Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

21

Sir Nugent gave a chuckle. “Told’em to cast off when I went up to fetch Edmund,” he explained. “Told you he was watching the carriage got aboard! Diddled the dupes, my lady! Ah, I fancy Nugent Fotherby has rather more of quickness than most, eh?”

“Then you didn’t mean to let Miss Marlow take Edmund away? Oh, Nugent!” said Ianthe admiringly.

“Did it pretty neatly, didn’t I ? Wouldn’t you say I did it neatly, Orde?”

Tom, who had managed to reach the porthole without losing his balance, saw grey seas tumbling past, and turned a face pale with anger towards Sir Nugent. “I’d say you’re a damned nail!” he replied fiercely.

“Not in front of ladies!” protested Sir Nugent.

“You must be mad!” Phoebe cried. “Turn back! Good God, you can’t carry us off like this! Grandmama—all our baggage—! Do you realize that my grandmother has no notion where I am, and neither Tom nor I has a stitch to wear but what we have on our backs? Tell the captain he must turn about!”

“He won’t do it,” said Sir Nugent.

“Oh, won’t he?” said Tom, making his precarious way to the door. “We’ll see to that!”

Sir Nugent obligingly opened the door for him, saying amiably: “No sense in stopping him. Let us discuss the matter while he’s gone!”

Tom, reaching the deck, found that the Betsy Anne was clear of the mouth of the Tidal Harbour, with the wind filling her sails. He had negotiated the companion-way, but the ladder leading to the quarterdeck presented a worse problem to a man with a stiff leg. He was obliged to shout at the stalwart individual above him, which set him, he felt, at a disadvantage. Certainly the ensuing dialogue was not a success. Admitting that he was the skipper, the stalwart individual seemed to be amused by Tom’s demand to be set ashore. He asked if Tom had chartered the Betsy Anne, and upon being reassured said that that had removed a weight from his mind.

“Now, listen!” said Tom, keeping his temper. “You’ll find yourself in trouble if you don’t put back!”

“I’ll find myself in trouble if I do!” responded the skipper.

“No, you won’t. If you take me, and the lady who is with me, to France against our will, it’s kidnapping!”

“Is it, now?” said the skipper, impressed. “That’s bad, that is.”

“As bad as it could be!”

The skipper shook his head. “It don’t bear thinking on. And yet I don’t seem to recall as you was forced to come aboard. Nor yet I never see anyone a-luring of you. Dang me if I see anyone arsting you! All I see was you and the young lady coming aboard without so much as a by-your-leave! Maybe I’m mistook, though.”

“No, damn you, you aren’t!” said Tom, incurably honest. “Now, be a good fellow, and put back! You wouldn’t wish to upset the lady, and if she’s taken off to France she’ll be in the devil of a fix!”

“I’ll tell you what!” offered the skipper handsomely. “You come up here, sir, and I’ll hand the ship over to you! I ain’t seaman enough to put into Dover with the wind in this quarter, but then I’ve only been at sea a matter of forty years.”

Aware of several grinning faces turned his way Tom flushed. “Do you mean you can’t put back?”

“I can’t!” said the skipper.

“Hell and the devil!” ejaculated Tom. “Now we are in the suds!” He burst out laughing. “Lord, what a mess! Hi, skipper! I’d like to come up there presently to watch how you do the trick!”

“You’re welcome,” responded the skipper.

Returning to the cabin, Tom found Ianthe reclining once more on her berth, a bottle of smelling-salts clutched in her hand. This had apparently been abstracted from a large dressing-case, which was standing open on the deck with a number of its expensive contents spilled round it. A dazzling array of gold-topped bottles, initialled with sapphires, met Tom’s awed gaze, and he blinked. Sir Nugent, observing this, said with simple pride: “Something like, eh? My own design. I daresay they showed me fifty cases, but “ No,” I said. “Not up to the rig! Trumpery,” I said. “Nothing for it but to design a case myself,” I said. This is the result. Same thing happened when I wanted a carriage for her la’ship. “Windus,” I said, “it must be of the first stare. None of these will do,” I said.” Build me one to my design!” Which he did. I am very fond of designing things.”

“Well, I wish you will design us out of this rare mess you’ve pitched us into!” said Tom. “It’s no go, Phoebe: the skipper says he can’t put back: wind’s in the wrong quarter.”

“Then what in heaven’s name are we to do?” she cried.

“Make the best of it. Nothing else we can do,” he answered ruefully.

He was mistaken. The door was just then rudely thrust open, and the valet appeared on the threshold, his aspect alarming, his eyes glazed. He clung with one hand to the door, and over his shoulder drooped a small, wilted figure. “Sir—my lady—the young gentleman!” he said, in a strange voice. “Must request you—take him quick!”

“My child!” shrieked Ianthe, struggling up. “Is he dead?”

“No, of course he is not!” said Phoebe hurriedly relieving the valet of his burden.

“I regret, sir—shall not be available—rest of the passage!” gasped the valet, clinging now with both hands to the door.

“Well, of all things!” exclaimed Sir Nugent. “No, dash it, Pett, you can’t be ill!”

“Sir,” said Pett, “I must!”

With these tortured words, he disappeared with great precipitancy from the cabin, his exit being accelerated by the deck’s rising suddenly at a steep angle as the Betsy Anne triumphantly lifted her bows over the trough of the waves.

“Edmund!” cried his anguished parent. “Speak to me!”

“Don’t be so ridiculous!” said Phoebe, out of all patience. “Can’t you see what’s the matter with him, poor child?”

Master Rayne, game to the last, raised his head from Phoebe’s shoulder, and spoke gallant words. “I’m not dead, Mama. J-just cast up me accounts!”

Tom, who had no sooner set eyes on him than he had started, with great presence of mind, to search for a basin, now handed this homely article to Phoebe, saying, with a grin: “That’s the dandy, old chap! You’re a prime gun!”

But Master Rayne had shot his bolt. His lip trembled. “I want to go home!” he said tearfully. “I don’t like it!”

“Dearest, try not to be ill!” begged his mother. “Think of something else!”

“I can’t think of anything else!” wept Edmund, once more in the throes.

Ianthe, who was growing steadily paler, shuddered, and sank back with the smelling-salts to her nose, and her eyes shut.

“You feeling queasy too, my love?” asked Sir Nugent, concerned. “Now, I’ll tell you what: I’ll get you a drop of brandy, and you’ll be as right as a ram’s horn! Nothing like it!”

“No!” faintly moaned his love.

“Extraordinary thing, ain’t it?” said Sir Nugent, addressing himself to Tom. “Some people only have to look at a ship for their stomachs to start turning over; other people wouldn’t be sick in a hurricane. Runs in families, I daresay. Take my father: excellent sailor! Take me: the same! Famous for it! Made the crossing two years ago with George Retford. Now, that was a rough passage! People hanging over the rails all the way: most diverting spectacle! “Nugent,” George said to me—and as game a man as ever lived, mind you! “Take your choice!” he said. “Either that cigar of yours goes overboard, or I do!” Curious, wasn’t it? Nothing else turned him queasy, never blenched at his dinner: in fact—”

But at this point his bride brought his reminiscences to a close by requesting him, in a voice of loathing, to go away.

“Well, if there ain’t anything I can do, I was thinking Orde and I might crack a bottle,” he said. “Very willing to remain, however. Swore I’d cherish you, didn’t I? Nugent Fotherby is not the man to go back on his word. Ask anyone!”

“Go away, go away!” screamed Ianthe. “Do you wish to kill me?”

Seeing that Sir Nugent was about to assure her that he had no such desire, Tom thrust him out of the cabin. “I’d better go too,” he said, with an uneasy glance at Ianthe. “Unless you’d like me to stay, Phoebe?”

“No, no, there’s nothing for you to do here. There, there, Edmund! Let Phoebe tuck you up warmly, and you’ll soon be better!”

“Well, call, if you need me,” said Tom. “I won’t go out of earshot.”

He then withdrew, in the comfortable conviction that both sufferers would probably fall asleep, leaving Phoebe nothing to do but to watch over their slumbers. He was astonished, and considerably concerned, when he heard her calling to him from the foot of the companion-way less than an hour later, and learned that Edmund was very much worse. He saw that Phoebe was looking pale herself, and exclaimed: “I say, Phoebe, you aren’t feeling seasick, are you?”

“I? No, indeed! I have no time to be seasick!” she replied acidly. “Don’t come down! I want you to ask that wretched man if I may carry Edmund into the other cabin. I believe it is his, but he can’t want it, after all. And, Tom, try if you can come by a hot brick! Edmund shivers all the time, and do what I will I can’t get him warm.”

“Good God, he must be pretty bad! You don’t mean to say he’s still sick?”

“Not actually sick, no, but those dreadful paroxysms go on, and it hurts him so, poor little man, that he can’t help but cry. I’ve never seen a child so utterly knocked-up, and I’ve helped to nurse my sisters often and often. It was wicked to have brought him on such a journey! She must have known how it would be! She did know, and all she will say is that he could be well if he would but make an effort! She makes no effort! She is feeling far too ill herself, and her sensibility is so exquisite that she can never bear to be near him when he is ailing! It gives her palpitations. She has them now, so he must be removed from her cabin. Tom, if I could be taken back to Dover on a magic carpet I would not go! No! Or leave that child until I see him safe in Salford’s charge! Whatever his sentiments may be towards Edmund he cannot be more unfeeling than that creature!”

“Steady, steady!” said Tom. “Throwing your tongue too much, my girl!”

She gave an unsteady laugh, brushing her hand across her brow. “I know. But only to you, Tom! I’ve been running mute enough, I promise you.” She raised her finger suddenly, listening, and called: “I’m coming, darling!”

Not his greatest enemy could have denied that Sir Nugent was as compliant as he was amiable. Upon hearing what was required, he instantly went below to beg Phoebe to consider his cabin her own. He was very much shocked by Edmund’s appearance, and said: “Poor little fellow! Burned to the socket!” so many times that it irritated Ianthe’s nerves. Informed of this, he withdrew his attention from Edmund, and said solicitously: “Still a trifle out of sorts, my love? Now, see if I don’t tell you something that’ll do you good! With this wind we shall be in Calais in only four hours!”

“Four hours!” Ianthe said, in a hollow voice. “Oh, how could you be so brutal as to tell me? Four more hours of this! I shall never survive it. My head! oh, my head!”

“What’s to be done?” whispered Sir Nugent in Phoebe’s ear. “Seems to be bellows to mend with her. Devilish distressing: wouldn’t have had it happen for the world!”

“I expect,” said Phoebe, somewhat woodenly, “that she will feel better when she is alone. Lady Ianthe, will you tell me where I may find a nightshirt for Edmund? Were they packed in your trunk? May I look for them there?”

But Ianthe had been unable to bring away any of Edmund’s raiment without arousing suspicion in her parents’ household.

Phoebe looked wonderingly at the smart new trunk, at a pile of bandboxes, and dress-boxes. “But—”

“I had to purchase everything new! And in such haste that I was quite distracted,” said Ianthe, in failing accents.

“Told her la’ship to rig herself out in the first style of elegance, and have everything sent to my house,” explained Sir Nugent. “Good notion, don’t you agree?”

Her ladyship, in fact, had forgotten, in an orgy of expensive shopping, to provide for her son’s needs.

Removed to the smaller cabin, tucked up in its berth, with a champagne bottle full of hot water produced by Tom, Edmund seemed to grow easier. Phoebe had the satisfaction presently of seeing him drop asleep, and was about to snatch a little rest herself when Sir Nugent came to beg the favour of her attendance on Ianthe. Her la’ship, he whispered, was in devilish queer stirrups, and wished for assistance in an affair of too much delicacy to be mentioned.

Mystified, Phoebe went back to the larger cabin, leaving Sir Nugent to maintain a watch over his stepson. The affair of delicacy proved merely to be a matter of untieing Ianthe’s stay-laces, but one glance at her was enough to inform Phoebe that Sir Nugent had not exaggerated her condition. She looked to be in extremely queer stirrups, and when Phoebe felt her pulse she discovered it to be tumultuous.

Phoebe was absent from Edmund’s side for a considerable period. Unfortunately he woke up while she was away, and no sooner saw Sir Nugent than he repudiated him. Sir Nugent remonstrated with him, pointing out that for Edmund to order him out of his own cabin was coming it a trifle too strong. However, when he heard himself apostrophized as a Bad Man he realized that Edmund was lightheaded, and strove to reassure him. His efforts failed. During his late agony Edmund had had no leisure to consider anything but his body’s ills. It was otherwise now. No longer racked by paroxysms, but only a very small boy pitchforked into nightmare, a pressing need presented itself to him. His face puckered. “I want my Button!” he sobbed.

“Eh?” said Sir Nugent.

Edmund, turning his face into the pillow, repeated his desire in muffled but passionate accents.

“Want a button, do you?” said Sir Nugent. “Now, don’t cry, dear boy! Seems a devilish queer thing to want, but—which button?”

“My Button!” said Edmund, in a perfect storm of sobs.

“Yes, yes, precisely so!” said Sir Nugent hastily. “Be calm, dear boy! I assure you there’s no need to put yourself in a taking! If you would but tell me—”

“Button, Button, Button!” wept Edmund.

Tom, looking into the cabin five minutes later to ask Phoebe if all was well, found a distressing scene in progress, bitter sounds of grief issuing from the blankets under which Edmund had wholly retired, and his harassed stepfather feverishly turning out the pockets of a small pair of nankeen pantaloons.

“Good God, what’s the matter?” Tom demanded, coming into the cabin, and shutting the door. “Where’s Miss Marlow?”

“With her la’ship. Don’t care to fetch her away!” said Sir Nugent distractedly. “Left me to mind Edmund! Extraordinary boy! Took me for a bad man: doesn’t seem to know me at all! Now he wants a button.”

“Well, give him a button!” said Tom, limping to the berth, and trying to draw the blanket back. “Hi, Edmund, what’s all this?”

“I—want—my—Button!” wailed Edmund, diving deeper into the blankets.

“Never knew such a cork-brained boy!” fumed Sir Nugent. “Can’t get another word out of him. It’s my belief he hasn’t brought it with him. What’s more, I don’t see that it would be a bit of use to him if I could find it. Well, I put it to you, Orde, would you want a button in such a case?”

“Oh, children often have a liking for odd toys!” said Tom. “I did myself. Give him one of your own buttons!”

“Dash it, I haven’t got any!” A dreadful possibility reared its head. “You don’t mean cut one off?”

“Lord, why not?” said Tom impatiently.

Sir Nugent reeled under the shock, but rallied. “You cut one off!” he countered.

“Not me!” replied Tom crudely. “This is the only suit of clothes I have, thanks to you! Besides, I’m not the boy’s papa-in-law!”

“Well, he won’t have it I am either, so that doesn’t signify. To own the truth, I’d as lief I wasn’t. Dashed embarrassing, you must agree, to have a son-in-law telling everyone I’m a bad man.”

Tom, not thinking it worth while to reply to this, merely adjured him to find a suitable button. Sighing heavily, Sir Nugent unstrapped one of his numerous portmanteaux. It took him a little time to decide which of his coats he would be least likely to need in the immediate future, and when he made up his mind to the sacrifice of an elegant riding-coat, and started to saw off one of its buttons with his pocket-knife it was easy to see that the operation cost him considerable pain. He was slightly cheered by the reflection that the presentation of so large and handsome a button must raise him in Edmund’s esteem. Advancing to the berth, he said winningly: “No need to cry any more, dear boy! Here’s your button!”

The sobs ceased abruptly; Edmund emerged from the blankets, tearstained but joyful. “Button, Button!” he cried, stretching out his arms. Sir Nugent put the button into his hand.

There was a moment’s silence, while Edmund, staring at this trophy, realized to the full Sir Nugent’s perfidy. To blinding disappointment was added just rage. His eyes blazing through his tears he hurled the button from him, and casting himself face downward gave way to his emotions.

“For the lord’s sake—!” expostulated Tom. “What do you want, you silly little lobcock?”

“My own Button!” wailed Edmund.

Fortunately, the noise of his lamentations reached Phoebe’s ears. She came quickly into the cabin, and upon being assured by Sir Nugent that so far from bullying his son-in-law he had ruined one of his coats to provide him with the button he so insistently demanded said contemptuously: “I should have thought you must have known better! He means his nurse, of course! For heaven’s sake, go away, both of you! There, my dear, come to Phoebe, then! Poor little man!”

“He s-said it was my Button!” sobbed Edmund into her shoulder. “He is bad! I won’t have him, I won’t, I won’t!”