Sir Hilton's Sin Part 5

"'We understand that Mr Watcombe, the well-known London brewer--'" Her ladys.h.i.+p 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Lady Lisle, making as if to throw down the fragment of paper.

"Pray read on, my lady." Her ladys.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sed 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 a 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, very well, my darling; I suppose I must not object to your liking to fish. Isaac Walton was quite a poet."

"Regular, auntie; and the Prince says fis.h.i.+ng begets a love of Nature."

"Who does, my dear?"

"The Prince--the Princ.i.p.al, auntie. He's a regular dab at throwing a fly."

Lady 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 fis.h.i.+ng."

"Don't believe you. You're going to the races."

"s.h.!.+" the boy hissed, and looked sharply round.

"There, I knew it!" cried the girl. "I'll tell her ladys.h.i.+p, 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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!"