Читать книгу Sir Hilton's Sin - Fenn George Manville - Страница 4

Mark and Jane started apart, looking extremely guilty – of a loving kiss – but quite ready to make the best of things, the latter darting to the table to rearrange the position of a couple of forks, and Sir Hilton’s body-servant holding out a hand, palm upwards.

“Do look sharp, Jane,” he said, “and hurry up that hot coffee and the kidneys. I knew Sir Hilton would be down directly.”

“Mark!” said the baronet, sharply.

“Yes, Sir Hilton.”

“You know I don’t like humbug, eh?”

“Yes, Sir Hilton?”

“Jane, my girl, do you want to lose your place?”

“No, Sir Hilton. I’m very sorry, Sir Hilton – I – ”

“Let him kiss you?”

“Oh, Sir Hilton!”

“Don’t deny it! Saw more. You gave him one. Now, look here, both of you. You, Jane, are a very nice, respectable girl, and I like you. Mark, here, is a very good fellow, and if some time you two think of getting married, I don’t say I will not give you both a hundred pounds to start life with – ”

“Oh, Sir Hilton!”

“If I’ve got it. But no more of this. It looks bad, and is not respectful to your employers. You both know, I suppose, that if her ladyship saw half what I noted just now you would be dismissed, Jane, and I’m afraid, Mark, I should have to part with you.”

“I beg – ”

“That will do – not another word. Breakfast, Jane – quick, please.”

“Yes, Sir Hilton!” and Jane drew a breath full of relief, as she hurried through the door.

“Heigh – ho – ha – hum!” yawned the baronet, placing his hands in his pockets and looking down in a dreamy way at the breakfast-table. Then he took out and opened his hunting watch, and closed it with a snap.

“E-lev-en o’clock,” he said. “Her ladyship send for you, Mark?”

“Yes, Sir Hilton. Brought round the pony-carriage.”

“Oh! Gone out?”

“Yes, Sir Hilton.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Morning’s paper, Sir Hilton,” said the man, obsequiously, as he drew a sporting-print from his pocket and held it out meaningly turned down at a particular spot.

“What’s that?” said the baronet, glancing at one line, and then, turning angrily, “Take it away!” he cried.

“Beg pardon, Sir Hilton. Tilborough first Summer Meeting.”

“Take it away!”

“Yes, sir; but La Sylphide.”

“Look here, Mark, my lad, no more of this. I know, of course, but take it away. Do you want to drive me mad?”

“Beg pardon, Sir Hilton. Then you won’t drive over in the dogcart?”

“What?”

“Just to see her pull it off, Sir Hilton.”

“Confound it, man! Hold your tongue! Be off!”

At that moment there were steps on the gravel, and directly after a peal arose from the door-bell.

“Go and see who that is, sir, and never mention anything connected with the Turf again. It’s dead to me, and I’m dead to it,” he muttered, as the man left the room, giving place to Jane, who hurried in with covered dishes upon a tray.

“Did you see who that was, Jane?”

“No, Sir Hilton. Some gentleman on horseback. His horse is hooked on one side of the gate.”

“Who the deuce can it be?”

“Dr Granton, sir,” said the groom, coming to the door.

“Oh! Where is he?”

“Study, sir.”

“Bring him in here.”

Sir Hilton looked quite transformed. There was a bright, alert look in his erstwhile dull eyes, and he seemed to pull himself together as he started actively from his chair, and made as if to hurry after his groom.

But he was too late, for the door reopened, and Mark showed in a handsome, dark, military-looking man of about five-and-thirty, who marched in, hunting-crop in hand, spurs jingling faintly at his heels, and dressed in faultless taste as a horseman.

“My dear old Jack!”

“Hilt, old boy!”

“This is a surprise. Here, Jane, another cover; the doctor will breakfast with me.”

“My dear fellow, I breakfasted at eight.”

“Never mind; have an eleven’s. Mouthful of corn then never hurt anyone. A chair here, Mark. That will do, my man.”

Mark backed out, with the half-grin, which had sprung up on seeing his master’s animation, dying out, and shaking his head, while the visitor turned the chair placed for him back to the table and bestrode it as if it were a horse.

“Whatever brings you down into this dismal region?”

“Dismal, eh?” said the visitor, glancing round, and then out of the window. “Races.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the baronet. “Yes; I heard they were to-day.”

“You heard? Aren’t you coming?”

“No, no. I’ve dropped all that sort of thing now.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot; and my manners, too. How is her ladyship?”

“Oh, well – very well, Jack,” said Sir Hilton, in a mournful way.

“That’s right, old chap. Well, trot her out.”

Sir Hilton frowned.

“I beg your pardon, old man. Presuming on old brotherly acquaintance. I shall be glad to see her, though.”

“Of course, my dear boy; but the fact is, she is out.”

“She is? Hang it all, then, I’ve come at the right time. Have a day off with me at Tilborough, and we’ll dine afterwards at the hotel. We can get a snack of something.”

“No, no; you misunderstand me. My wife is only having a morning drive in the pony chaise. A little business in the village.”

“Oh, I see; Lady Bountiful – district visiting – buying curtsies of the old women, and that sort of thing.”

“Yes – er – exactly.”

“Ah! I’ve heard that Lady Lisle does a deal in that way. Takes the chair at charity meetings, eh? Primrose Dame, too?”

“Who told you that?”

“Told me? Let’s see. Oh, it was Lady Tilborough.”

The conversation ceased for a minute or two while Jane entered with a tray, busied herself, and then departed, leaving the visitor quite ready to show that his eight o’clock breakfast was a thing of the past.

“I say, though,” he exclaimed, with his mouth half full, “I didn’t mean this. I’ve left my horse hitched on to the gate.”

Sir Hilton rose, stepped to the window, and returned.

“Not there. Mark would see to it, of course, and give it a feed in the stables.”

“That’s all right, then. Yes, Lady Tilborough was talking about you the other day.”

“Was she? What did she say?”

“Oh, not much. Only that it was a pity you had given up hunting and the Turf.”

The baronet sighed – almost groaned. “Anything else?”

“Well – er – no-o-o-o. Oh, yes; a little bit of badinage.”

“Eh? What about? Nothing spiteful? No, she wouldn’t. She’s a dear good creature, bless her!”

“Good boy! So she is – bless her!”

“Ah! I once thought when the old man died, that – ”

“Oh, did you? Well, you didn’t, and you’ve married well enough to satisfy any man.”

Sir Hilton sighed, and his visitor looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Come, old man, you don’t seem to care for your corn. You didn’t have a wet night?”

“Hot coppers this morning? My dear boy, no! Why, I lead as quiet a life as a curate now.”

“All the better for you.”

Sir Hilton sighed again.

“Then it’s true?” said the visitor, smiling.

“What’s true? What have you been hearing? Did Lady Tilborough say – ”

“Oh, nothing; only a bit of chaff about you.”

“Tell me what the widow said.”

“Oh, it was all good humouredly – a bit of her fun. You know what she is – wouldn’t hurt the feelings of a fly.”

“Yes, yes, I know; but she has been laughing at me. She has – ”

“Nonsense – nonsense! Don’t make your coat rough, old man. She only said it was a pity.”

“What was a pity?”

“That dear old Hilt should be ridden with his curb chain so tight – by George! I didn’t know how hungry I was.”

“Yes,” said Sir Hilton, sadly; “the curb is a bit too tight sometimes, Jack; but someone means well, and she has a right to be a bit firm. I always was a fool over money matters.”

“Nonsense, old fellow! You were a prince, only you were unlucky, and were obliged to make a clear up; but you’re all right again now.”

“Yes,” said the baronet, “I’m all right again now.” But his voice sounded very doleful.

“It was thirty thou’ a-year, wasn’t it – I mean, isn’t it?”

Sir Hilton nodded.

“She got the title and you got the tin. Quid pro quo!”

Sir Hilton nodded again, and then made a desperate effort to turn the conversation back upon his friend.

“Lady Lisle has always taken an interest in parish matters and the poor, and it pleases her. She would not, of course, like me to take an interest now in racing affairs.”

“Of course not – of course not, my dear boy,” said the visitor, helping himself to the marmalade left by Sydney.

“But what about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m doing capitally,” was the reply, rather thickly uttered.

“Nonsense! I mean that affair. How do matters go with the widow?”

“Hah!” sighed the visitor, laying down his knife.

“Hallo! Not off, is it, old chap?”

“No, not off, Hilt, but I’m just where I was. Like the farmer over the claret, I don’t seem to get no furder.”

“Well, you must be a duffer, Jack.”

“I suppose I am, old man. Pluck enough in some things, but I’m afraid of her.”

“But haven’t you spoken?”

“No; I daren’t, for fear she should laugh at me, and the whole affair be quite off.”

“I say, Jack, you’re dead hit.”

“I am, old man – dead. Bless her! She’s an angel! But I’m afraid, after her experience with that old ruffian Tilborough, she has made up her mind never to run in double harness again.”

“Nonsense! Pluck up, old fellow; a woman likes a man to be manly, and if she accepted you – ”

“Ah, if Hilt, if.”

“She would, or I don’t know her. I should like to see it come off, for there wouldn’t be a better matched pair in England. Go in and win.”

“Well, hang me if I don’t! I’ve been playing a shilly-shally waiting game, and now I’ll come to the point. But I say, what’s this about you in the papers – election news?”

“Oh, it’s the wife’s wish. She won’t rest till I have ‘M.P.’ at the end of my name.”

“Good thing too. You’re getting mossy here. Go into Parliament, and it will soon be rubbed off. The poor dear lady is spoiling you. Too much apron-string. She’s stopped your racing and hunting, but you must do something. Go in and win your seat.”

“I don’t care much about it.”

“More fool you! Think of the chances it will give you of a little life. The House – there you are; an excuse for everything not quite in running order with the ideas of such a lady as madam. Club? Best in London. Late hours? Sitting till two, three, four, or milk-time.”

“Yes; I never gave that a thought.”

“An excuse for everything, dear boy, and your wife proud of you. Oh, I should enter for those stakes, certainly. It will cost you something, though.”

“I suppose so; but, between ourselves, Lady Lisle has placed four thou’ to my account for election expenses.”

“Brave little woman! The widow’s all wrong.”

“How! Why? What do you mean?”

“She said her ladyship kept the chequebook, and saw to the estate herself, only allowing you a little pocket-money when you were a good boy.”

“Tell Lady Tilborough to mind her own business, Jack,” said the baronet, tartly.

“My dear Hilt, I’d share my last fiver with you, or I’d back any of your paper with pleasure; but I’ll be hanged if I’ll do that I say, though, come on to the race to-day.”

Sir Hilton shook his head.

“Nonsense! Think of it. Your old filly, La Sylphide, first favourite. I saw her a week ago. Lovely! Lady Tilborough told me she wouldn’t take four times as much for her as she gave at your sale.”

“The beautiful gazelle-eyed creature!” sighed Sir Hilton.

“That she is.”

“Who is up?” said Sir Hilton.

“Josh Rowle, your old jock, of course. The widow told me that she wouldn’t – I mean the mare – let anyone else go near her.”

“Just like her, Jack. She had a temper, but she was like a kitten with me. Came ambling up the paddock when I whistled, and she’d rub her head against me for all the world like a cat, and fetch bits of carrot out of my pocket, or whinny for sugar. Ah! those were dear old days. Yes, she’ll pull it off for certain.”

“Come and see her run.”

“I couldn’t, old man. I couldn’t bear it. No, I’m entered for the House of Commons. Lady Lisle says I’m to be a – a Minister some day.”

“Bravo! Be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and keep the purse. But I say, do come. You must be hungry for a race after fasting so long.”

“I am, Jack, I am.”

“Come, then.”

“No; don’t ask me,” said the baronet; “my racing days are over.”

“And you’ve burnt your jockey cap and silk, the scarlet and blue stripe of the finest gentleman-rider of his day?”

“By Jove! no. I keep them, leathers, boots, whip, and all, in a locked-up drawer. My man, Mark, takes them out to set them up and worship sometimes.”

“Then you really won’t come?”

“No, Jack, I can’t. It would break my wife’s heart if I did, and she really is very fond of me.”

“Very well; I won’t press you, old man. But, I say, you think La Sylphide will win?”

“It’s a dead cert. Have you anything on?”

“All I’m worth, dear boy. Have you?”

“I? Nonsense! I haven’t made a bet these two years.”

“Then now’s your time.”

“No, no: I’ve done with that sort of thing.”

“But, personally, you are not flush of money, are you?”

“I? Never was so short in my life.”

The doctor laughed. “Seize the chance, then, to make a thou’ or two.”

“Impossible.”

“Nonsense! You say yourself the mare’s sure to win.”

“Bar accidents, she must.”

“Then make your game.”

“No; I have no money.”

“Why, you said just now that her ladyship had placed four thou’ to your credit in her bank.”

“For my electioneering exes.”

“Bosh! To use. Put on the pot and make it boil. Why, man, you could clear enough on the strength of that coin lying idle to set you up for a couple of years.”

“Ye-e-es,” said Sir Hilton, who began biting at his nails. “Might, mightn’t I?”

“Of course. Why, you would be mad to miss the chance.”

“It does sound tempting.”

“Tempting? Of course. It isn’t as if there was any gambling in it.”

“Exactly. There would be no gambling in it?”

“Of course not. If it were some horse whose character you did not know, it would be different. But here you are – your own mare, whom you know down to the ground. Your own jockey, too. Look here, dear boy, La Sylphide can’t help winning. You’d be mad to miss this chance. I should say, go and see the run, but I give way to your scruples there; but when I see you chucking away a pile of money I begin to kick.”

Sir Hilton rose and walked up and down the room, as his old friend and companion continued talking, and ended by coming back to the table and bringing down his fist with a bang.

“Yes,” he cried, “it would be madness to miss the chance. By Jove! I’ll do it.”

“Bravo, old man!”

“I’ll put it in your hands, Jack. Get on for me all you can.”

“Up to what?”

“All I’ve got in the bank. Four thou’.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Of course.”

“Well done, old chap. That’s Hilt up to the hilt, like in the old times.”

“Pst! Someone coming,” said the baronet, dropping into a chair. “We didn’t hear the chaise. It’s my wife.”