Sir Hilton's Sin

He stood watching his victim for quite ten minutes, during which time the drug he had administered, one of whose properties as a trainer and veterinary surgeon he was well aware, was working with wonderful rapidity; and this was accelerated suddenly by Sir Hilton’s action, for to the trainer’s great delight, the poor fellow gave a lurch which brought him near the little table, where he recovered himself, saw the bottle and glass, and seized the former with his left hand.

“Dry – thirsty!” he said hurriedly; and making an effort he poured out another glass of wine, drained it, and was in the act of setting down the glass when Granton came hurrying in, and Simpkins drew back out of sight.

Chapter Eighteen.

How the Bees Swarmed

“Ah, Hilt, old chap, there you are! Lady T. says you must come at once, and – Hang it, man, don’t do that!”

Sir Hilton turned on hearing the familiar voice and stared at the speaker, who snatched the bottle from his hand.

“What are you doing?” he said sharply, as the doctor held the bottle up to the light.

“What am I doing?” cried Granton, in a rage. “Hang it, man, you’ve never been such a fool as to drink all this?”

“Yes; horrid stuff – dry – horribly dry.”

He smacked his lips two or three times over and shook his head, repeating the action, and then turned to walk right across the hall towards the door.

“C’rect cards, gents; all the runners – on’y a shilling!” come from Dandy Dinny, who appeared in the porch, staring in with curious eyes.

“Get out – curse you!” cried Sir Hilton, making a couple of sharp lashes with his whip in the man’s direction. “Take the miserable mongrel away. Dogs indeed! Dog! Man don’t want dogs who’s going to ride a big race.”

“No, nor bad cham neither,” cried Granton, furiously, catching his old friend by the arm. “Why, Hilt, you must have been mad.”

“Eh? Mad? Yes, she makes me very mad sometimes.”

“Bah! Mad to go on the drink at a time like this. Here, pull yourself together, man.”

“Drink?” said Sir Hilton, sharply, his voice perfectly clear and distinct. “Yes, cursed stuff! Gooseberry wine, I believe. Vintage of France? Pish! Pretty France! Old gooseberry! Don’t order any more, Jack. Dry champagne; dry enough to mix with paint. Have S. and B.”

“Here, I’m not going to bully you now. Shake yourself up. You must be coming on now.”

“Eh? What for? Coming on?”

“Yes!” cried Granton, in a passion. “Hang it, man, you’re regularly fuddled!”

“Fuddled? I? Absurd! Only a glass or two. Look at me. Fuddled! You’re a fool, Jack! Oh, yes, I remember – the race.”

“Then come on,” cried Granton. “You look all right.”

“Oh, yes, I’m all right. Did you think I was tight?”

“Well, something of the kind. Come along.”

“Don’t hang on to a man like that,” said Sir Hilton, shaking himself free with an angry jerk. “Want to spoil my satin? Hi! Ha! Sh!”

He made a rush, and two or three cuts in the air with his whip, which the trainer, who was standing back in the office watching, took to mean given at him, and slipped behind the door.

Granton did not see him, his attention being taken up by the insane action of his friend, whom he once more caught by the arm.

“What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Are you going daft?”

“Eh? What?” cried Sir Hilton, looking at him angrily. “Nonsense! Can’t you see the little beasts?”

“D.T., by jingo!” muttered the doctor. “Why, he must have been on the drink for a week! I must get him there somehow. Here, Hilt, old man, its saddling up and weighing time. Come on. La Sylphide looks lovely, and Lady T. all anxiety about you. Rouse up, old chap.”

“All right. Wait till I’ve killed a few of these little beasts.”

To the horror and astonishment of his friend, Sir Hilton made another dash and rush, darting here and there all over the hall, cutting and swishing about with his heavy riding-whip as if it were a sabre, and he a mounted cavalry man, putting the well-learnt pursuing practice well into effect upon the enemy he seemed to see.

“What the deuce shall I do?” muttered the doctor, breathlessly, after playing the enemy in his efforts to escape a slash.

“That cham, Jack,” cried Sir Hilton, catching his friend by the arm. “Sham, and no mistake. Not fizz at all, but that old brewing of honey – mead – metheglin – old Saxon swizzle. There they go again – the bees – swarming – all round and round my head. Yah! Look out – you’ll be stung.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said Granton, humouring him. “Be cool. Stand still a moment, and let them go.”

“Thousands upon thousands of them,” cried Sir Hilton. “B-r-r-r-r-r! Look how they dart about in diamonds, zig-zags, rhomboids – buzz-z!”

“Yes. How queer!” said Granton, taking the speaker’s arm again. “Let’s walk quietly out into the air. They won’t follow us out.”

“I don’t know,” cried the unfortunate man, shaking himself free and holding his hand and whip as if to guard his head. “Buzz! B-r-r-r! How they are going it! Jack, old man, someone ought to get a hive. Rub it with beer and sugar. Take the swarm, you know. Swarm of bees, you know.”

“Swarm of bees in May.”

“Is worth a load of hay.”

“Yes, old man; but we haven’t time now. Come along. La Sylphide’s waiting. Oh, if I could only get him mounted! He’d ride like the very deuce, thinking that the bees were after him.”

“Let me be, you fool!” cried Sir Hilton, angrily. “Take care of yourself, you coward. You’ll be getting us both stung. Oh, I see; on the look-out for a job. Cure the patient’s stings. Ammonia, eh? I know. Country gentleman picks up a bit. Here, horrible!” he cried, with a frantic leap aside. “They’re settling on me. Swarms – millions – hanging in pockets like they do outside a hive. Buzz-uzz-zz! Here, Jack, old man, I daren’t move. Come and sweep ’em off. Steady – softly. Quiet does it. There she is – the queen. Take her gently. She won’t sting. That’s good; now pop her in the hive, and they’ll all follow her. Hah-h-h-h! That’s better. Awkward position for a man to have the bees settling upon him and getting into his hair.”

“Very, old chap; but they’re all gone now.”

“Not quite, Jack. Don’t you hear the mur-mur-mur-mur – ?”

“Oh, yes; quite plain.”

“Pooh!” cried Sir Hilton, with a sudden change coming over him. “What a fool I am! I thought it was the bees, and all the time it’s only the murmur of the crowd on the racecourse.”

“Why, so it is,” said the doctor. “I thought it was bees.”

“No, the people; and I’ve got to ride in the big race.”

“To be sure, so you have, old chap. Suppose we go and look at the mare.”

Sir Hilton was quite quiet now, and looked at him seriously.

“Oh, my poor darling!” groaned the doctor. “Whatever shall I do? If I got him a dose he wouldn’t be fit to ride. Coming, Hilt?” he said calmly.

“Yes, directly, Jack. Let’s see. I must be quite cool and steady, and not fidget the mare. It’s a safe thing, and as soon as I’ve won this race I’ll be tempted no more, Jack, but settle down with the wife – bless her! She means well, Jack. This coup will make me independent, and balance matters. I shall take my position then, you see, and not feel so poverty-stricken – asking one’s wife for every sov.”

“I see. Come along,” said the doctor. “If I could only get him out into the air. I daren’t give him more drink.”

“Don’t hurry me,” said Sir Hilton, coolly rearranging his silk and pulling up his breeches. “I want you to understand, Jack. I’m doing this for independence, to save dear Lady T. – bless her! A good woman. Always been like a sister to me. Jolly little widow! And to make a pile for you, old man, so that you can marry her, have two children, and live happy ever after like a good boy.”

“Yes, that’s it, Hilt, old man,” cried the doctor, desperately, for the clanging of a bell on the racecourse came faintly to his ear. “Come along, then, and win. Quick!”

He caught his old friend by the arm to get him out at all hazards; but it was like touching a spring which set free a lid in the poor fellow’s brain.

For, with a fierce cry – which brought the perspiration out in great drops over the trainer’s face where he listened and watched – Sir Hilton began rushing about the hall again, cutting and slashing furiously.

“Here they are again,” he cried; “thousands – millions of them. B-r-r-r-r-r-r! Sets my head on fire. Keep off, you little imps. There, there, and there! Hah!” he cried at last, dropping breathlessly into a chair. “Br! I was too much for them,” he said, laughing weakly. “Rather queer, though, for them to choose a race day to swarm. But – I’ve got to win, and I mean to.”

“Here, Hilt, old chap,” said Granton, who as a last resource had determined to try a hair of the dog which had bitten his friend, and he drained three-parts of a glass of the champagne into one of the glasses, and was offering it to his friend – “tip this drop off and come on.”

The words acted like magic. Sir Hilton started up and dashed the wine aside.

“What!” he cried. “Do you think I’m mad? Drink at a time like this? No, sir!”

“No, dear; wait here,” cried Syd, outside. “I’ll join you again directly I’ve found him,” and Syd rushed in breathlessly.

“Who’s that?” cried Sir Hilton.

“Oh, there you are, uncle! Hooray! You look splendid. The winning colours. Hooray! I’ve got on that tenner.”

“Here, Syd,” cried Sir Hilton, catching the boy by the arm and whispering mysteriously, “can you hear the bees?”

“Hear the what?” cried the boy, staring.

“The bees; they’re coming back – swarming. Buzz – buzz – buzz! Listen! There they go!”

“Gammon, uncle. It’s the crowd on the course – swarming in thousands.”

“Yes, that’s it, Syd. Take care, you’ll get stung, my boy! Ugh! You beast! Would you!” and whish, whish, whish went the whip, as an imaginary insect was beaten down to the floor and followed and stamped on by its slayer. “That has settled you.”

“Why, doctor,” cried Syd, who had been staring at his uncle, open-mouthed, “don’t say he’s coxybobus!”

“I wasn’t going to, my boy, but he’s horribly screwed.”

“Screwed? He can’t ride. It must be D.T. Here, uncle,” cried the boy, seizing him and shaking him violently, “pull yourself together. You’ve got to ride.”

“Yes, all right, my boy; and your aunt must never know. There, don’t tear my shirt. Hear them – the bees again? Do you recollect, my little man, ‘How doth the little busy bee,’ eh?”

At that moment Molly, wondering at the buzz of conversation within, forgot her young husband’s orders to wait, and came into the hall, to stare wonderingly.

“Oh, Syd, what is the matter with your uncle?”

“Don’t bother. Got ’em. What’s to be done, doctor? Here, I know,” he said, staring the while at Sir Hilton, who had seized a chair, turned it, and sat down crosswise, to keep on lashing at imaginary bees. “Soda – ”

“Water,” cried the doctor.

“I’ll fetch a bottle,” cried Syd.

“Cold, to the head,” cried the doctor. “Pump. No; I’ll fetch a pail. No; I know, and I’ll risk it, for it’s our only chance.”

As the pair rushed off, the one into the bar, the other through the porch, two of the maids appeared as audience in the gallery, two more in the bar entrance, and the trainer, perspiring profusely, remained in his private box – to wit, the office, watching for the outcome of Trimmer’s plan, while his gaily-dressed child approached the stricken man sympathetically.

Chapter Nineteen.

While Time was on the Wing

“Have you got ’em, Sir Hilton?” said Molly, going close up to his side.

“Round and round and round,” said Sir Hilton, “and now zig-zag, zig-zag, zigger, zagger, zag.”

He described the imaginary bees’ flight with the point of his whip, and seemed not to have heard the words addressed to him.

But all of a sudden he caught sight of the bright colours of the girl’s dress, and it took his attention at once.

“Hullo!” he cried, “what colour – what jock’s this? Why, it’s – what’s the matter with my eyes? It’s a pretty girl – it’s – why it’s Syd’s little flame.”

“Yes, Sir Hilton,” said the girl, smiling. “Yes, uncle.”

“Quite right, my dear. I’m Syd’s uncle. My mouth’s horribly dry, my dear, but don’t ask me to drink, because I’m going to ride for the cup, and it might attract the bees. But they’re gone now. I say, I don’t wonder at Syd. There, it’s nature, I suppose. Boys will be boys; and you’re the beautiful La Sylphide, so full of go. La Sylphide – yes, La Sylphide,” he repeated excitedly, and he gave a sudden lurch.

“Oh, mind, Sir Hilton!” cried the girl, catching at and supporting him. “He isn’t fit to ride. I’ll fetch father.”

She made an effort to get free, but Sir Hilton clung to her tightly, to rebalance himself in the chair, the name of the mare, the bright colour, and his attitude now combining to switch his mind off from the buzzing bees to the race, which now became dominant in his brain.

“Wo-ho! Holdup, little one,” he cried. “Want to break your knees?”

“Of course I don’t, Sir Hilton,” cried the girl, indignantly. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

“Those girths don’t seem quite tight enough, my beauty,” muttered Sir Hilton. “Never mind; I can keep my balance. Give you more room to breathe. Wo-ho! – How she pulls! Steady! Come, don’t show your temper with me.”

“Of course not, Sir Hilton. Oh! I do wish Syd would come.”

She made an effort to free herself, but as she did so, Sir Hilton snatched at the little figure gliding through his hands, but only caught a couple of long ribbon streamers depending from the back of a flowing robe.

“Oh, my frock – you’ll tear it!” cried the girl, half in tears; and she tried to drag herself away, but not vigorously, for fear of damaging the diaphanous fabric to which the ribbons were attached.

“Father! Father!” cried the girl, faintly; but the trainer did not stir, and the maids who looked on only glanced at one another as if saying: “It isn’t my place.”

All passed very rapidly, as Sir Hilton, in imagination, rode away, talking rapidly the while.

“Steady, my beauty – steady – that’s good – bravo, starter – a capital line – now then, flag down – no false start – that black beast Jim Crow – yes, I’ll make him jump to another tune. Now then, once more – good – flag down – now – go – well over! Bravo, my darling!” he cried, making play with the ribbons, just as Lady Lisle returned, consequent upon, as the police say, “information received,” and stopped short, literally stunned, at the picture before her, while Molly caught sight of her, and tried to get away, but in vain.

“Steady, darling, steady!” cried Sir Hilton, who felt the tugging at the reins. “Don’t get in a flurry. We shall win in a canter. Bravo, pet! Easy – easy, beauty! – Don’t tug like that – I don’t want to hurt your dear, tender mouth. That’s better. We’re going now like the – Bravo – bravo – that’s the way!”

“Oh! Sir Hilton,” cried the girl, “don’t, pray, don’t! Look; can’t you see? Please, ma’am – my lady, it ain’t my fault.”

“That’s right,” shouted Sir Hilton, through his teeth. “Good – good – splendid – now then – we’re nearly level – that’s it – level – half a length ahead – now then – we’re clear – bravo, little one! There, I’ve done with you – splendid – cheer away! Oh, if my wife were only here to see!”

It was as if the excitement under which he had laboured were now all discharged, and he dropped the imaginary reins, leaving Molly to rush away up the stairs, just as Lady Lisle, speechless with rage and shame, made a rush at her husband.

Matters in those moments were almost simultaneous.

Lady Lisle advanced, Syd appeared from the bar with a glass of soda-water, and dashed back, regardless of his aunt, who fainted dead away.

Sir Hilton sank forward with his chest over the chair-back, and his arms hanging full length down, and a general aspect of trying to imitate a gaily-dressed Punch in the front of the show.

Then Lady Tilborough rushed in wildly.

“Where is this man?” she cried, in a passion. “Hilt! Hilt!” Then as she saw her gentleman-rider’s state of utter collapse she uttered a wild, despairing cry which brought the trainer to his office-door softly rubbing his hands. “All, all is lost!” cried Lady Tilborough, tragically.

“Here, stand aside!” shouted the doctor, dashing in with a medical glass in one hand, and a bottle from the nearest chemist’s in the other, the cork giving forth a squeak as he drew it out with his teeth.

“Now then,” he cried, “hold him up. Eh, what?” he added, as Lady Tilborough caught him by the arm crying —

“Jack Granton, you’re a doctor; do something to pick him up, or the game’s all over for us all.”

Chapter Twenty.

Where the Moonbeams Played

The lately risen moon, in its third quarter, shone across the well-kept lawn at the Denes between two great banks of trees, and through the wide French window in a way that left half the drawing-room in darkness, the conservatory full of lights and shadows of grotesque-looking giant plants in pots, and the other half of the handsome salon fairly illuminated. The shutters had not been closed, and the room door was wide open, seeming apparently untenanted, or as if the occupants of Sir Hilton Lisle’s residence were all retired to rest.

Everything was still as a rule; but every rule has exceptions, and it was the case here. For, as if coming faintly from a distance, there was a continuous, pleasant chirp, such as might have suggested the early bird about to go in search of the worm; but it was a cricket by the still warm hearth of the kitchen.

There was, too, the distant barking of a dog, varied by a remarkably dismal howl such as a dog will utter on moonlight nights if he has not been fed and furnished with a pleasant padding to dull the points of his ribs when he indulges in his customary curl and sleep.

But there was another sound which broke the silence at rare intervals – a strange, bewildering sound in that drawing-room, such as might have been made by water in a gas pipe. But that was impossible, for there was no illuminant of the nature nearer than Tilborough, the Denes being lit up by crystal oil.

To be brief, in spite of these exceptions, all was very still at the Denes. The horse patrol had gone by, with the horse making noise enough on the hard road to warn any burglarious person of his propinquity, and he had passed three shabby-looking individuals, very drunk, and walking right in the middle of the road as far as two were concerned, talking together about what they had made on Tilborough racecourse the previous day, while the third, being very tired and very tipsy, was – probably from a most virtuous intention of walking off the superabundant spirit he had imbibed – more than doubling the distance between Tilborough and the next town, where there was a fair next day, by carefully walking in zig-zags.

The patrol looked at him, and his horse avoided him, and all went on their way, leaving the tree-bordered country road to its moonlit solitude.

But there was another personage on his way from Tilborough races, having a rest in a mossy piece of woodland half a mile from the Denes. He had his coat very tightly buttoned up over his chest, and over two packets of unsold race-cards, a packet over each breast, where with the fire of a pipe of tobacco they helped to keep the traveller taking his al fresco rest nice and warm.

“Bit damp, though,” he said, after the horse patrol’s movements had died out, and he got up, shook himself, and went his way, to reappear in the form of a silhouette against one of the big panes of glass in the French window of the Denes drawing-room.

Faint moonlight is not good for observing colour. Pink looks black by this illumination, whether it is on a man’s nose or forms the tinting of his old hunting-coat. But even faint moonlight delineates well the shape of an old round-topped black velvet cap, and makes it look far blacker than it does by day.

Such a cap is admirable for riding purposes, and must be of a most convenient shape for anyone operating in a very tradesmanlike way upon the drawing-room window by which the figure stood, with a putty-knife, though an observer would probably have thought the hour unseasonable.

Still, when a window has been broken upon the ground floor, people in the country are only too glad to get the repairing done at any time that the glazier thinks proper to work, so that the weak spot in the domestic defences may as soon as possible be repaired.

But in this case the stout plate glass window was not broken, and the peculiarly handy knife being used was not called upon to spread putty, but was being inserted cleverly away from the glass and causing a clicking noise, thus showing, in connection with a wonderful degree of elasticity, that it was dealing with metal.

While its owner was at his busiest another noise arose, something between a whine and a squeak, the effect of which was to make the operator leave off his task, take two or three steps, and kneel down beneath a bush, to whisper words to something alive connected with its liver – words which produced silence – and return to the window.

The faint clicking began again, and the extremely thin putty-knife did its work in the skilled hands so well that in a very short time the doorlike window yielded and uttered a ghost of a groan as it turned upon its hinges.

“Poor thing, then! Did ’um disturb it in the middle of the night?” said the tradesman to himself, stepping softly in. “Just like ’em! Plenty to eat, plenty to drink, plenty o’ soft beds to sleep in, and too lazy to hyle a hinge. When I keep servants I’ll – Here, let’s just shut you.”

He carefully closed the window, before standing listening for a few moments and looking about till his eyes rested upon a softly-quilted couch, half-covered with a satin-lined Polar bearskin, bathed, as a poet would say, in the lambent rays of the moon, which in this instance came through the conservatory.

Towards this the man stepped in the dark, and, to his intense disgust, kicked heavily against a hassock.

The words he uttered were unprintable, save the latter portion, which were something about the tradesman’s “wussest corn.” The next minute it appeared as if he was about to examine the damage done, for his figure blotted out a portion of the sofa’s shape, and it, too, was bathed in the lambent light, as he busily unlaced and drew off, not only one, but two extremely big, ugly hunting boots, with star-like cuts in them, evidently to ease the “wussest” and other corns.

But, oddly enough, the night bird did not examine his injury, but placed the boots as if ready for cleaning – of which they were very much in need – in the very lightest spot he could find; that is to say, full in the aforesaid lambent light.

Then he began to muse.

“Soft as a hair cushin in a horsepittle,” he muttered. “Now, I could jest lie down, kiver myself with this here soft counterpin, and do my doss like a prince. Nobody at home but the servants and them gals. The two ladies gone off with the doctor in one kerridge, t’other one waiting at the Talbot, and the boss and the young squire sleepin’ it off at Sam Simpkins’s. The on’y one I’m in doubt about is Marky Willers, and that there black-looking crockydile in the white choker.

“Ha!” he sighed, taking out a steel tobacco-box and knife, and cutting off a bit of pigtail. “Mustn’t smoke,” he mused, “and I mustn’t sleep, for it’s ten to one I shouldn’t wake till someun found me, and there’d be a squawk and a ‘Dear me! I on’y come in by mistake, thinking it was my own room.’ Well, that’s the beauty o’ a bit o’ pigtail. Now then, I s’pose I’d better get to work. That’s the beauty o’ my profession. Down to a race here and a race there, and a call or two on the way to do a bit o’ trade with a dawg, and a look round for any bit or two o’ rubbish that wants clearing away. Don’t want anything heavier than a silver inkstand, say. Clocks is so gallus cornery, and a racing cup or anything o’ that sort won’t lie flat without you hammer one side in, and that’s a pity, and it’s half-round even then. Presentation inkstand’s my fav’rite, for one can button it up in front or behind, while you can leave the bottles in case the people wants to write.

“Nice bit o’ plate here, I’ll bet,” said the man, with a yawn, his jaws grinding slowly away at the quid, “but I’m not on plate, thank ye. Now then, where’s that there flat, old-fashioned inkstand? Let’s see; but if that there blessed dawg howls there won’t be no dawg when I gets out.”