Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

“If that should happen, it will be her doing, not mine! She may make her home here for as long as she chooses, or she may take Edmund to live with her at the Dower House. All I have ever said is that Harry’s son will be reared at Chance, and under my eye! If Ianthe marries again she is welcome to visit Edmund whenever she pleases. I have even told her she may have him to stay with her at reasonable intervals. But one thing I will never do, and that is to permit him to grow up under Nugent Fotherby’s aegis! Good God, Mama, how can you think it possible I would so abuse my twin’s trust?”

“Ah, no, no! But is Sir Nugent so very bad? I was a little acquainted with his father—he was so amiable that he said yes and amen to everything!—but I think I never met the son.”

“You needn’t repine! A wealthy fribble, three parts idiot, and the fourth—never mind! A pretty guardian I should be to abandon Edmund to his and Ianthe’s upbringing! Do you know what Harry said to me, Mama? They were almost the last words he spoke to me. He said: “You’ll look after the boy, Dook.” He stopped, his voice cracking on that last word. After a moment he said, not very easily: “You know how he used to call me that—with that twinkle in his eye. It wasn’t a question, or a request. He knew I should, and he said it, not to remind me, but because it was a comfortable thought that came into his head, and he always told me what he was thinking.” He saw that his mother had shaded her eyes with one hand, and crossed the room to her side, taking her other hand, and holding it closely. “Forgive me! I must make you understand, Mama!”

“I do understand, Sylvester, but how can I think it right to keep the child here with no one but old Button to look after him, or some tutor for whom he’s far too young? If I were not useless—” She clipped the words off short.

Knowing her as he did, he made no attempt to answer what had been left unspoken, but said calmly: “Yes, I too have considered that, and it forms a strong reason for my marriage. I fancy Ianthe would soon grow reconciled to the thought of parting with Edmund, could she but leave him in his aunt’s charge. She wouldn’t then incur the stigma of heartlessness, would she? She cares a great deal for what people may say of her—and I must own that after presenting a portrait of herself to the world in the role of devoted parent, I don’t perceive how she can abandon Edmund to the mercy of his wicked uncle. My wife, you know, could very well be held to have softened my disposition!”

“Now, Sylvester—! She can never have said you were wicked!”

He smiled. “She may not have used that precise term, but she has regaled everyone with the tale of my disregard for Edmund’s welfare, and frequent brutality to him. They may not believe the whole, but I’ve reason to suppose that even a man of such good sense as Elvaston thinks I treat the boy with unmerited severity.”

“Well, if Lord Elvaston doesn’t know his daughter better than to believe the farradiddles she utters I have a poor opinion of his sense!” said the Duchess, quite tartly. “Do let us stop talking about Ianthe, my love!”

“Willingly! I had rather talk of my own affairs. Mama, what sort of a female would you wish me to marry?”

“In your present state, I don’t wish you to marry any sort of a female. When you come out of it, the sort you wish to marry, of course!”

“You are not being in the least helpful!” he complained. “I thought mothers always made marriage plans for their sons!”

“And consequently suffered some severe disappointments! I am afraid the only marriage I ever planned for you was with a three-day infant, when you were eight years old!”

“Come! this is better!” he said encouragingly. “Who was she? Do I know her?”

“You haven’t mentioned her, but I should think you must at least have seen her, for she was presented this year, and had her first season. Her grandmother wrote to tell me of it, and I almost asked you—” She broke off, vexed with herself, and altered the sentence she had been about to utter. “—to give her a kind message from me, only did not, for she could hardly be expected to remember me. She’s Lady Ingham’s granddaughter.”

“What, my respected godmama? One of the Ingham girls? Oh, no, my dear! I regret infinitely, but—no!”

“No, no, Lord Marlow’s daughter!” she replied, laughing. “He married Verena Ingham, who was my dearest friend, and the most captivating creature!”

“Better and better!” he approved. “Why have I never encountered the captivating Lady Marlow?” He stopped, frowning. “But I have! I’m not acquainted with her—in fact, I don’t remember that I’ve ever so much as spoken to her, but I must tell you, Mama, that whatever she may have been in her youth—”

“Good heavens, that odious woman is Marlow’s second! Verena died when her baby was not a fortnight old.”

“Very sad. Tell me about her!”

“I don’t think you would be much the wiser if I did,” she answered, wondering if he was trying to divert her mind from the memories he had himself evoked. “She wasn’t beautiful, or accomplished, or even modish, I fear! She defeated every effort to turn her into a fashionable young lady, and never appeared elegant except in her riding- dress. She did the most outrageous things, and nobody cared a bit—not even Lady Cork! We came out in the same season, and were the greatest of friends; but while I was so fortunate as to meet Papa—and to fall in love with him at sight, let me tell you!—she refused every offer that was made her—scores of them, for she never lacked for suitors!—and declared she preferred her horses to any man she had met. Poor Lady Ingham was in despair! And in the end she married Marlow, of all people! I believe she must have liked him for his horsemanship, for I am sure there was nothing else to like in him. Not a very exciting story, I’m afraid! Why did you wish to hear it?”

“Oh, I wished to know what sort of a woman she was! Marlow I do know, and I should suppose that any daughter of his must be an intolerable bore. But your Verena’s child might be the very wife for me, don’t you think? You would be disposed to like her, which must be an object with me; and although I don’t mean to burden myself with a wife who wants conduct, I should imagine that there must be enough of Marlow’s blood in this girl to leaven whatever wildness she may have inherited from her mother. Eccentricity may be diverting, Mama, but it is out of place in a wife: certainly in my wife!”

“My dear, what nonsense you are talking! If I believed you meant it I should be most seriously disturbed!”

“But I do mean it! I thought you would have been pleased, too! What could be more romantic than to marry the girl who was betrothed to me in her cradle?”

She smiled, but she did not look to be much amused. His eyes searched her face; he said in the caressing tone he used only to her: “What is it, my dear? Tell me!”

She said: “Sylvester, you have talked of five girls who might perhaps suit you; and now you are talking of a girl of whose existence you were unaware not ten minutes ago—and as though you had only to decide between them! My dear, has it not occurred to you that you might find yourself rebuffed?”

His brow cleared. “Is that all? No, no, Mama, I shan’t be rebuffed!”

“So sure, Sylvester?”

“Of course I’m sure, Mama! Oh, not of Miss Marlow! For anything I know, her affections may be engaged already.”

“Or she might take you in dislike,” suggested the Duchess.

“Take me in dislike? Why should she?” he asked, surprised.

“How can I tell? These things do happen, you know.”

“If you mean she might not fall in love with me, I daresay she might not, though I know of no reason, if she doesn’t love another man, why she shouldn’t come to do so—or, at any rate, to like me very tolerably! Do you suppose me to be so lacking in address that I can’t make myself agreeable when I wish to? Fie on you, Mama!”

“No,” she said. “But I didn’t know you had so much address that you could beguile no fewer than five girls of rank and fashion to be ready to accept an offer from you.”

He could not resist. “Well, Mama, you said yourself that I make love charmingly!” he murmured.

It drew a smile from her, because she could never withstand that gleaming look, but she shook her head as well, and said: “For shame, Sylvester! Do you mean to sound like a coxcomb?”

He laughed. “Of course I don’t! To be frank with you, there are not five but a dozen young women of rank and fashion who are perfectly ready to receive an offer from me. I’m not hard to swallow, you know, though I don’t doubt I have as many faults as a Mr. Smith or a Mr. Jones. Mine are more palatable, however: scarcely noticeable for the rich marchpane that covers them!”

“Do you wish for a wife who marries you for the sake of your possessions?” the Duchess asked, arching her