Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

4

The schoolroom of Austerby was presided over by a lady of quelling aspect whose rawbone frame was invariably clad in sober-hued dresses made high to the neck and unadorned by flounces. Her sandy hair was smoothly banded under a cap; her complexion was weatherbeaten; her eyes of a pale blue; and her nose, the most salient feature of her countenance, jutted out intimidatingly. She had a gruff way of talking, and as her voice was a deep one this helped to make her seem a veritable dragon.

Appearances, however, were deceptive. Under Miss Sibylla Battery’s formidable front beat a warmly affectionate heart. With the possible exception of Eliza, Lady Marlow’s third and best loved daughter, her young charges all adored her; and Phoebe, Susan, Mary, and even little Kitty confided their hopes and their griefs to her, and loyally shielded her from blame in their peccadilloes.

It might have been supposed that Miss Phoebe Marlow, nineteen years of age, and a débutante of a season’s standing, would have been emancipated from the schoolroom; but as she feared and disliked her stepmother, and was cordially disliked by Lady Marlow, she was glad to make Italian lessons with Miss Battery an excuse to spend what time she could spare from the stables in the schoolroom. This arrangement suited Lady Marlow equally well, for although she had striven her utmost to rear her step-daughter in the image of a genteel young female, none of the whippings Phoebe had received and no weight of hours spent in solitary confinement had availed to purge her of what her ladyship called her hoydenish tricks. She careered all over the countryside, mounted either on her own cover-hack, or on one of her father’s big hunters; tore her clothes; hobnobbed with grooms; stitched abominably; and was (in Lady Marlow’s opinion) on far too easy terms with Mr. Thomas Orde, her life-long friend and the son of the Squire. Had she had her way Lady Marlow would have very speedily put a stop to any but the mildest form of equestrian exercise; but to every representation made to him on this sore subject Lord Marlow turned a deaf ear. He was in general the most compliant of husbands, but horses were his passion, and her ladyship had learnt long ago that any attempt to interfere in what concerned the stables would fail. Like many weak men, Lord Marlow could be mulish in obstinacy. He was proud of Phoebe’s horsemanship, liked to take her out with him on hunting-days, and could ill have spared her from his stables, which she managed, in theory, during his frequent absences from home, and, in practice, at all times.

Summoned peremptorily to London by Lady Ingham, Lord Marlow, an indolent man, left Austerby grumbling. He returned two days later in the best of spirits, and in unaccustomed charity with his one-time mother-in-law. Such a brilliant match as she seemed to have arranged for Phoebe he had never hoped to achieve, for Phoebe had not taken very well during her London season. Lady Marlow had drilled her into propriety; it was Lord Marlow’s unexpressed opinion that she had overdone it. A little more vivacity, of which he knew Phoebe to have plenty, was needed to overcome the disadvantages of a thin, wiry figure, a brown complexion, and no more beauty than could be found in a pair of clear grey eyes, which could certainly twinkle with mischief, but which more frequently held a look of scared apprehension.

Lady Marlow was a Christian woman, and she did not grudge Phoebe her astonishing good fortune, however unworthy of it she might be. Indeed, she determined to see to it that Phoebe did nothing to alienate such an eligible suitor during his stay at Austerby. “For, you may depend upon it,” she said, “that whatever whimsical notion Salford may have taken into his head of offering for the daughter of his mama’s friend he will marry none but a female who conducts herself with propriety. For my part, I am persuaded this marriage has been proposed to him by Lady Ingham. Phoebe has yet to establish herself in his eyes. He met her in London in the spring—indeed, he stood up with her at Lady Sefton’s ball—but if he would recognize her again it is more than I bargain for.”

“You don’t think, my love,” his lordship ventured to suggest, “that it might be wiser not to inform her why he comes to visit us—that is, if he does come, which, you know, is not certain?”

No, her ladyship did not think so at all, unless it was my lord’s wish that his daughter should instantly disgust the Duke by coming in spattered all over with mud, blurting out one of her ill-considered remarks, or giving him a very odd notion of her character by encouraging the familiarities of young Orde.

Lord Marlow wished for none of these things, and although he saw no harm in her alliance with young Orde, and knew their relationship to be that of brother and sister, he was easily brought to believe that it might be misunderstood by Salford, a pretty high stickler. He agreed that Tom’s visits to Austerby, and Phoebe’s to the Manor, should be discouraged, and kept to himself his earnest hope that his helpmate might not offend the Squire and his lady. Lord Marlow did not like to be on bad terms with his neighbours; besides, the Squire was the Master of the hunt, and although his lordship did most of his hunting in the shires it still would by no means suit him to fall out with the local Master. But Lady Marlow said commandingly: “Leave it to me!” and, on the whole, he was only too 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 before repairing to the schoolroom.

She reached the room just as Mary, a humble-minded girl, gathered her books together, asking her sister whether she too must go away.

“Not unless Phoebe wishes,” replied Susan. “You don’t carry tales to Mama!”

“Oh, no!” Phoebe said. “Of course I don’t wish you to go, Mary! Besides, it isn’t a secret.” She looked round quickly as the door opened, and exclaimed: “Oh, Sibby, did you know? Did Mama tell you?”

“No,” said Miss Battery. “I overheard something your papa said to her, though. Couldn’t help but do so. I thought it not right to say anything to you, but when I heard you had been sent for to the dressing-room I guessed what it must be. Your papa has received an offer for your hand.”

“No!” cried Susan. “Phoebe, has he indeed?”

“Yes—at least, I think—Oh, I don’t know, but Mama seems to think he will, if only I will conduct myself conformably!”

“Oh, famous!” Susan declared, clapping her hands. “Who is he? How could you be so sly as never to breathe a word about it? Did you meet him in London? Is he passionately in love with you?”

“No!” replied Phoebe baldly.

This damping monosyllable checked Susan’s raptures. Miss Battery looked rather anxiously at Phoebe; and Mary said diffidently that she rather supposed that persons of quality did not fall in love.

“That’s only what Mama says, and I know it isn’t true!” said Susan scornfully. “Is it, ma’am?”

“Can’t say,” responded Miss Battery briefly. “Nor can you. Shouldn’t be thinking of such things at your age.”

“Pooh, I am nearly sixteen, and I can tell you I mean to get a husband as soon as I can! Phoebe, do stop being missish, and tell us who he is!”

“I’m not being missish!” said Phoebe indignantly. “I am in flat despair, and he is the Duke of Salford!”

“W-what?” gasped Susan. “Phoebe, you wretch, you’re hoaxing us! Only fancy you as a duchess!”

Phoebe was not in the least offended by her burst of hearty laughter, but Mary said stoutly: “I think Phoebe would make a very nice duchess.”

That made Phoebe laugh too, but Miss Battery nodded, and said: “So she would!”

“How can you say so?” expostulated Phoebe. “When I haven’t the smallest turn for fashion, and never know what to say to strangers, or—”

“Is he fashionable?” interrupted Susan eagerly.

“Oh, excessively! That is, I don’t know, but I should think he would be. He is always very well dressed, and he goes to all the ton parties, and drives a splendid pair of dapple-greys in the Park. I shouldn’t wonder at it if he spent as much as a hundred pounds a year on soap in his stables.”

“Well, that ought to make him acceptable to you!” observed Susan. “But what is he like? Is he young? Handsome?”

“I don’t know what his age may be. He is not old, I suppose. As for handsome, people say he is, but I do not think so. In fact—” She stopped suddenly, aware of Mary’s innocently inquiring gaze, and ended her description of Sylvester by saying only that she judged him to ride about twelve stone.

Mary, who had a retentive memory, said hopefully: “Papa used to ride twelve stone when he was a young man. He said so once, and also that it is the best weight for hunting over strong country. Does the Duke hunt over strong country, Phoebe?”

Susan broke in on this with pardonable impatience. “Who cares a fig for that? I wish you won’t be so provoking, Phoebe! Why don’t you want him to offer for you? Is he disagreeable? For my part, if he were rich and reasonably civil I shouldn’t care for anything else. Only fancy! You would have a house of your own, and as many new dresses as you wished, and very likely splendid jewels as well, besides being able to do just as you chose!”

Miss Battery eyed her with disfavour. “If you can’t refrain from expressing yourself with what I can’t call anything but vulgarity, Susan, I must impose silence upon you. In any event, it is past the hour, and you should be practising that sonatina.”

Having in this masterly fashion disposed of Susan, Miss Battery recommended Mary to occupy herself for half an hour with the sampler she was embroidering for her Mama’s birthday, and left the room, taking Phoebe with her. Firmly shutting the schoolroom door she said in a lowered voice:

“Thought it best you should say no more to Susan. Good girl, but wants discretion. You’re all of a twitter: why?”

“It is the most shocking thing!” Phoebe declared, looking quite distracted. “If it were anyone but Mama I should think it a take-in! But Mama—! Oh dear, I am utterly confounded! I feel as though my senses won’t be straight again for a twelvemonth!”

“Not so loud!” said Miss Battery. “Tell me in your bedchamber! Try to recover your composure, my dear.”

Thus adjured, Phoebe followed her meekly along the corridor to her bedchamber. Since one of Lady Marlow’s favourite economies was to allow no fires to be kindled in any bedchamber but her own, her lord’s, and those occupied by such guests as were hardy enough to visit Austerby during the winter months, this apartment might have been considered singularly unsuitable for a tête-à-tête. Phoebe, however, was inured to its rigours. Miss Battery, stalking over to the wardrobe, and unearthing from it a large shawl, wrapped this round her pupil’s thin shoulders, saying as she did so: “I collect you don’t wish for this match. Can’t deny that it’s a flattering one, or that I should like to see you so well-established. Now, tell me this, child: have you got some silly notion in your head about that scheme of yours to set up for yourself with me to bear you company? Because if so don’t give it a thought! I shan’t. Never supposed it would come to pass—or wished for it, if you received an agreeable offer.”

“No, no, it’s not that!” Phoebe said. “For if I were to be married who but you should I want to instruct my children? Sibby, do you know who Salford is?”

Miss Battery frowned at her in a puzzled way. “Who he is?” she repeated. “You said he was a duke.”

Phoebe began to laugh a little hysterically. “He is Count Ugolino!” she said.

It might have been expected that this extraordinary announcement would have still further bewildered Miss Battery, but although she was certainly startled by it, she found it perfectly intelligible. Ejaculating: “Merciful heavens!” she sat down limply, and stared at Phoebe in great perturbation. She was well-acquainted with the Count: indeed, she might have been said to have been present at his birth, an event for which she was, in some measure, responsible, since she had for several years shared with Phoebe the romantic novels which were the solace of her own leisure hours. Her only extravagance was a subscription to a Bath lending library; her only conscious sin was that she encouraged Lady Marlow to suppose that the package delivered weekly by the carrier contained only works of an erudite or an elevating character. So strong was Lady Marlow’s disapproval of fiction that even Miss Edgeworth’s moral tales were forbidden to her daughters. Her rule was so absolute that it never occurred to her to doubt that she was obeyed to the letter; and as she was as imperceptive as she was despotic no suspicion had ever crossed her mind that Miss Battery was by no means the rigid disciplinarian she appeared.

In none of Lady Marlow’s own daughters did Miss Battery discover the imaginative turn of mind so much deprecated by, her ladyship; in Phoebe it was pronounced, and Miss Battery, loving her and deeply pitying her, fostered it, knowing how much her own joyless existence was lightened by excursions into a world of pure make-believe. From the little girl who scribbled fairy stories for the rapt delectation of Susan and Mary, Phoebe had developed into a real authoress, and one, moreover, who had written a stirring romance worthy of being published.

She had written it after her London season. It had come white-hot from her ready pen, and Miss Battery had been quick to see that it was far in advance of her earlier attempts at novel-writing. Its plot was as extravagant as anything that came from the Minerva Press; the behaviour of its characters was for the most part wildly improbable; the scene was laid in an unidentifiable country; and the entire story was rich in absurdity. But Phoebe’s pen had always been persuasive, and so enthralling did she contrive to make the adventures of her heroine that it was not until he had reached the end of the book that even so stern a critic as young Mr. Orde bethought him of the various incidents which he saw, in retrospect, to be impossible. Miss Battery, a more discerning critic, recognized not only the popular nature of the tale, but also the flowering in it of a latent talent. Phoebe had discovered in herself a gift for humorous portraiture, and she had not wasted her time in London. Tom Orde might complain that a score of minor characters were irrelevant, but Miss Battery knew that it was these swift, unerring sketches that raised The Lost Heir above the commonplace. She would not allow Phoebe to expunge one of them, or a line of their wickedly diverting dialogues, but persuaded her instead to write it all out in fairest copperplate. Phoebe groaned at this tedious labour, but since neither she nor Miss Battery knew of a professional copyist, and would have been hard put to it to have paid for such a person’s services, she submitted to the drudgery. After that the book was packed up, and dispatched by the mail to Miss Battery’s cousin, Mr. Gilbert Otley, junior partner in the small but aspiring firm of Newsham & Otley, Publishers.

Mr. Otley, receiving the manuscript and perusing the accompanying letter from Miss Battery, was unimpressed. At first glance he did not think The Lost Heir the sort of book he wished to handle; and the intelligence that it was the work of a Lady of Quality drew from him only a heavy sigh. However, he took The Lost Heir home with him, and read it at a sitting. It did not take him long to perceive that it was to some extent a roman a clef, for although he was unacquainted with the members of the haut ton he was shrewd enough to realize that the authoress in depicting many of her characters was drawing from the life. The success of Glenarvon, published some eighteen months previously, was still fresh in his mind; and it was this circumstance which led him, rather doubtfully, to hand The Lost Heir to his partner.

Mr. Harvey Newsham was unexpectedly enthusiastic; and when Mr. Otley pointed out to him that it was not such a book as they had been used to produce he replied caustically that if it enjoyed better sales than had the last three of these works he for one should not complain.

“But will it?” said Mr. Otley. “The story is no great thing, after all—in fact it’s nonsensical!”

“No one will care for that.”

“Well, I don’t know. I should have thought it too fantastical myself. In fact, it still has me in a puzzle. How the devil did that Ugolino-fellow get hold of his nephew in the first place? And why didn’t he smother him, or something, when he had got hold of him, instead of keeping him prisoner in that castle of his? And as for the boy’s sister managing to get into the place, let alone that corkbrained hero, and then the pair of them setting sail with the boy—well, they couldn’t have done it.”

Mr. Newsham dismissed such trivialities with a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t signify. This female—” he jabbed a finger at Phoebe’s manuscript—“knows how to do the trick! What’s more, the book’s stuffed with people she’s met, and that’s what will make the nobs buy it.” He glanced down at the manuscript appraisingly. “In three volumes, handsomely bound,” he said thoughtfully. “At the start of next season. Say April—skilfully puffed-off, of course. I think it will do, Otley!”

“It will be pretty expensive,” objected Mr. Otley.

“I mean this book to be in every fashionable drawing-room, and it won’t do to get it up shoddy. Colburn issued Lady Caroline Lamb’s tale in tooled leather. It looked very well.”

“Ay, but you may depend upon it Lady Caroline paid for it,” retorted Mr. Otley.

“No reason to suppose this author won’t do the same,” said the optimistic Mr. Newsham. “Offer her profit-sharing terms, she to pay all losses. You know, my boy, if the book were to take, Colburn will be as surly as a butcher’s dog to think it wasn’t offered him!”

“So he will!” agreed Mr. Otley, cheered by this reflection. “I’ll write off to my cousin next week: we don’t wish to appear over-anxious to come to terms. I shall tell her it ain’t just in our line, besides having a good many faults.”

This programme, being approved by the senior partner, was carried out; but from then on the negotiations proceeded on quite different lines from those envisaged by Mr. Otley. Miss Battery’s prompt reply afforded him a new insight into that lady’s character. Begging his pardon for having put him to the trouble of reading a work which she now realized to be unsuitable matter for the firm of Newsham & Otley she requested him to return it to her by the mail, care of the receiving office in Bath. Further inquiries had given her to think that the manuscript ought to be offered to Colburn, or perhaps to Egerton. She would be much obliged to him for his advice on this point, and remained his affectionate cousin, Sibylla Battery.

Recovering from this setback, Mr. Otley then entered upon some spirited bargaining, agreement being finally reached at the sum of £150, to be received by Miss Battery on behalf of the author upon receipt by the publisher of the booksellers’ accounts. Left to himself Mr. Otley would have done his possible to have reduced this figure by £50, but at this stage of the negotiations Mr. Newsham intervened, giving it as his opinion that to behave scaly to a promising new author could result only in her offering her second book to a rival publisher. He would have been gratified could he but have known to what dizzy heights his generosity raised Miss Marlow’s spirits. The sum seemed enormous to her; and then and there was born her determination to leave Austerby as soon as she came of age, and with Miss Battery for chaperon to set up a modest establishment of her own in which she would be able without interference to pursue her lucrative vocation.

Besides Miss Battery only Mr. Orde shared the secret of her authorship, and it was not until he had been permitted to see the proof-sheets that Mr. Orde was relieved of his suspicion that the whole affair was an attempt to hoax him. He was much more impressed by the sight of the story in actual print than he thought it proper to admit; but he very handsomely acknowledged to the proud author that he had not believed it could read half as well.