Sir Hilton's Sin. Fenn George Manville

do not revive old troubles, my dear. My brother never agreed with your grandfather. I grieve to say he was very wild, and given to horse-racing. Then he grievously offended your grandfather in the marriage he made clandestinely. Let it rest, my dear boy. Papa behaved very handsomely to John, and gave him ample funds to start a fresh career at the Antipodes, leaving you to my care – to be my own darling boy – to make you a true English gentleman; and I feel that I have done my duty by you.”

      “Oh, auntie, you are good,” said the “dear boy.” “I’m sure I try to do what you wish.”

      “Always, my darling, with a few exceptions. I have found out that.”

      “What, auntie?” said the “dear boy,” changing colour.

      “That my darling is a leetle disposed to be vulgar sometimes.”

      “Ha!” sighed the lad, with a look of relief.

      “But he is going to be as good as gold, and grow into a noble gentleman, of whom his country will be proud. There, now we understand each other. Mr Trimmer is late this morning.”

      “Scissors! How she made me squirm!” muttered the boy, who had risen and walked to the window as if to hide his emotion with the scented white handkerchief he drew from his pocket. “He isn’t late, auntie – just his usual time.”

      “Dear, dear, and your uncle not yet down!”

      “Shall I go and rout him out, auntie?”

      “No, my dear,” said the lady, sternly, “I will speak to him when he comes down.”

      “Do, auntie. Tell him he loses all the fresh morning air,” said the boy, demurely, feeling in the breast-pocket of his jacket the while, and causing a faint crackling sound as of writing-paper, while he noted that the lady was resuming her perusal of the morning’s letters.

      Just then the breakfast-room door opened and a pretty little dark-eyed parlourmaid entered the room.

      “Mr Trimmer is in the libery, my lady.”

      “Show him in here, Jane,” said Lady Lisle, without raising her eyes, “and tell Mark to have the pony-carriage round in half an hour.”

      “Yes, my lady.”

      The girl turned to go, her eyes meeting those of the “dear boy,” who favoured her with a meaning wink, receiving by way of reply a telegraphic wrinkling up of the skin about a saucy little retroussé nose.

      “Little minx,” said the “dear boy” to himself.

      “Young impudence,” said the girl, and she closed the door, to return in a few minutes to show in Mr Trimmer, her ladyship’s confidential bailiff and steward of the estate.

      Chapter Two.

      A Most Trustworthy Person

      “Ah, good-morning, Mr Trimmer,” said Lady Lisle. “Don’t go, Sydney, my dear. It is as well that you should be present. You cannot do better than begin to learn the duties of a person of position – the connection between the owner of property and his, or her, dependants.”

      “All right, auntie,” said Syd, returning, with a quick nod and a keen look, the obsequious bow of the gaunt-looking man in white cravat and pepper-and-salt garb.

      “Sit down, Mr Trimmer.”

      “Thank you, my lady.”

      The steward drew a chair to the table, and placed a particularly neat bag before him, which he proceeded to open, and brought out a packet of papers neatly docketed and tied up with green silk ferret in quite legal fashion.

      “What are those, Mr Trimmer?” said the lady, assuming a gold-framed pince-nez.

      “The reports upon the Parliamentary canvass, my lady. Ditto those in connection with the village charities and your donations in town. If your ladyship will glance over them I think you will find them perfectly correct.”

      “Of course, Mr Trimmer. I will read the latter over at my leisure.”

      At that moment the merry notes of a well-blown post-horn were heard, and Lady Lisle started, while Syd ran to the window.

      “What is that?”

      “I fancy it comes from a coach, my lady, passing the lodge gates.”

      “Yes, auntie. Drag going over to Tilborough,” cried the boy, screwing his head on one side so as to follow the handsome four-in-hand with its well-driven team.

      “Tut – tut!” ejaculated Lady Lisle. “These degrading meetings! Come away, Sydney, my dear.”

      “Yes, auntie,” said the boy; and as he was not observed he leant forward, pressed one hand over the other as if taking a shorter hold of double reins, gave his right hand a twist to unwind an imaginary whiplash, followed by a wave something like the throwing of a fly with a rod, and then smiled to himself as he tickled up an imaginary off-leader, ending by holding himself up rigidly.

      “That’s the way to tool ’em along,” he said to himself.

      “Is there any fresh news in the village, Mr Trimmer?”

      “No, my lady, nothing particular, except – er – a little report about Daniel Smart’s daughter.”

      “Maria, Mr Trimmer. She has not returned?”

      “No, my lady.”

      “Surely she has settled down in her new place?”

      The steward coughed, a little hesitating cough.

      “Nothing – ”

      Lady Lisle stopped and glanced at Sydney, who turned away and became very much interested in one of the pictures, but with his ears twitching the while.

      “Oh, no, my lady,” said the steward, quickly; “only I fear that your ladyship has been imposed upon?”

      Syd moved to the mantelpiece and began to examine the mechanism of a magnificent skeleton clock.

      “Imposed upon? But the girl has gone to the situation in town?”

      “Ahem! No, my lady; the report I hear is that she has gone to fulfil an engagement with some dramatic agent who trains young people for – ”

      “The theatre?”

      “No, my lady, for the music-halls.”

      “Oh!” ejaculated Lady Lisle. “Dreadful – dreadful!”

      Syd’s face was a study in the mirror behind the clock, as he placed one foot on the polished kerb and screwed up his mouth, listening with all his might.

      “Yes, my lady, it is very sad. But I’m afraid that several of the better-looking girls in the neighbourhood have had their heads turned by the great success which has attended a Miss Mary Ann Simpkins in London.”

      Crash!

      “Good gracious me!” cried Lady Lisle, starting up at the noise.

      “It’s nothing, auntie,” cried Syd, excitedly. “Foot slipped on the fender – nothing broken.”

      The boy turned, with his face flushed, and his voice sounded husky.

      “But that vase you knocked over, my dear?”

      “It was trying to save myself, auntie. It isn’t even cracked.”

      “But you’ve hurt yourself, my child?”

      “Oh, no, auntie, not a bit,” said the boy, with a forced laugh.

      “Pray be careful, my dear.”

      “All right, auntie,” said the boy, and he stooped down to begin rearranging the poker and shovel, which he had kicked off the fire-dog to clatter on the encaustic tiles.

      “Pray go on, Mr Trimmer. How grievous that such a scandal should befall our peaceful village. A Miss – er – Miss – ”

      “Mary Ann Simpkins, my lady.”

      “Simpkins,