Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

“Not but what I’ll fetch him to you, if you want him!”

“He won’t fall overboard,” said Tom, as Sir Nugent departed on his errand.

“You know nothing about it!” snapped Ianthe. “I am his mother, and I shan’t know one moment’s peace until he is safe in my arms.”

She repeated this statement with even more emphasis when Sir Nugent presently reappeared with the comforting intelligence that Edmund, safe in the valet’s charge, was watching the men bring the carriage aboard; but when she learned that an attempt to pick him up had led him to kick his new papa severely before assuming an alarming rigidity, she seemed to feel that his presence in the cabin would not be conducive to peace, for she said only that if he began to scream it would be more than her nerves could endure without breaking under the strain.

Harping on this string, Phoebe then did her best to convince her that this sad accident would inevitably befall her if she were obliged to look after Edmund during the passage. She received unexpected support from Sir Nugent, who said that the more he considered the matter the more he thought it would be a devilish good notion to let Miss Marlow take Edmund home. “What I mean is,” he explained, “it’s a notion that took very well with him. He seems set against going to France. I daresay he don’t like foreigners. Very understandable: I don’t know that I like’em myself.”

This treachery naturally incensed Ianthe beyond measure. Having poured forth the vials of her wrath upon him, she said tragically that everyone was against her, and burst into a fit of hysterical tears. Feeling the battle to be almost won, Phoebe redoubled her efforts to persuade her, while Tom applied himself to the task of bringing over the waverer. With four people engaged in hot argument the sounds of increased activity on deck passed unheeded. The swell that had all the time been gently rocking the schooner had for several minutes been growing heavier, but it was not until the Betsy Anne took a plunge which made him stagger that Tom realized what must be happening.

“My God!” he gasped. “We’re moving!”

21

Sir Nugent gave a chuckle. “Told’em to cast off when I went up to fetch Edmund,” he explained. “Told you he was watching the carriage got aboard! Diddled the dupes, my lady! Ah, I fancy Nugent Fotherby has rather more of quickness than most, eh?”

“Then you didn’t mean to let Miss Marlow take Edmund away? Oh, Nugent!” said Ianthe admiringly.

“Did it pretty neatly, didn’t I ? Wouldn’t you say I did it neatly, Orde?”

Tom, who had managed to reach the porthole without losing his balance, saw grey seas tumbling past, and turned a face pale with anger towards Sir Nugent. “I’d say you’re a damned nail!” he replied fiercely.

“Not in front of ladies!” protested Sir Nugent.

“You must be mad!” Phoebe cried. “Turn back! Good God, you can’t carry us off like this! Grandmama—all our baggage—! Do you realize that my grandmother has no notion where I am, and neither Tom nor I has a stitch to wear but what we have on our backs? Tell the captain he must turn about!”

“He won’t do it,” said Sir Nugent.

“Oh, won’t he?” said Tom, making his precarious way to the door. “We’ll see to that!”

Sir Nugent obligingly opened the door for him, saying amiably: “No sense in stopping him. Let us discuss the matter while he’s gone!”

Tom, reaching the deck, found that the Betsy Anne was clear of the mouth of the Tidal Harbour, with the wind filling her sails. He had negotiated the companion-way, but the ladder leading to the quarterdeck presented a worse problem to a man with a stiff leg. He was obliged to shout at the stalwart individual above him, which set him, he felt, at a disadvantage. Certainly the ensuing dialogue was not a success. Admitting that he was the skipper, the stalwart individual seemed to be amused by Tom’s demand to be set ashore. He asked if Tom had chartered the Betsy Anne, and upon being reassured said that that had removed a weight from his mind.

“Now, listen!” said Tom, keeping his temper. “You’ll find yourself in trouble if you don’t put back!”

“I’ll find myself in trouble if I do!” responded the skipper.

“No, you won’t. If you take me, and the lady who is with me, to France against our will, it’s kidnapping!”

“Is it, now?” said the skipper, impressed. “That’s bad, that is.”

“As bad as it could be!”

The skipper shook his head. “It don’t bear thinking on. And yet I don’t seem to recall as you was forced to come aboard. Nor yet I never see anyone a-luring of you. Dang me if I see anyone arsting you! All I see was you and the young lady coming aboard without so much as a by-your-leave! Maybe I’m mistook, though.”

“No, damn you, you aren’t!” said Tom, incurably honest. “Now, be a good fellow, and put back! You wouldn’t wish to upset the lady, and if she’s taken off to France she’ll be in the devil of a fix!”

“I’ll tell you what!” offered the skipper handsomely. “You come up here, sir, and I’ll hand the ship over to you! I ain’t seaman enough to put into Dover with the wind in this quarter, but then I’ve only been at sea a matter of forty years.”

Aware of several grinning faces turned his way Tom flushed. “Do you mean you can’t put back?”

“I can’t!” said the skipper.

“Hell and the devil!” ejaculated Tom. “Now we are in the suds!” He burst out laughing. “Lord, what a mess! Hi, skipper! I’d like to come up there presently to watch how you do the trick!”

“You’re welcome,” responded the skipper.

Returning to the cabin, Tom found Ianthe reclining once more on her berth, a bottle of smelling-salts clutched in her hand. This had apparently been abstracted from a large dressing-case, which was standing open on the deck with a number of its expensive contents spilled round it. A dazzling array of gold-topped bottles, initialled with sapphires, met Tom’s awed gaze, and he blinked. Sir Nugent, observing this, said with simple pride: “Something like, eh? My own design. I daresay they showed me fifty cases, but “ No,” I said. “Not up to the rig! Trumpery,” I said. “Nothing for it but to design a case myself,” I said. This is the result. Same thing happened when I wanted a carriage for her la’ship. “Windus,” I said, “it must be of the first stare. None of these will do,” I said.” Build me one to my design!” Which he did. I am very fond of designing things.”

“Well, I wish you will design us out of this rare mess you’ve pitched us into!” said Tom. “It’s no go, Phoebe: the skipper says he can’t put back: wind’s in the wrong quarter.”

“Then what in heaven’s name are we to do?” she cried.

“Make the best of it. Nothing else we can do,” he answered ruefully.

He was mistaken. The door was just then rudely thrust open, and the valet appeared on the threshold, his aspect alarming, his eyes glazed. He clung with one hand to the door, and over his shoulder drooped a small, wilted figure. “Sir—my lady—the young gentleman!” he said, in a strange voice. “Must request you—take him quick!”

“My child!” shrieked Ianthe, struggling up. “Is he dead?”

“No, of course he is not!” said Phoebe hurriedly relieving the valet of his burden.

“I regret, sir—shall not be available—rest of the passage!” gasped the valet, clinging now with both hands to the door.

“Well, of all things!” exclaimed Sir Nugent. “No, dash it, Pett, you can’t be ill!”

“Sir,” said Pett, “I must!”

With these tortured words, he disappeared with great precipitancy from the cabin, his exit being accelerated by the deck’s rising suddenly at a steep angle as the Betsy Anne triumphantly lifted her bows over the trough of the waves.

“Edmund!” cried his anguished parent. “Speak to me!”

“Don’t be so ridiculous!” said Phoebe, out of all patience. “Can’t you see what’s the matter with him, poor child?”