Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

glad to do so.

It was agreed that nothing should be said to Phoebe until he had secured the Duke’s promise to visit Austerby; but when his second groom came over from Blandford Park with a letter from him to her ladyship, warning her that when he returned at the end of the week Salford would be accompanying him, she instantly sent for Phoebe to her dressing-room.

Phoebe obeyed the summons in considerable trepidation; but when she entered the dressing-room she was greeted, if not with cordiality, at least not with the bleak look that still had the power to make her heart knock against her ribs. Lady Marlow told her to shut the door and sit down. She then noticed that one of the flounces of Phoebe’s gown had come unstitched, and drew her attention to it, reading her a homily on the evils of slovenliness, and expressing the hope that she would have no occasion, in the near future, to blush for her.

“No, Mama,” Phoebe said, wondering why the near future was of particular importance.

“I have sent for you,” pursued her ladyship, “to inform you of a very gratifying circumstance. I do not scruple to say that the good fortune which is coming to you is a great deal more than you have done anything to deserve, and I can only trust that you may be found to be worthy of it.” She paused, but Phoebe only looked rather bewildered. “I daresay,” she continued, “that you may have wondered what it was that took your papa to London at this season.”

Since she had not given the matter a thought Phoebe was a good deal astonished. It was not Lady Marlow’s custom to encourage the girls to indulge in curiosity, and an inquiry into the nature of Papa’s business in town would certainly have met with a heavy snub.

“You are surprised that I should mention the matter to you,” said her ladyship, observing Phoebe’s expression. “I do so because it was on your behalf that he undertook the fatigue of a journey to London. You should be very much obliged to him, which I am persuaded you must be when I tell you that he is about to arrange a very advantageous marriage for you.”

Phoebe was well aware that in failing to secure at least one respectable offer during her London season she had fallen lamentably short of expectation, and this announcement made her look more astonished than ever. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “But I don’t think—I mean, no one made up to me, except old Mr. Hardwick, and that was only because of my mother!”

She then quailed, flushing to the roots of her hair as she came under a basilisk stare from Lady Marlow’s cold eyes.

“Made up to you—!” repeated Lady Marlow ominously. “I need not ask from whom you learned such a vulgarism, but perhaps you will inform me how you dared permit me to hear it on your lips?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am!” faltered Phoebe.

“Such language may do very well for young Orde,” said her ladyship bitingly. “No female with the smallest claim to refinement would use it. And if you were to express yourself in such a manner to the Duke of Salford I tremble to think what the consequences might be!”

Phoebe blinked at her. “To the Duke of Salford, ma’am? But how should I ? I mean, I am sure there can be no danger, for I am barely acquainted with him. I shouldn’t think,” she added reflectively,” that he even remembers me.”

“You are mistaken,” replied Lady Marlow. “He is to visit us next week, with what object I imagine you may guess.”

“Well, I haven’t the least notion what it may be,” said Phoebe in a puzzled voice.

“He is coming with the intention of making you an offer—and you will oblige me, Phoebe, by not sitting there in a stare, and with your mouth open!”

“M-me?” stammered Phoebe. “The Duke of Salford?”

Not displeased to find her daughter incredulous, Lady Marlow bestowed a thin smile upon her. “I do not wonder that you should be surprised, for it is far more than I ever hoped for you, I can tell you. I shall expect to hear you express your gratitude to Papa for his kindness in arranging so splendid a match for you.”

“I don’t believe it!” Phoebe cried vehemently. “Besides, I don’t want to marry the Duke of Salford!”

No sooner had the words been uttered than she trembled at her boldness, and for several moments dared not raise her eyes to the austere countenance confronting her. An awful silence greeted her rash speech, which was broken at last by Lady Marlow’s demanding to know whether her ears had deceived her. Judging this question to be rhetorical Phoebe made no attempt to answer it, but only hung her head.

“A marriage of the first consequence is offered to you: a marriage that must make you the envy of a score of young females all of them by far more handsome than you will ever be, and you have the audacity to tell me you do not want it! Upon my word, Phoebe—!”

“But, ma’am, I am persuaded it is all a mistake! Why, I only spoke to him once in my life, and that was at the Seftons’ ball, when he stood up with me for one dance. He thought it a great bore, and when I saw him not three days after, at Almack’s, he cut me!”

“Pray do not talk in that nonsensical style!” said her ladyship sharply. “Your situation in life renders you an eligible wife for a man of rank, however unsuited to a great position I may consider you to be; and I don’t doubt the Duke must be aware that your upbringing has been in accordance with the highest principles.”

“But there are others j-just as well brought-up, and m-much prettier!” Phoebe said, twisting her fingers together.

“You have over them what his grace apparently believes to be an advantage,” responded Lady Marlow repressively. “Whether he may be right is not for me to say, though I should rather have supposed—However, on that subject I prefer to be silent. Your mother was a close friend of the Duke’s mother, which is why you have been singled out. I tell you this so that you shall not become puffed up in your own conceit, my dear Phoebe. Nothing is more unbecoming in a young woman, I can assure you.”

“Puffed up! I should rather think not!” Phoebe said hastily. “Offer for me because his mother knew mine? I—I never heard of anything so—so monstrous! When he is barely acquainted with me, and has never made the least push to engage my interest!”

“It is for that precise reason that he is coming to visit us,” said Lady Marlow, with the patience of one addressing an idiot. “He desires to become better acquainted with you, and I trust you are neither so foolish nor so undutiful as to conduct yourself in a way that must make him think better of offering for your hand.” She paused, scanning Phoebe’s face. What she read in it caused her to change her tactics. The girl, though in general biddable enough, showed occasionally a streak of obstinacy. Lady Marlow did not doubt her ability to command her ultimate obedience, but she knew that if Phoebe were to take one of her odd notions into her head she was quite capable of repulsing the Duke before there was time to bring her back to a state of proper submission. So she began to point out the advantages of the match, even going so far as to say that Phoebe would like to be mistress of her own establishment. Winning no other response than a blank stare, she lost no time in drawing, with vigour and fluency, a grim picture of the alternative to becoming the Duchess of Salford. As this seemed to include a life of unending disgrace at Austerby (for it was not to be expected that Lord Marlow, with four more daughters to establish, would waste any more money of his ungrateful eldest-born); the reproaches of her sisters, of whose advancement she would have shown herself to be wickedly careless; and various other penalties, a number of which were not rendered less terrible for being left unnamed, it should have been enough to have brought a far more recalcitrant girl than Phoebe to her senses. She did indeed look very white and frightened, so Lady Marlow dismissed her to think it over.

Phoebe fled back to the schoolroom. Here she found not only Susan, but her two next sisters as well: thirteen-year-old Mary, and the saintly Eliza. Susan, perceiving that Phoebe was big with news, instantly banished Eliza to the nursery, and, when that affronted damsel showed signs of recalcitrance, forcibly ejected her from the room, recommending her to go and tell Mama, and to be careful how she got into bed later. This sinister warning quelled Eliza, the horrid memory of a slug between her sheets still lively in her mind, and she prepared to join the youngest of the family in the nursery, merely apostrophizing Susan, through the keyhole, as the greatest beast in nature before taking herself off. Unfortunately Miss Battery came along the passage at that moment and very properly consigned her to her bedroom for using language unbecoming to a young lady of quality. Eliza complained in a whining voice that Phoebe and Sukey were very unkind and would not tell her any of their secrets, but this only drew down on her a reprimand for indulging the sin of curiosity. Miss Battery led her inexorably to her bedchamber