Chapter Eleven.
Busy Times at Tilborough.
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 début 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.”
There was an interval of writing. Then more grumbling—
“Might have attended to the business a bit as she is at home, and me up to my eyes in work. Humph! That’s right.”
Another entry was made.
“Blest if I can recklect so well as I used. Blow bikes! Why, they’ll be wanting to run races with ’em next, and—Mornin’, doctor; ain’t seen yer for months.”
“Morning, Sam. No; I’ve been away with my regiment. Here, someone, S. and B.”
This to the attendants in the bar, where he stopped for a few minutes discussing the cooling drink, while behind the landlord’s back he made a few quick entries in his book with a metallic pencil.
“Dear old Hilt,” he said to himself. “I was just in time. Got on for him, so that he ought to be pretty warm by to-night. How’s the little star, Sam?” he cried, turning back.
“Oh, she’s all right, sir, thank ye.”
“You ought to be proud of her. She has taken all London by storm.”
“So I hear, sir. I am proud on her, for she’s as good as she is high.”
“That I’m sure she is, Sam; bright, clever, witty, and not a bit of harm in her, I’ll swear.”
“Right you are, sir. Sleep here to-night, sir?”
“Of course. I wired down.”
“I didn’t know, sir. Then, of course, it’s booked. Dine too, sir?”
“Can’t say, Sam. I hope I shall be engaged. If I’m not I shall throw myself on Miss Simpkins’s mercy.”
“You’ll be all right, sir. I’ve laid in plenty o’ grub.”
The doctor nodded, and as the landlord went on studying his betting-book he unstrapped and took out his race-glass, wiped the lenses thoughtfully, took a look through, after careful focussing, and put it back in the case.
“Bless her!” he said to himself. “She’s the dearest little witch that ever breathed. She ought to have been here by now. They haven’t seen her at the paddock, and I can’t get a peep at La Sylphide. I believe they haven’t brought her up yet. Well, no wonder, considering her temper. Josh Rowle knows what he’s about.”
He took out his glass again, focussed it, and had a good look through it at the common, alive with horse, foot and artillery, in the shape of carriages laden with ammunition, loaded bottles ready to go off included.
“Does she do it to lead me on?” thought the doctor. “I wish I wasn’t such a coward. But, there, if the Sylph wins I shall feel independent, and can go at her without thinking I’m a money-hunter. Then, if shell ask me to dinner, which I think she will, the wine will be in and the wit may be out, but I’ll pop as well as her champagne, and know the worst. By Jove!”
He closed his glass suddenly, for, brightly and fashionably dressed, Lady Tilborough passed close to the window and stopped his view of the common. The next minute she was entering the hall.