style="font-size:15px;"> “Turf, auntie. Yes, I know.”
“The racing and the gambling into which he had been led by dissolute companions. But enough of this, my dear. I find I am being unconsciously led into details of a very unsavoury nature. Your uncle is now completely weaned from his old pursuits, and happy as a model country gentleman.”
The “dear boy” winked solemnly at the bronze bust of a great Parliamentary leader on the chimney-piece, and the lady continued —
“In a few days he will address his constituents at the head of the poll as member for Deeploamshire.”
“What price Watcombe?” said the “dear boy,” sharply.
“I do not understand your metaphor, Sydney, my child,” said the lady, coldly.
“I mean, suppose Watcombe romps in at the race.”
“Race! Oh, my dear boy, pray do not use that word. If you mean suppose his adversary should be at the head, pray dismiss the thought. Your dear uncle must win and take his seat in the House. Some day I shall see his nephew, my dear child, following his example – the second baronet of our family. Think of this, Sydney, and learn to feel proud of descending from one of the manufacturing commercial princes of the Midlands, whose clever ingenuity resulted in the invention of a complicated instrument – ”
“Improved devil,” said the “dear boy” to himself.
“For tearing up old and waste woollen fragments into fibre and dust.”
“Devils dust,” said Sydney, silently.
“The former being worked up again into cloth – ”
“Shoddy,” muttered Sydney.
“And the latter utilised for fertilising the earth and making it return a hundredfold.”
“Gammon,” said Syd.
“The whole resulting in a colossal fortune.”
“Which the old hunks sticks to like wax,” said Syd to himself.
“And of which you ought to be very proud, my dear.”
“Oh, I am, auntie. But I say, how was it pa and ma went off to Australia?”
“Pray 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
