Syd Smithers ran to the door through which Lady Tilborough had passed,
went through the hall to the other side of the house, and stopped to
listen, just as there was the pattering of a pony's feet, and he caught
a glimpse of a dark-blue riding-habit, which was gone the next moment.
"Scissors!" he exclaimed. "Here, I must be on in this piece."
He darted back into the hall, to come full butt upon Mark Willows.
"Hallo, Marky! What's up now?"
"Dunno, sir. Message for the guv'nor, I think. Someun must be ill."
"Awfully," said the lad, and he grinned to himself as the man ran
through the hall to the back staircase so as to get to his master's
dressing-room.
"I'm not such a fool as I look," said Syd, as he entered the
breakfast-room and stood in the middle picking up his fly-rod and
thinking. "Marky's going to the race. Driving, I bet. Well, I was
going to nobble one of the ponies and ride, but I seem to see a seat
alongside of the old man on the dogcart if I play my cards right. Oh,
scissors!"
He started back for a step or two, and then ran to the window, to gaze
out with starting eyes at a handsome-looking youth in a loose, baggy
knickerbocker suit, mounted upon a bicycle, which he cleverly
manipulated with one hand as he thrust open the swing gate, rode
through, and escaped the rebound by pushing onward, riding right up to
the window, leaping down with agility, leaning the bicycle against the
wall, and, as if in imitation of Syd, vaulting lightly into the room to
fling arms round the lad's neck.
"Oh, Syd darling!" came from a pair of rosy lips, in company with a sob.
"Oh, Molly!" cried the boy, excitedly, beginning to repel his visitor,
but ending by hugging her tightly in his arms.
"Got you again at last, dear," cried the very boyishly-costumed young
lady.
"Yes, but--oh, here's a jolly shine!"
"Yes, dear, awful. But now I am come, don't send me away from you. I
feel as if we must part no more."
"What are you talking about, pet?" cried the boy. "You must be off at
once."
"Oh, no, I shan't. I've come, never to leave you any more."
"You're mad, Molly. A March hare isn't in it with you. Auntie'll be
here directly."
"Gammon! I met her ever so long ago, in the carriage and pair. She
looked at me, and turned up her nose and sniffed."
"Did she know you?"
"Not she. I should have been here before, only Lady Tilborough galloped
by me on her pony, and I followed and saw her come in, and I've been
hiding in the copse till she came away, for I knew she wouldn't stop, as
your aunt was out. As soon as she galloped off I came on. If it hadn't
been for that I should have been here before. So no fudge; everybody's
out, and we can talk. Oh, ain't you jolly ready to get shut of me?"
"But everybody isn't out, pussy. Uncle's at home."
"Is he? Come out, then. Let's get into the woods."
"But I can't, dear."
"Oh, why don't you tell them? You must now."
"I can't, dear. It's impossible yet. Oh, why did you come?"
"Because I wanted to see you pertickler."
"But I was coming over to the races, and you'd have seen me then."
"You got my telegram, then?"
"Telegram? No. What telegram?"
"The one I sent, saying I must see you. Yesterday."
"No telegram came."
"Then it's got stuck, because there's so many racing messages going. I
sent one."
"Then you must have been a little fool."
"That I ain't," said the girl, petulantly.
"I told you not to write or send."
"But I was obliged to, I tell you; and as you didn't come to me in my
trouble, I jumped on my bike and I've come to you."
"But what for--what trouble?" cried the boy, stamping impatiently.
"Father's got hold of your letters and found out everything, dear. You
ought to have told 'em by now."
"But--but--but," stammered Syd, "where--what--what--oh! why did you
come?"
"That's what I keep telling you, dear. Dad's half mad, and he's coming
over to see your aunt and uncle."
"Coming here?"
"Yes, Syd love. He'd have come before if it hadn't been for the race."
"You must go back at once and stop him from coming here."
"Stop him? Oh, Syd dear, you don't know father."
"Don't know him? Oh, don't I? Why, if he came here--oh, dear, dear,
what a horrid mess! Well, I don't know what to do."
"Hadn't I better stop here?"
"Hadn't I better go and jump in the river? I wish you'd stopped at the
Orphoean."
"But I couldn't, Syd; they're rebuilding it."
"Coming down here to this quiet place and making eyes at me in church
till I didn't know what I was about."
"For shame, sir! It was you made eyes at me. I couldn't help it."
"Yes, you could. You'd got a church at Tilborough, and might have gone
there."
"Oh, what a shame, Syd! You know I did, and you went on writing letters
to me, saying your aunt kept you at home, and that you couldn't eat or
sleep for longing to see my pretty face."
"I didn't."
"You did, sir!" cried the girl, stamping her foot.
"I swear I didn't."
"Oh, you wicked wretch! Why, I've got six letters with it in."
"What! You've kept my letters? I told you to burn 'em all."
"Well, I haven't. I've got 'em all tied up with red ribbon, the colour
of my heart's blood, all but those father found."
"Yes, that's it. If you'd done as I told you the old man would never
have known."
"Oh, wouldn't he, Syd? Now say, if you dare, that you didn't write to
me to come over so that you might see my darling sweet face again."
"Oh, I'm a gentleman, I am. I'm not going to tell any lies. If I said
so, I must have been half cracked."
"So you were--with love. I've got four letters that say so when you
wanted me to go to London and get married."
"Yes, I must have been mad, Molly. It's been like a nightmare to me
ever since. I wish I'd never seen you."
"Oh, oh, oh!" began the pretty little bicyclist, beginning to sob. "Has
it come to this so soon?"
"Don't--don't--don't cry. The servants'll hear you."
"I--I--I can't help it, Syd. Oh, dear, dear! You've broke my heart."
"No, I haven't, darling. There, there. Kisses'll mend the place.
There--and there--and there."
"But you're sorry you met me, and you don't love me a bit. If I'd known
what getting married meant you wouldn't have caught me running off on
the sly."
"Don't--don't cry, I tell you," cried the boy, passionately. "I didn't
mean it. You know that I love you awfully, only a man can't help saying
things when he's in such a mess. You don't know what my aunt is."
"And you don't know what my father is."
"Oh, don't I? An old ruffian," added the boy to himself.
"Your aunt's only a woman, and she got married herself."
"Oh, yes, that's true; but she isn't like other women. She didn't marry
for love."
"And I don't wonder at it," said the girl, dismally. "Love ain't, as
father says, all beer and skittles."
"Don't cry, I tell you," said Syd, angrily, as the girl rubbed her eyes,
boy-fashion, with the cuffs of her jacket, after a vain attempt to find
her handkerchief.
"Well, ain't I wiping away the tears, and got no--here, lend us yours,
Syd."
She snatched the boy's handkerchief out of his breast-pocket, and had a
comfortable wipe.
"You used to kiss my eyes dry once, when father had been rowing me,
Syd."
"Yes, and so I will now if you'll go away, darling."
"But I'm afraid, Syd. What with the letters, and the races and the
people, and the book he's making on Jim Crow he's in such a temper that
I thought he'd beat me."
"What!" cried Syd, furiously, "strike my wife?"
"He didn't, Syd dear; but I thought he would."
"An old wretch! I'd kill him!"
"No, you wouldn't, Syd dear," said the girl, kittening up to him and
rubbing her cheek up against his; "but it's so nice of you to say so,
and it makes me feel that you do love your little wifey ever so much."
"Of course I do, soft, beautiful little owlet."
"Then had I better stay?"
"What! Here?"
"Yes; I'm sure Lady Lisle'll like me when she sees me. I'll stop, and
we'll go down on our knees together, like they do at the Orphoean, and
say: `Forgive us, mother--I mean, aunt dear--and it'll be all right.'
`Bless you, my children.' You know, Syd."
"Look here, don't put me in a passion again, or I shall be saying
nastier things than ever."
"But why, dear? What for? I am your little wife, you know."
"Oh, yes, I know, Titty, but it'll make such a horrid upset. Here, I'm
expecting uncle down every moment."
"Well, then, let's both go down on our knees to him."
"But he's just off to the races."
"Well, what of that? It wouldn't take long, and it would be like
rehearsing our parts ready to appear before your aunt."
"No, no, no. Now, look here, I've got it. Wife must obey her husband.
You swore you would."
"Yes, dear, I did, but--"
"But be blowed! You've got to do it, Tit. Now, then, you hop on your
bike."
"But, Syd, there you go again."
"Hold your tongue, or how am I to teach you your part?"
"Very well," said the girl, stifling a sob.
"You told me just now that your father's making up a book on Jim Crow."
The girl used the handkerchief, stuffed it back in her boy-husband's
pocket, and nodded rather sulkily.
"What's he doing that for?"
"Because the other--La Sylphide's scratched."
"That she isn't. She's going to run."
"No. Josh Rowle's down with D.T."
"That don't matter. She's going to run and win. You've got to go back
and dress for the race. You can't go like that. There'd be too much
chaff on the course, and I'm not going to have my wife show up like this
on the stands."
"No, dear. I've got a new frock--lovely."
"Well, look sharp and run back, and I'll come over in the dogcart with
uncle, and come straight to your dad and give him a tip that will put
him in a good temper."
"You will, Syd?" cried the girl, joyfully. "And confess all?"
"Every jolly bit. Quick! Kiss! Cut."
La Sylphide, of the Orphoean, Dudley Square, London, was quick as
lightning. She kissed like a wife who loved her juvenile lord, and she
"cut". In other words, devoid of slang, she vaulted out of the window,
stagily, as she had been taught by a ballet-master, sprang on to her
bicycle, and went off like the wind; but rather too late, for the door
opened, and Sir Hilton hurried in, closely followed by Mark Willows,
bearing a large brown leather Gladstone bag.