Sir Hilton's Sin. Fenn George Manville
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with sad deference. “He is the trainer and keeper of racing stables – Tilborough Arms.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Ah! what a home for the poor girl! No wonder. But you said something about turning the girls’ heads.”
“Yes, my lady. She went into training in town.”
“Ran away from home, of course?”
“Oh, no, my lady. Simpkins had her educated in London for that sort of thing – singing and dancing.”
“Shocking! Shocking!”
“Yes, my lady. Her father has shares in one of the great music-halls, the Orphoean. I am told that she is quite the rage. You see, some of the young people here knew her at school. Such things quite spoil them for service.”
“And all originating in this dreadful racing, Mr Trimmer. If it had not been for this, Mr Simpkins – ”
“Exactly, my lady; but I beg your pardon for introducing so unpleasant a subject.”
“Do not apologise, Mr Trimmer; it was quite right. I must see the parents of any of the girls who have tendencies in that direction, and Daniel Smart’s daughter must certainly be brought back.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the agent. “Now let us change the subject. How is Sir Hilton’s canvass progressing?”
“Admirably, my lady. You see, we have all the influence upon our side; but I think it is about time now for Sir Hilton to show a little – just a little – more interest in the matter.”
“Of course, Mr Trimmer; he shall.”
“He need not do much, my lady, beyond a little visiting amongst the voters, and, say, addressing three or four meetings. Our Parliamentary agent has prepared the heads of a very telling speech for him, a summary of which, my lady, you will find in that packet marked ‘b’ and endorsed ‘Address.’”
“Certainly! Will go into the matter with Sir Hilton. His election will follow in due course.”
“Yes, my lady – it is a certainty. Lord Beltower has withdrawn.”
“Very wise of him.”
“There is that Mr Watcombe, the big brewer, still in the field, and he has some influence, especially at Tilborough amongst the racing people; but, of course, he has not a chance.”
“A brewer? Faugh!”
“Yes, my lady; the man’s pretensions are absurd. Will you go through the estate accounts this morning?”
“Impossible now, Mr Trimmer; the news you have given me is too disturbing, and besides, Sir Hilton will be down here to breakfast. That will do now.”
“Thank you, my lady – er – er – ”
“Yes, Mr Trimmer?” said the lady, looking up inquiringly.
“I am very sorry to make a request, my lady, at such a time, especially as there is a good deal requires looking over at the farm just now; but I should be greatly obliged if your ladyship could spare me for the rest of the day.”
“Oh, certainly, Mr Trimmer,” said Lady Lisle, looking at her sedate steward so wonderingly that he felt it necessary to make some explanation.
“I regret to say that I have had a telegram from London, my lady – an aged relative – very ill, and expressing a desire to see me.”
“Hullo!” said Sydney to himself; “the old humbug smells a legacy.”
“Pray go at once, Mr Trimmer.”
“Oh, thank you, my lady. You always are so sympathetic in a case of trouble.”
“I hope so, Mr Trimmer. Can I do anything for her, or for you?”
“Oh, no, my lady. Your permission is all I want. I am in hopes that my presence will be of some benefit to her. I am her favourite nephew.”
“Then pray go at once. You will return to-night, of course?”
“Oh, yes, my lady; but I fear that I shall have to make it the last train.”
“Of course. Give Sir Hilton’s man orders to meet you with the dogcart at the station. I would say stop as long as is necessary with the poor old invalid were it not that I wish you to be on the spot to watch over the progress of Sir Hilton’s Parliamentary affairs. Just now they are vital.”
“Exactly, my lady. Good-morning, my lady, and thank you for your kindness.”
Lady Lisle smiled and bowed, raising her hand in a queenly way, as if to hold it out for her retainer to kiss, but contenting herself by giving it a slight wave towards the door.
“Good-morning, Mr Sydney. A delicious morning, sir; a nice breeze.”
“Oh, was it?” said the boy, rather surlily.
“Yes, sir; the trout were rising freely as I passed over the bridge in the lower meadows.”
“Humph!”
“I thought I would mention it, sir. I fancy the May-fly are up.”
Sydney nodded, and the steward reached the door, but returned, taking out his pocket-book, after placing the black bag upon a chair.
“I beg your ladyship’s pardon, but I omitted to show your ladyship a paragraph I cut out of this morning’s county paper.”
Lady Lisle took the scrap handed to her respectfully. “Thank you, Mr Trimmer. Oh! Yes. Listen, Sydney, my dear. Listen. This will interest you. Electioneering!” and she read aloud —
“‘We understand that Mr Watcombe, the well-known London brewer – ’” Her ladyship stopped and frowned.
“Yes, auntie; I hear,” cried the boy – “brewer – ?”
“‘Is making strenuous efforts to gain the seat for the Tilborough division of the county. He is now in Paris, but upon his return he will commence his campaign by delivering a series of addresses to the voters. The first, we understand, will be given at the Tilborough Arms Hotel.’”
“Pah!” ejaculated Lady Lisle, making as if to throw down the fragment of paper.
“Pray read on, my lady.” Her ladyship rearranged her pince-nez and continued, beginning in a contemptuous tone of voice, which changed as she went on —
“‘But the gallant brewer, whose beer finds but little favour in this district, will learn that he has an extremely dangerous rival in our popular resident squire of the Denes – Sir Hilton Lisle, of sporting fame, who, to deal in vaticinations, we consider will be the right man in the right place.’”
“He-ah, he-ah!” cried Sydney. “So he will.”
“Yes, my dear,” said his aunt, smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm; “the editor means well, but it is very vulgarly written, ‘of sporting fame.’ Bah!”
“But that’s right, auntie. Uncle used to be very famous. Wasn’t he Master of the Hounds six years ago?”
“Yes, my dear, to his sorrow,” said Lady Lisle, reprovingly.
The steward shook his head, and looked up as he passed out, with studied deliberation, as if to let the lady see how marked was the resemblance between his action and that of the steward in Hogarth’s picture “Marriage à la Mode,” while the lady portion of his audience moved towards the other door.
“Going out, auntie?”
“Yes, my dear, for a short drive down the village. The pony-carriage will be round in a few minutes. I was going to the vicarage, but my first call will be at the Smarts’. I should like you to go with me.”
“Go with you, auntie?” said the boy, in a hesitating voice.
“Yes, my dear. Do you not wish to go?”
“I did, auntie, but after what Mr Trimmer said about the trout rising, and the May-fly – you see, they only come once a year.”
“Oh,