Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

which was all the literature the room afforded. He seemed to have found it rewarding, for upon Phoebe’s entrance he looked up, and said with a grin: “I say, Phoebe, this is a famous good book! It tells you how to preserve tripe to go to the East Indies—which is just the sort of thing one might want to know any day of the week. All you need do is to Get a fine Belly of Tripe, quite fresh—”

“Ugh!” shuddered Phoebe, carefully shutting the door. “How horrid! Do put the book away!”

“All in good time! If you don’t want to know how to preserve tripe, what about an Excellent Dish for six or seven Persons for the Expense of Sixpence? Just the thing for the ducal kitchens, I think! It’s made with calf’s lights, and bread, and fat, and some sheeps’ guts, and —”

“How can you be so absurd? Stop reading that nonsense!” scolded Phoebe.

“Nicely cleaned!” pursued Tom. “And if you don’t fancy sheeps’ guts you may take hogs’, or—”

But at this point Phoebe seized the book, and after a slight struggle for possession he let her have it.

“For heaven’s sake don’t laugh so loud!” she begged him. “The children’s bedchamber is almost opposite this room! Oh, Tom, you can’t conceive what a shocking evening I’ve spent! I begged Papa to send the Duke away, but he wouldn’t, so I have made up my mind to go away myself.”

He was conscious of a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach, but replied staunchly: “Well, I told you I was game. I only hope we don’t find the roads snow-bound in the north. Gretna Green it shall be!”

“Not so loud! Of course I’m not going to Gretna Green!” she said in an indignant under-voice. “Keep your voice low, Tom! If Eliza were to wake and hear us talking she would tell Mama, as sure as check! Now listen! I thought it all out at dinner! I must go to London, to my grandmother. She told me once that I might depend on her to do all she could for me, and I think—oh, I am sure she would support me in this, if only she knew what was happening! The only thing is—Tom, you know Mama buys all my dresses, and lets me have very little pin-money! Could you—would you lend me the money for the coach-fare? I think it costs about five-and-thirty shillings for the ticket. And then there is the tip to the guard, and—”

“Yes, of course I’ll lend you as much rhino as you want!” Tom interrupted. “But you can’t mean to travel to London on the stage!”

“Yes, I do. How could I go post, even if I could afford to do so? There would be the hiring of the chaise, and then all the business of the changes—oh, no, it would be impossible! I haven’t an abigail to go with me, remember! I shall be much safer in the common stage. And if I could contrive to get a seat in one of the fast day coaches —”

“Well, you couldn’t. They are always booked up as full as they can hold in Bath, and if you aren’t on the way- bill—Besides, if the snow is as deep beyond Reading as they say it is those coaches won’t run.”

“Well, never mind! Any coach will serve, and I don’t doubt I shall be able to get a place, because people won’t care to travel in this weather, unless they are obliged. I have made up my mind to it that I must be gone from here before anyone can prevent me, very early in the morning. If I could reach Devizes—it is nearer than Calne, and I know some of the London coaches do take that road—only I shall have a portmanteau to carry, and perhaps a bandbox as well, so—Oh, Tom, could you, do you think, take me to Devizes in your gig?”

“Will you stop fretting and fuming?” he said severely. “I’ll take you anywhere you wish, but this scheme of yours—You know, I don’t wish to throw a rub in the way, but I’m afraid it may not hold. This curst weather! A pretty piece of business it would be if you were to get no farther than Reading! It might well turn out so, and then it would be all holiday with you.”

“No, no, I have thought of that already! If the coach goes on, I shall stay with it, but if the snow is very bad I know just what I must do. Do you remember Jane, that used to be the maid who waited on the nursery? Well, she married a corn-chandler, in a very good way of business, I believe, and lives at Reading. So, you see, if I can’t travel beyond Reading I may go to her, and stay with her until the snow has melted!”

“Stay in a corn-chandler’s house?” he repeated, in accents of incredulity.

“Good God, why should I not? He is a very respectable man, and as for Jane, she will take excellent care of me, I can assure you! I suppose you had rather I stayed in a public inn?”

“No, that I wouldn’t! But—” He paused, not liking the scheme, yet unable to think of a better.

She began to coax him, representing to him the advantages of her plan, and all the hopelessness of her situation if she were forced to remain at Austerby. He was easily convinced of this, for it did indeed seem to him that without her father’s support her case was desperate. Nor could he deny that her grandmother was the very person to shield her; but it took a little time to persuade him that neither danger nor impropriety would attend her journey to London in a stage-coach. It was not until she told him that if he would not lend her his aid she meant to trudge to Devizes alone that he at last capitulated. Nothing remained, after that, but to arrange the details of her escape, and this was soon accomplished. Tom promised to have his gig waiting in the lane outside one of the farm gates of Austerby at seven o’clock on the following morning; Phoebe pledged herself not to keep him waiting there; and they parted, one of them full of confidence, the other trying to smother his uneasiness.

She was punctual at the rendezvous; he was not; and for twenty nerve-racking minutes she paced up and down the lane, in the lee of the hedge, her imagination running riot among the various disasters which might have overtaken him. The most likely of these was that he had overslept, a probability which added rage to her anxiety. It had been dark when she herself had dressed, and packed her night gear into the already bulging portmanteau, but by seven o’clock it was daylight, and at any moment, she felt, she might be discovered by some villager or farm- hand to whom she must be well known. The day was cheerless, the wind blowing from the north, and the clouds ominously thick. Anger and apprehension steadily mounted, but both were forgotten in surprise when Tom arrived on the scene, driving, instead of his gig, his father’s curricle, with those two tidy brown steppers, Trusty and True, harnessed to it.

He pulled up beside her and commanded her, without preamble, to go to the horses’ heads. She obeyed, but said, as he cast off the rug wrapped about his legs and jumped down into the road: “But, Tom, how is this? Why have you brought the curricle? I am persuaded you ought not!”

He had picked up her portmanteau, and was lashing it quickly in place. “Yes, I ought. Did you think I was never coming? I’m sorry to be so late, but, you see, I had to go back. We must put this bandbox under the seat.” He stowed it away as he spoke, and came striding up to her. “I’ll take ’em. Do you jump up, and take the ribbons! Take care! they haven’t been out since my father went away, and they’re as lively as be-damned! You will find my father’s old driving-coat: put it on, and wrap that fur rug well round you! And don’t waste time disputing!” he added.

She did as he bade her, but she was considerably astonished, and demanded, as soon as he had climbed up beside her, and taken the reins from her competent hands: “Have you run mad, Tom? What in the world—”

“No, of course I haven’t. The thing is I was the most complete gudgeon last night, not to have seen what I ought to do. Plain as a pikestaff, but it never occurred to me till I had actually set out to come to you. Mind you, I wasn’t easy in my mind! Kept on waking up all night, wondering what I should do. It only came to me when I was on my way here, driving the gig. So I turned sharp about, scribbled a note for my mother, got Jem to fig out Trusty and True—”

“But why?” she interrupted.

“Going to take you to London myself,” he replied briefly.

Her first feeling was one of gratitude, but she was instantly assailed by qualms, and said: “No, no, you can’t do so, Tom!”

“Nonsense, what could be easier? Trusty and True are good for two full stages, and very likely more, if I don’t press them. After that, of course, I must hire job-horses, but unless we learn at Reading that the road from there is too deep to make the attempt we shall be in London by tonight. I shan’t try it, mind, if we get bad news at Reading! If that should be the case, I’ll take you to this corn-chandler of yours, and put up myself at the Crown. The only thing is that you may find it pretty cold.”

“Oh, that doesn’t signify! But indeed, Tom, I think you ought not! Perhaps—”

“Well, it makes no odds what you think,” he returned. “I’m going to do it.”

“But Mrs. Orde—your father—”

“I know my father would say I shouldn’t let you go alone; and as for Mama, she won’t be thrown into a pucker, because I dashed off a note to her, telling her she need not be. And don’t you fly into one of your fusses either! I didn’t say where I was taking you, but only that I was obliged to rescue you from that