Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

28

After a troubled night, during which she was haunted, waking or dreaming, by all the appalling events of the previous day, which had culminated in a shattering scene with Lady Ingham, Phoebe awoke to find the second housemaid pulling back the blinds, and learned from her that the letter lying on her breakfast-tray had been brought round by hand from Salford House not ten minutes earlier. The housemaid was naturally agog with curiosity, but any expectation she had of being made the recipient of an interesting confidence faded before the seeming apathy with which Miss Phoebe greeted her disclosure. All Miss Phoebe wanted was a cup of tea; and the housemaid, after lingering with diminishing hope for a few minutes, left her sitting up in bed, and sipping this restorative.

Once alone, Phoebe snatched up the letter, and tore it open. She looked first at the signature. Elizabeth Salford was what met her eyes, and drew from her a gasp of fright.

But there was nothing in the letter to make her tremble. It was quite short, and it contained no hint of menace. The Duchess wished very much not only to make the acquaintance of a loved friend’s daughter, but also to thank her for the care she had taken of her grandson. She hoped that Phoebe would be able, perhaps, to visit her that day, at noon, when she would be quite alone, and they could talk without fear of interruption.

Rather a gratifying letter for a modest damsel to receive, one would have supposed, but the expression on Phoebe’s face might have led an observer to conclude that she was reading a tale of horror. Having perused it three times, and failing to detect in it any hidden threat, Phoebe fixed her attention on the words: I shall be quite alone, and carefully considered them. If they were meant to convey a message it was hard to see how this could be anything but one of reassurance; but if this were so, Sylvester must have told his mother—what?

Thrusting back the bedclothes Phoebe scrambled out of bed and into her dressing-gown, and pattered down the stairs to her grandmother’s room. She found the afflicted Dowager alone, and held out the letter to her, asking her in a tense voice to read it.

The Dowager had viewed her unceremonious entrance with disfavour, and she at once said in feeble accents: “Oh, heaven! what now?” But this ejaculation was not wholly devoid of hope, since she too had been told whence had come Miss Phoebe’s letter. Poor Lady Ingham had slept quite as badly as her granddaughter, for she had had much to puzzle her. At first determined to send Phoebe packing back to Somerset, she had been considerably mollified by the interesting intelligence conveyed to her (as Sylvester had known it would be) by Horwich. She had thought it promising, but further reflection had sent her spirits down again: whatever might be Sylvester’s sentiments, Phoebe bore none of the appearance of a young female who had either received, or expected to receive, a flattering offer for her hand. Hope reared its head again when a letter from Salford House was thrust upon her; like Phoebe, she looked first at the signature, and was at once dashed down. “Elizabeth!” she exclaimed, in a flattened voice. “Extraordinary! She must have come on the child’s account, I suppose. I only trust it may not be the death of her!”

Phoebe watched her anxiously while she mastered the contents of the letter, and when it was given back to her said imploringly: “What must I do, ma’am?”

The Dowager did not answer for a moment. There was food for deep thought in the Duchess’s letter. She gazed inscrutably before her, and the question had to be repeated before she said, with a slight start: “Do? You will do as you are bid, of course! A very pretty letter the Duchess has writ you, and why she should have done so—but she hasn’t, one must assume, read that abominable book!”

“She has read it, ma’am,” Phoebe said. “It was she who gave it to Salford. He told me so himself.”

“Then he cannot have told her who wrote it,” said the Dowager. “That you may depend on, for she dotes on Sylvester! If only she could be persuaded to take you up—But someone is bound to tell her!”

“Grandmama, I must tell her myself!” Phoebe said.

The Dowager was inclined to agree with her, but the dimming of a future which had seemed to become suddenly so much brighter vexed her so much that she said crossly: “You must do as you please! I cannot advise you! And I beg you won’t ask me to accompany you to Salford House, for I am quite unequal to any exertion! You may have the landaulet, and, for heaven’s sake, Phoebe, try at least to appear the thing! You must wear the fawn-coloured silk, and the pink—no, it will make you look hideously sallow! It will have to be the straw with the brown ribands.”

Thus arrayed, Miss Marlow, shortly before noon, stepped into the landaulet, as pale as if it had been a tumbrel and her destination the gallows.

Such was the state of her mind that she would not have been surprised, on arrival at Salford House, to have been confronted by a host of Raynes, all pointing fingers of condemnation at her. But the only persons immediately visible were servants, who seemed, with the exception of the butler, whose aspect was benevolent, to be perfectly uninterested. It was well for her peace of mind that she did not suspect that every member of the household who had the slightest business in the hall had contrived to be there to get a glimpse of her. Such an array of footmen seemed rather excessive, not to say pompous, but if that was the way Sylvester chose to run his house it was quite his own affair.

The benevolent butler conducted her up one pair of stairs. Her heart was thumping hard, and she felt unusually breathless, both of which disagreeable symptoms would have been much aggravated had she known how many interested persons were watching from hidden points of vantage every step of her progress. No one could have told whence had sprung the news that his grace had chosen a leg-shackle at last, and was finding his path proverbially rough, but everyone knew it, from the agent-in-chief down to the humblest kitchen-porter; and an amazing number of these persons contrived to be spectators of Miss Marlow’s arrival. Most of them were disappointed in her; but Miss Penistone and Button found nothing amiss, one of these ladies being sentimentally disposed to think any damsel of dear Sylvester’s choice a paragon, and the other regarding her in the light of a Being sent from on high to preserve her darling from death by shipwreck, surfeit, neglect, or any other of the disasters which might have been expected to strike down an infant of tender years taken to outlandish parts without his nurse.

Phoebe heard her name announced, and stepped across the threshold of the Duchess’s drawing-room. The door closed behind her, but instead of walking forward she stood rooted to the ground, staring across the room at her hostess. A look of naïve surprise was in her face, and she so far forgot herself as to utter an involuntary: “Oh—!”

No one had ever told her how pronounced was the resemblance between Sylvester and his mother. At first glance it was startling. At the second one perceived that the Duchess had warmer eyes than Sylvester, and a kinder curve to her lips.

Before Phoebe had assimilated these subtle differences an amused laugh escaped the Duchess, and she said: “Yes, Sylvester has his eyebrows from me, poor boy!”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am!” Phoebe stammered, much confused.

“Come and let me look at you!” invited the Duchess. “I daresay your grandmother may have told you that I have a stupid complaint that won’t let me get out of my chair.”

Phoebe stayed where she was, clasping both hands tightly on her reticule. “Ma’am—I am very much obliged to your grace for having—honoured me with this invitation—but I must not accept your hospitality without telling you—that it was I who wrote—that dreadful book!”

“Oh, you do look like your mother!” exclaimed the Duchess. “Yes, I know you wrote it, which is why I was so desirous of making your acquaintance. Come and give me a kiss! I kissed you in your cradle, but you can’t remember that!”

Thus adjured, Phoebe approached her chair, and bent to plant a shy kiss on the Duchess’s cheek. But the Duchess not only returned this chaste salute warmly but said: “You poor, foolish child! Now tell me all about it!”

To hear herself addressed so caressingly was a novel experience. Miss Battery was gruff, Mrs. Orde matter-of-fact, and Lady Ingham astringent, and these were the three ladies who had Phoebe’s interests most to heart. She had never met with tenderness, and its effect was to make her tumble down on her knees beside the Duchess’s chair, and burst into tears. Such conduct would have earned her a sharp reproof from Lady Ingham, but the Duchess seemed to think well of it, since she recommended her unconventional guest to enjoy a comfortable cry, removed her hat, and patted her soothingly.

From the moment of discovering that Sylvester had lost his heart to Phoebe the Duchess had been determined to like her, and to put out of her mind all thought of the book she had written; but she had expected to find it hard to do either of these things. It was one thing to nourish private doubts about her son, quite another to find him depicted as a villainous character in a novel that had taken the ton by storm. But no sooner did she see Phoebe and read the contrition in her frank eyes than her heart melted.

It rejoiced too, for although Sylvester had said that Phoebe was not beautiful she had not expected to find her a thin slip of a girl, with a brown complexion and nothing to recommend her but a pair of speaking grey eyes. If Sylvester, who knew his own worth, and had coolly made out a list of the qualities he considered indispensable in his bride, had decided that only this girl would satisfy him, he had fallen more deeply in love than his mother had thought possible. She could have laughed aloud, remembering all he had once said to her, for there seemed to her to be no points of resemblance between Phoebe and that mythical wife he had described. She thought there would be some lively fights if he married Phoebe, certainly none of that calm, rather bloodless propriety which he had once considered to be the foundation of a successful alliance.

Well, the marriage might prove a failure, but the Duchess, who had conceived a profound dislike of five unknown but eligible ladies of quality, was much inclined to think that it might as easily turn out to be the making of both parties to it; and by the time the whole history of The Lost Heir had been sobbed into her lap, and a passionate apology offered to her, she was able to assure the penitent author, with perfect sincerity, that on the whole she was glad the book had been published, since she thought it had done Sylvester a great deal of good. “And as for Count Ugolino’s shocking conduct towards his nephew, that, my dear, is the least objectionable part of it,” she said. “For as soon as you embroiled him in his dastardly plots, you know, all resemblance to Sylvester vanished. And Maximilian, I am afraid, is quite unlike my naughty grandson! From all Mr. Orde told me I feel that Edmund would have very speedily put Ugolino in his place!”

Phoebe could not help giving a tiny chuckle, but she said: “I promise you it was a coincidence, ma’am, but he—the Duke—did not think so.”

“Oh, he knew it was, whatever he may have said! Nor did he care a button for it. Ianthe has been spreading far worse stories about him (because more credible) for years, and he has treated them with perfect indifference. What he cared for was the sketch you drew of him when you first brought Ugolino on to your stage. It is not too much to say that that almost stunned him. Oh, don’t hang your head! It was a salutary lesson to him, I believe. You see, my dear, I have lately been a little worried about Sylvester, suspecting that he had become—to use your word for him—arrogant. Perhaps you will feel that I should have noticed it long ago, but he never shows that side of himself to me, and I don’t now go into company, so that I’ve had no opportunity to see what he is to others. I am really grateful to you for telling me what no one else has liked to mention!”

“Oh, no, no!” Phoebe said quickly. “It was a caricature, ma’am! His manners are always those of a well-bred man, and there is no appearance in him of self-consequence. It was very wrong of me: he had given me no real cause! It was only—”

“Go on!” the Duchess said encouragingly. “Don’t be afraid to tell me! I might imagine worse than the truth, you know, if you are not open with me.”

“It—it seemed to me, ma’am, that he was polite not to honour others but himself!” Phoebe blurted out. “And that the flattery he receives he—he doesn’t notice because he takes it for granted—his consequence being so large. I don’t know why it should have vexed me so. If he had seemed to hold others cheap I should only have been diverted, and that would have been a much worse fault in him. I think—it is his indifference that makes me so often want to hit him!”

The Duchess laughed. “Ah, yes, I understand that! Tell me: he’s not above being pleased?”

“No, ma’am, never!” Phoebe assured her. “He is always affable in company: not a bit stiff! Only—I don’t know how to express it—aloof, I think. Oh, I didn’t mean to distress you! Pray, pray, forgive me!”

The Duchess’s smile went a little awry. “You haven’t distressed me. It distressed me only to know that Sylvester was still living in some desolate Polar region—but it was only for a moment! I don’t think he is living there any longer.”

“His brother, ma’am?” Phoebe ventured to ask, looking shyly up into her face.

The Duchess nodded. “His twin-brother. They were not alike, but the bond between them was so strong that nothing ever loosened it, not even Harry’s marriage. When Harry died—Sylvester went away. I don’t mean bodily—ah, you understand, don’t you? I might have been sure you would, for I know you to have a very discerning eye. Sylvester has a deep reserve. He will not have his wounds touched, and that wound—” She broke off, and then said, after a little pause: “Well, he kept everyone at a distance for so long that I believe it became, as it were, an engrained habit, and is why he gave you the feeling that he was aloof—which exactly describes him, I must tell you!”

She smiled at Phoebe, and took her hand. “As for his indifferent air, my dear, I know it well—I have been acquainted with it for many years, and not only in Sylvester! It springs, as you so correctly suppose, from pride. That is an inherited vice! All the Raynes have it, and Sylvester to a marked degree. It is inborn, and it wasn’t diminished by his succeeding, when he was much too young, to his father’s dignities. I always did think that the worst thing that could have befallen him, but comforted myself with the thought that Lord William Rayne—he is Sylvester’s uncle, and was guardian to both my sons for the two years that were left of their minority—that William would quickly depress any top-loftiness in Sylvester. But unfortunately William, though the kindest man alive, not only holds himself very much up, but is also convinced that the Head of the House of Rayne is a far more august personage than the Head of the House of Hanover! I have the greatest affection for him, but he is what I expect you would call gothic! He tells me, for instance, that society has become a mingle-mangle, and that too many men of birth nowadays don’t keep a proper distance. He would have given Sylvester a thundering scold for showing incivility to the humblest of his dependants, but I am very sure that he taught him that meticulous politeness was what he owed to his own consequence: noblesse oblige, in fact. So, what with William telling him never to forget how exalted he was, and far too many people looking up to him as their liege-lord, I am afraid Sylvester became imbued with some very improper notions, my dear! And, to be candid with you, I don’t think he will ever lose them. His wife, if he loved her, could do much to improve him, but she won’t alter his whole character.”

“No, of course not, ma’am. I mean—”

“Which, in some ways, is admirable,” continued the Duchess, smiling a little at this embarrassed interjection, but paying no other heed to it. “And the odd thing is that some of his best qualities spring directly from his pride! It would never occur to Sylvester that anyone could dispute his hereditary right of lordship, but I can assure you that it would never occur to him either to neglect the least one of the duties, however irksome, that attach to his position.” She paused, and then said: “The flaw is that his care for his people doesn’t come from his heart. It was bred into him, he accepts it as his inescapable duty, but he hasn’t the love of humanity that inspires philanthropists, you know. Towards all but the very few people he loves I fear he will always be largely indifferent. However, for those few there’s nothing he won’t do, from the high heroical to such tedious things as giving up far too much of his time to the entertainment of an invalid mother!”

Phoebe said, with a glowing look: “He could never think that tedious, I am persuaded, ma’am!”

“Good gracious, of all the boring things to be obliged to do it must surely be the worst! I made up my mind not to permit him to trouble about me, too, but—you may have noticed it!—Sylvester is determined to have his own way, and never more so than when he is convinced he is acting for one’s good.”

“I have frequently thought him—a trifle high-handed, ma’am,” said Phoebe, her eye kindling at certain memories

“Yes, I’m sure you have. Harry used to call him The Dook, mocking his overbearing ways! The worst of it is that it’s so hard to get the better of him! He doesn’t order one to do things: he merely makes it impossible for one to do anything else. Some idiotish doctor once convinced him it would cure me to take the hot bath, and he got me to Bath entirely against my will, and without ever mentioning the name of the horrid place. The shifts he was put to! I forgave him only because he had taken so much trouble over the iniquitous affair! His wife will have much to bear, I daresay, but she will never find him thoughtless where her well-being is concerned.”

Phoebe said, flushing: “Ma’am—you mistake! I—he—”

“Has he put himself beyond forgiveness?” inquired the Duchess quizzically. “He certainly told me he had, but I hoped he was exaggerating.”

“He doesn’t wish to marry me, ma’am. Not in his heart!” Phoebe said. “He only wished to make me sorry I had run away from him, and fall in love with him when it was too late. He couldn’t bear to be beaten, and proposed to me quite against his will—he told me so himself!—and then, I think, he was too proud to draw back.”

“Really, I am quite ashamed of him!” exclaimed the Duchess. “He told me he had made a mull of it, and that, I see, is much less than the truth! I don’t wonder you gave him a set-down, but I am delighted to learn that all his famous address deserted him when he proposed to you! In my experience a man rarely makes graceful speeches when he is very much in earnest, be he never so accomplished a flirt!”

“But he doesn’t want to marry me, ma’am!” averred Phoebe, sniffing into a damp handkerchief. “He told me he did, but when I said I didn’t believe him—he said he saw it was useless to argue with me!”

“Good heavens, what a simpleton!”

“And then I said he was w-worse than Ugolino, and he didn’t s-say anything at all!” disclosed Phoebe tragically.

“That settles it!” the Duchess declared, only the faintest of tremors in her voice. “I wash my hands of such a ninny! After having been given all this encouragement, what does he do but come home in flat despair, saying you won’t listen to him? He even asked me what he should do! I am sure it was for the first time in his life!”

“F-flat despair?” echoed Phoebe, between hope and disbelief. “Oh, no!”

“I assure you! And very disagreeable it made him, too. He brought Mr. Orde up to take tea with me after dinner, and even the tale of Sir Nugent and the button failed to drag more than a faint smile from him!”

“He—he is mortified, perhaps—oh, I know he is! But he doesn’t even like me, ma’am! If you had heard the things he said to me! And then—the very next instant—proposed to me!”

“He is clearly unhinged. I daresay you had no intention of reducing him to this sad state, but I feel you ought, in common charity, to allow him at least to explain himself. Very likely it would settle his mind, and it won’t do for Salford to become addle-brained, you know! Do but consider the consternation of the Family, my dear!”

“Oh, ma’am—!” protested Phoebe, half laughing.

“As for his not liking you,” continued the Duchess, “I don’t know how that may be, but I can’t recall that he ever before described any girl to me as a darling!”

Phoebe stared at her incredulously. She tried to speak, but only succeeded in uttering a choking sound.

“By this time,” said the Duchess, stretching out her hand to the embroidered bell-pull, “he has probably gnawed his nails down to the quick, or murdered poor Mr. Orde. I think you had better see him, my dear, and say something soothing to him!”

Phoebe, tying the strings of her hat in a lamentably lopsided bow, said in great agitation: “Oh, no! Oh, pray—!”

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 won’t!”

“I don’t think that is at all a proper way to speak of her grace,” said Tom, with dignity.

“You are very right!” approved Phoebe, as he came into the room. “And the flowers are a very pretty attention: exactly what Mrs. Orde would say you ought to do!”

“Well, that’s what I—Oh, by Jove!” Thomas exclaimed, looking from Phoebe to Sylvester in eager inquiry.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Sylvester.

“Oh, that’s famous!” Tom declared, shaking him warmly by the hand. “I never was more glad of anything! After you were such a goose, too, Phoebe! I wish you excessively happy, both of you!” He then hugged Phoebe, recommended her to learn how to conduct herself with propriety, and said, with rare tact, that he would take himself off at once.

“You will find her in her drawing-room,” said Sylvester kindly. “But you would be better employed, let me remind you, in making your peace with Lady Ingham!”

“Yes, I shall do so, of course, but later, because she don’t like morning-callers above half,” replied Tom.

“What you mean,” retorted Sylvester, “is that your nerves are losing their steel! Tell her that you left me on the point of writing to Lord Marlow, to request his permission to marry his daughter, and fear nothing! She’ll fall on your neck!”

“I say, that’s a dashed good notion!” exclaimed Tom, his brow clearing. “I think, if you’ve no objection, I will tell her that!”

“Do!” said Sylvester cordially, and went back into the library, to find himself being balefully regarded by his love.

“Of all the arrogant things I’ve heard you say—”

“My lord Duke!” interpolated Sylvester.

“—that remark was the most insufferable!” declared Phoebe. “What makes you so sure Grandmama will be pleased, pray?”

“Well, what else am I to think, when it was she who proposed the match to me?” he countered, his eyes full of laughter.

“Grandmama?”

“You absurd infant, who do you suppose sent me down to Austerby?”

“You mean to tell me you came at Grandmama’s bidding?”

“Yes, but with the utmost reluctance!” he pleaded outrageously.

“Oh—! Then—then when you sent me to her—Sylvester, you are atrocious!”

“No, no!” he said hastily, taking her in his arms again. He then, with great presence of mind, put a stop to any further recriminations by kissing her; and his indignant betrothed, apparently feeling that he was too deeply sunk in depravity to be reclaimable, abandoned (for the time being, at all events) any further attempt to bring him to a sense of his iniquity.