Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

nothing in her incisive delivery of these to suggest frailty either of body or intellect. The most searching of her inquiries were drawn from her by the intrusion into the recital of Mr. Thomas Orde. She appeared to be much interested in him; and while Phoebe readily told her all about her oldest friend she kept her eyes fixed piercingly upon her face. But when she learned of Tom’s nobility in offering a clandestine marriage to her granddaughter (“which threw me into whoops, because he isn’t nearly old enough to be married, besides being just like my brother!”) she lost interest in him, merely requesting Phoebe, in a much milder tone, to continue her story. There was nothing to be feared, decided her ladyship, from young Mr. Orde.

The last of her questions was posed almost casually. “And did Salford chance to mention me?” she asked.

“Oh, yes!” replied Phoebe blithely. “He told me that he was particularly acquainted with you, because you were his godmother. So I ventured to ask him if he thought you might—might like to let me reside with you, and he seemed to think you would, Grandmama!”

“Did he indeed?” said the Dowager, her countenance inscrutable. “Well, my love—” with sudden energy— “he was perfectly right! I shall like it excessively!”

It was long before her ladyship fell asleep that night. She had been provided by her innocent granddaughter with food for much thought, and still more conjecture. Lord and Lady Marlow were soon dismissed from her mind (but a large part of the following morning was going to be pleasurably spent in the composition of a letter calculated to bring about a dangerous relapse in his lordship’s state of health); and so too was young Mr. Orde. What intrigued Lady Ingham was the position occupied by Sylvester in the stirring drama disclosed to her. The role of deus ex machina, which he appeared to have undertaken, sounded most unlike him; nor could she picture him living in what she judged to be the depths of squalor, and spending his time between the stables and a sickroom. In fact, the only recognizable thing he seemed to have done was to encourage Phoebe to seek refuge in Green Street. That, thought the Dowager indignantly, rang very true! She had no doubt, either, that he had done it out of pure malice. Well! he would shortly discover that he had shot wide of the mark. She was delighted to welcome Phoebe. She wondered that it should not have occurred to her that the very thing needed to relieve the intolerable boredom she had been suffering during the past few months, when the better part of her acquaintance had retired into the country, was the presence in her house of a lively granddaughter. She now perceived that to keep Phoebe with her would be in every way preferable to the fatigue of a journey to Paris, a project which she had had in doubtful contemplation ever since one of her chief cronies had written thence to urge her to join the throng of well-born English who were disporting themselves so agreeably in that most delightful of capitals. She had been tempted, but there were grave drawbacks to the scheme. It would mean putting oneself beyond the reach of dear Sir Henry; Muker would be certain to dislike it; and whatever poor Mary Berry might allege to the contrary it was the Dowager’s unalterable conviction that the escort of a gentleman was indispensable to any lady bent on foreign travel. One could admittedly engage a courier, but to do so merely added to one’s expenditure, since the gentleman was still necessary, to keep a watchful eye on the activities of this hireling. No: on every count it would be better to adopt Phoebe, and try what she could achieve for the child. Once she had rigged her out becomingly she would positively enjoy taking her, whenever her health permitted, into society.

Here her ladyship’s thoughts suffered a check. She had no intention of allowing Phoebe to abjure the world (as Phoebe had suggested), but although her health might benefit by chaperoning the child to one or two private balls, nothing could be more prejudicial to it than interminable evenings spent at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, or at parties given by hostesses with whom she was barely acquainted. But the check was only momentary: the Dowager remembered the existence of her meek daughter-in-law. Rosina, with two girls of her own to chaperon, could very well take her niece under her wing: such an arrangement could make no possible difference to her.

This was a small matter, and soon disposed of; far more important, and far more difficult to solve, was the riddle of Sylvester’s behaviour.

He was coming to visit her. She had received this message with every appearance of indifference, but she had pricked up her ears at it. He was, was he? Well, it would go against the grain to do it, but if he did come she would receive him affably. Perhaps, if she saw him, she might be able to discover just what game he was playing. His actions invited her to suppose that he had fallen in love with Phoebe, and was bent on displaying himself to her in his most pleasing colours. But if Phoebe’s account of what had passed during his stay at Austerby were to be believed it was hard to detect what he had seen in her to captivate him. The Dowager did not think he had gone to Austerby with the intention of liking what he found there, for she was well aware that she had erred a trifle in her handling of him, and set up his back. It had been quite a question, when she had seen that sparkle of anger in his eyes, whether she should push the matter farther, or let it rest. She had decided on the bolder course because he had told her that it was his intention to marry, and once he had made up his mind to it there was clearly not a day to be wasted in presenting Phoebe to his notice.

Recollecting in what stringent terms she had commanded Marlow not to breathe a word to a soul, her thin fingers crooked into claws. She might have known that That Woman would speedily drag the whole business out of such a prattle-box; but could anyone have foreseen that she was such a fool as to tell Phoebe everything that was most certain to set her against Sylvester?

Well, it was useless to rage over the irrevocable past. The future, she thought, was not hopeless. Too often men fell in love with the unlikeliest girls; it was possible that Sylvester, indifferent to the charms of the many Beauties who had flung out lures to him season after season, had been attracted to Phoebe because she was (to say the least of it) an unusual girl, and, far from encouraging his addresses, had repulsed them.

Possible, but not probable, thought Lady Ingham, considering Sylvester. He might have been piqued; she found it hard to believe that he had been fascinated. A high stickler, Sylvester: never, even in his callow youth, a Blood who sought fame in eccentricity. Indeed, the scandalous exploits of this fraternity won from him no other comment than was conveyed by a slight, contemptuous shrug of his shoulders; so how could one suppose that he would see anything to admire in a girl who outraged convention? Such conduct as Phoebe’s was much more likely to have disgusted him. Angered him, too, reflected the Dowager, as well it might! A mortifying experience for any man to know that the prospect of receiving a proposal of marriage from him had driven a gently nurtured girl into headlong flight, and, for one of Sylvester’s pride, intolerable.

Suddenly the Dowager wondered whether it had been with the intention of punishing Phoebe rather than her grandmother that Sylvester had sent her up to London. He might certainly have supposed that a grandmother, learning of her outrageous behaviour, would have dealt her very short shrift. He could not have guessed that when the child had poured out to her the story of her adventure she had seen not Phoebe but Verena, for Sylvester had never known Verena.

An excess of sensibility was not one of Lady Ingham’s failings. There had been a moment of aching memory, awakened by some fleeting expression on Phoebe’s face, but her ladyship was not going to think of that. She was not concerned with Verena now, but with Verena’s daughter. If Sylvester hoped to find Phoebe in her black books he was going to suffer a disappointment, and would be well served for his malice.

It was not until she was slipping over the edge of wakefulness that Lady Ingham remembered the landlady’s daughter. It was Sylvester who had insisted on her accompanying Phoebe to London, and whatever motive it was that had prompted him it was not malice. It would be unwise to hope, she thought drowsily, but there was no need yet to despair.

14

On the following morning Phoebe found her grandmother in brisk spirits, and very full of plans for the day. Foremost among these was a visit to a silk-warehouse and another to her ladyship’s own modiste. “To dress you becomingly is the first necessity, child,” said the Dowager. “The sight of you in that shabby gown makes me nervous!”

The prospect of choosing fashionable raiment was enticing, but Phoebe was obliged to beg her grandmother to postpone this programme. She had promised to show Alice all the most notable sights of London, and, in particular, to take her to the Pantheon Bazaar.

She had a little difficulty in persuading the Dowager to consent to any part of this scheme, for it did not at all