Sir Hilton's Sin

“You’d better!”

“I will,” cried the girl, with her eyes flashing, and her little cupid-bow-like mouth compressed in a look of determination. “No, I won’t. I’ll go into hysterics, and scream the house down. I’ll make such a scene!”

“You be quiet, you saucy hussy. There, it’s the races, and I’ve got a lot of business to see to. But, look here, your place is along with your husband.”

“Well, that’s where I’m going to be,” said the girl, with a merry look. “I went over on my bike this morning and saw him.”

“Oh, that’s where you were off to?”

“Yes, and Syd’s promised to be a good boy, and come over to see you to-day and have it out.”

“Oh, is he? Well, that’s right, but I don’t want him to-day. I’m too busy. Look ye here, though, my gal, I mean to see that you have your rights. You just wait till I get my young gentleman under my thumb. I’ll give him the thumbscrew, and – ”

“Here he is!” cried the girl, joyfully; and with a frisk like a lamb in a May-field she danced to the boy, who hurried in breathlessly. “Oh, Syd, Syd, Syd!”

The beauty of the dress was forgotten, as a pair of prettily plump arms were thrown round the young husband’s neck, while, ignoring the big, ugly, scowling parent, the new arrival did his part in a very loving hug and an interchange of very warm, honey-moony kisses.

The recipients were brought to their senses by a growl. “Well, that’s a pretty performance in public, young people.”

“Public!” cried the girl. “Pooh! Only you, daddy, and you don’t count.”

“Public-house,” said Syd. “How d’ye do, Mr Simpkins?”

“Never you mind how I do, nor how I don’t, young gentleman. You and me’s got to have a few words of a sort.”

“All right, Mr Simpkins,” cried Syd, cheerfully, as he drew back to the full extent of his and his young wife’s joined hands to inspect her in front, and, with the girl’s aid, behind. “Lovely!” he whispered, and the girl flushed with delight, as she kept on tripping, posturing, and dancing, as if trying to draw her husband on into a pas de deux, or a pas de fascination in a ballet, he being apparently quite willing to join in and finish off with another embrace.

“Drop it, Molly,” cried the old man. “Now, sir, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing!” cried Syd, without turning his head; but he did the next moment. “I say, Sam, don’t she look lovely?”

“Sam, eh? Well, you’re a cool ’un, ’pon my soul!”

“Oh, daddy, don’t!” cried the girl, pettishly.

“But I shall. Here, he marries you without coming to me first with ‘by your leave’ or ‘with your leave.’”

“But hasn’t he come now, daddy? You always used to say you wished you’d got a boy, and now you’ve got one – a beauty. Ain’t you, Syd?”

“Stunner.”

“Will you hold your tongue, Molly! You’ve got a worse clack than your mother had.”

“Then do come and do the proper. You kneel down, Syd, and I’ll lean on your shoulder. I ain’t going to spoil my dress for nobody, not even a cross old dad. That’s right. Down on your knees, Syd.”

“Shan’t. I want to put my arm round you.”

“Very well; that’ll do. Now then, come on, daddy, and say: ‘Bless you, my children!’ Curtain.”

“What? What d’yer mean by ‘curtain?’ You hold your tongue, miss. Now, Mr Sydney Smithers. Smithers! There’s a name for a respectable girl to want to take!”

“Well, hang it!” cried the boy, “it’s better than Simpkins.”

“Not it,” growled the owner of the latter; but he scratched his head, as if in doubt. “Be quiet, Molly. Now, Mr Smithers, I mean my gal to have her rights.”

“Yes, Mr Simpkins.”

“Get it over, Syd.”

“Yes, sir; I quite agree with you.”

“That’s right, then, so far; but what I say is that you ought to have come straight to me, as her father, and ‘Mr Simpkins,’ says you, ‘I’ve took a great fancy to your filly’ – daughter, I mean – ‘and I’m going to make proposals for her ’and,’ you says.”

“Yes, Mr Simpkins; I’m very much attached to your daughter and I’ve married her.”

“No, you didn’t, young gentleman,” cried the old man, irascibly. “That’s just what you ought to have done.”

“Yes, exactly, Mr Simpkins; but, I say, what are you doing to-day about the big race?”

“Never you mind about no big race, young fellow. I want to know what you’re going to do about the human race. You’ve married my gal candlestine, as they call it, and I want to know about settlements. You don’t expect I’m going to keep you and your wife and family?”

“Well, he won’t let me,” said Syd, in response to a whisper.

“Of course he won’t,” said the trainer. “Not likely. You’re a gentleman, I suppose. You won’t want to do nothing for your living.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Syd.

“Well, that means you will. That sounds better. But you won’t want to come and live here and help serve behind my bar?”

“No, I’m blest if I do!”

“Oh, dad, drop it,” cried the girl.

“No, nor I shan’t drop it, miss, till I’ve seen about your rights. Suppose you mean him to come to London and begin figgering on the stage along with you?”

“I don’t, dad.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve got so much sense in your head, my gal, for, you mark my words, he’s the wrong sort. Too short and fat.”

“Dad!”

“Well, so he is, my gal. I dunno what you sees in him.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the girl, and she turned her back, snatched Syd’s tie undone, and began to retie it, as she whispered; “Oh, do finish it all, Syd. I want to get good places on the stand.”

“Perhaps,” continued the trainer, “I might make you of some use among the ’osses after a bit. But you’d have to train, and get rid of a stone of that fat.”

“Fat!” cried Syd, indignantly.

“Oh, dad, what a shame!” cried the young wife, with tears in her eyes. “Never mind what he says, Syd. You’re not fat.”

“Yes, he is, miss; too fat for a light-weight. But I don’t want him to be always quarrelling with. Put it the other way, then. What’s your people going to do for you?”

“Don’t know,” said the boy, taking out his cigarette-case.

“No, o’ course you don’t; that’s what I’m a-saying. You don’t. But I do. That’s where it is. There, don’t get smoking them nasty, rubbishing things in my ’all and making it not fit for a gent as knows what’s what to come in. Smoke one of them.”

The trainer drew a handful of big dark cigars with gold bands from his breast-pocket, and held them out for the lad to take one, which he did readily.

“Thank ye. Partagas, sir?”

“Oh, you do know something, then?” growled the trainer, biting off the end and proceeding to strike a match, which he held ready, so that he and his son-in-law could join ends, and draw in a friendly way, much to the satisfaction of the young lady, who smiled to herself and said —

“They’re coming round.”

“Suppose we shake hands now, Mr Simpkins, and say done,” cried Syd, blowing a big cloud in his father-in-law’s face.

“Don’t you be in a hurry, young fellow. As I was a-saying, about your people. Do you think my lady, your aunt, will find you in money to keep house for a trainer’s daughter?”

“N-n-no,” said Syd, sadly.

“No, it is, young man. If you’d wanted to be secketary to a society for the propergation o’ something or another, she’d be all there with a big subscription; but she won’t give yer tuppence now.”

“No, but uncle will,” cried Syd, eagerly. “He’s the right sort.”

“Him? Tchah! Why, my lady won’t let him have enough to pay his own tailor’s bills. I know all about that. What about the old man?”

“Grandfather?”

“Yes. S’pose you took Molly down promiscus like, and showed him her paces; he might take a fancy to her, eh?”

“Yes,” cried Molly. “Capital, father! Syd will take me down to see his grandfather. Won’t you, Syd?”

“Take you anywhere, darling; only not to-day.”

“Who said to-day, little stupid? There, now, it’s all right, ain’t it, dad?”

“Don’t you be in such a flurry, my gal; ’tain’t whipping and spurring like mad as gets you first past the post. Steady does it. Now, young gentleman, look here.”

“Oh, dear me, dad, how you do like to talk!” cried the girl, pettishly.

“Do you hear me, sir? Leave the girl alone. You don’t want everyone to know you’re just married – hugging her that how.”

“Yes, I do, all the world and everybody,” cried Syd. “We’re married, but we’re awfully in love with each other still – aren’t we, darling?”

“Awfully, Syd,” cried Molly, hanging to him.

“Well, I s’pose that’s all right,” grumbled the trainer, “and of course what’s done, as I said afore, can’t be undone. But, look here; I mean my gal to have her rights.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And I understand you mean to do the proper thing by her?”

“Yes, dad. To be sure he does, and you’re going to be ever so proud of Syd – proud as I am.”

“Well, I don’t quite know that, but I’ve got something else to think about now, and so, after what you’ve said square and ’andsome, young gen’leman, here’s my ’art and here’s my ’and.”

The trainer illustrated his last words by putting his left hand upon his chest, too low down to satisfy an anatomist, and holding out his right.

“There,” he continued, after the business of shaking hands had been gone through, “all this talking has made me husky, so we’ll have a glass of fizz, son-in-law, in honour of the occasion, just to wash it down.”

“No, no, no, no!” cried the girl. “Syd and I want to get out on the common to see all the races.”

“Bah! You two won’t be thinking about the races, I know. Look here, though, son-in-law. Some day, I’ll give you the right tip;” and then, in a whisper from behind his hand, “Jim Crow – the dark horse.”

“What for?”

“What for?” cried the trainer, contemptuously. “Why, the cup.”

“Nonsense?”

“That’s right, boy.”

“No, no,” cried Syd, giving his young wife’s arm a hug. “La Sylphide.”

“Out of it. Jock in a straight weskit.”

“Out of it be hanged, sir! She runs to win, with Uncle Hilton up.”

“Come along, Syd,” cried Molly, and the pair ran out like a couple of schoolchildren, nearly cannoning against Mark Willows, who was coming up with Sir Hilton’s bag and overcoat, and making him turn to look after them, while Sam Simpkins stood gasping like a great, red-faced carp which had leaped out of the edge of a pond and landed in an element not suited to its nature.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Trainer’s Tips

“Nonsense!” gasped the trainer, as soon as he could get his breath after the staggerer he had received. “The boy’s in love – mad – don’t know what he’s a-saying of.”

“Well, I’m blest!” said Mark, turning round with a grin on his face. “He’s begun to crow early. Day, Mr Simpkins. I say – ”

Mark did not say anything, but winked and jerked his thumb over his right shoulder in the direction the young couple had taken.

“What do you want?” growled the trainer, surlily.

“Room for the guv’nor – Sir Hilton Lisle, Bart – to dress for the race.”

“Then it is true,” said the trainer to himself, as to hide his face from the groom he turned his back, walked to a bell-handle, and pulled it violently before returning.

“Got a lot on our mare, eh, Mr Simpkins?”

“No!” growled the trainer. “I heered she was not going to run.”

“Knowing ones ain’t always right, sir.”

At that moment the chambermaid appeared.

“Room for Sir Hilton Lisle,” cried the trainer, hoarsely. “Put him in number one. Well, this is a facer!” he muttered, as he turned away. “I must have a drop for this,” and he hurried into the bar.

“Hullo, my dear,” cried Mark. “My word, what a cap! I say, what’s the matter with the boss?”

“He’s got a sore head,” said the chambermaid, sharply. “I never see such a bear.”

“He’s been backing the wrong horse, I know,” said Mark.

“Then you don’t know nothing about it, Mr Clever. Here, I’ve got one for you.”

The speaker led the way up the stairs into the open gallery, to pause at the top by the door of the room her master had named, Mark following with the bag and overcoat.

“Well, let’s have it,” said Mark.

“Why, I should ha’ thought you must ha’ known.”

“Known what – as my guv’nor’s going on the Turf again?”

“Bother the Turf! I’m sick of the name. No; master’s found out about Miss Molly.”

“Eh? What about her?”

“Married! How do you like that?”

“Never tried yet, my dear. But who to?”

“Who to, indeed! A chit of a boy.”

“Wha-a-at!” cried Mark, and a light broke upon him as he recalled what he had just seen. “Not our Master Syd?”

“Right first time.”

“Oh, here’s a game,” began Mark. “Quick, here’s master, and I haven’t put out his duds.”

The groom dashed through the door the girl threw open just as Sir Hilton, who had been to the paddock, came up to the porch ready to meet the trainer, who was coming from the bar wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“It’s all up!” he groaned to himself.

“Ah, Sam Simpkins, how are you? Surprised to see me here again, eh?”

“Sur-prised ain’t the word for it, Sir Hilton,” cried the trainer, making an effort to look landlordly, and speaking in boisterous tones. “Staggered, Sir Hilton. That’s nearer the mark; but come in, Sir Hilton. Puts me in mind o’ the good old days. My word! Who’d ha’ thought it? I jest heered of it. And you’re going to ride, Sir Hilton?”

“I am, Sam.”

“Your old mare, Sir Hilton?”

“No,” said Sir Hilton, frowning. “My old friend Lady Tilborough’s mare, in consequence of – ”

“Yes, I heered, Sir Hilton; her jockey, Josh Rowle’s been on the drink again. Dear, dear! I keep a house, but what I say to people who come to my bar or to the tap is – ”

“Yes – yes, I know. My man here?”

“Yes, Sir Hilton. Up in your old room, number one. But, ahem! Beg pardon, Sir Hilton, you can trust me,” said the trainer, dropping his voice. “Do you, eh – understand me, Sir Hilton – man who’s seen a deal o’ business for you – you – you don’t ride to win?”

“Why, you – ”

“Ah, Hilt, dear boy!” cried Lady Tilborough, hurrying in. “I saw you come up to the porch, but couldn’t overtake you. Man of your word.”

“I hope so,” said Sir Hilton, turning to give the old trainer a withering look.

“Oh, murder!” muttered the man, wiping his brow, now all covered with a heavy dew. “What shall I do? It’s a smasher.”

“Seen our beauty?” said Lady Tilborough.

“Yes; I’ve been to look. She’s in splendid form.”

“Thank you, old man; that does me good.”

“A bit too fine, though,” continued Sir Hilton, who had been watching the trainer narrowly, and seeing his state and guessing the cause, felt a little compassionate. “What do you say, Sam?”

“Well, Sir Hilton, if you ask me, I say I haven’t had her training lately, but I’ll give you, an old patron, my honest opinion – not a bit, sir – and if you’ll take my advice you’ll play a quiet game with the mare. That’s the winning card.”

“Nonsense!” cried Sir Hilton, contemptuously.

“Just listen to him, my lady. Here has he been out of the game all this time, while I’ve been watching La Sylphide’s work at every race. I asks you, my lady, Is there anyone as knows the mare’s action, temper and staying powers better than me?”

“He’s right there, Hilt,” said Lady Tilborough.

“To some extent, yes,” said the gentleman addressed.

“Thank ye, Sir Hilton. Then look here; nobody would like to see you come first past the post more than your old trainer.”

“Would you, Sam?” said Sir Hilton, with a queer look at the speaker.

“All right, Sir Hilton. I understand yer alloosion. I may’ve got a bit on Jim Crow, consequent upon the misfortune to Josh Rowle; but,” he continued, closing one eye meaningly, “I can put that right easy. You win the race, Sir Hilton, and I’ll make a pot of money by it. I know the ropes.”

“You do, Sam,” said the baronet, laughing.

“And I’m glad of the charnsh to do a good turn to a couple o’ noble patrons who have put many a hundred into my pocket. Look here, Sir Hilton, there’s plenty of time yet. I am at your service. Just you take me to the mare, and let me have a few minutes with her.”

“The mare is not my property, Sam,” said Sir Hilton, laughing.

“Of course not, Sir Hilton. I forgot. What do you say, my lady? That there Jim Crow’s a good horse, and La Sylphide hasn’t the wind she had.”

“Indeed!” said Lady Tilborough.

“It’s a fact, my lady. What she wants is holding in and a waiting game, and just something as – you know, Sir Hilton – for the roosh at the last, as’ll take her in a couple o’ lengths ahead.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Sir Hilton, drily.

“You hear, my lady? I want you to win.”

“Thank you, Simpkins,” said Lady Tilborough, gravely. “I am greatly obliged.”

“And I’m to just take the mare in hand for you,” said the man, who, in his excitement, could not restrain his eagerness.

“Well, no, thank you, Simpkins,” said the lady, quietly. “You were always a very good trainer, and I made a good deal of money in the past, but I have a very trustworthy man now, and he might object to your interference at the eleventh hour.”

“Oh, I could soon make it right with him, my lady,” said the trainer, quickly.

“No doubt, Sam Simpkins,” said the lady, meaningly, “but I should be sorry to have my man’s morals assailed.”

“I don’t understand you, my lady.”

“Then I’ll speak more plainly, Simpkins. I am not disposed to lay my man open to temptation.”

“What! Does your ladyship mean to insinuate that I’d do anything that warn’t quite square?”

“I insinuate nothing, Sam Simpkins. I only go so far as to say that you are not my servant now, and that I would not trust you in the least.”

“Hark at that now!” cried the trainer, turning up his eyes to the sporting trophies on the walls, and unconsciously letting them rest on the grinning mask of an old fox. Then “Ain’t you got a word to say for me, Sir Hilton? I has my faults, I know, but no man living would say I couldn’t be trusted. You allus found me right, Sir Hilton.”

“Always, Sam, when it suited your book.”

“Well, I am!” exclaimed the trainer.

“Yes, Sam, an awful old scamp,” said Lady Tilborough, laughing. “Thank you, my man. You’ve got your favourite, I’ve got mine, and the man to ride her straight and square as an English gentleman should ride an English horse.”

“All right, Sir Hilton. All right, my lady. Sorry I tried to give advice gratis for nothing; only mind this, both of you, if La Sylphide breaks down or Sir Hilton here loses his nerve through being out of training, don’t you blame me.”

“Don’t be alarmed, Simpkins,” said Lady Tilborough, in a tone which made the trainer draw back a step or two. “Here, Hilton.”

“Yes.”

“A horrible thought. What about your weight?” she whispered.

“Went straight to the scales and tried,” he replied, in the same lowered tone. “Right to an ounce.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Lady Tilborough, with a sigh of relief and a glance back to see if the trainer was out of hearing. “Now then, off to your room and get into your silk. Mind, you must keep cool and you must win.”

“I’m trying my best. But I can’t help thinking. My wife!”

“Oh! Kiss your wife, man – when you get back. Never mind her now.”

“But if by any chance she hears?”

“Let her hear when the race is run. She must hear afterwards, of course. Wives and husbands are out of court now. Remember your four thou’.”

“I do,” said Sir Hilton, with a groan.

“Ah! would you!” cried Lady Tilborough. “You’ve got to face the thing anyhow, and listen, here’s your position: It’s meeting the poor, severe darling with the race lost, or meeting her with it won. Which will you do?”

“Of course,” cried Sir Hilton, eagerly. “I see.”

“You’re yourself again. Now, one more word – that man has backed Jim Crow heavily. You understand?”

“Of course.”

“And Jim Crow’s rather a dangerous horse; but if you keep cool, and in your old form, the race is ours.”

“Yes; I feel it now.”

“Then you know. Keep her clear, and let her have her own old way.”

“Then I’m off yonder. You’ll meet me there. I’ve a hankering to be at her side, for fear of the possibility of anyone getting at her even now.”

“No fear of that. Off with you!”

Lady Tilborough held out her hand, and Granton entered quickly.

“Silk ho!” he cried.

Sir Hilton nodded shortly and ran actively up the stairs.

“Bravo!” said the doctor. “Hilt looks his old self. Cool as a – you know.”

“Don’t say another word to me, Granton, till the race is over,” said the lady, pleadingly.

“I understand,” he said, and they went off straight for the paddock, while as soon as the chamber door in the gallery had been shut sharply upon his master by Mark Willows, Simpkins slipped out of the bar entry, looking flushed and strange.

“Too late to do anything now,” he groaned to himself. “My head seems to be going – all of a buzz. Hedge heavily or chance it. Which? Which? Oh, what in the name of thunder shall I do?”

Chapter Fifteen.

Mephistopheles at Work

What the trainer did was to return to the bar and swallow a glass of gin and bitters hastily, before returning to his favourite seat in the hall, when he pulled out betting-book and pencil, threw one swollen leg over the other, and began to chew the lead and try to master the figures which would not stand still to be reckoned up.

“Nice day for the races,” said a voice, as the door was darkened. “How are you, Simpkins?”

The trainer looked up angrily, saw that it was an old client and friend, and replied surlily: “Morn’n. They’ll attend to you in the bar. Oh, dear!” he muttered, “I can’t hedge now.”

The visitor glanced quickly round to see that they were alone, and then pressed up close to the trainer. “Pst! Look here, Sam Simpkins.”

“Didn’t I tell you they’d see to you in the bar?” growled the trainer.

“Yes; but I want another fifty on Jim Crow, if you can do it.”

“Eh? Yes, of course,” cried the trainer, completely changing his tone and manner; then, turning over a few leaves, he clumsily made an entry in his book.

“Close on the run,” he said apologetically. – “Horrid busy. There you are. Ten fives. All right, Mr Trimmer.”

“Not in my way, as a rule, Mr Simpkins,” said Lady Lisle’s agent, with a weak grin; “but a little flutter, as you call it, is pleasant and exciting – a nice change from the humdrum of business life.”

“And very profitable too, eh, Mr Trimmer?”

“Yes; I’ve not done badly, Sam – thanks to you, old friend.”

“No, you haven’t; but go and get your glass and be off, please,” said the trainer, finishing the deposit of the crisp new banknotes by placing them in a pocket-book, drawing on the tight elastic with a loud snap, buttoning the book up in his breast, and giving the place a slap, which seemed to bring out a sigh of relief.

“I won’t drink this morning, thank you, Sam. I’ll go out on the common at once. How does Jim Crow look?”

“Splendid; but be off, please. I’m busy,” growled the trainer.

“I understand. I shall find you here after the race. Short settlements, eh?”

“Always on spot. Take and give sharp; that’s my motter,” replied the trainer, bending down over his betting-book again without paying further heed to his client, who nodded, smiled at the chamber maid in the gallery, and went out softly.

“A bit back,” muttered the trainer, with the ghost of a grin on his stubbly face, as soon as he was alone. “But like nothing – like nothing,” he grumbled. “One drop in a pint pot. But let’s see; let’s see.”

He had not been immersed in his calculations again five minutes when there was a hurried step, and Lady Lisle’s agent came in, looking ghastly.

“Oh, there you are, Sam,” he said, hurriedly. “I’ve been on the common and I’ve changed my mind.”

“Eh? What?” said the trainer, looking up fiercely.

“That fifty I put on Jim Crow. I’ll put on La Sylphide instead.”

“Too late, sir. Bet booked. I never alter my entries. What’s the matter?”

“I thought Jim Crow was such a perfectly safe horse, but I hear – ”

A gasp stopped the man’s utterance. “Well, what have you heered?”

“That – that Lady Tilborough’s horse is going to run after all.”

“Lady Tilborough’s mare’s scratched, they say, Mr Trimmer.”

“No, no. I have it on the best authority. She’s going to run.”

“Oh, they say anything in the ring. Don’t you take no notice. You’ve put your money on a good horse, and you’ve got to chance it, of course. I’ve a big pot on there.”