Sir Hilton's Sin

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.

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.”