Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

face.

It was a moment before he spoke. Watching him, Phoebe saw that he was very pale, his satyr-look pronounced, his lips tightly compressed. When he unclosed them it was to say in a curt voice: “When Harry died—I lost a part of myself. We will not discuss that. I have only this to add: you are Edmund’s mother, and you may visit him whenever you choose to do so. I have told you so many times already, but I’ll repeat it. Come to Chance when you please—with or without your husband!”

Sir Nugent, who had been listening intently, exclaimed as the door shut behind Sylvester: “Well, upon my soul, that’s devilish handsome of him! Now, you must own, my love, it is devilish handsome! Damme if I ever thought he’d invite me to Chance! The fact is I had a notion he didn’t like me above half. I shall go, I think. I don’t say it won’t be a dead bore: no fun and gig, and the company pretty stiff-rumped, I daresay. But visiting at Chance, you know! I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll invite him to drink a glass of wine with me! No, by Jove, I’ll invite him to dine with me! Do you think I should change my dress, my love? No! might put him out of countenance. I shall put on a fresh neckcloth: that will exactly answer the purpose!”

Full of these amiable plans he hurried from the room, Ianthe dissolved again into tears, but showed signs of recovering her spirits when Phoebe assured her she would take every care of Edmund upon the journey back to London.

“Oh, dear Miss Marlow, were it not for your going I could not consent to his being taken from me!” Ianthe said, clasping Phoebe’s hand. “I am sure you will care for him as well as I could myself! And if anyone is so unjust as to say that I deserted my child you know it is untrue!”

“If anyone should say such a thing to me I shall reply that he was torn from your arms,” promised Phoebe. “Excuse me! I must go back to him, and blow out his candle.”

But when she reached the bedchamber she shared with Edmund she checked on the threshold, for Sylvester was sitting on the edge of Edmund’s crib. He got up at once, saying with some constraint: “I beg your pardon! I should not be here, but Edmund called to me.”

“Of course! It’s of no consequence!” she said, in a more friendly tone than she had yet used to him.

“Phoebe, Uncle Vester says my papa would have cut off one tassel, and he would have cut off the other!” Edmund told her, his eyes sparkling.

She could not help laughing. “I wonder how he would like it if you cut the tassels from his boots!”

“Ah, I have explained to him that it is a thing which must on no account be done to uncles!” Sylvester said. He ruffled Edmund’s curls. “Goodnight, vile brat!”

“You won’t go away?” Edmund said, assailed by a sudden fear.

“Not without you.”

“And Phoebe? And Tom?”

“Yes, they will both come with us.”

“Good!” said Edmund, releasing his clutch on Sylvester’s coat. “I daresay we shall be as merry as grigs!”

25

The party reached Calais two days later, having broken the journey at Etaples, where they stayed in what Sylvester unequivocally described as the worst hostelry ever to have enjoyed his patronage. Only Tom might have been said to have fulfilled Edmund’s expectations.

Sylvester’s temper had been ruffled at the outset, for not even the pledging of Phoebe’s little pearl brooch as well as his own watch and chain provided him with enough money to enable him to travel in the style to which he was accustomed. He was extremely vexed with Tom for suddenly producing the brooch in the pawnbroker’s shop, which piece of folly, he said, would now make it necessary for him to send one of his people over to France to redeem it. He disliked haggling over the worth of his watch; he disliked still more to be in any way beholden to Phoebe; and he emerged from this degrading experience in anything but a sunny humour. He then discovered that the hire of two postchaises and four would result in the whole party’s being stranded halfway between Abbeville and Calais, and was obliged to make up his mind which of two evils was likely to prove the lesser; to cram four persons, one of whom was a small boy subject to travel-sickness, into one chaise and four; or to hire two chaises, and drive for well over a hundred and twenty kilometres behind a single pair of horses. The reflection that Edmund, before he succumbed to his malaise, would fidget and ask incessant questions decided the matter: he hired two chaises, and in so doing made the discovery that Mr. Rayne, a man of modest means, did not meet with the deference accorded to his grace of Salford. The post-master was not uncivil: he was uninterested. Sylvester, accustomed his whole life long to dealing with persons who were all anxiety to please him, suffered a slight shock. Until he had landed at Calais he had never made a journey in a hired vehicle. He had thought poorly of the chaise supplied by the Lion d’Argent; the two allotted to him in Abbeville filled his fastidious soul with disgust. They were certainly rather dirty.

“Why hasn’t this carriage got four horses?” demanded Edmund.

“Because it only has two,” replied Sylvester.

“Couple o’ bone-setters!” said Edmund disparagingly.

They were found to be plodders; nor, when the first change was made, was there much improvement in the pace at which the ground was covered. There was a world of difference between a team and a pair, as Phoebe soon discovered. The journey seemed interminable; and although the more sober pace seemed to affect Edmund less than the swaying of a well-sprung chaise drawn by four fast horses, he soon grew bored, a state of mind which made him an even more wearing companion than when he was sick. She could only be thankful when, at Etaples, Sylvester, after one look at her, said they would go no farther that day. She desired nothing so much as her bed; but to her suggestion that some soup might be sent up to her room Sylvester returned a decided: “Certainly not! Neither you nor Edmund ate any luncheon, and if you are not hungry now you should be.” He gave her one of his searching looks, and added: “I daresay you will like to rest before you dine, Miss Marlow. Edmund may stay with me.”

She was led upstairs by the boots to a room overlooking a courtyard; and having taken off her dress and hung it up, in the hope that the worst of its creases might disappear, she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. The suspicion of a headache nagged at her, but she soon discovered that there was little chance of being able to rid herself of it. To judge by the noises that came from beneath her window the kitchens had access on to the yard, and were inhabited by a set of persons who seemed all to be quarrelling, and hurling pots and pans about.

Just as she was about to leave her room again Tom came to see how she did. He was carrying a glass of wine, which he handed to her, saying that Salford had sent it. “He says you are done-up. And I must say,” added Tom critically, “you do look bagged!”

Having studied her reflection in the spotted looking-glass she was well aware of this, and it did nothing to improve her spirits. She sipped the wine, hoping that it might lessen the depression that had been creeping on her all day.

“What a racket these Frenchies make!” observed Tom, looking out of the window. “Salford cut up stiff when he found this room gave on to the yard, but ours is directly above the salle des buveurs, and that wouldn’t have done for you at all. There seems to be a fair going on: the town’s packed, and no room to be had anywhere.”

“Have you to share a room with Salford? He won’t like that!”

“Oh, that ain’t what’s making him ride grub!” said Tom cheerfully. “He don’t care for the company, and he ain’t accustomed to being told by waiters that he shall be served bientot! I left him coming the duke in the coffee-room, to get us one of the small tables to ourselves. He’ll do it too: the waiter was beginning to bow and wash his hands—and all for no more than his grace’s high-bred air and winning smile!”

They found, on descending to the coffee-room, that Sylvester had indeed procured a small table near the door, and was awaiting them there, with Edmund, who was seated on an eminence composed of two large books placed on his chair. Edmund was looking particularly angelic and was exciting a good deal of admiration.

“A little more of this sort of thing,” said Sylvester in an undervoice, as he pushed Phoebe’s chair in for her,