Sir Hilton's Sin

“So I hear, Mr Simpkins,” said the agent; “but I’m a poor man. I only bet on sure things, and I must withdraw this bet.”

“Too late, sir; can’t be done now.”

“But it must; it must I will have it back,” cried the agent, fiercely.

“Here, none of that,” said the trainer, with a savage growl. “You come to me, sir – made your bet, and I’ve booked it.”

“But I stand to lose five hundred pounds, man,” cried the agent, frantically. “Give me my money back.”

“Not a cent, sir. Chance it.”

“I heard that Josh Rowle was too bad to ride.”

“That’s true enough, sir.”

“I – I don’t understand,” cried Trimmer; “but I will not stir from here without those notes. Give me my fifty pounds.”

He caught the trainer with both hands by the coat. “Steady, my lad,” growled Simpkins. “Don’t be a fool. This is ’sault and battery, and, if I liked, I could lay you down with an ugly rap between the eyes. Steady!” he continued, with a grim smile overspreading his coarse and brutal face. “I begin to see now how it is. My, how queer! Your guv’nor must be going to ride.”

“What! Nonsense! Something to turn me off the scent. I will have my money back.”

“You won’t, Master Trimmer – not a cent; and look here, if you make that row you’ll have Sir Hilton out here to know what’s the matter.”

“Sir Hilton?” cried the man, staring wildly.

“Yes; he’s up there in number one, dressing for the race.”

“A lie! An excuse! Give me my money!” and he clutched at the trainer so fiercely that the bar and chamber maids came to the bar door to see.

“Ony a gent a bit upset about a bit o’ coin, my dears. Here, Mary, tell Mr Trimmer, here, who’s dressing in number one.”

“Sir Hilton Lisle, sir,” replied the maid, and Trimmer’s hands dropped from the trainer’s coat. “Anyone with him, my gal?”

“Yes, sir. Mark Willows, Sir Hilton’s groom.”

The agent dropped into a chair, looking as if he were going to have a fit.

“Gent’s a bit poorly. Excitement. That’ll do, my gals. Stop, one of you bring him a nip of my gin and bitters.”

The two maids, well accustomed to such scenes, retired into the bar, one of them returning with a glass upon a tray, and waiting to be paid, as Trimmer seized the liquor and gulped it down.

“All right, my dear; my treat,” said the trainer, and the next minute the two men were alone.

“Then it’s true?” faltered the agent, as he set down the glass.

“Yes, all true. Your guv’nor’s going to ride La Sylphide, and a hundred to one he wins.”

“And you never told me, an old friend,” said Trimmer, reproachfully.

“No friendship in betting, sir. I stand to lose a pile over the job, and I must make a bit back. Did I ask you to put your money on Jim Crow?”

“No – but – ”

“No, but!” said the trainer, scornfully. “Take it as I do. You don’t hear me ’owl.”

Trimmer, who was as white as a sheet, sat panting, as he stared hard at the trainer, and then glanced up over his shoulder at the gallery.

“C’rect card, gentlemen – all the runners, sir,” came from the outside to break the silence, backed up by the murmur from the course.

“Sam,” whispered the agent at last, and he leant towards the trainer, “do you really stand to lose five thou’?”

“Every penny of it,” growled the trainer, with a terrible oath, and a look which bespoke his sincerity. “What’s your twopenny bet to that? This is your somethinged guvnor’s doing. Confound him! I’d poison him if I could.”

“Ha!” sighed Trimmer.

“It was a dead certainty, as you know. They would have scratched La Sylphide at the last moment, for no one could ride her but Josh Rowle, and he’s in a strait weskit, with two nurses from the ’sylum. Dead certainty it was, when in comes your guv’nor to spoil as fine a thing as was ever planned.”

“But he mayn’t win, after all.”

“Tchah! I know the mare, don’t I? All he’s got to do is to sit still in the saddle, give her her head, and talk to her as he always knew how, and she’ll romp in past the lot. The game’s up, Mr Trimmer, and you must make the best of it. Here, don’t bear no malice. Have another drink, and take one of these.”

“C’rect card, gents; all the runners!” came again from the outside.

Simpkins’s outer breast-pocket formed his cigar-case, and he took out a couple from where they lay loose, and offered them to the agent. But the latter paid no heed, for he glanced up at the gallery and then at the bar, beyond which the two maids could be seen, busy serving.

“Sam,” whispered Trimmer at last; “quick, before it’s too late. The mare must be got at.”

Crack! went a match, and the trainer bit off the cigar end and lit up quickly.

“Here, ketch hold,” he growled. “Be sharp, or it’ll be out,” and he offered the burning match. “You talk like a fool. How?”

“You know. Such a little thing would do it. What about King Dick?”

“Hold your cursed row,” growled the trainer, threateningly.

“I can’t,” whispered the agent. “I’ve too much at stake. Get to the mare at once. You, a trainer, can manage that.”

“You talk like a fool, I tell you. Close upon the time like this.”

“Can’t you work it with the guv’nor or Lady T.?”

“No. If I could should I be sitting here jawing? Tried it on, and failed.”

“Think of your five thousand pounds.”

“I tell you you can’t get at the mare.”

“C’rect cards, gents,” came again from without, in Dandy Dinny’s raucous voice. But his cry was unheard within, where Trimmer, with a peculiar Mephistophelian smile upon his face, gave another glance upwards at the gallery, before leaning forward till his lips were quite close to the trainer’s great red ear, into which he whispered —

“No, of course not; but you could get at the man.”

The trainer started to his feet, the cigar he had just lit falling from his gaping mouth, just as Dandy Dinny passed the window, leering in, and then hurried out of sight with his hawking cry, for there was the sound of carriage wheels approaching the hotel.

Trimmer rose too, and laid his hand softly upon Simpkinss arm, as he gazed hard in his companion’s rolling eyes, now directed towards the gallery.

“Eh?” said the trainer at last, as his eyes dropped to gaze in those that were searching his, and he began to pass his big hand over his mouth again and again.

Then he lowered it, still gazing hard at the agent, and lifted it once more to his lips, but now closed as if it were holding a drinking vessel, which he made believe to hold to his lips and drink therefrom.

The look had now become questioning.

A slowly given nod from Trimmer’s head was the answer.

The big door-bell was pulled sharply, and gave forth a peal which made the trainer start. “Someone coming,” he said, rushing to the window and thrusting out his head, to draw it back sharply.

“The missus!” he whispered.

“Lady Lisle!” gasped Trimmer, excitedly. “She mustn’t see me here.”

“Come in my office. Quick!”

Simpkins half-thrust his companion quickly through the door in the corner, just as the boots passed through the porch and the barmaid came to her door, and the next minute Lady Lisle was ushered by the boots into the hall.

“I’ll tell master, my lady,” said the man, and he went to the office, while the barmaid drew back into her highly-glazed shell.

Chapter Sixteen.

Rather Equivocal

Lady Lisle gave an angry, shuddering look of disgust as she glanced round the sanctuary of the high priest of sport, noting the pictures and hunting trophies, and then holding her highly-scented handkerchief to her delicate nostrils, which were sharply assailed by spirituous exhalations and the fumes of the noxious weed.

“Oh,” she mused, “that it should come to this – a publican’s daughter, a low-bred wench. Oh, Hilton, Hilton! But – ah! I am determined. I will see it to the end.”

She was kept waiting quite five minutes, which she passed standing like a statue in the middle of the hall, till there was a husky cough, and Simpkins came hurrying out, trying with fat, clumsy fingers to thrust a little white, folded paper, very suggestive of “the powder at night” into his waistcoat pocket, where it refused at first to go.

“Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, after a quick glance up at the gallery. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Very busy to-day.”

“Mr Simpkins?” said the lady, haughtily.

“That’s me, my lady; but if you want accommodation I’m afraid we’re full.”

“My husband – Sir Hilton Lisle. He is here?” said the lady, sternly.

The trainer’s jaw dropped, and, like lightning, a thought flashed through his brain.

The wife, to stop the gentleman from mounting the mare! It was salvation.

But the next moment the hope died out. In such an emergency the wife’s appeal would be as so much breath. It would be like grasping at a shadow and letting the substance go.

“Do you not understand, my man?” said Lady Lisle, impatiently. “My husband – he is here?”

“Sir Hilton Lisle, Bart.?” said the trainer, who determined to stick to the substance and let the shadow glide. “Oh, no, my lady, he ain’t here.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I dunno, my lady,” replied the man, coolly. “At the races, I should suppose.”

“How could I find him in all that crowd?” murmured the unhappy woman. Then, setting her teeth hard to suppress the feeling of passion that was growing fast, she turned to the man again, and her voice was perfectly firm and cold, as she said authoritatively: “You have a daughter, man?”

“That’s right, my lady,” said the trainer, and he smiled faintly. “Oh,” he continued, “I suppose I know what brings your ladyship here.”

And once more a thought crossed his mind as to the possibility of stopping Sir Hilton’s jockeyship by setting his wife upon his track. But he dismissed it directly, to respond to his visitor’s command.

“I suppose you do, sir,” she said haughtily. “Send the woman here.”

“Woman, eh? Why, she’s a mere gal, my lady.”

“Don’t speak to me like that, man,” cried Lady Lisle. “Where is your daughter?”

“On the grand stand, I s’pose, along o’ him.”

“This is monstrous!” cried Lady Lisle, passionately. “Oh, man, can you stand there with that base effrontery and speak to me like this?”

“Can I, my lady? Yes. Why not? I’m not your paid servant, and I dessay if we totted up together and compared notes, I, Sam Simpkins, trainer, could show as good a hincome as your ladyship. At least, I could yesterday,” he muttered.

“Yes, yes, no doubt; but have you no sense of the moral wrong? Are you shameless, or ignorant of your responsibility to your child?”

“Well, you’re a-pitching it pretty strong, my lady; but I won’t kick, for I dessay you do find it rather a bitter pill to swallow.”

“Man, you are shameless!” cried Lady Lisle, and the trainer chuckled.

“Well, my lady, I’m not troubled much with that sort o’ thing. Bashfulness is a bit in the way in my trade.”

“I’ll set it down to ignorance, then.”

“That’s better, my lady. I never set up as a scholar.”

“Let me appeal to you, then. Have you done nothing to stop it?”

“Never knowed a word about it till this blessed morning, my lady,” cried the trainer, with a display of indignation. “Saucy young baggage! She kep’ it dark enough.”

“Ha! Then you have some feeling for your child.”

“Feeling, my lady! Course I have; and I’d ha’ stopped it if I’d known before it was too late.”

Lady Lisle winced as if she had received a blow. “But, now – now,” she cried, “you will immediately take proceedings?”

“Bah! What can I do?”

“Oh, think, man, of the wrong it is doing me.”

“Tchah! It’s of no use to talk now, my lady. Pride’s a very nice thing in its way, but they say it must have a fall. Love and natur’, my lady, gets the better of us all. You and me understands what it is, and you see now that you couldn’t always have him tied to your apron-string.”

“Man, have you no feeling?”

“Quite enough for my business, my lady.”

“But I insist you shall stop it at once.”

“Don’t I tell you, my lady,” cried the trainer, with a glance up at number one, “that it’s too late? She’ll be having him hear her directly,” he added to himself. “There, chuck it up, my lady,” he continued, “and go home. This place on a race day ain’t sootable for you. Take my word, you’ll soon get used to it.”

“The man is a monster,” groaned Lady Lisle, wringing her hands. “Man, man,” she cried, “you shock me. If you have no feeling or respect for your child – ”

“Me, my lady? Of course, I have. Why,” added the trainer, “I like it.”

“Wretched man! Such depravity!”

“Depravity be blowed, my lady! Here, I can put up with a good deal, but you’re pitching it too strong. Come, I won’t get in a temper with you, my lady, though I am horribly tried just now. Come, I’m speaking fair as a man can speak; hadn’t you better climb down?”

“Think of the scandal, man.”

“My name’s Simpkins, my lady, please. If your set may call it a scandal, mine won’t mind. As for me, I think it’s a very good thing for the girl.”

“I can bear no more of this,” muttered Lady Lisle, faintly. “It is too much. Oh! man, man, I looked for help and sympathy from you; but in your shameless ignorance you have done nothing but outrage my feelings.”

“Very sorry, my lady; but you should have come and met me civil-like, as the father of as pretty a lass as ever stepped. ’Stead o’ which you comes in your carriage and walks in on stilts, and begins a-bully-ragging me as if I was still Sir Hilton’s servant. Now, look here, my lady, you’ve kep’ on calling me man, man, man, and it’s true I am a man, and a man with a temper; but I don’t like to be reminded of it over and over again, and in my own house, because them two began making love, as is the nat’ralest thing in natur’.”

Lady Lisle felt exhausted, and she made a gesture as if to speak.

“No, you’ve had your innings, my lady, and I don’t keep calling you woman, woman, woman. Now, here’s what I’ve got to say as a fine-ale – the thing’s happened, and you’ve got to make the best of it. My Molly’s out yonder with the chap she loves and who loves her. You can’t get at ’em, and if you behave sensible you’ll get back in your carriage and go straight home, and the sooner the better, or I shall have to show you the door, for I’ve got something in the way of a big business to do. By and by, when you get cool, you’ll see as it’s no use to be orty, and if you like to come down off the stilts and ask my Molly to join you at the Denes, well and good.”

“Oh!” gasped the visitor in horror.

“Very well, if you don’t I shan’t fret. I know what you’ve done long enough, keeping him like at the Denes; but I can afford it, even if I am hard hit to-day. It only means putting an extra knife and fork at my table, where he shall be welcome till you drop the orty and ’old your ’and – Hullo! Feel upset, my lady? That’s pride and temper.”

“Don’t touch me, man!” panted the suffering woman; “it would be pollution. Oh, Hilton, Hilton!” she moaned as she strove to steady herself to the door and managed to walk out of the porch and step feebly into the carriage.

“Home!” she said, in a deep, hollow voice before she sank back, unconscious of the excitement and noise around, and moaned softly. “Home? No; it is home no more.”

This giving way to one set of feelings lasted but a few moments, for there rose up before her imagination the figure of her husband seated somewhere with her young and handsome rival, possibly hand in hand, watching the scene before them, and a wave of fierce passion swept all before it. The next minute, to the astonishment and satisfaction of her disappointed coachman, who was longing to see one heat if not more, she stood up in the barouche and prodded him with her parasol.

“Turn back,” she said, “and drive to where I can have a good view of the race.”

Chapter Seventeen.

La Sylphide’s Health

“Orty, stuck-up popinjay!” growled the trainer, mopping his forehead. “But she’s got to come down. And me on pins and needles all the time for fear he should open his door and she see him! I did feel as if it might be right to let her, but his monkey would have been up, and she couldn’t have stopped him from riding. Hullo!” he said, as he saw Trimmer at the office-door. “Not gone!”

“No,” whispered the agent. “I felt obliged to stay.”

“And I feel obliged to kick you out. So cut.”

“No, no, Mr Simpkins.”

“Look here, sir, if that job’s to be done, I can do it. I don’t want no complications. You can stand by me if it gets blown and there’s a job for the police. As it is, I’ll do it or not do it, without your meddling and putting in your spoon. Take your hook, dyer hear, and before he comes.”

At that very moment there was the rattle of a door handle in the gallery, and a familiar voice exclaimed: “One moment, Sir Hilton, you’ve left your whip.”

“Give it me; but she’ll want no whip.”

The trainer made a fierce gesture, and the agent retreated through the office, while the former thrust his fat finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket unconsciously as he advanced towards the foot of the stairs, down which Sir Hilton came carefully, so as not to catch his spurs in the carpet, and closely followed by Mark Willows, bearing a long drab greatcoat. The baronet looked the very pink of a gentleman-rider in his light-blue satin shirt, diagonally crossed over the right shoulder by a broad scarlet scarf-like band, and scarlet jockey cap to match. His breeches and boots fitted to perfection, and as he stepped lightly into the middle of the hall, almost on the very spot which his wife had occupied, there was a keen look in his grey eyes and a slight quivering about his well-cut nostrils, making him seem alert, ready, and quite the man who might be trusted with a race.

“There,” he said sharply; “how long have I to spare?”

“Good half-hour, sir,” said the trainer, gazing at his guest as if full of pride at his appearance.

“Leave that coat on the chair, there, man, and go and wait for me at the paddock.”

Mark touched his hat and passed out, eager to get on to the field of battle, swarming with objects of interest to the groom’s eyes, while Simpkins approached his guest, smiling and rubbing his hands.

“Well, Sam,” said Sir Hilton, shortly; “do I look all right?”

“All right, Sir Hilton? Splendid!”

The eager admiration seemed to be perfectly real, as the trainer walked round, inspecting carefully.

“Not your old things, are they, Sir Hilton?”

“Oh, yes. Been lying by these three years. Look – creased and soiled?”

“Fresh as a daisy, Sir Hilton. Why, its like old times. Here, hang the business! It may take care of itself to-day. I’m coming to see you ride.”

The man spoke back over his shoulder, as, leaving his guest shaking himself down in the unaccustomed garb, he hurried into the office, where a pop was heard, and he returned, bearing a waiter, on which was a foaming champagne bottle and a couple of glasses.

This he placed upon a little marble table, and began to fill the glasses with trembling hands, a little in first one and then in the other, till the cream ceased to threaten flowing over, when he placed the bottle by itself and bore the waiter and its glasses towards the guest. “Hullo! What have you got there, Sam?”

“Irroy, black seal, Sir Hilton.”

“I see; but I didn’t order it.”

“No, Sir Hilton, but you won’t mind taking a glass with the old trainer – to La Sylphide, and the winning of the cup?”

“No, no, no, man. Nonsense! Very good of you, but I want a cool head and a steady hand.”

“Of course you do, Sir Hilton; but one glass o’ dry fizz! Not much harm in that, Sir Hilton. You’ll do me the honour, sir, just for luck? Tighten up your nerves, and make you win in a canter.”

“Do you want me to win, Sam?” said Sir Hilton, sharply.

“Win, Sir Hilton? Of course. I thought I was going to lose heavily, but I’ve put it right, and it means a couple of hundred if you sail in first.”

“And if I lose?”

“I shall be just about even, Sir Hilton,” said the man, with a grin, as he held out the tray.

“Well,” said Sir Hilton, whose cheeks were flushed with excitement, “I shall win, Sam.”

He took up the clear, foaming glass, from up whose centre the tiny beads were rising fast, like a fountain, to break and add to the sparkling foam. “Here’s La Sylphide, Sam.”

“Here’s La Sylphide, Sir Hilton,” cried the trainer, “and thanking my old master for the honour done to his old trainer Simpkins, chrissen Sam.”

As he spoke he fixed his eyes full upon those of the gaily-dressed jockey facing him, and, taking his time from his guest, raised the glass to his lips and kept it there till it was drained, before holding out the salver for Sir Hilton’s empty glass.

“Bah! Too dry,” said Sir Hilton, with a slight grimace. “How long have you had that wine?”

“’Bout seven year, Sir Hilton,” replied the man, setting down the waiter and replacing the bottle by the glasses, but so clumsily that he knocked over his guest’s glass, which was shivered to atoms on the floor.

“Oh, I beg pardon, Sir Hilton! I’m so excited with the race that my head’s all of a shake. Hi, somebody, a clean glass!”

The barmaid ran out with the fresh glass, and she was followed by one of the other maids with a dustpan and brush.

“That’s right, my lass; be careful; don’t leave any bits.”

As he spoke he lifted the little marble table out of the maid’s way and filled the glasses again, before raising the waiter to hand it for the second time to his guest.

“No, no, Sam; one’s enough.”

“What, Sir Hilton! You won’t wet the other eye?”

“No, not even if I were not going to ride. That wine’s bad.”

“Bad, Sir Hilton?” cried the trainer, raising his own glass to the light, sniffing at it, tasting it cautiously, and then looking again at his visitor. “Mouth must be a bit out o’ taste with the excitement. Seems to me – ” He raised his glass to his lips again, took a good pull, and then drained and set it down. “Beg your pardon, Sir Hilton,” he said; “I don’t set up for a judge, but I wouldn’t wish to taste a better drop o’ cham than that.”

“Glad you like it,” said Sir Hilton, tetchily.

“Try it again, sir. Give your mouth a rinse out with it, and then finish the glass.”

“No, thanks; that will do. Bah! I can taste it now,” said Sir Hilton, snappishly, and he smacked his lips, and then passed his tongue over them two or three times as he walked hastily up and down, tapping his boot with the gold-mounted whip he held.

Simpkins watched him furtively and moved towards the bar, but turned, and seemed to force himself to his guest’s side. “Oh, yes, Sir Hilton,” he said, “you’ll win; and it’ll be, as I said afore, two ’underd in my pocket, while, if you lose, which you won’t, it’ll bring me within a fiver or so of home.”

“Get away! Don’t bother,” said his victim, sharply.

“Right, Sir Hilton. Course you’ve a deal on your head now, but, if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’ll have half a glass more of that wine before it gets flat.”

“Bah!” ejaculated the baronet. “Thank ye, Sir Hilton,” said the man, refilling his glass, to stand watching his visitor while sipping slowly, and muttering every time he raised his trembling hand something about “good glass of wine.”

Suddenly Sir Hilton made a quick turn and walked sharply towards the door, making the trainer set down his glass hurriedly, glance at the bar-window to see if he was observed, and then follow his guest to the door; but, before he reached it, the baronet turned round and walked back, close by the landlord, without appearing to notice him.

“Can’t stand it no longer,” muttered the man to himself. “Hah! Wonder whether it will come off?”

He glanced at his victim sharply, saw that he was talking softly to himself in the intervals of passing his tongue impatiently over his lips and making a peculiar sound as if tasting.

“Tlat, tlat, tlat! Too dry. Burns and smarts,” he said impatiently, and then clapped his hand quickly to his head.

“Why not try another glass, Sir Hilton?” said the trainer; but no heed was taken of his words.

“It’s a-working,” muttered the man. “Hope I didn’t give him too much.”

He glanced at the bright blue and scarlet figure again, and then, drawing a deep breath he once more moved towards the door of his office, where he stopped inside watching.

“Why, it’s like giving him the jumps,” he muttered. “Well, if it do go wrong, I ain’t done nothing. It’s the drink. He must ha’ been having it heavy before he came here; and if that won’t do, I’m blest if I’m going to stand the racket all alone.”