George Fenn - Sir Hilton's Sin

“Yes. Turn Jawkins. Him going to turn himself into a talking windmill, a-waving his arms about? Not he. But how come you to hear that?”

“Mr Trimmer told me.”

“Mr Trimmer! How come he to tell you?” said the young man, with his face growing dark.

“Oh, Mr Trimmer is very pleasant and friendly to me sometimes.”

“Oh, is he? Then he ain’t going to be, and so I tell him. A long, lanky, white-chokered imitation Methody parson, that’s what he is! What right has he got to be civil to you, I should like to know?”

“Well, I’m sure, sir,” cried the girl, whose eyes were sparkling with delight to see how her lover was moved, “I don’t know what her ladyship’s bailiff and agent and steward and confidential man would say – him, a real gentleman – if he heard what poor Sir Hilton’s groom and valet said.”

“Gentleman – confidential man! Why, he ain’t half a man, and he ain’t the good sanctified chap he pretends to be, and I’d tell him so to his face. Look here, Jenny; he may be her ladyship’s, but he ain’t going to be your confidential man. But there, I ain’t no right to say nothing, I suppose, and this about finishes it. Ladyship or no ladyship, whether the guv’nor comes or whether he don’t, I’m going over to Tilborough racecourse ’safternoon, and if La Sylphide don’t pull it off for me I shall make a hole in the water and leave it to cover me up.”

“Mark!” said Jenny, softly, with her eyes half closed. “Well?”

“I can’t help Mr Trimmer speaking civil to me when he comes to see her ladyship about the accounts.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” said the young man, sarcastically.

“I can’t really, Mark – dear. He always seems to me like one of those nasty evats that come down in the stone passage in damp weather, and just as they do when they’ve rubbed a little of the whitewash on to their throats.”

“Jenny!”

“Yes, Mark dear. I do hope La Sylphide will win.”

“Oh!”

“Ahem!”

Smart-looking, well-built, dapper little Sir Hilton Lisle, looking the beau-ideal of a horse-loving country gentleman, entered the breakfast-room.

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.”