He was obliged to admit Phoebe, of course. He did it with obvious reluctance, and stood, rigid with disapproval, while she thanked Keighley for his services, and bade him good-bye with what he considered most unbecoming friendliness.
‘I will ascertain whether her ladyship will receive you, miss,’ he said, shutting the door at last upon Keighley. ‘I should inform you, however, that her ladyship retired to rest above an hour ago.’
She tried not to feel daunted, and said as confidently as she could that she was sure her grandmother would receive her. ‘And will you, if you please, look after my maid, Horwich?’ she said. ‘We have been travelling for a great many hours, and I expect she will be glad of some supper.’
‘I will that, and no mistake!’ corroborated Alice, grinning cordially at Horwich. ‘Don’t you go putting yourself out, though! A bit of cold meat and a mug of porter will do me fine.’
Phoebe could not feel, observing the expression on Horwich’s face, that Sylvester had acted wisely in sending Alice to town with her. Horwich said in arctic accents that he would desire the housekeeper – if she had not gone to bed – to attend to the Young Person presently. He added that if Miss would be pleased to step into the morning-room he would send her ladyship’s maid up to apprise my lady of Miss’s unexpected arrival.
But by this time Phoebe’s temper had begun to mount, and she surprised the venerable tyrant by saying tartly that she would do no such thing. ‘You need not put yourself to the trouble of escorting me, for I know my way very well! If her ladyship is asleep I shall not wake her, and if she is not I don’t need Muker to announce me!’ she declared.
Her ladyship was not asleep. Phoebe’s soft knock on her door was answered by a command to come in; and she entered to find her grandmother sitting up in her curtained bed, with a number of pillows to support her, and an open book in her hands. Two branches of candles and the flames of a large fire lit the scene, and cast into strong relief her ladyship’s aquiline profile. ‘Well, what is it?’ she said testily, and looked round. ‘Phoebe! Good God, what in the world – ? My dear, dear child, come in!’
A weight slid from Phoebe’s shoulders; her face puckered, and with a thankful cry of: ‘Oh, Grandmama!’ she ran forward.
The Dowager embraced her warmly, but she was not unnaturally alarmed by so sudden an arrival. ‘Yes, yes, of course I am glad to see you, my love! But tell me at once what has happened! Don’t try to break it to me gently! Not, I do trust, a fatal accident to your papa?’
‘No – oh, no! Nothing of that nature, ma’am!’ Phoebe assured her. ‘Grandmama, you told me once that I might depend on you if – if ever I needed help!’
‘That Woman!’ uttered the Dowager, sitting bolt upright.
‘Yes, and – and Papa too,’ said Phoebe sadly. ‘That was what made it so desperate! Something happened – at last, I believed it was going to happen – and I couldn’t bear it, and so – and so I ran away!’
‘Merciful heavens!’ exclaimed Lady Ingham. ‘My poor child, what have they been doing to you? Tell me the whole!’
‘Mama told me that Papa had arranged a – a very advantageous marriage for me with the Duke of Salford,’ began Phoebe haltingly. She was conscious that her grandmother had stiffened, and paused nervously. But the Dowager merely adjured her to continue, so she drew a breath, and said earnestly: ‘I couldn’t marry him, ma’am! You see, I had only met him once in my life, and I disliked him excessively. Besides, I knew very well that he didn’t so much as remember me! Even if I had liked him I couldn’t have borne to marry a man who only offered for me because his mother wished him to!’
The Dowager, controlling herself with a strong effort, said: ‘Is that what That Woman told you?’
‘Yes, and also that it was because I had been brought up as I should be, which made him think I should be suitable!’
‘Good God!’ said the Dowager bitterly.
‘You – you do understand, don’t you, ma’am?’
‘Oh, yes! I understand only too well!’ was the somewhat grim response.
‘I was persuaded you would! And the dreadful thing was that Papa was bringing him to Austerby to propose to me. At least, so Mama said, for Papa had told her so.’
‘When I see Marlow – Did he bring Salford to Austerby?’
‘Yes, he did, but how he came to make such a mistake – unless, of course, Salford did mean to offer for me, but changed his mind as soon as he saw me again, which, I must say, no one could wonder at. I don’t know precisely how it may have been, but Papa was sure he meant to make me an offer, and when I told him what my sentiments were, and begged him to tell the Duke – he would not,’ said Phoebe, her voice petering out unhappily. ‘So I knew then that there wasn’t anybody, except you, Grandmama, who could help me. And I ran away.’
‘Alone?’ demanded the Dowager, horrified. ‘Never tell me you’ve come all that distance on the common stage and by yourself!’
‘No, indeed I haven’t!’ Phoebe hastened to reassure her. ‘I came in Salford’s chaise, and he made me bring a – a maid with me, besides sending his groom to look after everything for me!’
‘What?’ said the Dowager incredulously. ‘Came in Salford’s chaise?’
‘I – I must explain it to you, ma’am,’ said Phoebe, looking guilty.
‘You must indeed!’ said the Dowager, staring at her in the liveliest astonishment.
‘Yes. Only, it – it is rather a long story!’
‘In that case, my love, be good enough to pull the bell!’ said the Dowager. ‘You will like a glass of hot milk after your journey. And I think,’ she added, in fainter accents, ‘that I will take some myself, to sustain me.’
She then (to Phoebe’s alarm) sank back against her disordered pillows, and closed her eyes. However, upon the entrance of Miss Muker presently, she opened them again, and said with surprising vigour: ‘You may take that sour look off your face, Muker, and fetch up two glasses of hot milk directly! My granddaughter, who has come to pay me a visit, has endured a most fatiguing journey. And when you have done that, you will see that a warming-pan is slipped between the sheets of her bed, and a fire lit, and everything made ready for her. In the best spare bedchamber!’
When my lady spoke in that voice is was unwise to argue with her. Muker, who had responded to Phoebe’s greeting in a repressive voice, and with the slightest of curtsies, received her orders without comment, but said with horrid restraint: ‘And would Miss wish to have the Female which I understand to be her maid attend her here, my lady?’
‘No, pray send her to bed!’ said Phoebe quickly. ‘She – she is not precisely my maid!’
‘So, if I may say so, miss, I apprehend!’ said Muker glacially.
‘Disagreeable creature!’ said the Dowager, as the door closed behind her devoted abigail. ‘Who is this Female, if she is not your maid?’
‘Well, she’s the landlady’s daughter,’ Phoebe answered. ‘Salford would have me bring her!’
‘Landlady’s daughter? No, don’t explain it to me yet, child! Muker will come back with the hot milk directly, and something seems to tell me that if we suffer an interruption I shall become perfectly bewildered. Take that ugly pelisse off, my love – good gracious, where did you have that dreadful gown made? Has That Woman no taste? Well, never mind! Whatever happens I’ll set that to rights! Draw that chair to the fire, and then we can be comfortable. And perhaps if you were to give me my smelling-salts – yes, on that table, child! – it would be a good thing!’
But although the story presently unfolded to her might have been thought by some to have been expressly designed to cast into palpitations any elderly lady in failing health, the Dowager had no recourse to her vinaigrette. The tale was so ravelled as to make it necessary for her to interpolate a number of questions, and there was nothing in her incisive delivery of these to suggest frailty either of body or inte
llect.
The most searching of her enquiries were drawn from her by the intrusion into the recital of Mr Thomas Orde. She appeared to be much interested in him; and while Phoebe readily told her all about her oldest friend she kept her eyes fixed piercingly upon her face. But when she learned of Tom’s nobility in offering a clandestine marriage to her granddaughter (‘which threw me into whoops, because he isn’t nearly old enough to be married, besides being just like my brother!’) she lost interest in him, merely requesting Phoebe, in a much milder tone, to continue her story. There was nothing to be feared, decided her ladyship, from young Mr Orde.
The last of her questions were posed almost casually. ‘And did Salford chance to mention me?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes!’ replied Phoebe blithely. ‘He told me that he was particularly acquainted with you, because you were his godmother. So I ventured to ask him if he thought you might – might like to let me reside with you, and he seemed to think you would, Grandmama!’
‘Did he indeed!’ said the Dowager, her countenance inscrutable. ‘Well, my love –’ with sudden energy – ‘he was perfectly right! I shall like it excessively!’
It was long before her ladyship fell asleep that night. She had been provided by her innocent granddaughter with food for much thought, and still more conjecture. Lord and Lady Marlow were soon dismissed from her mind (but a large part of the following morning was going to be pleasurably spent in the composition of a letter calculated to bring about a dangerous relapse in his lordship’s state of health); and so too was young Mr Orde. What intrigued Lady Ingham was the position occupied by Sylvester in the stirring drama disclosed to her. The rôle of deus ex machina, which he appeared to have undertaken, sounded most unlike him; nor could she picture him living in what she judged to be the depths of squalor, and spending his time between the stables and a sickroom. In fact, the only recognizable thing he seemed to have done was to encourage Phoebe to seek refuge in Green Street. That, thought the Dowager indignantly, rang very true! She had no doubt, either, that he had done it out of pure malice. Well! He would shortly discover that he had shot wide of the mark. She was delighted to welcome Phoebe. She wondered that it should not have occurred to her that the very thing needed to relieve the intolerable boredom she had been suffering during the past few months, when the better part of her acquaintance had retired into the country, was the presence in her house of a lively granddaughter. She now perceived that to keep Phoebe with her would be in every way preferable to the fatigue of a journey to Paris, a project which she had had in doubtful contemplation ever since one of her chief cronies had written thence to urge her to join the throng of well-born English who were disporting themselves so agreeably in that most delightful of capitals. She had been tempted, but there were grave drawbacks to the scheme. It would mean putting oneself beyond the reach of dear Sir Henry; Muker would be certain to dislike it; and whatever poor Mary Berry might allege to the contrary it was the Dowager’s unalterable conviction that the escort of a gentleman was indispensable to any lady bent on foreign travel. One could admittedly engage a courier, but to do so merely added to one’s expenditure, since the gentleman was still necessary, to keep a watchful eye on the activities of this hireling. No: on every account it would be better to adopt Phoebe, and try what she could achieve for the child. Once she had rigged her out becomingly she would positively enjoy taking her, whenever her health permitted, into society.
Here her ladyship’s thoughts suffered a check. She had no intention of allowing Phoebe to abjure the world (as Phoebe had suggested), but although her health might benefit by chaperoning the child to one or two private balls, nothing could be more prejudicial to it than interminable evenings spent at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, or at parties given by hostesses with whom she was barely acquainted. But the check was only momentary: the Dowager remembered the existence of her meek daughter-in-law, Rosina, with two girls of her own to chaperon, could very well take her niece under her wing: such an arrangement could make no possible difference to her.
This was a small matter, and soon disposed of; far more important, and far more difficult to solve, was the riddle of Sylvester’s behaviour.
He was coming to visit her. She had received this message with every appearance of indifference, but she had pricked up her ears at it. He was, was he? Well, it would go against the grain to do it, but if he did come she would receive him affably. Perhaps, if she saw him, she might be able to discover just what game he was playing. His actions invited her to suppose that he had fallen in love with Phoebe, and was bent on displaying himself to her in most pleasing colours. But if Phoebe’s account of what had passed during his stay at Austerby were to be believed it was hard to detect what he had seen in her to captivate him. The Dowager did not think he had gone to Austerby with the intention of liking what he found there, for she was well aware that she had erred a trifle in her handling of him, and set up his back. It had been quite a question, when she had seen that sparkle of anger in his eyes, whether she should push the matter farther, or let it rest. She had decided on the bolder course because he had told her that it was his intention to marry; and once he had made up his mind to it there was clearly not a day to be wasted in presenting Phoebe to his notice.
Recollecting in what stringent terms she had commanded Marlow not to breathe a word to a soul, her thin fingers crooked into claws. She might have known that That Woman would speedily drag the whole business out of such a prattle-box; but could anyone have foreseen that she was such a fool as to tell Phoebe everything that was most certain to set her against Sylvester?
Well, it was useless to rage over the irrevocable past. The future, she thought, was not hopeless. Too often men fell in love with the unlikeliest girls; it was possible that Sylvester, indifferent to the charms of the many Beauties who had flung out lures to him season after season, had been attracted to Phoebe because she was (to say the least of it) an unusual girl, and, far from encouraging his addresses, had repulsed them.
Possible, but not probable, thought Lady Ingham, considering Sylvester. He might have been piqued; she found it hard to believe that he had been fascinated. A high stickler, Sylvester: never, even in his callow youth, a Blood who sought fame in eccentricity. Indeed, the scandalous exploits of this fraternity won from him no other comment than was conveyed by a slight, contemptuous shrug of his shoulders; so how could one suppose that he would see anything to admire in a girl who outraged convention? Such conduct as Phoebe’s was much more likely to have disgusted him. Angered him, too, reflected the Dowager, as well it might! A mortifying experience for any man to know that the prospect of receiving a proposal of marriage from him had driven a gently nurtured girl into headlong flight, and, for one of Sylvester’s pride, intolerable.
Suddenly the Dowager wondered whether it had been with the intention of punishing Phoebe rather than her grandmother that Sylvester had sent her up to London. He might certainly have supposed that a grandmother, learning of her outrageous behaviour, would have dealt her very short shrift. He could not have guessed that when the child had poured out to her the story of her adventure she had seen not Phoebe but Verena, for Sylvester had never known Verena.
An excess of sensibility was not one of Lady Ingham’s failings. There had been a moment of aching memory, awakened by some fleeting expression on Phoebe’s face, but her ladyship was not going to think of that. She was not concerned with Verena now, but with Verena’s daughter. If Sylvester hoped to find Phoebe in her black books he was going to suffer a disappointment, and would be well served for his malice.
It was not until she was slipping over the edge of wakefulness that Lady Ingham remembered the landlady’s daughter. It was Sylvester who had insisted on her accompanying Phoebe to London, and whatever motive it was that had prompted him it was not malice. It would be unwise to hope, she thought drowsily, but there was no need yet to despair.
Fourteen
On the followi
ng morning Phoebe found her grandmother in brisk spirits, and very full of plans for the day. Foremost amongst these was a visit to a silk-warehouse and another to her ladyship’s own modiste. ‘To dress you becomingly is the first necessity, child,’ said the Dowager. ‘The sight of you in that shabby gown makes me nervous!’ The prospect of choosing fashionable raiment was enticing, but Phoebe was obliged to beg her grandmother to postpone this programme. She had promised to show Alice all the most notable sights of London and, in particular, to take her to the Pantheon Bazaar.
She had a little difficulty in persuading the Dowager to consent to any part of this scheme, for it did not at all suit that lady’s sense of propriety to permit her granddaughter to wander about, seeing the lions, with no other escort than a raw country-girl. She told Phoebe that Alice would enjoy herself more in the company of one of the maidservants, but was persuaded finally to sanction an expedition to the Pantheon Bazaar, having recollected that before she herself could prosecute her various designs she must write a letter to Lord Marlow, and another to her daughter-in-law. Phoebe’s own letter to her papa was already written; and she was able to frustrate the Dowager’s intention to send her forth in her town carriage by reminding her how much her coachman was likely to object to having his horses kept standing in inclement weather. Phoebe had a piece of very secret business to transact, and she by no means wished Lady Ingham’s coachman to report to his mistress that her first port of call had been the offices of Messrs Newsham & Otley, Publishers.
She entered these premises with high hopes, and left them in a mood of such black foreboding as made it hard for her to enter into Alice’s raptures at all that met her eyes. It had not occurred to Phoebe that it might be too late for her to delete from her forthcoming romance every mention of Count Ugolino’s distinctive eyebrows.
Sylvester Page 18
