Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

“Oh, never mind her!” said Tom, limping along as fast as he could. “Sour old squeeze-crab! You wait till you see the pantomime in the harbour! I shouldn’t wonder at it if we find the whole town’s turned out to watch it by the time we get there. Lord, I hope they haven’t got the thing aboard yet!”

“What thing?” demanded Phoebe.

“Some sort of a travelling carriage,” replied Tom, with a chuckle.

“Oh, Tom, you wretch, is that all?”

“All! It’s no ordinary carriage, I can tell you. It belongs to some fellow who has chartered a schooner to take his coach and his family to Calais, and there’s him, and a little chitty-faced fellow that looks like a valet, and—But you’ll see! When I left they were all arguing whether it oughtn’t to be got aboard in slings, and there was a string of porters carrying enough champagne and hampers of food for a voyage to India! There! what did I tell you? Half the town at least!”

If this was an exaggeration there was certainly a crowd of people watching with deep interest the activities of those preparing to get a large travelling carriage aboard the Betsy Anne. The little man described by Tom as a valet was keeping a vigilant eye on this astonishing vehicle, every now and then darting forward to ward off the urchins who wanted to look inside it, and saying in a tearful falsetto: “I forbid you to lay your greasy hands on it! Go away! Go away, I say!”

His agitation was pardonable, for never was there so glossy and so exquisite a chariot, double-perched, slung high between high wheels, fitted with patent axles, and embellished with a gilded iron scroll-work all round the roof. The body was painted a bright tan, with the wheels and the panels of sky-blue; and the interior, which, besides a deeply cushioned seat, included a let-down table, appeared to be entirely lined with pale blue velvet.

“Cinderella’s coach!” said Phoebe promptly. “Who in the world can have ordered such a ridiculous thing?”

On board the schooner all was bustle and noise, the crew being much impeded in their tasks by the number of porters who got in their way, and voicing their disapproval in loud and frank terms.

“Getting ready to set sail,” said Tom. “I should laugh if they were to miss the tide!”

As Phoebe’s amused eyes ran over the crowded deck they alighted on the figure of a small boy, who was critically observing the various activities in progress. For one instant she stared unbelievingly, and then she clutched Tom’s arm, exclaiming: “Edmund!”

“Eh?” said Tom. He saw that she was looking at the small boy as though she saw a ghost. “Now what’s the matter?” he demanded.

“Edmund Rayne! Salford’s nephew!” she stammered.

“There—on the boat!”

“Is it?” said Tom, glancing at the child. “Are you poz?”

“Yes, yes, how could I mistake? Oh, Tom, I have the most dreadful fear—What was he like, the man who owns that coach?”

“Like a counter-coxcomb!” replied Tom. “I never saw such a quiz!”

She turned pale. “Fotherby! Then Lady Henry must be aboard. Did you see her? Very fair—very beautiful?”

“No, I only saw the dandy, and the valet, and that fellow over there, whom I take to be the courier. Why, you don’t mean to say you think they’re eloping?”

“I don’t know that, and I don’t care! They are kidnapping Edmund, and—oh, Tom, it is my fault! I am going aboard!”

He detained her. “No, you don’t! How could it be your fault, pray? I wish you won’t fall into such distempered freaks, Phoebe!”

“Don’t you see, Tom? I told you what it was that made my book so particularly abominable!”

“I haven’t forgotten. But your book ain’t to be blamed for Lady Henry’s running off with that Jack-a-dandy. If you’ve got some notion of trying to interfere, let me tell you, I shan’t let you make such a cake of yourself! It’s none of your business.”

She said with determined calm: “Tom, if it is as I believe, and Lady Henry is taking that child out of England, I am so much to blame that I think I shall never hold up my head again. I put the scheme into her head! It was never there before she read my book. Oh, she told me herself how much struck she was by the end of it, and I never guessed, never suspected—!”

“Took the scheme out of a trumpery novel? She couldn’t be such a greenhead!”

“She is just such a greenhead! I don’t know how it will be, if they get Edmund to France, whether it will be possible for Salford to recover him, or even to find him, but only think what it must mean! More trouble, more scandal, and all to be laid at my door! I can’t bear it, Tom! You must let me go aboard that boat! Perhaps, if I could prevent this, he—people—might not think so badly of me. Tom, I’ve wished the book had never been written over and over again, but I can’t unwrite it, and don’t you think that this—if I could stop it—would be a sort of—of atonement?”

He was struck by her earnest manner, and even more by the expression in her eyes, which was almost tragic. After a moment he said: “Well—if you think you should, I suppose—Come to think of it, if the boy is being taken out of the country without his guardian’s leave it’s against the law! So we have got some right to meddle. I only hope we don’t catch cold at it, that’s all!”

But Phoebe had already stepped on to the gangway. As she reached the deck Sir Nugent Fotherby emerged from a doorway behind the ladder leading to the quarterdeck, and at once perceived her.

After looking at her through his quizzing-glass for a minute he came forward, bowing, and saying in a pleased voice: “Miss Marlow! How-de-do? ’Pon my soul, I take it very kind in you to have called, and so, I venture to say, will her la’ship! Happy to welcome you aboard! Tidy little craft, ain’t she? Chartered her, you know: couldn’t take her la’ship on the common packet!”

“Sir Nugent, will you have the goodness to lead me to Lady Henry?” said Phoebe, ignoring these civilities.

“Greatest pleasure on earth, ma’am! But—you won’t take it amiss if I give you a hint?—not Lady Henry!

“I see. I should have said Lady Fotherby, perhaps?”

“No,” replied Sir Nugent regretfully. “Not Lady Fotherby. Lady Ianthe Fotherby. I don’t like it as well, but her la’ship informs me that to be called Lady Ianthe again makes her feel ten years younger, which is a gratifying circumstance, don’t you think?”

At this point they were interrupted. Master Rayne had approached, and he planted himself squarely before Sir Nugent, demanding: “When are we going to see the circus?”

Master Rayne had to look a long way up to Sir Nugent’s face, but his gaze was stern and unwavering, and under it Sir Nugent was visibly embarrassed. “Oh—ah—the circus!” he said. “Precisely so! The circus!”

“You said we were going to the circus,” said Edmund accusingly. “You said if I didn’t kick up riot and rumpus I should go to the circus.”

“Did I ?” said Sir Nugent, eyeing him uneasily. “Said that, did I?”

“Yes, you did,” asserted Edmund. “Turnin’ me up sweet!” he added bitterly.

“Well, there you have the matter in a nutshell,” responded Sir Nugent confidentially. “Must realize it was a devilish awkward situation, my dear boy!”

“You told me a whisker,” stated Edmund. “You are a Bad Man, and I won’t have you for a new papa. My papa didn’t tell whiskers.”

“Be reasonable!” begged Sir Nugent. “You must own it was the only thing to be done, with you saying you didn’t wish to go driving with us, and threatening to raise a dust! Why, you’d have had the whole household out on us!”

“I want to go home,” said Edmund.

“Do you, my dear?” interpolated Phoebe. “Then I will ask your mama to let me take you home! Do you remember me? You told me all about your pony!”

Edmund considered her. Apparently he remembered her with kindness, for his severity relaxed, and he politely held out his hand. “You are the lady which knows Keighley. I will let you take me home. An’ p’raps if you tell me some more about your pony I won’t feel sick,” he added.