Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

“What next will you say?” he demanded, an involuntary laugh shaking him.

“Didn’t you?”

“Yes. But have you forgotten how you behaved? How could I know what you were when you tried only to disgust me? It wasn’t until later—”

“To be sure!” she said scathingly. “Later, when I first made you a victim, embroiling you in my improper flight from Austerby, and next wounded your pride as I daresay it was never wounded before, then you began to think I was just the wife that would suit you! The fervent offer which you have been so flattering as to make me springs, naturally, from the folly that led me to thrust myself into your affairs, and so make it necessary for you to undertake a journey under circumstances so much beneath your dignity as to be positively degrading! How green of me not to have known immediately how it would be! You must forgive me! Had I dreamt that my lack of conduct would attach you to me I would have assumed the manners of a pattern of propriety whenever you came within sight of me! You would then have been spared the mortification of having your suit rejected, and I should have been spared an intolerable insult!”

“There was no insult,” he said, very pale. “If I phrased it—if it sounded to you as though I meant to insult you, believe that it was not so! What I said to you before, I said because the crazy things you do convinced me you were not the wife that would suit me! I wanted never to see you again after that night at the Castlereaghs’—I thought so, but it wasn’t so, because when I did see you again—I was overjoyed.”

Not a speech worthy of a man who made love charmingly, but Sylvester had never before tried to make love to a lady seething with rage and contempt.

“Were you indeed?” said Phoebe. “But you soon recovered, didn’t you?”

Nettled, he retorted: “No, I only tried to! Stop ripping up at me, you little shrew!”

“Phoebe, don’t you mean to change your dress?” said Tom, entering the room at this most inauspicious moment. “Keighley took your valise up—” He broke off, dismayed, and stammered: “Oh, I b-beg pardon! I didn’t know—I’ll go!”

“Go? Why?” Phoebe said brightly. “Yes, indeed I mean to change my dress, and will do so immediately!”

Tom held the door for her, thinking that if only Sylvester, interrupted in the middle of an obvious scene, would drop his guard, grant him an opening, he could tell him just how to handle her. He shut the door, and turned.

“Good God, Thomas! This sartorial magnificence! Are you trying to put me to the blush?” said Sylvester quizzingly.

27

They left Dover just after eleven o’clock, by which time Miss Marlow had quarrelled with both her escorts. Emerging from her bedchamber in the guise of a haughty young lady of fashion she encountered Tom, and instantly asked him whether he had recovered the money he had left in his portmanteau. Upon being reassured on this point she asked him if he would hire a chaise for their conveyance to London. “No,” said Tom, never one to mince his words. “I’ve got a better use for my blunt!”

“I will repay you, I promise you!” she urged.

“Much obliged! When?” said Tom brutally.

“Grandmama—”

“Mighty poor security! No, I thank you!”

“If she will not do it I’ll sell my pearls!” she declared.

“That would make me cut a fine figure, wouldn’t it?”

“Tom, I don’t wish to travel at Salford’s expense!” she blurted out.

“That’s easily settled. Sell your pearls, and pay him!”

She said stiffly: “If you won’t do what I particularly wish, will you at least request the Duke to tell you how much money he has expended on my behalf since we left Abbeville?”

“When I make a cake of myself it will be on my own account, and not on yours, Miss Woolly-crown!” said Tom.

Two vehicles had been provided for the journey. One was a hired post-chaise, the other Sylvester’s own phaeton, and to each was harnessed a team of four horses. They were job horses, but they had been chosen by Keighley, and therefore, as Master Rayne pointed out to his uncle, prime cattle. When Tom brought his haughty charge out of the inn he found Master Rayne seated already in the phaeton, and Sylvester standing beside it, drawing on his gloves. He went up to him, exclaiming: “Are you driving yourself all the way to London, Salford?”

“I am,” replied Sylvester. “I would offer to take you with me, but I’m afraid Keighley must have that seat.”

“Yes, of course, but you don’t mean to take Edmund too, do you? Had you not better let him come with us in the chaise?”

“My dear Thomas, my only reason for telling Keighley to bring my phaeton to Dover was to save that brat as much travel-sickness as I could! He is invariably sick in closed carriages, and never in open ones. Will you accompany Miss Marlow? I hope she will not find the journey too fatiguing: we are a little late in starting, but we should reach town in time for dinner.”

Tom, though strongly of the opinion that Sylvester, in his present humour, would be happy to part with his nephew on any terms at the end of the first stage, raised no further demur, but went back to hand Phoebe up into the chaise.

For the first five miles not a word was uttered within this vehicle, but at Lydden, Phoebe (recovering a trifle, in her faithful friend’s opinion, from the sullens) asked Tom where he meant to put up in London.

“At Salford’s house. He has invited me to spend a few days there. As long as I choose, in fact.”

“Good gracious!” said Phoebe. “What an honour for you! No wonder you were so unwilling to oblige me! I must be quite beneath your touch!”

“You’ll precious soon wish you were beneath my touch, if you don’t take care, my girl!” said Tom. “If you’ve any more pretty morsels of wit under your tongue, reserve ’em for Salford! He’s far too well-bred to give you your deserts: I ain’t!”

Silence reigned for the next mile. “Tom,” said Phoebe, in a small voice.

“Well?”

“I didn’t mean to say that. It was a horrid thing to say! I beg your pardon.”

He took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Pea-goose! What’s the matter?” He waited for a moment. “I know I walked smash into a turn-up between you and Salford. What are you trying to do? Break your own silly neck?”

She withdrew her hand. “Excuse me, Tom, if you please! It would be quite improper in me to repeat what passed between us. Pray say no more!”

“Very well,” said Tom. “But don’t you choke yourself with pride, Phoebe!”

At Sittingbourne a halt was called, and the travellers partook of refreshment at the Rose. When they came out of the inn again, and Tom was about to hand Phoebe into the chaise, Sylvester said: “Do you care to tool the phaeton for a stage or two, Thomas?”

“By Jove, yes!—if you think I shan’t overturn it!” Tom replied, with a rueful grin. “And if—” he hesitated, glancing at Phoebe.

“Do just as you wish!” she replied at once. “I can very well finish the journey in one of the Accommodation coaches!”

Sylvester turned, and strode towards the phaeton. “Get in!” said Tom curtly. He added, as he took his seat beside Phoebe: “That’s the first time I’ve ever been glad you are not my sister!”

She returned no answer. Scarcely half a dozen sentences were exchanged during the remainder of the journey; but although Phoebe pretended to be asleep for the greater part of the way, sleep was never farther from her, so torn was she by conflicting emotions. Beside her Tom sat gazing out of the window, wondering what