Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

of Travelling Piquet. But as the number of flocks of geese, parsons riding grey horses, or old women sitting under hedges was limited on the post-road from Calais to Boulogne, this entertainment soon palled, and he began to be restive. By the time Boulogne was reached Phoebe’s repertoire of stories had been exhausted, and Edmund, who had been growing steadily more silent, said in a very tight voice that he felt as sick as a horse. He was granted a respite at Boulogne, where the travellers stopped for half an hour to refresh, but the look of despair on his face when he was lifted again into the chaise moved Tom to say, over his head: “I call it downright cruel to drag the poor little devil along on a journey like this!”

At Abbeville, which they reached at a late hour, Sinderby was awaiting them at the best hotel with tidings which caused Sir Nugent to suffer almost as much incredulity as vexation. Sinderby had to report failure. He had been unable to persuade the best hotel’s proprietor either to eject his other clients from the premises, or to sell the place outright to Sir Nugent. “As I ventured, sir, to warn you would be the case,” added Sinderby, in a voice wholly devoid of expression.

“Won’t sell it?” said Sir Nugent. “You stupid fellow, did you tell him who I am?”

“The information did not appear to interest him, sir.”

“Did you tell him my fortune is the largest in England?” demanded Sir Nugent.

“Certainly, sir. He desired me to offer you his felicitations.”

“He must be mad!” ejaculated Sir Nugent, stunned.

“It is curious that you should say so, sir,” replied Sinderby. “Precisely what he said—expressing himself in French, of course.”

“Well, upon my soul!” said Sir Nugent, his face reddening with anger. “That to me? I’ll have the damned ale-draper to know I ain’t in the habit of being denied! Go and tell him that when Nugent Fotherby wants a thing he buys it, cost what it may!”

“I never listened to such nonsense in my life!” said Phoebe, unable any longer to restrain her impatience. “I wish you will stop brangling, Sir Nugent, and inform me whether we are to put up here, or not! It may be nothing to you, but here is this unfortunate child nearly dead with fatigue, while you stand there puffing off your consequence!”

Sir Nugent was too much taken aback by this sudden attack to be able to think of anything to say; Sinderby, regarding Miss Marlow with a faint glimmer of approval in his cold eyes, said: “Bearing in mind, sir, your instructions to me to provide for her ladyship the strictest quiet, I have arranged what I trust will be found to be satisfactory accommodation in a much smaller establishment. It is not a resort of fashion, but its situation, which is removed from the centre of the town, may render it agreeable to her ladyship. I am happy to say that I was able to persuade Madame to place the entire inn at your disposal, sir, for as many days as you may desire it, on condition that the three persons she was already entertaining were willing to remove from the house.”

“You aren’t going to tell us that they were willing, are you?” demanded Tom.

“At first, sir, no. When, however, they understood that the remainder of their stay in Abbeville—I trust not a protracted one—would be spent by them in the apartments I had engaged at this hotel for Sir Nugent, and at his expense, they expressed themselves as being enchanted to fall in with his wishes. Now, sir, if you will rejoin her ladyship in the travelling chariot, I will escort you to the Poisson Rouge.”

Sir Nugent stood scowling for a moment, and pulling at his underlip. It was left to Edmund to apply the goad: “I want to go home!” announced Edmund fretfully. “I want my Button! I’m not happy!”

Sir Nugent started, and without further argument climbed back into the chariot.

When he saw the size and style of the Poisson Rouge he was so indignant that had it not been for Ianthe, who said crossly that rather than go another yard she would sleep the night in a cowbyre, another altercation might have taken place. As she was handed tenderly down the steps, Madame Bonnet came out to welcome her eccentric English guests, and fell into such instant raptures over the beauty of miladi and her enchanting little son that Ianthe was at once disposed to be very well pleased with the inn. Edmund, glowering upon Madame, showed a tendency to hide behind Phoebe, but when a puppy came frisking out of the inn his brow cleared magically, and he said: “I like this place!”

Everyone but Sir Nugent liked the place. It was by no means luxurious, but it was clean, and had a homelike air. The coffee-room might be furnished only with benches and several very hard chairs, but Ianthe’s bedchamber looked out on to a small garden and was perfectly quiet, which, as she naively said, was all that signified. Moreover, Madame, learning of her indisposition, not only gave up her own featherbed to her, but made her a tisane, and showed herself to be in general so full of sympathy that the ill-used beauty, in spite of aching head and limbs, began to feel very much more cheerful, and even expressed a desire to have her child brought to kiss her before he went to bed. Madame said she had a great envy to witness this spectacle, having been forcibly reminded of the Sainte Vierge as soon as she had set eyes on the angelic visages of miladi and her lovely child.

A discordant note was struck by Phoebe, who entered upon this scene of ecstasy only to tell Ianthe bluntly that she had not brought Edmund with her because she had a suspicion that what ailed his doting mother was nothing less than a severe attack of influenza. “And if he were to take it from you, after all he has been made to undergo, it would be beyond everything!” said Phoebe.

Ianthe achieved a wan, angelic smile, and said: “You are very right, dear Miss Marlow. Poor little man! Kiss him for me, and tell him that Mama is thinking of him all the time!”

Phoebe, who had left Edmund playing with the puppy, said: “Oh yes! I will certainly do so, if he should ask for you!” and withdrew, leaving Ianthe to the more agreeable companionship of her new admirer.

Upon the following day a physician was summoned to Ianthe’s sick-bed. He confirmed Phoebe’s diagnosis, and with very little prompting said that with persons of miladi’s delicate constitution the greatest care must be exercised: miladi should beware of over-exertion.

“So I fancy we may consider ourselves as fixed here for at least a week,” Phoebe said, setting out with Tom and Edmund to buy linen for Edmund. “Tom, did you contrive to leave word at that hotel where we were to be found? For Salford, you know!”

“Leave word!” echoed Tom scornfully. “Of course I didn’t! You don’t suppose they will forget Fotherby there in a hurry, do you? Trying to purchase the place! Well, of all the gudgeons!”

“Gudgeon,” repeated Edmund, committing this pleasing word to memory.

“Oh, lord!” said Tom. “Now, don’t you repeat that, young Edmund! And another thing! You are not to call Sir Nugent a moulder!” He waited until Edmund had run ahead again, and then said severely to Phoebe: “You know, Phoebe, you’ve no business to encourage him to be rude to Fotherby!”

“I don’t encourage him,” she said, looking a little guilty. “Only I can’t help feeling that it would be foolish to stop him, because that might make Sir Nugent wish to keep him. And you can’t deny, Tom, that if he were to take him in dislike it would make it much easier for—it would make it much easier to persuade Lady Ianthe to give him up!”

“Well, of all the unprincipled females!” gasped Tom. “Take care Fotherby ain’t goaded into murdering him, that’s all! He ain’t in the humour to stand the roast much longer, and the way that young demon keeps on asking him if he can take a fly off a horse’s ear, or some such thing, and then saying that his Uncle Vester can, is enough to drive the silly chuckle-head into a madhouse!”

Phoebe giggled, but said: “I must say, one can’t wonder at his being out of humour! With an ailing bride and a son-in-law who detests him I do think he is having a horrid honeymoon, don’t you?”

But neither of these disagreeable circumstances was, in fact, at the root of Sir Nugent’s loss of equanimity, as Phoebe was soon to discover. Finding her alone in the coffee-room that afternoon it was not long before he was confiding to her the true cause of his dissatisfaction. He disliked the Poisson Rouge. Phoebe was rather surprised at first, because Madame Bonnet, besides being a notable cook, treated him with all the deference and anxiety to please that the most exacting guest could have demanded; and everyone else, from the waiter to the boots, scurried to obey his lightest commands. After listening to his discourse for a few minutes she understood the matter better. Sir Nugent had never before so lowered himself as to put up at any but the most fashionable and expensive hostelries. Both his consequence and his love of display had suffered severe wounds. More sensitive souls might shrink from attracting public notice; to Sir Nugent Fotherby, the wealthiest man in England, it was the breath of life. He had hugely enjoyed the sensation caused by Ianthe’s opulent chariot; it afforded him intense pleasure to