Читать книгу Sir Hilton's Sin - Fenn George Manville - Страница 2

“Ah, good-morning, Mr Trimmer,” said Lady Lisle. “Don’t go, Sydney, my dear. It is as well that you should be present. You cannot do better than begin to learn the duties of a person of position – the connection between the owner of property and his, or her, dependants.”

“All right, auntie,” said Syd, returning, with a quick nod and a keen look, the obsequious bow of the gaunt-looking man in white cravat and pepper-and-salt garb.

“Sit down, Mr Trimmer.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

The steward drew a chair to the table, and placed a particularly neat bag before him, which he proceeded to open, and brought out a packet of papers neatly docketed and tied up with green silk ferret in quite legal fashion.

“What are those, Mr Trimmer?” said the lady, assuming a gold-framed pince-nez.

“The reports upon the Parliamentary canvass, my lady. Ditto those in connection with the village charities and your donations in town. If your ladyship will glance over them I think you will find them perfectly correct.”

“Of course, Mr Trimmer. I will read the latter over at my leisure.”

At that moment the merry notes of a well-blown post-horn were heard, and Lady Lisle started, while Syd ran to the window.

“What is that?”

“I fancy it comes from a coach, my lady, passing the lodge gates.”

“Yes, auntie. Drag going over to Tilborough,” cried the boy, screwing his head on one side so as to follow the handsome four-in-hand with its well-driven team.

“Tut – tut!” ejaculated Lady Lisle. “These degrading meetings! Come away, Sydney, my dear.”

“Yes, auntie,” said the boy; and as he was not observed he leant forward, pressed one hand over the other as if taking a shorter hold of double reins, gave his right hand a twist to unwind an imaginary whiplash, followed by a wave something like the throwing of a fly with a rod, and then smiled to himself as he tickled up an imaginary off-leader, ending by holding himself up rigidly.

“That’s the way to tool ’em along,” he said to himself.

“Is there any fresh news in the village, Mr Trimmer?”

“No, my lady, nothing particular, except – er – a little report about Daniel Smart’s daughter.”

“Maria, Mr Trimmer. She has not returned?”

“No, my lady.”

“Surely she has settled down in her new place?”

The steward coughed, a little hesitating cough.

“Nothing – ”

Lady Lisle stopped and glanced at Sydney, who turned away and became very much interested in one of the pictures, but with his ears twitching the while.

“Oh, no, my lady,” said the steward, quickly; “only I fear that your ladyship has been imposed upon?”

Syd moved to the mantelpiece and began to examine the mechanism of a magnificent skeleton clock.

“Imposed upon? But the girl has gone to the situation in town?”

“Ahem! No, my lady; the report I hear is that she has gone to fulfil an engagement with some dramatic agent who trains young people for – ”

“The theatre?”

“No, my lady, for the music-halls.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Lady Lisle. “Dreadful – dreadful!”

Syd’s face was a study in the mirror behind the clock, as he placed one foot on the polished kerb and screwed up his mouth, listening with all his might.

“Yes, my lady, it is very sad. But I’m afraid that several of the better-looking girls in the neighbourhood have had their heads turned by the great success which has attended a Miss Mary Ann Simpkins in London.”

Crash!

“Good gracious me!” cried Lady Lisle, starting up at the noise.

“It’s nothing, auntie,” cried Syd, excitedly. “Foot slipped on the fender – nothing broken.”

The boy turned, with his face flushed, and his voice sounded husky.

“But that vase you knocked over, my dear?”

“It was trying to save myself, auntie. It isn’t even cracked.”

“But you’ve hurt yourself, my child?”

“Oh, no, auntie, not a bit,” said the boy, with a forced laugh.

“Pray be careful, my dear.”

“All right, auntie,” said the boy, and he stooped down to begin rearranging the poker and shovel, which he had kicked off the fire-dog to clatter on the encaustic tiles.

“Pray go on, Mr Trimmer. How grievous that such a scandal should befall our peaceful village. A Miss – er – Miss – ”

“Mary Ann Simpkins, my lady.”

“Simpkins, Simpkins? Surely I know the name?”

“Yes, my lady, and I daresay you’ve seen her at Tilborough. Very pretty girl – daughter of Sam Simpkins.”

“What, at the hotel?”

“Yes, my lady,” said the agent, with sad deference. “He is the trainer and keeper of racing stables – Tilborough Arms.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Ah! what a home for the poor girl! No wonder. But you said something about turning the girls’ heads.”

“Yes, my lady. She went into training in town.”

“Ran away from home, of course?”

“Oh, no, my lady. Simpkins had her educated in London for that sort of thing – singing and dancing.”

“Shocking! Shocking!”

“Yes, my lady. Her father has shares in one of the great music-halls, the Orphoean. I am told that she is quite the rage. You see, some of the young people here knew her at school. Such things quite spoil them for service.”

“And all originating in this dreadful racing, Mr Trimmer. If it had not been for this, Mr Simpkins – ”

“Exactly, my lady; but I beg your pardon for introducing so unpleasant a subject.”

“Do not apologise, Mr Trimmer; it was quite right. I must see the parents of any of the girls who have tendencies in that direction, and Daniel Smart’s daughter must certainly be brought back.”

“Yes, my lady,” said the agent. “Now let us change the subject. How is Sir Hilton’s canvass progressing?”

“Admirably, my lady. You see, we have all the influence upon our side; but I think it is about time now for Sir Hilton to show a little – just a little – more interest in the matter.”

“Of course, Mr Trimmer; he shall.”

“He need not do much, my lady, beyond a little visiting amongst the voters, and, say, addressing three or four meetings. Our Parliamentary agent has prepared the heads of a very telling speech for him, a summary of which, my lady, you will find in that packet marked ‘b’ and endorsed ‘Address.’”

“Certainly! Will go into the matter with Sir Hilton. His election will follow in due course.”

“Yes, my lady – it is a certainty. Lord Beltower has withdrawn.”

“Very wise of him.”

“There is that Mr Watcombe, the big brewer, still in the field, and he has some influence, especially at Tilborough amongst the racing people; but, of course, he has not a chance.”

“A brewer? Faugh!”

“Yes, my lady; the man’s pretensions are absurd. Will you go through the estate accounts this morning?”

“Impossible now, Mr Trimmer; the news you have given me is too disturbing, and besides, Sir Hilton will be down here to breakfast. That will do now.”

“Thank you, my lady – er – er – ”

“Yes, Mr Trimmer?” said the lady, looking up inquiringly.

“I am very sorry to make a request, my lady, at such a time, especially as there is a good deal requires looking over at the farm just now; but I should be greatly obliged if your ladyship could spare me for the rest of the day.”

“Oh, certainly, Mr Trimmer,” said Lady Lisle, looking at her sedate steward so wonderingly that he felt it necessary to make some explanation.

“I regret to say that I have had a telegram from London, my lady – an aged relative – very ill, and expressing a desire to see me.”

“Hullo!” said Sydney to himself; “the old humbug smells a legacy.”

“Pray go at once, Mr Trimmer.”

“Oh, thank you, my lady. You always are so sympathetic in a case of trouble.”

“I hope so, Mr Trimmer. Can I do anything for her, or for you?”

“Oh, no, my lady. Your permission is all I want. I am in hopes that my presence will be of some benefit to her. I am her favourite nephew.”

“Then pray go at once. You will return to-night, of course?”

“Oh, yes, my lady; but I fear that I shall have to make it the last train.”

“Of course. Give Sir Hilton’s man orders to meet you with the dogcart at the station. I would say stop as long as is necessary with the poor old invalid were it not that I wish you to be on the spot to watch over the progress of Sir Hilton’s Parliamentary affairs. Just now they are vital.”

“Exactly, my lady. Good-morning, my lady, and thank you for your kindness.”

Lady Lisle smiled and bowed, raising her hand in a queenly way, as if to hold it out for her retainer to kiss, but contenting herself by giving it a slight wave towards the door.

“Good-morning, Mr Sydney. A delicious morning, sir; a nice breeze.”

“Oh, was it?” said the boy, rather surlily.

“Yes, sir; the trout were rising freely as I passed over the bridge in the lower meadows.”

“Humph!”

“I thought I would mention it, sir. I fancy the May-fly are up.”

Sydney nodded, and the steward reached the door, but returned, taking out his pocket-book, after placing the black bag upon a chair.

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon, but I omitted to show your ladyship a paragraph I cut out of this morning’s county paper.”

Lady Lisle took the scrap handed to her respectfully. “Thank you, Mr Trimmer. Oh! Yes. Listen, Sydney, my dear. Listen. This will interest you. Electioneering!” and she read aloud —

“‘We understand that Mr Watcombe, the well-known London brewer – ’” Her ladyship stopped and frowned.

“Yes, auntie; I hear,” cried the boy – “brewer – ?”

“‘Is making strenuous efforts to gain the seat for the Tilborough division of the county. He is now in Paris, but upon his return he will commence his campaign by delivering a series of addresses to the voters. The first, we understand, will be given at the Tilborough Arms Hotel.’”

“Pah!” ejaculated Lady Lisle, making as if to throw down the fragment of paper.

“Pray read on, my lady.” Her ladyship rearranged her pince-nez and continued, beginning in a contemptuous tone of voice, which changed as she went on —

“‘But the gallant brewer, whose beer finds but little favour in this district, will learn that he has an extremely dangerous rival in our popular resident squire of the Denes – Sir Hilton Lisle, of sporting fame, who, to deal in vaticinations, we consider will be the right man in the right place.’”

“He-ah, he-ah!” cried Sydney. “So he will.”

“Yes, my dear,” said his aunt, smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm; “the editor means well, but it is very vulgarly written, ‘of sporting fame.’ Bah!”

“But that’s right, auntie. Uncle used to be very famous. Wasn’t he Master of the Hounds six years ago?”

“Yes, my dear, to his sorrow,” said Lady Lisle, reprovingly.

The steward shook his head, and looked up as he passed out, with studied deliberation, as if to let the lady see how marked was the resemblance between his action and that of the steward in Hogarth’s picture “Marriage à la Mode,” while the lady portion of his audience moved towards the other door.

“Going out, auntie?”

“Yes, my dear, for a short drive down the village. The pony-carriage will be round in a few minutes. I was going to the vicarage, but my first call will be at the Smarts’. I should like you to go with me.”

“Go with you, auntie?” said the boy, in a hesitating voice.

“Yes, my dear. Do you not wish to go?”

“I did, auntie, but after what Mr Trimmer said about the trout rising, and the May-fly – you see, they only come once a year.”

“Oh, very well, my darling; I suppose I must not object to your liking to fish. Isaac Walton was quite a poet.”

“Regular, auntie; and the Prince says fishing begets a love of Nature.”

“Who does, my dear?”

“The Prince – the Principal, auntie. He’s a regular dab at throwing a fly.”

Lady Lisle winced again but screwed up a smile, and made no allusion to the dab, which seemed to strike her in the face like a cold frog – tree frog – and made her wince. “You will be back to lunch, my dear?”

“Well, no, auntie. You see, the May-fly only rise once a year, and I thought I’d make a long day of it.”

“Then tell Jane to cut you some sandwiches, and pray be careful not to fall in. You will bring us a dish of trout for dinner?”

“Oh, yes, of course, auntie, if they rise.”

“Oh, Hilton, how late you are!” sighed the lady, and her stiff dress rustled over the carpet as she moved forward in a stately way, frowning, and then smiling with satisfaction, for her nephew darted to the door to throw it open, catching directly at the soft white hand extended to him and kissing it. Then, closing the door, he indulged in a frantic kind of dance, expressive of the most extreme delight, one, however, which came to a sudden end, the boy stopping short in a most absurd position as if suddenly turned to stone, for the door was quickly opened and a head was thrust into the room.