Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

as Keighley considered him to have scamped. Nor were his affronted sensibilities soothed by the treatment he received at Swale’s hands. Swale was forced to eat his dinner in the kitchen among the vulgar, but no power known to man could force him to notice the existence of a common ostler. So aloof was his demeanour, so disdainful his glance, that the ostler at first mistook him for his master. He discovered later that the Duke was more approachable.

The first vehicles to pass the inn came from the west, a circumstance which made Phoebe very uneasy; but a day later the Bristol Mail went by, at so unusual an hour that Mrs. Scaling said they might depend upon it the road was still mortal bad to the eastward. “Likely as not they’ve been two days or more getting here,” she said. “They do be saying in the tap that there’s been nothing like it since four years ago, when the river froze over in London-town, and they had bonfires on it, and a great fair, and I don’t know what-all. I shouldn’t wonder at it, miss, if you was to be here for another se’enight,” she added hopefully.

“Nonsense!” said Sylvester, when this was reported to him. “What they say in the tap need not cast you into despair. Tomorrow I’ll drive to Speenhamland, and discover what the mailcoachmen are saying.”

“If it doesn’t freeze again tonight,” amended Phoebe, a worried frown between her brows. “It was shockingly slippery this morning, and you will have enough to do in holding those greys of yours without having that added to it! I could not reconcile it with my conscience to let you set forth in such circumstances!”

“Never,” declared Sylvester, much moved, “did I think to hear you express so much solicitude on my behalf, ma’am!”

“Well, I can’t but see what a fix we should be in if anything should happen to you,” she replied candidly.

The appreciative gleam in his eyes acknowledged a hit, but he said gravely: “The charm of your society, my Sparrow, lies in not knowing what you will say next—though one rapidly learns to expect the worst!”

It did not freeze again that night; and the first news that greeted Phoebe, when she peeped into Tom’s room on her way downstairs to breakfast, was that he had heard a number of vehicles pass the inn, several of which he was sure came from the east. This was presently confirmed by Mrs. Scaling, who said, however, that there was no telling whether they had come from London, or from no farther afield than Newbury. She was of the opinion that it would be unwise to venture on such a hazardous journey until the snow had entirely gone from the road; and was regaling Phoebe with a horrid story of three outside passengers on the stage-coach who had died of the cold in just such weather, when Sylvester arrived on the scene, and put an end to this daunting history by observing that since Miss Phoebe was not proposing to travel to London on the roof of a stage-coach there was no need for anyone to feel apprehensive on her account. Mrs. Scaling reluctantly conceded this point, but warned his grace that there was a dangerous gravel-pit between Newbury and Reading, very hard to see when there had been heavy falls of snow.

“Like the coffee pot,” said Sylvester acidly. “I don’t see that at all—and I should wish to do so immediately, if you please!”

This had the effect of sending Mrs. Scaling scuttling off to the kitchen. “Do you suppose there really is any danger of driving into a gravel-pit, sir?” asked Phoebe.

“No.”

“I must say, it sounds very unlikely to me. But Mrs. Scaling seems to think—”

“Mrs. Scaling merely thinks that the longer she can keep us here the better it will be for her,” he interrupted.

“Well, you need not snap my nose off!” countered Phoebe. “Merely because you have come down hours before you are used to do!”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am!” he said frigidly.

“It’s of no consequence at all,” she assured him, smiling kindly at him. “I daresay you are always disagreeable before breakfast. Many people are, I believe, and cannot help themselves, try as they will. I don’t mean to say that you do try, of course: why should you, when you are not obliged to be conciliating?”

It was perhaps fortunate that the entrance of Alice at this moment obliged Sylvester to swallow the retort that sprang to his lips. By the time she had withdrawn again he had realized (with far less incredulity than he would have felt a week earlier) that Miss Marlow was being deliberately provoking; and he merely said. “Though I may not be obliged to conciliate, you should reflect, ma’am, that it is otherwise with you! I rose at this unseasonable hour wholly on your behalf, but I might yet decide not to go to Newbury after all.”

“Oh, are you capricious as well?” asked Phoebe, raising eyes of innocent inquiry to his face.

“As well as what?” demanded Sylvester. He saw her lips part, and added hastily: “No, don’t tell me! I can hazard a tolerably accurate conjecture, I imagine!”

She laughed, and began to pour out the coffee. “I won’t say another word till you’ve come out of the sullens,” she promised.

Though strongly tempted to reply in kind, Sylvester decided, upon reflection, to hold his peace. Silence prevailed until, looking up from his plate a few minutes later, he found that she was watching him, with so much the air of a bird hopeful of crumbs that he burst out laughing, and exclaimed: “Oh, you—Sparrow! What an abominable girl you are!”

“Yes, I am afraid I am,” she said, quite seriously. “And nothing seems to cure me of saying things I ought not!”

“Perhaps you don’t try to overcome the fault?” he suggested, quizzing her.

“But, in general, I do try!” she assured him. “It is only when I am with persons such as you and Tom—I mean—”

“Ah, just so!” he interrupted. “When you are with persons whose opinions are of no particular consequence to you, you allow rein to your tongue?”

“Yes,” she agreed, pleased to find him of so ready an understanding. “That is the matter in a nutshell! Will you have some more bread-and-butter, sir?”

“No, thank you,” he responded. “I find I have quite lost my appetite.”

“It would be wonderful if you had not,” she said cheerfully. “Cooped up in the house as you have been all this while!

Will you set out for Newbury soon? I daresay it is foolish of me, but I can’t be easy! Whatever should I do if Mama were to arrive while you are gone?”

“Hide in the hay-loft!” he recommended. “But if she has a particle of commonsense she won’t make the smallest push to recover you!”

12

Having watched Sylvester depart, Phoebe sat down to play piquet with Tom. The sound of wheels outside made her once or twice look up apprehensively, but the approach of a ridden horse along the road caused her no alarm. She heard, but paid no heed; and so it was that Mr. Orde, walking into the room without ceremony, took her entirely by surprise. She gave a gasp, and dropped the cards she was holding. Tom turned his head, and exclaimed in dismay: “Father!”

The Squire, having surveyed the truants with the air of one who had known all along how it would be, shut the door, and said: “Ay! Now, what the devil do you mean by this, either of you?”

“It was my fault! Oh, pray don’t be vexed with Tom!” begged Phoebe.

“No, it was not!” asserted Tom. “It was mine, and I made a mull of it, and broke my leg!”

“Ay, so I know!” said his fond parent. “I may think myself fortunate you didn’t break your neck, I suppose. Young cawker! And what did my horses break?”

“No, no, only a strained hock!” Phoebe assured him. “And I have taken the greatest care—Oh, pray let me help you out of your coat, dear sir!”

“It’s no use trying to flummery me, girl!” said the Squire severely, but accepting her aid. “A pretty riot and rumpus you’ve caused, the pair of you! Let alone being the death of your father!”

“Oh, no!” cried Phoebe, blenching.