Sir Hilton's Sin. Fenn George Manville
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Lisle winced again but screwed up a smile, and made no allusion to the dab, which seemed to strike her in the face like a cold frog – tree frog – and made her wince. “You will be back to lunch, my dear?”
“Well, no, auntie. You see, the May-fly only rise once a year, and I thought I’d make a long day of it.”
“Then tell Jane to cut you some sandwiches, and pray be careful not to fall in. You will bring us a dish of trout for dinner?”
“Oh, yes, of course, auntie, if they rise.”
“Oh, Hilton, how late you are!” sighed the lady, and her stiff dress rustled over the carpet as she moved forward in a stately way, frowning, and then smiling with satisfaction, for her nephew darted to the door to throw it open, catching directly at the soft white hand extended to him and kissing it. Then, closing the door, he indulged in a frantic kind of dance, expressive of the most extreme delight, one, however, which came to a sudden end, the boy stopping short in a most absurd position as if suddenly turned to stone, for the door was quickly opened and a head was thrust into the room.
Chapter Three.
Four People’s Skeletons
“Hi! You, Jane, what are you always listening at the door for?”
“So as to be ready to see you coming your games,” said the maid, laughing, “Ha, ha, ha! He thought it was his aunt, ketching him on the hop!”
“That I didn’t, old saucy one.”
“Yes, you did, and I’ve a good mind to tell her what a beauty you are – there!”
“Do; and I’ll tell her what I saw in the shrubbery last week. Mark my words; see if I don’t I will; mark my words.”
“You tell if you dare!” cried the maid, with flaming face.
“Oh, I dare.”
“But you won’t. You wouldn’t be such a coward. I say, going out?”
“Yes, I want some sandwiches – a good lot. And, look here, get uncle’s flask and half fill it with milk, and then fill it up with sherry.”
“What for? What are you going to do?”
“The May-fly’s up.”
“Up where?”
“Get out! Over the river. I’m going fishing.”
“Don’t believe you. You’re going to the races.”
“Sh!” the boy hissed, and looked sharply round.
“There, I knew it!” cried the girl. “I’ll tell her ladyship, and stop that.”
“Just you do. I’m going whipping the stream.”
“Don’t believe it. But she’ll be whipping you for a naughty boy.”
“Shrubbery and old Mark,” said the boy, thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself. “Wonder what sort of a pair the new parlourmaid and groom and valet would be?”
“Oh, you!” cried the girl, with scarlet face and flashing eyes, in which the tears began to rise, making her dart out of the room so that they should not be seen.
“Checkmate, Miss Dustpan!” said Sydney, with a chuckle. “What a sharp one she is, though. My word! I never liked old Trim before. He’s off on some game of his own. Artful old beast! He isn’t such a saint as he pretends. Can’t be going to the races, can he? No, not he; not in his line. Spree in London’s more in his way. A beast, though, to talk like that. Knows too much about such matters. I wish I could find out something, and get him under my thumb, as I have saucy Jenny. How the beggar made me jump!”
He glanced round at the vase he had nearly broken, then at the door, and directly after at the window, to which he ran and looked out, for there was the grating sound of wheels on the drive, but growing fainter and fainter.
“My word! Isn’t the old girl quick at putting on her hat and scarf! She’s safe for the day. Bravo, old Trimmer! Just when I was done up for an idea to slope off. Fish rising? Yes, I’ll rise ’em. Cookie’ll have hard work to fry all the trout I catch to-day. Phew! There goes another brake. Blow up, you beauty! Why, auntie would have just met them tittuping along. They must have scared the ponies into fits. She can’t half hold them.”
He turned from the window, listening the while, though, to the rattle of wheels and the trotting of horses down the road, and after a glance at the door, through which the little maid had passed, he drew a note from his pocket and began to spell it over in a low voice.
“‘My dear darling Syd’ – why, this is three days old. I didn’t notice it before – ‘Here’s nearly a week and you haven’t been to see me. Do come. I want to say something so particular. If you don’t come before, of course you’ll be at the races. I’ve got a new frock’ – frock without a k – ‘new frock for the occasion’ – Ha, ha! What a rum little gipsy she is! Put the k she dropped in frock into occasion – ‘I say, do tell your aunt and uncle all the truth’ – Likely! – ‘and then I can tell dear dad’ – Jigger dear dad! – ‘I feel so wicked. He must know soon.’ – What did she put two thick lines under that for? – ‘That’s all now, because the dressmaker’ – with only one s – ‘has come to try on my frock. I say, do tell your dear aunt. She’ll be awfully cross at first, but when she knows all – that’s all, dear. – Your affeckshunt for ever and ever, Lar Sylphide’ – Lar la – Yar! Yar! Tell auntie – phew! Talk about all the fat in the fire, and me with it. Uncle’s parlous state won’t be nothing to mine. Ugh!”
The boy jumped as if he had received a blow, and turned towards the window. For the door was opened suddenly and Jane reappeared.
“Not gone then, Impidence?”
“No, I’m not gone yet, Saucebox. Why don’t you tell my aunt?”
“Never you mind. What was that you were scuffling into your jacket pocket? Worms for fishing?”
“Of course.”
“Was it? I know better. I heered the paper crackle; it’s another letter for her.”
“What!” cried the boy, changing colour. “What her?”
“Her as you write to. I saw you scribbling, and watched you sneak off down to the village to post it.”
“You’re a wicked fibster, Jenny.”
“Oh, no, I’m not. What did you give the postman five shillings for?”
“I didn’t,” said the boy, flaring up.
“Yes, you did, and it was to bring letters for you on the sly, I shall write and inform the post-office people.”
“Yes, you do, and I’ll half kill you, and poison old Mark.”
“There! I knew it. Who is she?”
“You be off.”
“No, nor I shan’t be off neither. I believe it’s Dan Smart’s girl, who’s gone to London. Oh, my! what a wicked one you are, Master Syd, for such a boy. Your sangwidges is ready. Shall I bring ’em here?”
“Did you get the flask?”
“Yes.”
“And filled it with milk and sherry?”
“Yes, but you don’t deserve it, for threatening to get poor Mark the sack.”
“Then you shouldn’t threaten to tell tales.”
“I won’t, Master Syd, if you won’t.”
“All right, then, it’s a truce. Here, I must be off.”
“What, without your sangwidges and flask?”
“No; to get my fishing-rod.”
“Then you won’t tell?”
“Tell? No. Here, give us a kiss, Jenny.”
“Shan’t.