footmen, who relieved the gentlemen of their coats and hats, Sylvester was sure that the establishment would be found to be under-staffed. It would not surprise him to learn that a female presided over the kitchen; and he had little doubt that there was no groom of the chambers to attend to the comfort of visitors. The fact that he frequently stayed in houses by far less magnificent than his own and never gave the size and style of their domestic arrangements a thought did not, in his present mood, occur to him; and the knowledge that he was so severely critical of Lord Marlow’s house would have greatly astonished a number of his less affluent friends and relations. One of his favourite cousins, a lively young woman married to an impecunious Major of Dragoon Guards, would, indeed, have been incredulous, since none of the visitors to her modest establishment was more adaptable than he, or more ready to be pleased with his entertainment. But Sylvester liked Major and Mrs. Newbury; Lord Marlow he was in a fair way to disliking cordially.
He was received by Lady Marlow in what her lord recognized as her most gracious manner. It struck Sylvester as condescending, and he was taken aback by it.
He turned from her to meet Miss Marlow, and his gloomiest forebodings were realized. She had neither beauty nor countenance, her complexion was poor and her figure worse, her dress was tasteless, and the colourless voice in which she murmured how-do-you-do confirmed him in his instant belief that she was insipid. He wondered how soon he would be able to bring his visit to an end.
“You will remember my little Phoebe, Salford,” persevered Lord Marlow optimistically. “You have danced with her in London, haven’t you?”
“Of course—yes!” said Sylvester. He perceived that more was required of him, and fired a shot at a fairly safe venture. “At Almack’s, was it not?”
“No,” said Phoebe. “At the Seftons’ ball. When you saw me at Almack’s I don’t think you recognized me.”
This girl, thought Sylvester indignantly, wants conduct as well as countenance! Is she trying to put me to the blush? Very well, Miss Marlow! Aloud, he said lightly: “How rude of me! But perhaps I
“Yes, it—it is—isn’t it?” stammered Phoebe.
“Pray be seated, Duke!” commanded Lady Marlow. “You have been staying with the Beauforts. You are a hunting-man, I collect. I am not myself a friend to the sport, but Marlow is greatly addicted to it.”
“Oh, you must not talk so to Salford!” said Lord Marlow. “He is a clipping rider, you know: showed us all the way!”
Beyond directing an enigmatical look at his host Sylvester made no response to this piece of flattery. Lady Marlow said that she believed the Duke of Beaufort to be a very worthy man, but as she followed up this encomium by deploring the dandyism of his heir the conversation did not prosper. Lord Marlow struck in with a sporting anecdote, and Phoebe, picking up her tambour-frame and setting another crooked stitch, sat listening for the next twenty minutes to a three-cornered dialogue that would have diverted her had it not vexed her too much to seem amusing. Lady Marlow’s part in it took the form of a series of statements, which, according to her custom, she announced in a fashion that admitted of no argument; Lord Marlow, in an effort to check her, broke in whenever he could with a flow of jovial remarks and reminiscences, all of which were extremely trivial; and Sylvester, civil, and cool, and unhelpful, replied to each of his hosts in turn, and encouraged neither.
To hear her father striving with such eager anxiety to engage Sylvester’s interest very soon made Phoebe angry. He was an inveterate talker, and his most fervent admirers could scarcely have called him a sensible man, but he was a much older man than Sylvester, he was doing his best to please, and she thought it detestable of Sylvester to accord him nothing but polite tolerance. Her dislike of him grew to such large proportions that when Lady Marlow announced that they dined at six o’clock she was almost disappointed to see that he bore the announcement with fortitude. Fuel for her rancour would have been supplied by the knowledge, could she but have come by it, that it was just what he had expected.
When she entered her chilly bedchamber to change her dress for dinner Phoebe found a screw of paper stuck into the frame of the looking-glass, and realized, as she drew it out and unfolded it, that it must have been put there by Firbank, the butler, whose extraordinary grimaces, as she had passed him in the hall in the wake of Lady Marlow, she had been quite unable to interpret. She saw that it was from Tom, but its message was slightly disappointing. After informing her that he was on his way to dine with friends he added that he should leave betimes, and drop in at Austerby on his way home to learn how she had gone on.
At Austerby Phoebe did not enjoy the luxury of an abigail, so there was no one to compel her to spend more time than was strictly necessary over the changing of her dress. She made haste out of her muslin frock and arrayed herself in a somewhat scrambling way in the evening-gown prescribed by Lady Marlow. It was as unbecoming to her as the muslin, but beyond combing out her ringlets and clasping a string of pearls round her throat she made no attempt to render herself more presentable. Her ears were on the prick to catch the sounds of male voices. When she heard these, and knew that her father was escorting the Duke to his bedchamber, her toilet was done. Wrapping a shawl round her shoulders she slipped out of her room, and across the hall to Lord Marlow’s dressing-room.
“Papa, may I speak to you?”
His valet was with him, and he had already put off his coat, but being naturally affable he was about to welcome his daughter, when he saw that she was labouring under barely repressed agitation, and he at once felt uneasy. He said in a bluff voice: “Well, unless it is of immediate importance, my dear—”
“It is of most immediate importance, Papa!”
His uneasiness grew. “Oh, well, then—! Well, I can spare you five minutes, I daresay!”
His valet went out of the room. Hardly had he shut the door than Phoebe said breathlessly: “Papa, I wish to tell you—I cannot like the Duke of Salford!”
He stood there staring at her, at first aghast, and then, as a sense of ill-usage crept over him, with gathering choler. He said explosively: “Well, upon my word, Phoebe! A fine moment you have chosen to break this news to me!”
“How could I break it to you earlier? If you had but told me before you went to Blandford Park what you intended! Papa, you know Mama would never have permitted me to send a servant there with a letter from me, begging you to go no further in the business! Oh, pray, Papa, don’t be angry! Indeed, it is not my fault you were kept in ignorance of—of my sentiments upon this occasion!”
The colour in his florid cheeks darkened; he really did feel that he had been abominably used. His pride in having contrived to draw the Duke into Lady Ingham’s net had been great; already he was three parts persuaded that the scheme had been all his own, and that he had been put to considerable trouble on his daughter’s behalf. Now it seemed that his care was to be thrown away. That was bad; and still worse would be the awkwardness of his situation, if he were obliged to inform Sylvester that Phoebe would have none of him. In an attempt to turn aside her protests, he said: “Pooh, nonsense! The merest irritation of nerves, my dear! You are shy—yes, yes, you are shy, I say, and who should know better than your father? You have a great deal of sensibility—I always thought it had been wiser not to have told you what Salford’s purpose was in visiting us, but your mama—however, that’s nothing to the purpose now the mischief has been done! Your senses are in disorder! I don’t deny that your situation is embarrassing. I declare I am vexed to death that your mama should have—But you will not regard it! I assure you, I have given a great deal of thought to this matter, and am satisfied that Salford will make you an amiable husband. You will allow that I am more fitted to be the judge of a man’s character than you! Well, I am satisfied with Salford: he is as sound as a roast!” He gave his hearty laugh, and added: “I am prepared to wager the day is not far distant when you will wonder how you can have been such a goose! How I shall joke you about it!”
