“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 fishing.”

“Don’t believe you.  You’re going to the races.”

“Sh!” the boy hissed, and looked sharply round.

“There, I knew it!” cried the girl.  “I’ll tell her ladyship, 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 flashing 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!”

He glanced round at the vase he had nearly broken, then at the door, and directly after at the window, to which he ran and looked out, for there was the grating sound of wheels on the drive, but growing fainter and fainter.

“My word!  Isn’t the old girl quick at putting on her hat and scarf!  She’s safe for the day.  Bravo, old Trimmer!  Just when I was done up for an idea to slope off.  Fish rising?  Yes, I’ll rise ’em.  Cookie’ll have hard work to fry all the trout I catch to-day.  Phew!  There goes another brake.  Blow up, you beauty!  Why, auntie would have just met them tittuping along.  They must have scared the ponies into fits.  She can’t half hold them.”

He turned from the window, listening the while, though, to the rattle of wheels and the trotting of horses down the road, and after a glance at the door, through which the little maid had passed, he drew a note from his pocket and began to spell it over in a low voice.

“`My dear darling Syd’ ­why, this is three days old.  I didn’t notice it before ­`Here’s nearly a week and you haven’t been to see me.  Do come.  I want to say something so particular.  If you don’t come before, of course you’ll be at the races.  I’ve got a new frock’ ­frock without a k ­`new frock for the occasion’ ­Ha, ha!  What a rum little gipsy she is!  Put the k she dropped in frock into occasion ­`I say, do tell your aunt and uncle all the truth’ ­Likely! ­`and then I can tell dear dad’ ­Jigger dear dad! ­`I feel so wicked.  He must know soon.’ ­What did she put two thick lines under that for? ­`That’s all now, because the dressmaker’ ­with only one s ­`has come to try on my frock.  I say, do tell your dear aunt.  She’ll be awfully cross at first, but when she knows all ­that’s all, dear. ­Your affeckshunt for ever and ever, Lar Sylphide’ ­Lar la ­Yar!  Yar!  Tell auntie ­phew!  Talk about all the fat in the fire, and me with it.  Uncle’s parlous state won’t be nothing to mine.  Ugh!”

The boy jumped as if he had received a blow, and turned towards the window.  For the door was opened suddenly and Jane reappeared.

“Not gone then, Impidence?”

“No, I’m not gone yet, Saucebox.  Why don’t you tell my aunt?”

“Never you mind.  What was that you were scuffling into your jacket pocket?  Worms for fishing?”

“Of course.”

“Was it?  I know better.  I heered the paper crackle; it’s another letter for her.”

“What!” cried the boy, changing colour.  “What her?”

“Her as you write to.  I saw you scribbling, and watched you sneak off down to the village to post it.”

“You’re a wicked fibster, Jenny.”

“Oh, no, I’m not.  What did you give the postman five shillings for?”

“I didn’t,” said the boy, flaring up.

“Yes, you did, and it was to bring letters for you on the sly, I shall write and inform the post-office people.”

“Yes, you do, and I’ll half kill you, and poison old Mark.”

“There!  I knew it.  Who is she?”

“You be off.”

“No, nor I shan’t be off neither.  I believe it’s Dan Smart’s girl, who’s gone to London.  Oh, my! what a wicked one you are, Master Syd, for such a boy.  Your sangwidges is ready.  Shall I bring ’em here?”

“Did you get the flask?”

“Yes.”

“And filled it with milk and sherry?”

“Yes, but you don’t deserve it, for threatening to get poor Mark the sack.”

“Then you shouldn’t threaten to tell tales.”

“I won’t, Master Syd, if you won’t.”

“All right, then, it’s a truce.  Here, I must be off.”

“What, without your sangwidges and flask?”

“No; to get my fishing-rod.”

“Then you won’t tell?”

“Tell?  No.  Here, give us a kiss, Jenny.”

“Shan’t.  They’re all for Mark.”

“Must,” cried the boy, seizing her round the waist.

“Pst!  Someone coming.”

Syd dashed out of the window, and the girl began to move some of the breakfast things, but was interrupted by the entrance of a sharp-looking young groom with very closely-cut hair, and trousers so tight in the leg that the wonder was how he put them on and pulled them off.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Mark?” said the girl, tartly.

“Me it is, Jenny.  Think it was the boss?”

“Maybe.  Here’s a pretty time of the morning to have breakfast things about.”

“Pretty time?  Of course, it’s a pretty time.  Eat when you’re hungry.  When the guv’nor wants his corn he’ll come down to the sally-manger as they call it.”

“But look at the time!”

“Oh, hang the time!  A man ain’t a locomotive, made to live up to a time-table.  I believe her ladyship has a time for everything, down to sneezing and cleaning her teeth.  It’s orful, that it is.”

“Ah! you’re a pretty pair.”

“We was in the old days, Jenny,” said the young man, with a smirk, “before we began to go off and look seedy, him with being married to her ladyship, and me pulled down, fretting about you.”

“Get along with your nonsense!  I know.  You were a pair of regular rackety rakes, and her ladyship has done wonders for Sir Hilton.”

“Well, ain’t you done wonders and improved me, dear?  You know I ain’t like the same chap.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I sometimes feel I’m very stupid to think about you.  You’re always talking about your old ramping, scamping days.”

“But there wasn’t any harm in ’em, Jenny.  Only a bit of sport ­a race here, a steeplechase there, and a turn at hunting in the winter.  Ah! they was times, Jenny, my gal Reglar old English gentleman sort of life.  Go to bed when you liked; get up when you liked.  Breakfast in bed or out of it.  None of your tea-and-toasting, but a hock and seltzer for a start; nice little devilled something after, and there you were, fit as a fiddle.  None of your time-table life, like it is here.”

“Yes, you were a nice pair.”

“We were, Jenny, and we’re not to be sneezed at now; but you’re a bit hard on us, Jenny, both of you.”

“I’m too soft on you, Mark, and you know it.”

“Well ­say sometimes, my dear; but you know you are orful nubbly now and then, and you say things to me that buzz in my ears like bluebottles in a stable window.  I don’t grumble, but I’m sorry for the guv’nor, that I am.”

“Ah! he has a deal to grumble at.  Wasted as good as three fortunes.”

“Woho, my lass!  Steady there!  Not wasted.  Spent ’em like a noble English baronet, and he always had his money’s worth.  Yes, we did.”

“We indeed!  Wasted everything, he did, on the Turf, and then was sold up disgraceful.  Just like a pore man might be.”

“Gently, my lass, gently!” cried Mark.  “Sold up, and disgraceful?  Nothing of the kind.  The luck was again’ us, and we can’t quite meet our engagements; so we lets the things come to the hammer.  Old Tat knocks ’em down to the highest bidder at High Park Corner, and we pays like gentlemen as far as the money goes.  What more would you have till the luck turns and we pay up again?”

“Ah! you’re a nice pair.  It was time you were both off the Turf.  Neither of you ever cared.”

“Don’t say that, my lass.  I cared a deal, and when I see my satin-skinned beauties knocked down ­”

“Your what?”

“’Osses, my gal, ’osses ­the tears quite come in my eyes.”

“I dessay,” said Jenny, tartly.  “I believe you think much more of a horse than you ever did about me.”

“Nay, you don’t, Jenny.  You know better.  Man’s love for a hoss ain’t the same as what he feels for his sweetheart.  You know that.  But a chap of the right sort as understands ’osses can’t help loving the beautiful pets.  I don’t mind yer laughing at me.  I quite cried when our La Sylphide was knocked down and I had to say good-bye to her.  I don’t know what I should ha’ done if I hadn’t known she was going into good quarters with someone who’d love her.  All right!  It’s gallus weak, I suppose, but I did, and you may laugh.”

“I wasn’t laughing, Mark,” said the girl, holding out her hand.  “I was only smiling at you.  I like it.  Shows your ’art’s in the right place.”

“Jenny!” And “business,” as theatrical people say.

“Now, don’t, Mark.  That’ll do.  Suppose Sir Hilton was to come?”

“Let him,” said the groom, sharply.  “I ain’t ashamed of loving the dearest, sweetest little lass in the country, though she has got a sharp tongue that goes through me sometimes like a knife.”

“All the better for you, Master Mark.  You want talking-to, for you’ve been a deal too wild.”

“Nay, nay, nay, Jenny; ’ossy, but never wild.”

“Let’s see,” said Jane, going on giving touches to the breakfast-table.  “But stop a minute.  What do you want here?  Her ladyship wouldn’t like it if she caught you.”

“Ain’t she gone out?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot.  Well, Sir Hilton’ll be down directly, and he’ll ask you why you’ve come.”

“No, he won’t.  I shall have first word.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ask him if he wouldn’t like the ’orse put in the dogcart to run over to Tilborough.”

“What for?”

“To see the race, my gal.”

“What!”

“Our old mare La Sylphide’s going to run.”

“Our old mare indeed!  Go to the race!  Why, there’d be a regular eruption.”

“So there would; but I do wish the guv’nor would risk it this once.”

“He’d better!  So that was the reason you come here, was it?”

“Well, partly, Jenny.  You see, I thought I might get a minute with you alone.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Jane, frowning, but with eyes looking very bright.  “You pretend and pretend, and yet all the time you’re sneaking off every chance you get over to Oakland.”

“Well, I do, my lass; I own to that.”

“There,” cried the girl, “and yet you have the impidence to talk to me.”

“Of course, you know why I go.”

“Yes; to see that showy lady’s maid that comes over to our church sometimes.”

“Tchah!  I go over to the stables to have a look at La Sylphide.  Oh, Jenny, she is a picture now.”

“Look here, Mark; ’pon your word, now, is that the truth?”

“Why, you dear, jealous, little darling, you know it is.  Look here, Jenny; she runs to-day for the cup, and, with Josh Rowle up, it’s a certainty.”

“I know better than that, Mark.  There’s no certainty in horse-racing.”

“Oh, yes, there is, if you’ve got the right mare and the man up who understands her, as Josh does, when he isn’t on the drink.  The guv’nor and Josh Rowle are the only two men who can ride La Sylphide, and I tell you it’s a certainty.  I’ve put the pot on this time.”

“What for?”

“Because I want it to boil.”

“What, to make a what-you-may-call-it ­a mash for La Sylphide?”

“Na-a-a-y!” cried Mark.  “What a dear, innocent, little darling you are, Jenny!  We call it putting the pot on when we lay every dollar we can scrape together, and more too, on a horse winning.”

“And that’s what you’ve done?” said Jenny, quietly.

“That’s right, little one; every mag.”

“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mark.”

“What!” cried the young man in dismay.

“Didn’t you promise me that if I’d keep comp’ny with you, you’d give up all your old tricks you learnt with Master ­Sir Hilton ­and be steady?”

“And so I have been.  Saved every penny, and thought of nothing but getting on for you.”

“Yes, it looks like it,” said the girl, sarcastically.

“Well, so it do.  This is only a bit of a flutter.”

“Flutter, indeed!”

“And what’s it for?”

“To make a fool of yourself again, like your master.”

“Oh, is it?” said the young fellow, sturdily.  “You know well enough that if I saved all my wages I couldn’t save enough to take a pub in twenty years.  If La Sylphide passes the post first to-day she’ll land me enough to take a nice little roadside hotel, something like Sam Simpkins, the trainer at Tilborough, only not so big, of course; nice little place, where I can plant my wife behind the bar, and do a nice trade with visitors, somewhere down in the country where there’s waterfalls and mountains and lakes.”

“And that is why you’ve begun betting again, Mark?” said the girl, a little more softly.

“Yes, that’s what I meant, my gal, for I didn’t think you’d take it like that.  Our mare ­I mean Lady Tilborough’s ­La Sylphide being a certainty.  But if she loses, I shan’t go and marry some rich woman for the sake of her money.”

There was silence for a few moments, Mark turning a little away to take a pink out of his buttonhole and begin nibbling the stalk, and Jenny turning in the other direction so that her lover should not see a little sign of weakness in her eyes, which she strove hard to master, and so well that in a short time, when she spoke again, her voice sounded sharp and without a tremor.

“A pretty game, I’m sure, sir.  Races indeed, and betting too!  Sir Hilton had better take your precious dogcart and go La Sylphiding.  You mark my words, if he does her ladyship will be sure to find it out, and then if she suspects you had anything to do with it you’ll get the sack.”

“Well, I don’t know as it matters much,” said the groom, drearily.  “You don’t seem to understand a fellow, and it’s all wrong here, and it’s miserable to see the poor guv’nor so down in the mouth.”

“Down in the mouth indeed, after missus’s father found the money to pay all his debts, and four thousand pounds for him to go into Parliament as an M.P.”

“Tchah!  Such nonsense!  Our Sir Hilton ain’t going to give up the Turf and chuck hisself away like that.”

“Chuck hisself away?”

“Yes.  Turn Jawkins.  Him going to turn himself into a talking windmill, a-waving his arms about?  Not he.  But how come you to hear that?”

“Mr Trimmer told me.”

“Mr Trimmer!  How come he to tell you?” said the young man, with his face growing dark.

“Oh, Mr Trimmer is very pleasant and friendly to me sometimes.”

“Oh, is he?  Then he ain’t going to be, and so I tell him.  A long, lanky, white-chokered imitation Methody parson, that’s what he is!  What right has he got to be civil to you, I should like to know?”

“Well, I’m sure, sir,” cried the girl, whose eyes were sparkling with delight to see how her lover was moved, “I don’t know what her ladyship’s bailiff and agent and steward and confidential man would say ­him, a real gentleman ­if he heard what poor Sir Hilton’s groom and valet said.”

“Gentleman ­confidential man!  Why, he ain’t half a man, and he ain’t the good sanctified chap he pretends to be, and I’d tell him so to his face.  Look here, Jenny; he may be her ladyship’s, but he ain’t going to be your confidential man.  But there, I ain’t no right to say nothing, I suppose, and this about finishes it.  Ladyship or no ladyship, whether the guv’nor comes or whether he don’t, I’m going over to Tilborough racecourse ’safternoon, and if La Sylphide don’t pull it off for me I shall make a hole in the water and leave it to cover me up.”

“Mark!” said Jenny, softly, with her eyes half closed.  “Well?”

“I can’t help Mr Trimmer speaking civil to me when he comes to see her ladyship about the accounts.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” said the young man, sarcastically.

“I can’t really, Mark ­dear.  He always seems to me like one of those nasty evats that come down in the stone passage in damp weather, and just as they do when they’ve rubbed a little of the whitewash on to their throats.”

“Jenny!”

“Yes, Mark dear.  I do hope La Sylphide will win.”

“Oh!”

“Ahem!”

Smart-looking, well-built, dapper little Sir Hilton Lisle, looking the beau-ideal of a horse-loving country gentleman, entered the breakfast-room.