Chapter Nineteen.
While Time was on the Wing.
“Have you got ’em, Sir Hilton?” said Molly, going close up to his side.
“Round and round and round,” said Sir Hilton, “and now zig-zag, zig-zag, zigger, zagger, zag.”
He described the imaginary bees’ flight with the point of his whip, and seemed not to have heard the words addressed to him.
But all of a sudden he caught sight of the bright colours of the girl’s dress, and it took his attention at once.
“Hullo!” he cried, “what colour—what jock’s this? Why, it’s—what’s the matter with my eyes? It’s a pretty girl—it’s—why it’s Syd’s little flame.”
“Yes, Sir Hilton,” said the girl, smiling. “Yes, uncle.”
“Quite right, my dear. I’m Syd’s uncle. My mouth’s horribly dry, my dear, but don’t ask me to drink, because I’m going to ride for the cup, and it might attract the bees. But they’re gone now. I say, I don’t wonder at Syd. There, it’s nature, I suppose. Boys will be boys; and you’re the beautiful La Sylphide, so full of go. La Sylphide—yes, La Sylphide,” he repeated excitedly, and he gave a sudden lurch.
“Oh, mind, Sir Hilton!” cried the girl, catching at and supporting him. “He isn’t fit to ride. I’ll fetch father.”
She made an effort to get free, but Sir Hilton clung to her tightly, to rebalance himself in the chair, the name of the mare, the bright colour, and his attitude now combining to switch his mind off from the buzzing bees to the race, which now became dominant in his brain.
“Wo-ho! Holdup, little one,” he cried. “Want to break your knees?”
“Of course I don’t, Sir Hilton,” cried the girl, indignantly. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Those girths don’t seem quite tight enough, my beauty,” muttered Sir Hilton. “Never mind; I can keep my balance. Give you more room to breathe. Wo-ho!—How she pulls! Steady! Come, don’t show your temper with me.”
“Of course not, Sir Hilton. Oh! I do wish Syd would come.”
She made an effort to free herself, but as she did so, Sir Hilton snatched at the little figure gliding through his hands, but only caught a couple of long ribbon streamers depending from the back of a flowing robe.
“Oh, my frock—you’ll tear it!” cried the girl, half in tears; and she tried to drag herself away, but not vigorously, for fear of damaging the diaphanous fabric to which the ribbons were attached.
“Father! Father!” cried the girl, faintly; but the trainer did not stir, and the maids who looked on only glanced at one another as if saying: “It isn’t my place.”
All passed very rapidly, as Sir Hilton, in imagination, rode away, talking rapidly the while.
“Steady, my beauty—steady—that’s good—bravo, starter—a capital line—now then, flag down—no false start—that black beast Jim Crow—yes, I’ll make him jump to another tune. Now then, once more—good—flag down—now—go—well over! Bravo, my darling!” he cried, making play with the ribbons, just as Lady Lisle returned, consequent upon, as the police say, “information received,” and stopped short, literally stunned, at the picture before her, while Molly caught sight of her, and tried to get away, but in vain.
“Steady, darling, steady!” cried Sir Hilton, who felt the tugging at the reins. “Don’t get in a flurry. We shall win in a canter. Bravo, pet! Easy—easy, beauty!—Don’t tug like that—I don’t want to hurt your dear, tender mouth. That’s better. We’re going now like the—Bravo—bravo—that’s the way!”
“Oh! Sir Hilton,” cried the girl, “don’t, pray, don’t! Look; can’t you see? Please, ma’am—my lady, it ain’t my fault.”
“That’s right,” shouted Sir Hilton, through his teeth. “Good—good—splendid—now then—we’re nearly level—that’s it—level—half a length ahead—now then—we’re clear—bravo, little one! There, I’ve done with you—splendid—cheer away! Oh, if my wife were only here to see!”
It was as if the excitement under which he had laboured were now all discharged, and he dropped the imaginary reins, leaving Molly to rush away up the stairs, just as Lady Lisle, speechless with rage and shame, made a rush at her husband.
Matters in those moments were almost simultaneous.
Lady Lisle advanced, Syd appeared from the bar with a glass of soda-water, and dashed back, regardless of his aunt, who fainted dead away.
Sir Hilton sank forward with his chest over the chair-back, and his arms hanging full length down, and a general aspect of trying to imitate a gaily-dressed Punch in the front of the show.
Then Lady Tilborough rushed in wildly.
“Where is this man?” she cried, in a passion. “Hilt! Hilt!” Then as she saw her gentleman-rider’s state of utter collapse she uttered a wild, despairing cry which brought the trainer to his office-door softly rubbing his hands. “All, all is lost!” cried Lady Tilborough, tragically.
“Here, stand aside!” shouted the doctor, dashing in with a medical glass in one hand, and a bottle from the nearest chemist’s in the other, the cork giving forth a squeak as he drew it out with his teeth.
“Now then,” he cried, “hold him up. Eh, what?” he added, as Lady Tilborough caught him by the arm crying—
“Jack Granton, you’re a doctor; do something to pick him up, or the game’s all over for us all.”