Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

“I shouldn’t think he would know either of us,” she replied, with what he considered to be quite unbecoming sangfroid.“However, I daresay you are right, sir. Only, if I am not to see the doctor, will you take him up to Tom, if you please, and hear what he thinks we should do for him?”

“I’ve told Keighley to do so. He knows much more about such matters than I do. Moreover, I want to put off these wet clothes. Have you dined?”

“Well, no,” she owned. “Though I ate a slice of bread-and-butter just after you went away.”

“Good God! Why didn’t you order dinner when you wished for it?” he said, rather impatiently.

“Because you bespoke it for when you should return. Mrs. Scaling has only one daughter to help her, you know, and she couldn’t dress two dinners. In fact, she has been in a grand fuss ever since she discovered who you are, because, of course, she is not at all in the habit of entertaining dukes.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean that we shall get a bad dinner.”

“Oh, no, on the contrary! She means to feed you in the most lavish way!” Phoebe assured him.

He smiled. “I’m happy to know it: I could eat an ox whole! Stay in this room until you hear Keighley take the surgeon upstairs, and then slip away to your own. I suppose I must, in common charity, give the man a glass of punch before he sets out for Hungerford again, but I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can.” He nodded to her, and went away, leaving her with her mind divided between resentment at his cool assumption of authority and relief that some at least of her burden of responsibility had been lifted from her shoulders.

When the surgeon presently left Tom, she ventured to go and tap on the door of the best bedroom. Tom bade her come in, and she entered to find him sitting up in bed, much restored by his long sleep, but fretting a good deal over her predicament, his own helplessness, and the condition of his father’s horses. She was able to give him a comfortable account of the horses; as for herself, she said that since they could scarcely have hoped to reach Reading she was quite as well off at the Blue Boar as she would have been at an inn in Newbury.

“Yes, but the Duke!” Tom objected. “I must say, there was never anything more awkward! Not but what I’m devilish obliged to him. Still—!”

“Oh, well!” said Phoebe. “We must just make the best of him! And his groom, you know, is a most excellent person. He put the poultice on Trusty’s fore, and he says if we keep the wound pliant with spermacetti ointment until it is perfectly healed, and then dress it with James’s blister, he thinks there will be no blemish at all.”

“Lord, I hope he may be right!” Tom said devoutly.

“Oh, yes, I am persuaded he is!” She then bethought her that the horses had not been the only sufferers in the spill, and conscientiously inquired after Tom’s broken fibula.

He grinned his appreciation of this palpable afterthought, but replied that the surgeon had not meddled with Keighley’s handiwork, beyond applying a lotion to the inflamed surface, and bandaging the leg to a fresh and less makeshift splint. “But the devil of it is that he says I must lie abed for at least a week. And even then I shall be in no case to drive you to London. Lord, I hadn’t thought I was such a clunch as to overturn like that! I am as sorry as could be, but that’s no use! What are we to do?”

“Well, we can’t do anything at present,” she answered. “It is still snowing, you know, and I shouldn’t wonder at it if we were to find ourselves beleaguered by the morning.”

“But what about the Duke?”

She considered the Duke. “Oh, well, at least I’m not afraid of him! And I must own that although I cannot approve of his conduct—he seems to think he can have anything he wants, you know!—he has made us excessively comfortable. Only fancy, Tom! I have a fire in my bedchamber! A thing Mama never allowed at home, except when I have been ill! Then he said he must have a private parlour, and would hire the coffee-room, I daresay not so much as considering whether it might not be inconvenient for Mrs. Scaling to give it to him—and of course she didn’t dare say a word, because she is so much dazzled by his being a duke that she would give up the whole house to him if he should take it into his head to wish for it.”

“I expect he will pay her handsomely—and who would be coming here on such a night?” said Tom. “Are you going to sit down to dinner with him? Shall you find it awkward?”

“Well, I daresay it may be a trifle awkward,” she acknowledged. “Particularly if he should ask why I am on my way to London. However, he may not do so, because he will very likely still be in a miff with me.”

“In a miff with you? Why?” demanded Tom. “He didn’t seem to me as though he cared a groat for your having run away!”

“Oh, no! Only we quarrelled, you see. Would you believe it? He had the intention of sending poor Keighley to fetch the surgeon! It put me in such a passion that there was no bearing it, and—well, we came to cuffs! But he did go himself, in the end, so I don’t regret it. In fact,” she added reflectively, “I am glad of it, because I was feeling miserably shy before I quarrelled with him, and there is nothing like quarrelling with a person to set one at one’s ease!”

Unable to take this philosophic view of the matter, Tom said, in a shocked voice: “Do you mean to tell me you sent him out just to fetch the surgeon for me?”

“Yes, why not?” said Phoebe.

“Well, my God, if that’s not the outside of enough! as though he had been anybody! You are the most outrageous girl, Phoebe! I shouldn’t think he would ever wish to offer for you after such treatment as that!”

“Well, what a good thing that would be! Not that I think he ever did wish to offer for me. It is the strangest business! I wonder why he came to Austerby?”

Speculation on this point was interrupted by the entrance of Keighley, bearing a heavily laden tray. Neither his injury nor his subsequent potations having impaired Tom’s appetite, he temporarily lost interest in any other problem than what might be concealed beneath the several covers on the tray. Keighley, setting the whole down on the table by the bed, asked him in a fatherly way if he was feeling peckish; and upon being assured by Tom that he was, smiled benevolently at him, and said: “That’s the barber! Now, you keep still, sir, and leave me to fix you up so as you can manage! As for you, miss, the covers are set downstairs, and his grace is waiting for you.”

Dismissed in this kind but firm manner Phoebe withdrew, promising in response to a somewhat peremptory command from Tom to return to him as soon as she should have dined. Tom had suddenly been attacked by qualms. Phoebe was at once too innocent and too intimate with him to see anything equivocal in her position; he was fully alive to its impropriety, and he felt that he ought to keep her under his eye. Sylvester had certainly seemed to him to be a very good sort of a man, but he did not know him, after all: he might be a hardened rake, and if that were so a very uncomfortable time Phoebe would have of it, alone with him in the coffee-room, while her supposed protector lay tied by the leg in the best bedroom.

Had he but known it, Sylvester was not feeling at all amorous. He was tired, hungry, and in a fair way to regretting the impulse which had made him stop at the Blue Boar. To assist in an elopement was conduct quite unbecoming his position; moreover, it would lay him open to censure, which would not be easier to bear because it was justified. He was frowning down into the fire when Phoebe came into the room, and although he looked up at her entrance the frown did not immediately leave his brow.

She read in it condemnation of her attire, for she was still wearing her stuff travelling dress. He, on the other hand, had changed his buckskins and frockcoat for pantaloons and a long-tailed coat of fine blue cloth, and had arranged a fresh necktie in intricate folds about his throat. It was morning dress, but it made her feel dowdy. To her vexation she found herself explaining that she had not changed her own dress because she would be obliged to go out again to the stable.

He had not noticed what she was wearing, and he replied in the light, indifferent tone which always set up her back: “My dear Miss Marlow, there is no occasion to change your dress that I know of—and none for you to visit the stable again tonight, let me add!”

“I must be satisfied that Trusty has not contrived to rid himself of his poultice,” she said firmly. “I have very little faith in Will Scaling.”

“You may have complete faith in Keighley.”

She made no reply to this, for while she felt that Keighley, who was developing a cough, ought not to leave the house, she was reluctant to reopen a quarrel just as she was about to sit down to dinner with Sylvester. She glanced uncertainly at him, and saw that the frown had yielded to a look of slight amusement. Having no idea that her countenance was a tolerably exact mirror for her thoughts, or that he had correctly interpreted the changes of