Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

“Papa, I cannot like him!” she repeated.

“For God’s sake, girl, don’t talk such fustian!” he said irascibly. “You are barely acquainted with him! A pretty pass we have come to when a chit of a girl holds up her nose at a man of Salford’s estate! Let me tell you that you should rather be blessing yourself for your good fortune!”

She said imploringly: “Papa, you know I would not willingly displease you, but—”

“Very fine talking!” he interrupted. “You haven’t a pennyworth’s consideration for me! What a fix you would put me in! Good God, it is beyond anything! So I am to inform Salford you cannot like him! Upon my word, it puts me out of all heart, I declare to heaven it does! Here am I, putting myself to all this trouble—ay, and expense! for if Salford should take a fancy to the young chestnut I must let him have the horse at a price that will put me sadly out of pocket, of course. Not to mention the new dress that was purchased for you, and I dare not say how many bottles of the good claret! A hundred pounds I paid for one hogshead, and no more than fifty bottles left, by what Firbank tells me. Carbonnell’s Best!”

“Papa—”

“Don’t talk to me!” he said, lashing himself into a weak man’s rage. “I have no patience left to speak to you! And what your mama will say—!”

“Oh, you won’t tell her! Surely you won’t?” she cried. “You could tell the Duke— that you find you were mistaken in my sentiments, so that he won’t propose to me! Papa—!”

“If I am to be put into such a position she must know the whole!” he said, taking instant advantage of her fright. “I should be sorry indeed if I were obliged to divulge to her what has passed between us, but if you continue in this obstinacy I must do so. Now, my dear child, consider! Salford has had no opportunity to fix his interest with you: at least grant him that opportunity! If you find you are still unable to like him when he has been staying with us some few days, we will talk of this again. Meanwhile I shall say nothing of this interview to Mama, and you need not either. There, I fancy your senses are in a way to being straight again, are they not?” He gave her shoulder a pat. “Now I must send you away, or Salford will be down before me. I am not vexed with you: you have sometimes an odd kick in your gallop, but you are a good girl at heart, and you know you may trust your father!”

She went away without another word. The optimistic trend of his mind made it easy for him to believe that he had talked her into submission, but the truth was she knew him too well to persevere. His dislike of finding himself in an uncomfortable predicament was stronger than his love for his children; so far from trusting him she felt sure that before he slept that night he would have told his wife the whole. He would not bring pressure to bear upon his daughter, for that would be uncomfortable too; but he would look the other way while his wife did so.

Until the morning Phoebe thought she must be safe from attack. There was not much time left to her to think of some means of escape from a fate that had begun to seem inevitable; and she could look for no help from any inmate of Austerby. To ask it of Miss Battery would be not only to place the governess in a position of great difficulty, but to ensure her being dismissed from her post under such conditions as must make it hard indeed for her to establish herself in another household. Tom could be relied on to do whatever was required of him, but it was hard to see how his support could be of assistance. She could think of no one but her grandmother who might be able to lend her effective aid. She was not intimately acquainted with Lady Ingham, but she knew her to be well- disposed towards her, and she knew too that she held Lady Marlow in contempt and dislike. If Austerby had been within reach of London, Phoebe would have had no hesitation in claiming her protection. But Austerby was ninety miles from London. It would be useless to write a letter, for it was not to be supposed that an invalid would come posting into Somerset to rescue her in the middle of a hard winter, and although Grandmama had several times shown herself to be more than a match for Mama when they had met face to face, at a distance Mama would have everything all her own way.

Even as her spirits sank under these reflections Phoebe remembered Tom, who was coming to see her this evening. Hope began to flower; she began to weave plans; and became so absorbed in these that she forgot she had been ordered to attend Lady Marlow in her room as soon as she was dressed, and instead made her way to the gallery in which it was the bleak custom of the family to assemble before dinner.

6

Sylvester was in the gallery, alone, and glancing through the pages of a periodical. He was standing in front of the fire, which was burning sluggishly, and every now and then gave forth a plume of smoke. He was dressed with his usual quiet elegance in a black coat and pantaloons, and a plain white waistcoat. A single fob hung at his waist, a single diamond glinted from between the folds of his neckcloth, and one ring, his heavy signet, adorned his hand. He adopted none of the extravagances of the dandy-set, but his air was one of decided fashion, and the exquisite cut of his coat made Phoebe feel more than ordinarily dowdy.

She was startled to find him in the gallery, and checked on the threshold, exclaiming involuntarily: “Oh —!”

He looked up in faint surprise. After a moment he put the periodical down, and said pleasantly: “It’s a bad guest, is it not, who comes down before his host? Let me draw a chair to the fire for you! It is smoking a trifle, but not enough, I am sure, to signify.”

The acid note was faint, but it did not escape her. She came reluctantly down the gallery, saying as she seated herself in the chair he had pulled forward: “All the chimneys smoke at Austerby when the wind is in the northeast.”

Having received abundant evidence of the truth of this statement in the bedchamber allotted to him, he did not question it, merely replying: “Indeed? Every house has its peculiarities, I fancy.”

“Do none of the chimneys smoke in your house?” she asked.

“I believe they were used to, but it was found possible to remedy the fault,” he said, conveniently forgetting how often in exasperation at finding the hall at Chance dense with smoke, he had sworn to replace its mediaeval fireplace with a modern grate.

“How fortunate!” remarked Phoebe.

Silence fell. Miss Marlow sat gazing abstractedly at a Buhl cabinet; and his grace of Salford, unaccustomed to such treatment, eyed her in gathering resentment. He was much inclined to pick up the newspaper again, and was only deterred from doing so by the reflection that disgust at her want of conduct was no excuse for lowering his own standard of good manners. He said in the voice of one trying to set a bashful schoolgirl at her ease: “Your father tells me, Miss Marlow, that you are a notable horsewoman.”

“Does he?” she responded. “Well, he told us that you showed him the way with the Heythrop.”

He glanced quickly down at her, but decided, after an instant, that this remark sprang from inanity. “I imagine I need not tell you that I did no such thing!”

“Oh, no! I am very sure you did not,” she said.

He almost jumped; and being now convinced that this seeming gaucherie was deliberate began to feel as much interested as he was ruffled. Perhaps there was rather more to this little provincial than he had supposed, though why she should utter malicious remarks he was at a loss to understand. It was coming it too strong if she was piqued by his failure to recall on what occasion he had danced with her: did she think he could remember every insignificant girl with whom he had been obliged to stand up for one country dance? And what the devil did she mean by relapsing again into indifferent silence? He tried a new tack: “It is now your turn, Miss Marlow, to start a topic for conversation!”

She withdrew her gaze from the cabinet, and directed it at him for a dispassionate moment. “I haven’t any conversation,” she said.

He hardly knew whether to be diverted or vexed; he was certainly intrigued, and had just decided that although he had not the remotest intention of offering for this outrageous girl, it might not be unamusing to discover what (if anything) lay behind her odd manners when Lady Marlow came into the gallery. Finding her guest there before her she pointed out to him that he was in advance of the hour, which nettled him into replying: “You must blame the wind for being in the northeast, ma’am.”

The shaft went wide. “You mistake, Duke: no blame attaches to your being so early. Indeed, I consider it a good fault! My daughter has been entertaining you, I see. What have you been talking of together, I wonder?”

“We can scarcely be said to have talked of anything,” replied Sylvester. “Miss Marlow informs me that she