Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

The Duchess smiled at her. “Well, he is waiting in anxiety, my love. If I ring this bell once he will come up in answer to it. If I ring it twice Reeth will come, and Sylvester will know that you would not even speak to him. Which is it to be?”

“Oh!” cried Phoebe, scarlet-cheeked, and quite distracted. “I can’t—but I don’t wish him to—oh, dear, what shall I do?”

“Exactly what you wish to do, my dear—but you must tell him what that is yourself,” said the Duchess, pulling the bell once.

“I don’t know!” said Phoebe, wringing her hands. “I mean, he can’t want to marry me! When he might have Lady Mary Torrington, who is so beautiful, and good, and well-behaved, and—” She stopped in confusion as the door opened.

“Come in, Sylvester!” said the Duchess calmly. “I want you to escort Miss Marlow to her carriage, if you please.”

“With pleasure, Mama,” said Sylvester.

The Duchess held out her hand to Phoebe, and drew her down to have her cheek kissed. “Goodbye, dear child: I hope I shall see you again soon!”

In awful confusion, Phoebe uttered a farewell speech so hopelessly disjointed as to bring a smile of unholy appreciation into the eyes of Sylvester, patiently holding the door.

She ventured to peep at him for one anxious moment, as she went towards him. It was a very fleeting glance, but enough to reassure her on one point: he did not look at all distracted. He was perhaps a little pale, but so far from bearing the appearance of one cast into despair he was looking remarkably cheerful, even confident. Miss Marlow, assimilating this with mixed feelings, walked primly past him, her gaze lowered.

He shut the door, and said with perfect calm: “It was most kind in you to have given my mother the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Miss Marlow.”

“I was very much honoured to receive her invitation, sir,” she replied, with even greater calm.

“Will you do me the honour of granting me the opportunity to speak with you for a few minutes before you go away?”

Her calm instantly deserted her. “No—I mean, I must not stay! Grandmama’s coachman dislikes to be kept waiting for long, you see!”

“I know he does,” he agreed. “So I told Reeth to send the poor fellow home.”

She halted in the middle of the stairway. “Sent him home?” she repeated. “And, pray, who gave you—”

“I was afraid he might take a chill.”

She exclaimed indignantly, “You never so much as thought of such a thing! And you wouldn’t have cared if you had!”

“I haven’t reached that stage yet,” he admitted. “But you must surely own that I am making progress!” He smiled at her. “Oh, no, don’t eat me! I promise you shall be sent back to Green Street in one of my carriages—presently!”

Phoebe, realizing that he was affording her an example of the methods of getting his own way lately described to her by his mother, eyed him with hostility. “So I must remain in your house, I collect, until it shall please your grace to order the carriage to come round?”

“No. If you cannot bring yourself even to speak to me, I will send for it immediately.”

She now perceived that he was not only arrogant but unscrupulous. Wholly devoid of chivalry, too, or he would not have done anything so shabby as to smile at her in just that way. What was more, it was clearly unsafe to be left alone with him: his eyes might smile, but they held besides the smile a very disturbing expression.

“It—it is—I assure you—quite unnecessary, Duke, for you to make me any—any explanation of—of anything!” she said.

“You can’t think how relieved I am to hear you say so!” he replied, guiding her across the hall to where a door stood open, revealing a glimpse of a room lined with bookshelves. “I am not going to attempt anything of that nature, I assure you! I should rather call it disastrous than unnecessary! Will you come into the library?”

“What—what a pleasant room!” she achieved, looking about her.

“Yes, and what a number of books I have, haven’t I?” said Sylvester affably, closing the door. “No, I have not, I believe, read them all!”

“I wasn’t going to say either of those things!” she declared, trying hard not to giggle. “Pray, sir, what is it you wish to say to me?”

“Just my darling!” said Sylvester, taking her into his arms.

It was quite useless to struggle, and probably undignified. Besides, it was a well-known maxim that maniacs must be humoured. So Miss Marlow humoured this dangerous lunatic, putting her arm round his neck, and even going so far as to return his embrace. She then leaned her cheek against his shoulder, and said: “Oh, Sylvester! Oh, Sylvester!” which appeared to give great satisfaction.

“Sparrow, Sparrow!” said Sylvester, holding her still more tightly.

Convinced by the great good sense of this reply that the Head of the House of Rayne had recovered his wits, Phoebe heaved a sigh of relief, and offered a further palliative. “I didn’t mean that wicked thing I said to you!”

“Which one, my precious?” inquired Sylvester, relapsing into idiocy.

“That—that you are worse than Ugolino. I wonder you didn’t hit me!”

“You know very well I wouldn’t hurt a hair of your head, Sparrow. I am sure this is a very smart hat, but do allow me to remove it!” he said, pulling the bow loose as he spoke, and casting the hat aside. “That’s better!”

“I can’t marry you after writing that book!” she said, softening the blow, however, by clinging rather closer.

“You not only can, but must, if I have to drag you to the altar! How else, pray, is my character to be re- established?”

She considered this, and was suddenly struck by an inspiration. She raised her head, and said: “Sylvester! I know the very thing to do! I will write a book about you, making you the hero!”

“No, thank you, darling!” he replied with great firmness.

“Well, how would it be if I wrote a sequel to The Lost Heir, and made Ugolino become quite steeped ininfamy, and end up by perishing on the scaffold?”

“Good God! Sparrow, you are, without exception, the most incorrigible little wretch that ever drew breath! No!”

“But then everyone would know he couldn’t be you!” she pointed out. “Particularly if I dedicated it to you—which I could do with perfect propriety, you know, if I were just to subscribe myself The Author.”

“Now, that is a splendid thought!” he said. “One of those pompous epistles, with my name and style set out in large print at the head, followed by My Lord Duke—which you are so fond of calling me—and then by several pages interlarded with a great many Your Graces, and such encomiums as may occur to you, and—”

“None would occur to me! I should have to rack my brain for weeks to think of anything to say of you except that you are odiously arrogant, and—”

“Don’t you dare to call me arrogant! If ever I had any arrogance at all—which I deny!—how much could I possibly have left after having been ridden over rough-shod by you and Thomas, do you imagine?” He stopped, and turned his head towards the door, listening. “And that, if I mistake not, is Thomas! I think, don’t you, Sparrow, that he deserves to be the first to offer us his felicitations? He did try so hard to bring us about!” He went to the door, and opened it, to find Tom, who had just been admitted into the house, about to mount the stairs. “Thomas, come into the library! I have something of an interesting nature to disclose to you!” He added, as his eyes alighted on the tight posy of flowers in Tom’s hand: “Now, what’s all this, pray?”

“Oh, nothing!” Tom replied, blushing, but very off-hand. “I chanced to see them, and thought her grace might like to have them. She was saying last night that she missed the spring flowers at Chance, you know.”

“Oh, indeed! Dangling after my mother, are you? Well, don’t think I’ll have you for a father-in-law, for I