Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

looked so beautiful I couldn’t drag my eyes away! I beg your pardon! you must think me very impertinent!”

Not unnaturally Ianthe found nothing impertinent in this speech. Her own words had been a mere conversational gambit; she had no recollection of having seen Phoebe before, but she said: “Indeed I didn’t! I am sorry we were never introduced until today. I am not often in London. “She added, with a wistful smile: “I am a widow, you know.”

“Oh—!” Phoebe was genuinely shocked. It seemed incredible, for she had supposed Ianthe to be little older than herself.

“I was hardly more than a child when I was married,” explained Ianthe. “I am not so very old now, though I have been a widow for several years!”

“I thought you were my own age!” said Phoebe frankly.

No more was needed to seal the friendship. Ianthe, laughing at this misapprehension, disclosed that her only child was six years of age; Phoebe exclaimed: “Oh, no! impossible!” and stepped, all unknown to herself, into the role of Chief Confidante. She learned within the space of twenty minutes that the life of a recluse had been imposed on Ianthe by her husband’s family, who expected her to wear out the rest of her widowhood in bucolic seclusion.

“I wonder you should yield to such barbarous notions!” said Phoebe, quite appalled.

“Alas, there is one person who holds a weapon I am powerless to withstand!” said Ianthe in a melancholy tone. “He is the sole arbiter of my poor child’s destiny. Things were so left that I found myself bereft at one stroke of both husband and son!” She perceived a startled look on Phoebe’s face, and added: “Edmund was not left to my guardianship. I must not say more, and should not have said as much, only that I knew, as soon as we met, that you would understand! I am persuaded I can trust you! You cannot conceive the relief of being able to speak openly: in general I am obliged to be reserved. But I mustn’t talk any more about my troubles!”

She was certainly unable to do so, for at that moment her attention was drawn to Lady Elvaston, who had risen to take leave of her hostess. She too got up, and put out her hand to Phoebe, saying in her soft voice: “I see Mama is ready to go, and so I must say goodbye. Do you make a long stay in town? It would be so agreeable to meet again! Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of coming to see me one day? I should like you to see my little boy.”

“Oh, is he with you?” exclaimed Phoebe, a good deal surprised. “I had collected—I mean, I should like very much to visit you, ma’am!”

“My bringing him to town was not at all approved of, I can assure you,” responded Ianthe plaintively. “But even his guardian can scarcely forbid me to take him to stay with my parents! Mama quite dotes on him, and would have been so grieved if I hadn’t brought him with me!”

She pressed Phoebe’s hand, and floated away, leaving Phoebe a prey to doubt and curiosity.

From the outset Phoebe had been fascinated by her beauty; within a minute of making her acquaintance she had been captivated by her appealing manners, and the charm of a smile that hinted at troubles bravely borne. But Phoebe was a shrewd observer; she was also possessed of strong common-sense; and while the romantic side of her nature responded to the air of tragic mystery which clung about Ianthe the matter-of-fact streak which ran through it relentlessly pointed out to her certain anomalies in what had been disclosed, and compelled her to acknowledge that confidences uttered upon so short an acquaintance were not, perhaps, to be wholly credited.

She was anxious to discover Ianthe’s identity. She now knew her to be a member of the Rayne family, but the family was a large one, and in what degree of relationship to Sylvester Ianthe stood she had no idea. Her grandmother would no doubt be able to enlighten her.

Lady Ingham was well able to enlighten her. “Ianthe Rayne?” she said, as they drove away from Mrs. Stour’s house. “A pretty creature, isn’t she? Gooseish, of course, but one can’t but pity her. She’s Elvaston’s daughter, and married poor Harry Rayne the year she was brought out. He died before their son was out of short coats. A dreadful business! I fancy they never discovered what ailed him: you would have said there was not a healthier young man alive! Something internal: that’s all I ever heard. Ah, if they had but called in dear Sir Henry Halford!”

“I knew she had been married to a member of that family, ma’am, but—who was her husband?”

“Who was he?” repeated the Dowager. “Why, Sylvester’s younger brother, to be sure! His twin-brother, too, which made it worse.”

“Then the child—Lady Henry’s little boy—?” Phoebe faltered.

“Oh, there’s nothing amiss with him that ever I heard!” replied the Dowager, leaning forward to obtain a clearer view of a milliner’s shop-window as she spoke. “My love, I wonder if that chip-straw—no, those pink flowers wouldn’t become you! What were you saying? Oh, Harry’s son! A splendid little fellow, I’m told. I’ve never seen him myself: he lives at Chance.”

“And he is—I understood Lady Henry to say—the Duke’s ward?”

“Yes, and his heir as well—not that that is likely to signify! Was Ianthe complaining to you about that business?” she glanced at Phoebe, and said bluntly: “You would be ill-advised to refine too much on what she may have said to you, my love. The truth is that she and Sylvester can never deal together. She fell into a pelter as soon as she found how things were left—well, I must own I think she should have been joined with Sylvester in the guardianship!—and he don’t take the trouble to handle her tactfully.”

“I can readily believe that!” Phoebe interjected. “Is he fond of the little boy, ma’am?”

“I daresay he may be, for Harry’s sake—though they say the boy is the image of his mother—but the fact is, my dear, young men don’t commonly dote on nursery brats! He will certainly do his duty by the boy.”

“Mama did her duty by me,” said Phoebe. “I think I understand what Lady Henry’s feelings must be.”

“Fiddle!” said the Dowager. “I don’t scruple to tell you, my love—for you are bound to hear it—that they are at odds now because the little ninny has got a second marriage in her eye, and knows Sylvester won’t let her take the boy away from Chance.”

“Oh!” Phoebe exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “How could he be so inhuman? Does he expect her to remain a widow all her life? Ah, I suppose it should be enough for her to have been married to a Rayne! I don’t believe there was ever anyone more arrogant!”

“Before you put yourself in a taking,” said the Dowager dryly, “let me tell you that if it is arrogance which prompts Sylvester to say he won’t have his heir brought up by Nugent Fotherby it is a fortunate circumstance for the boy that he is arrogant!”

“Nugent Fotherby?” gasped Phoebe, her righteous wrath suddenly and ludicrously arrested. “Grandmama, you can’t mean it? That absurd creature who can’t turn his head because his shirt points are too high, and who let Papa chouse him out of three hundred guineas for a showy chestnut anyone but a flat must have seen was short of bone?”

Somewhat taken aback, the Dowager said: “I don’t know anything about horses. And as for your father, if he persuaded Fotherby to buy one that was unsound I call it very shabby dealing!”

“Oh, no, ma’am!” Phoebe said earnestly. “I assure you there is nothing wrong in that! If a man who can’t tell when a horse isn’t fit to go chooses to set up as a knowing one he must expect to be burnt!”

“Indeed!” said the Dowager.

Phoebe was silent for a minute or two; but presently she said thoughtfully: “Well, ma’am, I don’t think one can precisely blame Salford for not wishing to let his nephew grow up under such a man!”

“I should think not indeed! What’s more, I fancy that on that head Sylvester and Elvaston are at one. Of course Elvaston don’t like the match, but I daresay he’ll swallow it.”

“Well, Papa wouldn’t!” said Phoebe frankly. “In fact, he told me once that if ever I took it into my head to marry a bleater who, besides being a man-milliner and a cawker who don’t know a blood-horse from a commoner, encourages every barnacle on the town to hang on him, he would wash his hands of me!”

“And if that is the language he sees fit to teach you, the sooner he does so the better!” said her ladyship tartly.

Much abashed, Phoebe begged her pardon; and continued to meditate in silence for the rest of the drive.