The Tilborough Arms had, from its position in the famous old racing
town, always been a house to be desired by licenced victuallers, who
mostly gain their living by supplying a very small amount of victuals,
and drink out of all proportion, to guests; but in the hands of Sam--
probably christened Samuel, but the complete name had long died out--Sam
Simpkins, the inn had become an hotel of goodly proportions, where
visitors could be provided with comfortable bedrooms off the gallery and
snug breakfasts and dinners in suitable places, always supposing that
they were on "the Turf." For Sam Simpkins had prospered, not only with
the old inn, but in other ways. He did a bit of farming, bred horses in
the meadows where the thick, succulent waterside grasses grew, and
always had a decent bit of blood on hand for sale, or to run in some one
or another of the small races.
Sam was known, too, as a clever trainer, who had for a long time been in
the service of that well-known sportsman, Sir Hilton Lisle. He had
transferred his services when Sir Hilton went from the horses to the
dogs, and did a good deal of training business for Lady Tilborough, till
there was a bit of a tiff--something about money matters, it was said--
when her ladyship and he parted company, but remained good friends.
Then, to use his own expression, he went on his own hook, where he
wriggled a great deal between the crooked and the square. But still he
prospered, and grew what his friends called a thoroughly warm party.
The fact was that Sam was a regular gatherer-up of unconsidered trifles,
not above taking a great deal of pains to make a pound, and he made it,
too, wherever there was no chance of making a hundred or more.
He never lost a chance, though he lost his wife when his daughter was at
a dangerous age. And when a well-known sporting member of the Orphoean
Music-Hall--I beg its pardon, Temple of Music and the Arts--was staying
at Tilborough so as to be present at the races, something was settled
one evening over pipes and several glasses of brandy and water.
"Take my word for it, Sammy, old man--I ought to know--there's money in
her, and if you'll let her come up to me and the missus we'll put her
through. She's a little beauty."
Miss Mary Ann Simpkins, only lately from a finishing school where young
ladies were duly taught all accomplishments, was, in her finished state,
newly at home, where she was promoted to attending upon, and attracting,
the better-class customers in the old-fashioned bar-parlour, where she
looked like a rose among the lemons, heard of the old professional
friend's proposal, declared that it was just what she would like, and
soon after went to the professional and his missus.
There she studied, as it was termed; in other words, she went under
professors of singing, dancing and dramatic action, who completely
altered her style in a few months, so that she was soon able to make her
debut at the Orphoean, where, to use the theatrical term, she
immediately "caught on," and became a popular star, thoroughly proving
that the P.F. was right as to there being money in her.
In fact, "all London," of a class, flocked to see her and hear her, and
she made so much money for the place of entertainment that its
proprietary determined to rebuild, add, and decorate as richly as
possible while "La Sylphide," as she was called in the bills, was
"resting"; in other words, playing the little hostess of the Tilborough
Arms, attracting customers and bringing more money into her father's
till. People of all degrees were attracted like moths to flutter round
the brilliant little star. All made love, and the most unlikely of all
who seized the opportunity of being served by the clever little maiden
was believed in and won.
On that busy special day, when the town was crowded and the Tilborough
Arms was at its busiest, Sam Simpkins, a heavy, red-faced,
bullet-headed, burly, rather brutal-looking personage, a cross between a
butcher and prize-fighter, with a rustic, shrewd, farmer-like look
thrown in, sat in one of the seats in his fox head, brush, and
sporting-print adorned hall, cross-legged so as to make a desk of his
right knee, upon which he held a big betting-book, wherein, after a good
deal of chewing of the end of a lead-pencil, he kept on making entries,
giving some order between the efforts of writing by shouting into the
bar-parlour, the kitchen, or through a speaking-tube connected with
extensive stables.
It was an attractive-looking, old-fashioned place, that great hall, with
its flight of stairs leading up into a gallery showing many
chamber-doors, its glazed-in bar-parlour, and its open windows looking
out on to the common and racecourse, quite alive on that bright summer's
morning with all the tag-rag and bob-tail of a race day, as well as with
the many lovers of the race from town and country who had come to enjoy
the sport.
"Here, 'Lizbeth," shouted the landlord, reaching back so as to send his
hoarse voice well into the bar-parlour, "ain't yer young missus come
back yet?"
"Yes, sir, and gone up to dress," came back.
"Humph! Time she had," growled the man, wetting the lead of his pencil.
"I dunno what she wanted to go out biking for on a morning like this.
I'd ha' biked her, if I'd seen her going."