long ago, and the speaker was—”“No, no, uncle; you’re getting mixed again. The starter.”“No, my boy, the speaker in the chair, and the bell was ringing.”“That’s right, uncle, to clear the course. Now you’re all right!”“Yes, now I’m all right, my boy. I was in and there was a division. I rushed through the Lobby, and out into the fresh air. The mare was ready. Someone gave me a leg-up, and I was all excitement for the race.”“That’s your sort, uncle,” cried Syd, as with his eyes fixed on one of the moonlit windows, Sir Hilton stopped, panting as if out of breath. “Bravo! Stick to the rage. He’s coming round fast now, Sam.”“No, no; look at him. He’s as mad as a hatter.”“Yes,” cried Sir Hilton; “then, before I knew where we were, and without waiting for the starter, away we went. Parliament Street was passed in a stride—the mob scattered right and left. Charing Cross and the lions—Cockspur Street—Pall Mall—whirr—buzz—away we went, with the bees swarming round my head. Just at the corner by the clubs I wrenched her head round, and she bounded up Saint James’s Street. A drag to the left, and we were in Piccadilly. A road-car was in the way, but she cleared it in a bound. Cabs strewed the earth, for the strike was over; but she took them all in her stride as we dashed on, just catching a glimpse of the houses to the right—the Green Park to the left. Then, clearing a penny ’bus at Hyde Park Corner, we nearly rushed into the hospital doors. Again I wrenched her head, turning in my saddle in time to see a passenger on the knifeboard pick up his hat. Then down Constitution Hill we swept as if gliding along a chute. In my wild excitement, as we darted by the Palace, I yelled out, ‘God save the King!’ But he was not at home, and we were urging on our wild career past the barracks, along the Bird-cage Walk. The ducks whirred up from the pool, the people shrieked, as we scattered perambulators, nursemaids, and children, flying like leaves upon the wind. Storey’s Gate was closed, but the mare laughed—a loud, weird laugh—as she cleared it, and we dropped in Great George Street, where a newsboy yelled ‘winners!’ with the Parliament House in sight. ‘We win—we win!’ I cried, for it was the goal. ‘Give her her head!’ the people yelled, but the mare took it. She stretched her neck right into infinite space, my silk swelled out like a bubble, and feeling that I must steer now I drew on the reins, hand over hand—hand over hand—to feel her head; but it was half a mile away. At last I got a bite. She took the bait—the bit in her teeth, and I struck, turned her, and we dashed through Palace Yard again, straight for the great Hall doors. ‘M.P. mustn’t pass!’ shouted an inspector, throwing out his arms. ‘Head of the poll!’ I yelled, and the mare went through him like a flash, as we reached the Lobby once more. There was the straight run in, and holding her well in hand I lifted her over the gangway and settled down to win. How they cheered! Opposition to right of me, Government to left of me, and the Speaker ahead of me, waving me on. ‘The Ayes have it! The Noes! The Ayes! The Noes! They volleyed, they thundered. ’Vide—’vide—’vide—’vide!’ and the mare ’vided them as we still tore on, nearer and nearer, till the curls in the Speaker’s wig grew clear, and then the whites of his eyes. Nearer and nearer in the mad excitement of the race, till with one final rush we passed the Mace, the Irish party rising as one man, and ran past the winning-post right into Parliament to the roaring of their wild hurroo!”“Bravo! Hurroo!” shouted Syd, as his uncle stopped, panting heavily again. “That was how you did it. You won; only you’ve got it a bit mixed. But you’re coming round. I say, you feel ever so much better, don’t you, for getting rid of that?”“Oh, it’s all over, my lad,” cried the trainer. “Did you ever hear the like?”“It’s only excitement,” said Syd. “Look at him; he’s calming down now beautifully. You see, he’d got two things on his brain—the race and the election—and having been a bit screwed with the bad stuff you let him have, he naturally got himself a bit mixed.”“Mixed?” said Sir Hilton, turning upon the boy sharply. “Wasn’t I talking about something just now? But look, look at that man Simpkins rolling his eyes about. Is he going mad?”“Not a bit o’ it, Sir Hilton; it’s you as is mad. Ain’t it enough as I’ve lost what I have?”“You lost too?”“Yes, uncle,” cried Syd, shaking him; “but you haven’t. You won—for all of us. I turned that ten you gave me into a century.”“I—won?” stammered Sir Hilton, with his hands pressing his temples.“To be sure you did. You were sitting all of a jelly, and the game was nearly up; but Dr Jack Granton gave you a drench, just as if you’d been a horse. Then we got you into the air, and you came round directly, and ran between us to the saddling paddock, where we set you on to the mare just in time, and you led the field from the beginning. You won in a canter. Can’t you recollect?”“No, nothing.”“Don’t you remember nearly tumbling off the horse after you’d passed the post?”“No.”“Nor getting into the scales, saddle and bridle and all?”“No; nothing whatever.”“Oh, Sam Simpkins, you must have given him a dose!”“Yes, I remember that—that champagne. It did taste very queer and strange,” cried Sir Hilton, turning upon the trainer, whose red face looked piebald with sickly white, so strangely was it mottled.“I’d had it a long time, Sir Hilton,” stammered the man. “P’raps it was a bit off.”“Oh, hang that!” cried Sir Hilton. “Tell me again, Syd, my boy; did I win?”“In a canter, I tell you, uncle,” cried the boy.“Ha!” sighed Sir Hilton, with a look of intense relief. “But it must be kept from your aunt. She has such—”“Kept from auntie?” cried Syd, staring. “Why, she knows all.”“Knows all? You’ve told her?”“No-o-o-o. Don’t you remember? No, you recollect nothing. She got to know you were off to ride somehow, and came after us to the hotel.”“What?”“That’s right, uncle. Lady Lisle came and saw him, didn’t she, Sam?”“Yes, sir,” growled Sam, still mopping his face.“But not dressed—not in my silk and boots?”“Oh, yes, uncle. Didn’t she, Sam?”“Yes, sir; that’s right enough.”“Horror!” groaned Sir Hilton. “She’ll never forgive me.”“Worse than that, uncle. She saw that you were tight.”“You young villain, it’s not true!” roared Sir Hilton. “How dare you say that!”“Because it’s true,” cried Syd, lightly. “Isn’t it, Sam?”“Yes, sir,” faltered the man. “Wery screwed indeed.”“Tell me the rest,” groaned Sir Hilton in despair.“Fainted away, uncle; but I didn’t stop to see. I had to look to you and the race. But afterwards Dr Jack Granton went back to the hotel and physicked her. Didn’t he, Sam?”“Yes, sir, ’long o’ Lady Tilborough; and they took her away in her ladyship’s carriage to Oakleigh.”“And then brought her home?”“I s’pose so, uncle. I dunno. I stuck to you. So did Sam.”“Thank you, my boy—thank you, Simpkins. I’ll talk to you another time. But, you see, I’m quite clear and well now.”“Yes, Sir Hilton—thank goodness!” said the trainer, hoarsely.“Then, now, you had better have a glass of something and drive—What’s that?”“Wheels, uncle. There goes the gate.”The click, click, click came very plainly, and the next minute there were the steps of Jane and Mark in the hall.“Stop a moment,” cried Sir Hilton. “What is it? Who is it come?”“Her ladyship, I think, Sir Hilton,” cried Jane.“What! I thought she was at home.”“No, sir. She went to Tilborough after you.”“Uncle,” cried Syd, “whatever shall we say?”He shrank back with his uncle into the drawing-room, and the door swung to, while the next moment they heard the front door open and Lady Lisle’s voice.“Has Sir Hilton returned?”“Yes, my lady,” replied Jane.“Ha!”Lady Lisle hurried into the drawing-room with stately stride, but she looked round in vain, and faced Lady Tilborough and Doctor Granton, who had followed her in, for the late occupants of the room had disappeared.So vast is woman’s power over man.
“Murder! Now for a row,” thought the groom, as, to his horror, he saw in the moonlight, instead of the barouche and pair with Lady Lisle inside, the dogcart, down from which Sir Hilton was stepping, helped by Syd, while a second dogcart was coming up the drive with a lady on the seat and a big heavy man leading the horse, and the gate clicking loudly as it swung to and fro.
“Beg pardon, Sir Hilton,” cried Mark, eagerly. “Didn’t know you meant to come back to-night. Thought I’d run over and see if all was right at home.”
“Humph!” grunted the baronet, entering the porch and reeling slightly as he raised one hand to his head.
“Steady, uncle!” cried Syd. “Mind the cob, Mark. Lead him away, but come back and take Mr Simpkins’s nag too.”
The boy turned to meet the big, burly man, who drew his vehicle up to the door and stopped to look back.
“Can you help her down, youngster—my boy, I mean?”
“Yes, all right, sir.”
“I can jump down, dad,” cried the occupant of the seat. “Now, Syd, catch me; look out!”
The boy’s intentions were admirable, and the young lady light; but, as Mark afterwards said to Jane, with a chuckle, when he knew all, “Master Syd wasn’t up to her weight.” For, as the young wife alighted, she was caught, but the catcher staggered back, and would have fallen but for the lady’s agility, for she not only saved herself but clung to the boy’s hands, so that he only sat down on the steps.
“Houp-la!” she cried, striking a little attitude.
“Hullo! Hurt?” growled Simpkins.
“No, he’s all right, dad. Ain’t you, Syd dear?”
“Hurt, no,” cried the boy. “But those stones are hard. Come along in.”
“Wait a moment, my gal,” growled the trainer, and he drew his child aside.
“What’s the matter, dad?”
“Nothing. I’m going round to see the mare put up and fed. I shall be in directly. But look here, don’t you commit yourself before I come.”
“Who’s going to?” said the girl, merrily, as she seemed to take the nocturnal excursion as a capital bit of fun.
“Well, I only warn you, my gal. Mind, you’re as good as they are. Don’t you let ’em begin sitting upon you because you’ve got a fine chance.”
“All right, dad. I’m to be a different sort of furniture from that.”
“I dunno what you mean, my gal—some of your larks, I suppose. But just you mind; don’t put it in these here words, but when my orty fine lady begins on you, just you say to her, ses you, ‘None o’ that! I’m as good as you.’”
“What’s he saying, darling?” cried Syd, impatiently.
“Not much, young gentleman; only telling her to mind now you have brought her home as she has her rights.”
Syd caught his young wife’s hands and hurried her into the hall, and from thence into the drawing-room, where he found his uncle impatiently walking up and down.
“Oh, it’s you, Syd,” said the baronet, impatiently. “Call Jane, there’s a confounded cat in the conservatory. Just knocked down one of the pots.”
“All right, uncle,” said the boy. “You sit down there, Molly,” he whispered, “and look here, you must help me when your father comes in. He would drive over, and kept on insisting to me that he couldn’t let me come alone with uncle; but it was only to show off before auntie.”
“Yes, I know; he’s been preaching to me. Where is she?”
“Sitting up for us somewhere, pet,” said Syd. “Here she comes. Back me up, and be nice,” he whispered, “and then make your guv’nor take you home. You know how.”
“Yes, Syd dear,” whispered the girl; “but I’m awful tired, you know.”
“Pst! Oh, it’s you, Jane.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll light that lamp if you’ll stand aside.”
“Oh, yes, do. It’s beastly dark.”
Jane began lighting up and stealing glances full of admiration as she handled match after match slowly, every glance affording her satisfaction, especially when the hood of the cloak Molly wore was thrown back and the girl gave her a pleasant, admiring smile, and showed a pair of laughing eyes and a set of pearly teeth.
“Why, it’s master’s biking young lady,” said Jane to herself, in astonishment. “There’ll be a row after this.”
“Where’s auntie, Jane?” said Syd, suddenly.
“Not come back from Tilborough yet, sir,” replied the girl, snappishly.
Sir Hilton, who was still walking up and down, turned sharply at the words “auntie” and “Tilborough”; but he said nothing, only passed his hand in a fidgety way over his forehead and continued his wild-beast-like walk, muttering every now and then to himself, till he stopped suddenly close to the young couple, who were whispering together.
“Tackle him directly he comes in, pet,” Syd was saying.
“But dad’s so obstinate, Syd. You give him a good talking-to. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not—not a bit; but I don’t want to have a row just at present.”
“But it’s got to be done, Syd dear. You have a good go at dad. Tell him it’s of no use for him to kick, and he must make the best of it.”
“Yes, yes, I will, pet; but in the middle of the night like this? I want to get uncle to bed. He’s very queer yet.”
“Yes, he does look groggy,” said the girl, innocently; “but you needn’t be in such a hurry to get rid of me now I am here.”
“I am not, darling. I should like to keep you here—always; only uncle isn’t fit to talk to yet.”
“He does look dazy. I say, Syd, he does understand that we are married?”
“No, pet, he hasn’t an idea.”
“What a shame!” cried the girl. “You said you’d tell him at once.”
“Look at him! What’s the good of telling him now, when every word would roll off him like water from a duck’s back, and not one go in?”
“I don’t know; try. If you don’t, I shall. There, I will,” cried the girl, and starting up before Syd could stop her, she planted herself theatrically before Sir Hilton, and with an arch look, and her eyes twinkling, she laid a hand upon the baronet’s arm, saying—
“Please, Sir Hilton, shall I do?”
He stared at her wonderingly for some moments.
“Eh?” he said. “Do? Who is it?”
“Miss Simpkins, Sir Hilton. You know—La Sylphide.”
Sir Hilton laid his left hand upon his forehead, and gazed at the girl thoughtfully.
“La Sylphide?” he said at last. “Did she win?”
“Yes, Sir Hilton, by three lengths,” cried the girl, eagerly; “but, please, don’t you know me?”
“No,” said Sir Hilton, shaking his head. “No.”
“There, I told you so,” whispered Syd. “He’s quite off his nut.”
“But I’m your niece, Sir Hilton,” persisted the girl, pressing up to him, as if asking for an avuncular kiss; “and I’m Mrs Sydney Smithers.”
“Yes,” said Sir Hilton, thoughtfully, as Syd took his young wife’s announcement as his cue to rise, and stood by her ready to receive a share of the coming blessing—or the other thing.
“Thank you, yes,” said Sir Hilton, dreamily. “Yes, I know you now. La Sylphide, the mare, won, and you are La Sylphide too, the pretty little girl at the big music-hall who called herself after my mare. Thank you, Miss Simpkins. I hope you won a pair of gloves.”
“Oh, dear!” cried the girl, pouting; “he don’t understand a bit. I suppose, Syd, we must wait till he comes round. But do you think it was our champagne that made him so ill? Oh, here’s dad. Daddy dear, Sir Hilton’s quite off his head still.”
“Yes, my gal, I know.”
“But do you think our champagne was bad enough to make him as queer as this?”
“What!” roared the trainer, with his face turning mottled. “No, cert’n’y not. Hold your tongue! Well, Sir Hilton, how are you now?”
“Never better, Sam! never better. A little thick in the head only. You need not trouble any more about me.”
“Oh, but I do, Sir Hilton.”
“Nonsense, man!” said the baronet, drawing himself up. “I’m quite right. I can’t understand how it was you persisted in coming, and bringing your charming daughter with you all this way, and at so late an hour. Why, it must be getting on for ten.”
“For ten, Sir Hilton?” cried Simpkins, with a chuckle, and, to the baronet’s surprise, he dropped into a lounge.
“Don’t scold father, uncle,” said the girl, with a little emphasis on the last word, whose effect was to make the gentleman addressed lay his fidgety left hand once more upon his forehead. “I wanted to come, you know.”
“Eh? Very good of you,” said Sir Hilton, politely; “and I shall make a point of telling Lady Lisle how kind and attentive you were at your house during my little indisposition. It was the sun, I feel sure.”
“Ay, you’ve hit it now, Sir Hilton. That’s what it was—the sun.”
“Yes, the sun,” assented Sir Hilton, before turning again smilingly to Molly. “Yes,” he repeated, “I feel sure that Lady Lisle will be most grateful, and that she will call upon you to express her gratitude for the kindness of La Sylphide.”
“Oh! Sir Hilton—” began Molly; but she stopped, for he went off, wandering strangely again at the mention of that word, but only to be brought up short by the trainer.
“There, what did I say, Sir Hilton? You were not fit to go, but you would insist upon coming home.”
“Ah, yes,” cried the baronet, recollecting himself again. “I remember now—I was ill—in bed—there was the doctor—I grew better, and wanted to come home, and the landlord insisted upon bringing his little nurse.”
“That’s right, Sir Hilton.”
“But I didn’t want him, and I don’t want the little nurse; do I, Syd?”
“No, uncle, of course not. But I do, darling,” whispered the boy, nudging his wife.
“Quite right, my boy. So now, Mr Simpkins, I thank you once more. Will you have the goodness to take your daughter and go?”
“No, Sir Hilton, with all due respect to you,” said the trainer, drawing himself up; “seeing how things has happened, and what it all means to me and mine now, I say as you ain’t fit to be left. Is he, my dear?”
“No, dad. I think he looks very ill.”
“That’s right, my dear,” whispered the trainer. “Here you are, and here you’re going to stop.”
Sir Hilton had turned angrily away at the trainer’s reply, and went out into the hall, followed by Syd.
“What impudence! Not ill a bit now, only a little thick in the head. Hang him! Let him stop, Syd; but what about that girl? I don’t know what your aunt will say.”
“No, uncle; no more do I.”
Sir Hilton pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “Here, confound it! My watch has stopped. What time—”
Before he could finish his question the clock began to answer by chiming twice.
“Half-past what?” cried Sir Hilton, staring at the clock-face, and then passing his hand over his eyes impatiently. “I say, here, Syd, my eyes are not clear to-night. What time is it?”
“Half-past three, uncle.”
“Half-past what? Here, I’m getting mixed. Why is it half-past three? What has the clock been gaining like that for? Here, Syd, why don’t you answer, sir? I can’t remember. What does it all mean?”
“I think it’s because your head’s a bit wrong, uncle,” said the boy, shrinking.
“I think it’s because you’re an impudent young rascal, sir,” cried Sir Hilton in a passion. “Ah! I remember now; I promised you a good thrashing for—for—”
He stopped short, and looked vacantly at his nephew for some seconds. Then—
“Here, what the deuce did I promise you a good thrashing for, sir?”
“A thrashing, uncle? Let me see—”
“Bah!” cried Sir Hilton, turning angrily away and making for the drawing-room again, to find the trainer mopping his forehead where he sat, and Molly leaning back in the corner of the quilted couch dropping off to sleep, but ready to start up at his coming.
“Here, you,” he cried, “that boy Syd’s an idiot.”
“That I’m sure he’s not,” cried the girl, indignantly, “and you oughtn’t to call him so, even if you are his uncle. Syd!”
“You tell me, then,” said Sir Hilton. “What did I—Oh, hang it all!” he cried, “I can’t remember a bit.”
“That you can’t, Sir Hilton,” said the trainer, nervously, as Sir Hilton stared at him blankly, pressing his hands to his head. “It’s just what I told you, Sir Hilton. What you want is a good night’s rest, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“But I feel better now—ever so much. What should I want to go to bed for? Why, I’ve only just got up.”
“Oh, dear!” groaned the trainer to himself. “I give it him too strong; I give it him too strong, and it was nothing like what one might ha’ give a horse.”
“Look here,” cried Sir Hilton, making as if to fix his visitor with a pointing finger, which he kept in motion following imaginary movements on the part of Simpkins. “I wish to goodness you’d sit still. What the dickens do you keep bobbing about like that for? What did you say—go to bed?”
“Yes, Sir Hilton.”
“But why—why? Didn’t I just get up?”
“’Bout ’nour ago, Sir Hilton. You see, we’ve driv’ over here since. You would get up and come.”
“Of course! Home—to my wife. That’s right; I can see that quite plain, and—Here you two on the sofa, what are you doing? You, Syd, let that young lady alone, sir. Sit up, my dear. It isn’t delicate for you to be going to sleep on his shoulder like that.”
“Yes, it is—now,” whimpered the girl, half crying. “I can’t help it. I’m so dreadfully sleepy.”
“Of course you are, of course. Poor little thing! Half-past three! Why, you ought to have been in bed hours ago. It was shameful of your father to bring you here. But—but—but,” cried the unfortunate man, staring and gesticulating fiercely, “why doesn’t someone tell me?”
“I did tell yer, Sir Hilton. The hosses was put in the dogcarts when you would come, and I’ve seen you safe. Can’t you understand now?”
“No, no; not a bit. Here, Syd!”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Come here.”
“Yes, uncle. There, lean your head back, Molly, if you will go to sleep.”
“I can’t help it, Syd dear; and I’m so cold.”
“Here, pull that over you, then,” whispered the boy hastily, and, as the poor girl sank back, he seized and gave the great silk-lined skin a hasty twitch which swept it right over his young wife. “Did you call me, uncle?”
“Yes, of course. I want Mark and that girl.”
“What girl, uncle?” cried the lad, indignantly.
“What girl, sir? Jane, the maid. Where are they?”
“Gone to the pantry, I s’pose, uncle,” said Syd, giving a glance in the direction of the couch and seeing nothing now but the hump of white, woolly skin. “Gone to bed, p’raps. I say, uncle; do go too. You’ll be able to think better when you wake up.”
“Wake up!” said Sir Hilton, musingly—“remember? Yes; something about a boy—no, a girl on a bicycle. I did, didn’t I?—talk to a girl—or see one on a bicycle—no, it was in pale blue and scarlet I did, didn’t I, Sam?”
“Yes, sir; I think you did—to my gal there.”
Sir Hilton looked in the direction in which the trainer pointed, and saw the Polar bear skin; nothing more.
“Where?” he said vacantly, as he turned his eyes back upon the trainer, who was wiping the drops again from his steaming face. “Your girl—Mary Ann Simpkins—La Sylphide?”
“Oh, pore chap, he’s quite off his head!” groaned the trainer. “It means a ’sylum, and if old Trimmer splits—”
“Ha!” cried Sir Hilton, in a tone which made the trainer spring to his feet, staring wildly at the speaker.
“Here, uncle, don’t go on like that,” said Syd, soothingly. “I wish old Granton were here with a straight waistcoat. Here, Sam Simpkins help me! It’s all your fault. Don’t seize a fellow like that, uncle? Help, Sam! He’s got ’em horrid, and it must be with the stuff he had in your place.”
“Now, don’t you go and say such a thing as that, young gen’leman,” cried the trainer, fiercely, as he tried to take hold of Sir Hilton’s arm. “Here, let’s get him to bed, and you’d better send for your doctor.”
“Be quiet, both of you,” cried Sir Hilton, shaking himself free. “My head’s clear now, but I must have been ill; my head has been horribly mixed up. Yes, I recollect now; but speak low. Don’t make a noise, or you’ll be having her ladyship down.”
“I believe she has been listening all the time. Oh, uncle, there will be such a scene in the morning.”
“Yes, my boy,” said Sir Hilton, nervously; “but we must hush it up. Yes, that’s it; I promised Lady Tilborough I’d ride her mare.”
“Yes, uncle; that’s right.”
“And somehow I couldn’t get to the saddling paddock.”
“Why, you’re going back again now, uncle.”
“No, my boy. I can see it all clearly enough now. I couldn’t get there after that champagne—”
Simpkins had hard work to suppress a groan.
“Some little syren of a girl got hold of me and kept me back so that I lost the race, Lady Tilborough’s money, and my four thousand pounds.”
“Don’t, uncle! Pull yourself together. You’re sliding back again.”
“Yes; stop him,” cried the trainer, seizing his victim and shaking him hard. “Don’t go back, Sir Hilton; if you don’t come round now, see what it means for me and my pore gal.”
“Oh, uncle, you’re going off again,” said Syd, excitedly. “Do hold on to something, and don’t keep sliding back. Try—try. Now give your head a good shake to make it work. Here, Sam Simpkins, don’t you think we might give him a dose of spirits to wind him up?”
“No, no,” cried the trainer, excitedly. “With a head like this there is no knowing what might happen to him.”
“But I can’t let him stop like this. There, don’t waggle your head any more, uncle; try if you can remember now.”
“No; nothing but the bees, my boy.”
“The bees?”
“Yes, my boy, and the rushing after the poll. Oh, yes, I’m beginning to recollect now. The election, and the race against Watcombe, the brewer.”
“Race?” cried Syd. “That’s the right clue, uncle. Now you’re beginning to go again. That shaking did it. Now hold tight to the ‘race.’”
“Yes, my boy; I remember all right now; heading the poll and leaving the brewer nowhere.”
“No, no; the race, uncle—the race.”
“Of course, my boy. It’s all coming back now. That bad champagne and the buzzing of the bees.”
“Oh, dear!” groaned the trainer; “he don’t forget that, and he’s off again.”
“To be sure,” cried Sir Hilton, eagerly. “I recollect. It was ever so long ago, and the speaker was—”
“No, no, uncle; you’re getting mixed again. The starter.”
“No, my boy, the speaker in the chair, and the bell was ringing.”
“That’s right, uncle, to clear the course. Now you’re all right!”
“Yes, now I’m all right, my boy. I was in and there was a division. I rushed through the Lobby, and out into the fresh air. The mare was ready. Someone gave me a leg-up, and I was all excitement for the race.”
“That’s your sort, uncle,” cried Syd, as with his eyes fixed on one of the moonlit windows, Sir Hilton stopped, panting as if out of breath. “Bravo! Stick to the rage. He’s coming round fast now, Sam.”
“No, no; look at him. He’s as mad as a hatter.”
“Yes,” cried Sir Hilton; “then, before I knew where we were, and without waiting for the starter, away we went. Parliament Street was passed in a stride—the mob scattered right and left. Charing Cross and the lions—Cockspur Street—Pall Mall—whirr—buzz—away we went, with the bees swarming round my head. Just at the corner by the clubs I wrenched her head round, and she bounded up Saint James’s Street. A drag to the left, and we were in Piccadilly. A road-car was in the way, but she cleared it in a bound. Cabs strewed the earth, for the strike was over; but she took them all in her stride as we dashed on, just catching a glimpse of the houses to the right—the Green Park to the left. Then, clearing a penny ’bus at Hyde Park Corner, we nearly rushed into the hospital doors. Again I wrenched her head, turning in my saddle in time to see a passenger on the knifeboard pick up his hat. Then down Constitution Hill we swept as if gliding along a chute. In my wild excitement, as we darted by the Palace, I yelled out, ‘God save the King!’ But he was not at home, and we were urging on our wild career past the barracks, along the Bird-cage Walk. The ducks whirred up from the pool, the people shrieked, as we scattered perambulators, nursemaids, and children, flying like leaves upon the wind. Storey’s Gate was closed, but the mare laughed—a loud, weird laugh—as she cleared it, and we dropped in Great George Street, where a newsboy yelled ‘winners!’ with the Parliament House in sight. ‘We win—we win!’ I cried, for it was the goal. ‘Give her her head!’ the people yelled, but the mare took it. She stretched her neck right into infinite space, my silk swelled out like a bubble, and feeling that I must steer now I drew on the reins, hand over hand—hand over hand—to feel her head; but it was half a mile away. At last I got a bite. She took the bait—the bit in her teeth, and I struck, turned her, and we dashed through Palace Yard again, straight for the great Hall doors. ‘M.P. mustn’t pass!’ shouted an inspector, throwing out his arms. ‘Head of the poll!’ I yelled, and the mare went through him like a flash, as we reached the Lobby once more. There was the straight run in, and holding her well in hand I lifted her over the gangway and settled down to win. How they cheered! Opposition to right of me, Government to left of me, and the Speaker ahead of me, waving me on. ‘The Ayes have it! The Noes! The Ayes! The Noes! They volleyed, they thundered. ’Vide—’vide—’vide—’vide!’ and the mare ’vided them as we still tore on, nearer and nearer, till the curls in the Speaker’s wig grew clear, and then the whites of his eyes. Nearer and nearer in the mad excitement of the race, till with one final rush we passed the Mace, the Irish party rising as one man, and ran past the winning-post right into Parliament to the roaring of their wild hurroo!”
“Bravo! Hurroo!” shouted Syd, as his uncle stopped, panting heavily again. “That was how you did it. You won; only you’ve got it a bit mixed. But you’re coming round. I say, you feel ever so much better, don’t you, for getting rid of that?”
“Oh, it’s all over, my lad,” cried the trainer. “Did you ever hear the like?”
“It’s only excitement,” said Syd. “Look at him; he’s calming down now beautifully. You see, he’d got two things on his brain—the race and the election—and having been a bit screwed with the bad stuff you let him have, he naturally got himself a bit mixed.”
“Mixed?” said Sir Hilton, turning upon the boy sharply. “Wasn’t I talking about something just now? But look, look at that man Simpkins rolling his eyes about. Is he going mad?”
“Not a bit o’ it, Sir Hilton; it’s you as is mad. Ain’t it enough as I’ve lost what I have?”
“You lost too?”
“Yes, uncle,” cried Syd, shaking him; “but you haven’t. You won—for all of us. I turned that ten you gave me into a century.”
“I—won?” stammered Sir Hilton, with his hands pressing his temples.
“To be sure you did. You were sitting all of a jelly, and the game was nearly up; but Dr Jack Granton gave you a drench, just as if you’d been a horse. Then we got you into the air, and you came round directly, and ran between us to the saddling paddock, where we set you on to the mare just in time, and you led the field from the beginning. You won in a canter. Can’t you recollect?”
“No, nothing.”
“Don’t you remember nearly tumbling off the horse after you’d passed the post?”
“No.”
“Nor getting into the scales, saddle and bridle and all?”
“No; nothing whatever.”
“Oh, Sam Simpkins, you must have given him a dose!”
“Yes, I remember that—that champagne. It did taste very queer and strange,” cried Sir Hilton, turning upon the trainer, whose red face looked piebald with sickly white, so strangely was it mottled.
“I’d had it a long time, Sir Hilton,” stammered the man. “P’raps it was a bit off.”
“Oh, hang that!” cried Sir Hilton. “Tell me again, Syd, my boy; did I win?”
“In a canter, I tell you, uncle,” cried the boy.
“Ha!” sighed Sir Hilton, with a look of intense relief. “But it must be kept from your aunt. She has such—”
“Kept from auntie?” cried Syd, staring. “Why, she knows all.”
“Knows all? You’ve told her?”
“No-o-o-o. Don’t you remember? No, you recollect nothing. She got to know you were off to ride somehow, and came after us to the hotel.”
“What?”
“That’s right, uncle. Lady Lisle came and saw him, didn’t she, Sam?”
“Yes, sir,” growled Sam, still mopping his face.
“But not dressed—not in my silk and boots?”
“Oh, yes, uncle. Didn’t she, Sam?”
“Yes, sir; that’s right enough.”
“Horror!” groaned Sir Hilton. “She’ll never forgive me.”
“Worse than that, uncle. She saw that you were tight.”
“You young villain, it’s not true!” roared Sir Hilton. “How dare you say that!”
“Because it’s true,” cried Syd, lightly. “Isn’t it, Sam?”
“Yes, sir,” faltered the man. “Wery screwed indeed.”
“Tell me the rest,” groaned Sir Hilton in despair.
“Fainted away, uncle; but I didn’t stop to see. I had to look to you and the race. But afterwards Dr Jack Granton went back to the hotel and physicked her. Didn’t he, Sam?”
“Yes, sir, ’long o’ Lady Tilborough; and they took her away in her ladyship’s carriage to Oakleigh.”
“And then brought her home?”
“I s’pose so, uncle. I dunno. I stuck to you. So did Sam.”
“Thank you, my boy—thank you, Simpkins. I’ll talk to you another time. But, you see, I’m quite clear and well now.”
“Yes, Sir Hilton—thank goodness!” said the trainer, hoarsely.
“Then, now, you had better have a glass of something and drive—What’s that?”
“Wheels, uncle. There goes the gate.”
The click, click, click came very plainly, and the next minute there were the steps of Jane and Mark in the hall.
“Stop a moment,” cried Sir Hilton. “What is it? Who is it come?”
“Her ladyship, I think, Sir Hilton,” cried Jane.
“What! I thought she was at home.”
“No, sir. She went to Tilborough after you.”
“Uncle,” cried Syd, “whatever shall we say?”
He shrank back with his uncle into the drawing-room, and the door swung to, while the next moment they heard the front door open and Lady Lisle’s voice.
“Has Sir Hilton returned?”
“Yes, my lady,” replied Jane.
“Ha!”
Lady Lisle hurried into the drawing-room with stately stride, but she looked round in vain, and faced Lady Tilborough and Doctor Granton, who had followed her in, for the late occupants of the room had disappeared.
So vast is woman’s power over man.