Sylvester

3

Sylvester made no further mention of his matrimonial plans; nor, since she could not fail to be cheerful whenever he came to visit her, did he suspect that his mother was troubled for him. Had he known it he would have supposed her merely to dislike the thought of his marriage, and would not have found it difficult to put any such scheme aside; if she had told him that she was more disturbed by the fear, which was taking uncomfortably strong possession of her mind, that he had become arrogant he would have been distressed to think that he could have said anything to put such a notion into her head, and would have done his best to joke her out of it. He knew it to be false: he was acquainted with several persons to whom the epithet might well apply, and he thought them intolerable. Few men were more petted and courted than he; there were not many hostesses who would not have forgiven him such slights as were not uncommonly dealt them by spoiled men of rank and fashion. But no hostess would ever be given cause to complain of Sylvester’s courtesy; and no insignificant person who perhaps rendered him a trifling service, or even did no more than touch his hat to him, would have reason to think himself despised. To reserve one’s civility for people of consequence was a piece of ill-breeding, dishonourable to oneself, as disgusting as to make a parade of greatness, or to curse a servant for clumsiness. Sylvester, who did not arrive at parties very late, refuse to stand up for country dances, take his bored leave within half an hour of his arrival, leave invitations unanswered, stare unrecognisingly at one of his tenants, or fail to exchange a few words with every one of his guests on Public Days at Chance, was not very likely to believe that a charge of arrogance levelled against him was anything but a calumny, emanating probably from a tuft-hunter whom he had snubbed, or some pert mushroom of society whose pretensions he had been obliged to depress.

The Duchess knew this, and felt herself to be at a loss. She would have liked to have been able to consult with someone who had his interests as much to heart as herself, and must know better than she (since she never saw Sylvester but in her own apartments) how he conducted himself in society. There was only one such person; but although she felt both respect and affection for Lord William Rayne, Sylvester’s uncle, and for two years his guardian, very little reflection was needed to convince her that any attempt to get him to enter into her rather vague apprehensions would only make him think her the victim of such crotchets as might be expected to attack an invalid. Lord William was old-fashioned, very bluff and kind, but very full of starch as well. He had some influence over Sylvester, of whom he was as fond as he was proud: a word from him would carry weight, but unfortunately one of his terse reproofs would be more easily drawn from him by what he thought a failure on his nephew’s part to remember his exalted station, than by his placing himself on too high a form.

He stayed at Chance at Christmas, and so far from affording the Duchess reassurance considerably depressed her, though this was far from being his intention. He had nothing but praise to bestow on Sylvester. He told the Duchess that the boy did just as he ought, his manners being particularly correct. ‘Very affable and civil, you know, but knows how to keep a proper distance,’ said Lord William. ‘No need to fear he’ll forget what he owes to his position, my dear sister! He tells me he’s thinking of getting married. Very proper. High time he was setting up his nursery! He seems to be going about the business exactly as he should, but I dropped him a hint. Don’t think it was necessary, mind, but I shouldn’t like to see him make a fool of himself for want of a word of advice. But thank the lord he’s got no rubbishing romantical notions in his head!’

It was the immutable custom of the House of Rayne for as many members of it as could possibly do so to gather together at Christmas under the roof of the head of the family. As the family was enormous, and most of those who congregated at Chance remained for a month, Sylvester had little leisure, and saw less of his mother than he liked. He was an excellent host and he had an excellent supporter in his sister-in-law, who, besides having a turn for entertaining, very much enjoyed acting as deputy for the Duchess, and consequently became more cheerful as soon as the first of the visitors crossed the threshold. Her pleasure was only marred by Sylvester’s refusal to invite Sir Nugent Fotherby to join the party. She argued that if he could invite her father and mother he could with equal propriety invite her affianced husband, but any intention she might have had of developing this grievance was checked by the intervention of both parents. Lord Elvaston, to whom Sir Nugent was objectionable, informed her that if he had found the fellow at Chance he would have gone home instantly, and Lady Elvaston, though willing to tolerate Sir Nugent for the sake of his vast wealth, told her that if she thought to win Sylvester round by affording him the opportunity of studying that amiable dandy at close quarters she was no better than a ninnyhammer.

Sylvester left Chance towards the end of January, a day later than his last, lingering guest. He was bound for Blandford Park, whither his hunters were sent by the direct route from Leicestershire; but he went first to London, a deviation that caused no surprise, since he told his mother he had business there. As it was hunting, not matrimony, that took him to Blandford Park she was able to see him off without any immediate apprehension of his proposing to one of the five eligible candidates for his hand. None of these ladies would be at Blandford Park; and it was in the highest degree unlikely that they were to be found in London either, at the end of January. The Duchess believed he would be granted little opportunity to commit his contemplated imprudence until the beginning of the season. But he had omitted to tell her what was his chief business in town. He went to pay a morning visit to his godmother.

The Dowager Lady Ingham lived in Green Street, in a house bursting with all the furniture and ornaments she had insisted on removing from Ingham House on the occasion of her son’s marriage, and her own retirement to Green Street. Any piece for which she had a fancy she insisted was her personal property; and since neither Ingham nor his gentle bride was a match for her she bore off several heirlooms, handsomely promising, however, to bequeath them to their rightful owner. She also removed the butler, but as he was growing old and was obstinate in his adherence to customs Lord Ingham thought obsolete, this was not felt to be a loss. He was now considerably stricken in years, went about his duties in a slow and stately manner, and discouraged the Dowager from holding any entertainments more arduous than a small soiree, or a card-party. Fortunately she had no wish to give dinner parties, or breakfasts, excusing herself on the score of age and infirmity. She was not, in fact, much above five-and-sixty; and beyond a tendency to gout no one had any very clear idea of what her infirmities might be. She certainly walked with the aid of an ebony cane; and whenever she was confronted with any disagreeable form of exertion she was threatened with palpitations, and was obliged to send for Sir Henry Halford, who understood her constitution so well that he could always be depended on to recommend her to do precisely what she wished.

When Sylvester was ushered into her crowded drawing room she greeted him with a snort; but she was pleased to receive a visit from him nevertheless; and after telling him acidly that she had well-nigh forgotten what he looked like she unbent sufficiently to give him her hand, and allow him to kiss it. Mollified by the grace with which he performed this courtesy she waved him to a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace and bade him tell her how his mother did.

‘I left her pretty well, I think,’ he answered. ‘But tell me, ma’am, how you do?’

She told him. The recital lasted for twenty minutes, and might have lasted longer had she not suddenly bethought herself of something she wanted to know. She broke off her account of her aches and ails abruptly, saying: ‘Never mind that! What’s this I’m hearing about your brother’s widow? The on-dit is that she’s going to marry a man-milliner. I knew his father: a namby-pamby creature he was, though he passed for an amiable man. They tell me the son is a Pink of the Ton. I suppose he has a genteel fortune? Old Fotherby should have cut up warm.’

‘Oh, as rich as Golden Ball!’ Sylvester replied.

‘Is he indeed? H’m!’ She was evidently impressed by this, but said after a reflective moment: ‘In a vast hurry to be married again, ain’t she? What happens to the boy?’

‘He will remain at Chance, of course.’

She stared at him. ‘What, is your poor mother to be charged with the care of him?’

‘No, certainly not.’ He held up his quizzing glass, twisting it between finger and thumb, and watching the flash of firelight on its magnifying lens. ‘I am thinking of getting married myself, ma’am.’

‘Well, it’s high time,’ she responded snappishly. ‘The Torrington girl, I collect?’

‘I suppose she might answer the purpose-if I could be sure she would not be hipped at Chance. It is an object with me, you know, ma’am, to choose a wife who will be acceptable to my mother.’

If she thought this an odd reason for matrimony she did not say so. ‘Is your heart engaged?’ she demanded.

‘Not in the least,’ he replied. ‘You see what a quandary I am in! Do advise me!’

She did not speak for a minute, but he knew that she was on the alert, and was content to wait, idly swinging his quizzing glass.

‘You can pour yourself out a glass of wine!’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ll take one too-though I don’t doubt I shall suffer for it.’

He rose, and crossed the room to where Horwich had set a silver tray on a side-table. When he came back to the fire, and put a glass of sherry into the Dowager’s hand, he said lightly: ‘Now, if you were only a fairy godmother, ma’am, you would wave your wand, and so conjure up exactly the bride I want!’

He returned to his chair as he spoke, and had embarked on a change of subject when she interrupted him, saying: ‘I may not be able to wave a wand, but I daresay I could produce an eligible bride for you.’ She set her glass down. ‘What you want, Sylvester, is a pretty-behaved girl of good birth, good upbringing, and an amiable disposition. If your Uncle William were not a zany he would have arranged just such an alliance for you years ago, and you may depend upon it you would have been very comfortable in it. Well, I haven’t meddled, though I own I’ve been tempted, when I’ve heard how you were making up to first this female and then that. However, you’ve now applied to me, and it’s my belief that if you wish for a wife who will know what her duty is and be more acceptable than any other to your mother, you could do no better for yourself than to offer for my granddaughter. I don’t mean one of Ingham’s girls, but Phoebe: my Verena’s child.’

He was extremely annoyed. His godmother was not playing the game as he had planned it. Those carefully casual words of his should have prompted her not to hold him up at the sword’s point, but to have produced her granddaughter presently (at the start of the season, perhaps) for his inspection. There was a lack of finesse about her conduct of the affair which vexed and alarmed him; for while the notion of marrying the daughter of his mother’s dear friend had taken possession of his mind its hold was not so strong that it could not speedily be broken by the discovery that Miss Marlow was lacking in the qualities he considered indispensable in his wife. In Lady Ingham’s bluntness he saw an attempt to force his hand, and nothing could more surely set up the back of a young man who had been, virtually, his own master from the time he was nineteen, and the master of a great many other persons as well. He said in a cool tone: ‘Indeed? Have I met your granddaughter, ma’am? I think I have not.’

‘I don’t know. She was brought out last season-it should have been done before, but she contracted scarlet fever, and so it was put off for a year. She will be twenty in October: I’m not offering you a schoolroom miss. As for the rest-I imagine you must several times have been in company with her, for she was taken to all the ton parties. I saw to that! If I had left it to that woman Marlow married as his second the poor child would have spent her time at museums, and the Concerts of Ancient Music, for that’s Constance Marlow’s notion of disporting herself in town! Marlow married her before Phoebe was out of leading strings, the more fool he! Not but what I give the woman credit for having done her duty by the child. She has been well brought-up-no question about that!’ Glancing across at Sylvester she saw that he was wearing his satyr look, and she said with the sharpness of defiance: ‘I couldn’t take charge of the girl! At my age, and with my indifferent health it wasn’t to be thought of!’

He said nothing, nor did the satyr look abate. Since Lady Ingham had made no attempt during the previous season to bring her granddaughter to his notice he concluded that Miss Marlow was probably a plain girl, unlikely to attract him. He tried to remember whether he had seen a girl with Lady Marlow on the few occasions when he had found himself in company with that forbidding lady. If he had, she held no place in his memory.

‘Phoebe’s not one of your beauties,’ said the Dowager, almost as if she had read his mind. ‘She don’t show to advantage with her mother-in-law, but to my way of thinking she’s not just in the ordinary style. If pink-and-white’s your fancy, she wouldn’t do for you. If you want quality, and a girl with a quick understanding, you’d like her. As for her fortune, she won’t inherit much from Marlow, but her mother’s dowry was tied up in her, so she’ll have that, besides what I shall leave her.’ She was silent for a minute, but said presently: ‘It would please your mother, and I don’t deny it would please me too. I want to see Verena’s child comfortably established. She’s not an heiress, but her fortune won’t be contemptible; and as for her birth, Marlow’s a fool, but his blood’s well enough; and the Inghams may look as high as they please when it comes to matchmaking. But if an alliance with my granddaughter isn’t to your taste, pray don’t hesitate to tell me so!’

This set the seal on his resentment. She was apparently trying to fluster him into committing himself. A stupid move: she ought to know that hers was not the first trap set for him. He rose, smiling at her with apparently unruffled serenity, and said, as he lifted her hand to his lips: ‘I can’t suppose, my dear ma’am, that you need my assurance that on the score of eligibility I could have no possible objection to the match. I shall only say, therefore, that I hope to have the pleasure of meeting Miss Marlow-this season, perhaps? Ah, that will be delightful!’

He left her with no clue to his sentiments, but in an angry mood that was not soothed by the reflection that he had laid himself open to her attack. She had proposed to him only what he had had in mind when he visited her, but the alacrity with which she had snapped at the chance offered her was almost as offensive as her attempt to force his hand. It was also stupid, for it inspired him with nothing more than a desire to cross Miss Marlow off the list of his eligibles, and propose without much waste of time to one of the remaining five. Unfortunately, the impropriety of such conduct made it impossible for him to administer this salutary lesson to the Dowager. She must regard it as a studied insult (which, indeed, it would be), and so wholly beneath him was it to insult her that he could only shrug, and resign himself. There was nothing to be done now until he had met Miss Marlow.

He put the matter aside, only to be confronted with it again the following week, when, upon arrival at Blandford Park, he found Lord Marlow to be one of his fellow guests.

In itself this circumstance was not suspicious. Marlow and the Duke of Beaufort were old friends; and since Austerby, Marlow’s seat, was situated in the rather indifferent country south of Calne he was a frequent visitor to Badminton during the hunting season. The Heythrop country, which was hunted by the Duke alternately with the Badminton district, was farther from Austerby and saw his lordship less often, but he was not a stranger to the hunt. Sylvester could have believed that his presence at Blandford Park was due to the workings of chance had it not soon been borne in upon him that Marlow was there by design.

Lord Marlow was always bluff and good-natured, but he had never been on anything more than common civility terms with Sylvester, twenty-five years his junior. On this occasion, however, his object was to stand well with him, and nothing could have exceeded his affability. Sylvester saw that Lady Ingham had been busy, and had the encounter taken place anywhere but at a hunting party he might have rebuffed his lordship’s overtures with the chilling formality he was quite capable of adopting whenever it seemed expedient to him to do so. But Lord Marlow blundering jovially through the London scene and Lord Marlow bestriding one of his highbred hunters were two very different persons. The one could be held in contempt; the other commanded the respect of every hunting man. Whether over the black fences of Leicestershire or the stone walls of the Cotswold uplands he had few equals, and not even Lord Alvanley could match him for intrepidity. Every available penny from the yield of a fortune long since found to be inadequate was spent on his slapping hunters, of which he never had fewer than fourteen in his stables; and to be singled out by him on the field for a word of advice or approval was the ambition of every young blood seeking to emulate his prowess. Sylvester might know very well why he had suddenly become the recipient of his lordship’s favours, but he could not be indifferent to the bluff word of praise, or ungrateful for the advice which taught him the trick of the stone walls. One thing leading to another, before the end of the week he was fairly caught, and had accepted an invitation to stay for a few days at Austerby when he left Blandford Park. Lord Marlow was generally thought to be a stupid man, but he was not so stupid as to let it appear that he had any other object in mind than to show Sylvester what sport was to be had in admittedly humbug country; and possibly (if it should suit him) to sell him a promising five-year-old that was not quite up to his own weight. There was to be no ceremony about this visit; they would leave Blandford Park together, and Salford would take his pot-luck at Austerby. Lord Marlow made no mention of his daughter; and in these circumstances Sylvester allowed himself to be persuaded. On the whole he was not displeased. Under his host’s unexpectedly tactful handling of the affair he could make the acquaintance of Miss Marlow without in any way committing himself: a better arrangement, he was disposed to think, than a formal London party to which he would be invited for the express purpose of meeting the young lady.