Sir Hilton's Sin Part 2

"Oh, I don't know about that," said the "dear boy," rather sulkily.

"The fellows at Loamborough are always chucking the 'Devil' in my face."

"Syd!"

"They do, auntie--it's the machine that tears up the old shreds at the mills--and saying grandpa ought to have been made Baron Shoddy."

"My dear Syd!"

"And do you know what they call me?"

"No, no; and I don't want to know, sir."

"Young Devil's Dust," snarled the boy.

"Indeed!" said the lady, indignantly. "Loamborough was selected for your education because the pupils were supposed to be young gentlemen-- aristocrats."

"So they are," grumbled the boy, "and that's the worst of them. Stink with pride."

"From envious poverty, Sydney, my child."

"Oh, yes, they're poor enough, some of 'em, and glad enough to borrow my tin."

"Of course," said the lady, bitterly. "The Lisles, too, have shown me a good deal of haughtiness, but they were not too proud to see the representative of their family form an alliance with the Smitherses."

"When uncle had been sold up two or three times."

"Don't allude to such matters, Sydney, my child," said the lady, sternly.

"Can't help it," grumbled the boy, sourly, as if his breakfast had not agreed with him, consequent upon his making improper combinations of carbon, acid, and alkali--"it stings a bit. The fellows say uncle wouldn't have married you if it hadn't been for the dibs."

"Sydney, my dear boy, you can afford to look down with contempt upon such evil, envious remarks. Your dear uncle fell deeply in Jove with me, and I with him, and we are extremely happy. The only trouble I have is to combat--er--er--certain little weaknesses of his, and yearnings for the--er--er--the--"

"Turf, auntie. Yes, I know."

"The racing and the gambling into which he had been led by dissolute companions. But enough of this, my dear. I find I am being unconsciously led into details of a very unsavoury nature. Your uncle is now completely weaned from his old pursuits, and happy as a model country gentleman."

The "dear boy" winked solemnly at the bronze bust of a great Parliamentary leader on the chimney-piece, and the lady continued--

"In a few days he will address his const.i.tuents at the head of the poll as member for Deeploams.h.i.+re."

"What price Watcombe?" said the "dear boy," sharply.

"I do not understand your metaphor, Sydney, my child," said the lady, coldly.

"I mean, suppose Watcombe romps in at the race."

"Race! Oh, my dear boy, pray do not use that word. If you mean suppose his adversary should be at the head, pray dismiss the thought. Your dear uncle must win and take his seat in the House. Some day I shall see his nephew, my dear child, following his example--the second baronet of our family. Think of this, Sydney, and learn to feel proud of descending from one of the manufacturing commercial princes of the Midlands, whose clever ingenuity resulted in the invention of a complicated instrument--"

"Improved devil," said the "dear boy" to himself.

"For tearing up old and waste woollen fragments into fibre and dust."

"Devils dust," said Sydney, silently.

"The former being worked up again into cloth--"

"Shoddy," muttered Sydney.

"And the latter utilised for fertilising the earth and making it return a hundredfold."

"Gammon," said Syd.

"The whole resulting in a colossal fortune."

"Which the old hunks sticks to like wax," said Syd to himself.

"And of which you ought to be very proud, my dear."

"Oh, I am, auntie. But I say, how was it pa and ma went off to Australia?"

"Pray do not revive old troubles, my dear. My brother never agreed with your grandfather. I grieve to say he was very wild, and given to horse-racing. Then he grievously offended your grandfather in the marriage he made clandestinely. Let it rest, my dear boy. Papa behaved very handsomely to John, and gave him ample funds to start a fresh career at the Antipodes, leaving you to my care--to be my own darling boy--to make you a true English gentleman; and I feel that I have done my duty by you."

"Oh, auntie, you are good," said the "dear boy." "I'm sure I try to do what you wish."

"Always, my darling, with a few exceptions. I have found out that."

"What, auntie?" said the "dear boy," changing colour.

"That my darling is a leetle disposed to be vulgar sometimes."

"Ha!" sighed the lad, with a look of relief.

"But he is going to be as good as gold, and grow into a n.o.ble gentleman, of whom his country will be proud. There, now we understand each other.

Mr Trimmer is late this morning."

"Scissors! How she made me squirm!" muttered the boy, who had risen and walked to the window as if to hide his emotion with the scented white handkerchief he drew from his pocket. "He isn't late, auntie--just his usual time."

"Dear, dear, and your uncle not yet down!"

"Shall I go and rout him out, auntie?"

"No, my dear," said the lady, sternly, "I will speak to him when he comes down."

"Do, auntie. Tell him he loses all the fresh morning air," said the boy, demurely, feeling in the breast-pocket of his jacket the while, and causing a faint crackling sound as of writing-paper, while he noted that the lady was resuming her perusal of the morning's letters.

Just then the breakfast-room door opened and a pretty little dark-eyed parlourmaid entered the room.

"Mr Trimmer is in the libery, my lady."