The project had to be abandoned, but Mrs. Irthing’s visit had roused many memories. The Dowager fell into a reminiscent vein, and it was not until she and Phoebe removed to the drawing-room after dinner that she emerged from it, and bade Phoebe tell her about her own day. Phoebe said that she had enjoyed herself very much, and then, drawing a resolute breath, took the plunge. “Grandmama, there is something I must tell you!”

She would not have been surprised if her confession of having commenced author had met with censure; but the Dowager, once assured that a strict anonymity had been preserved, was rather amused. She even said that she had always known Phoebe to be a clever little puss.

Possibly she considered it unlikely that her granddaughter’s book would be read by any member of the ton; possibly she thought it even more unlikely that a portrait drawn by so inexperienced a hand would be recognizable. She only laughed when Phoebe told her the dreadful truth. But when Phoebe asked her if she thought Sylvester ought to be warned of what was hanging over his head she said quickly: “On no account in the world! Good God, you must be mad to think of such a thing!”

“Yes, ma’am. Only—I can’t be comfortable!” Phoebe said.

“Nonsense! He will know nothing about it!” replied the Dowager.

17

Unlike Lord Byron, Phoebe could not say that she awoke one morning to find herself famous, for clever Mr. Newsham had allowed no clue to her identity to escape him. He saw no profit in allowing it to be known that a schoolroom chit had written The Lost Heir: far better, he told his partner, to set the ton wondering. Poor Mr. Otley, protesting in vain that none but sapskulls would sport the blunt to the tune of eighteen shillings for a romance by an unknown author resigned himself to ruin, and watched with a jaundiced eye the efforts of the senior partner to puff off the book to the ton.

But Mr. Newsham had been right all along. The skilful letters he had written to influential persons, the flattery he had expended, the mysterious hints he had dropped, bore abundant fruit. The list of private subscribers presently caused Mr. Otley’s eyes to start in his head. “Ay! and that’s only the beginning!” said Mr. Newsham. “These are the nobs who would melt a fortune not to be behindhand in the mode. All females, of course: I knew they wouldn’t risk the chance that a roman a clef might not take! By the bye, I’ve discovered who that fellow with the eyebrows is: none other than his grace of Salford, my boy! If that ain’t enough to make the nobs mad after the book, tell me what is!”

Since Mr. Newsham continued to correspond only with Miss Battery, Phoebe never knew that her book had been launched until she saw the three handsome volumes in Lady Sefton’s drawing-room. “Dear Lady Ingham, has this audacious book come in your way? But I need not ask! Is it not the wickedest thing imaginable?” cried her ladyship, with much fluttering of her fan and her eyelids. “Odious creature, whoever she is!—and it is not Caro Lamb, or that Irish woman: that I know for a fact! Setting us all in the pillory! I forgive her only for her sketch of poor dear Emily Cowper! I own I laughed myself into stitches! She has not the least notion of it, of course—thinks it meant for the likeness of Mrs. Burrell! But Ugolino—oh, dear, dear, what must be his feelings if ever the book should come in his way? And that it must, you know, because everyone is talking about it!”

Too soon for her peace of mind did Phoebe prove the truth of this statement. Some, like the haughty Countess Lieven, shrugged it off, calling it an almond for a parrot; some delighted in it; some were shocked by it; but all were eager to discover its authorship. Never, thought Phoebe, could an author have watched the success of her first venture with more consternation! All her pride and pleasure in it were destroyed, and by one tiny thing that might so easily have been changed! Could she but have removed from the book every mention of a pair of eyebrows the rest would have been forgiven her, for only in that one portrait had she been blind to the virtues of her victims.

Lady Ingham, startled to find that the whole town (or as much of it as signified) was discussing her granddaughter’s novel, demanded a copy of it from the reluctant author. Phoebe, who had received a set, forwarded to her by Miss Battery, shrinkingly presented her ladyship with the three elegant volumes.

The Dowager read it through, for some time anxiously watched by her trembling granddaughter, whose nerves suffered severely from the rapid transitions from hope to despair engendered by the Dowager’s frequent utterances. A chuckle sent her spirits up; an ejaculated “Good God!” brought them down with a rush; and she was obliged many times to slip out of the room, unable to bear the suspense.

“Recognize himself?” said the Dowager, when she had come to the end. “Of course he will! Lord, child, how came you to commit such an imprudence? What a mercy that the whole thing is such a farrago of nonsense! I shouldn’t wonder at it if Sylvester treats it as beneath his notice. We must hope he will, and at all events it need never be known that you wrote it. Who knows the truth besides your governess?—I collect she is to be trusted?”

“Indeed, she is, ma’am! The only other is Tom Orde.”

The Dowager clicked her tongue. “I don’t like that! Who’s to say that a young rattle won’t boast of being acquainted with the author when he finds you’ve become famous? You must write to him instantly, Phoebe, and warn him!”

Phoebe was hot in defence of her old playfellow, but it was not her championship that allayed the Dowager’s alarm: it was the appearance on the scene of Tom himself, accompanied by his father, and managing to walk very creditably with the aid of a stick.

No sooner were the guests announced than Phoebe flew across the room to hug first one and then the other. The Squire, kissing her in a fatherly way, said: “Well, puss, and what have you to say for yourself, eh?” and nothing could have been more brotherly than Tom’s greeting. “Hallo, Phoebe!” said Tom. “Take care what you’re about, now! Don’t you go rumpling my neckcloth, for the lord’s sake! Well, by Jove!” (surveying her) “I’m dashed if you don’t look quite modish! Won’t Susan stare when I tell her!”

Nothing lover-like about Tom, decided the Dowager, turning her attention to the Squire.

It could not have been said that Lady Ingham and Mr. Orde had much in common, but her ladyship, welcoming the Squire kindly for Phoebe’s sake, soon found him to be a blunt, sensible man, who seemed to feel just as he ought on a number of important subjects, notably the folly of Lord Marlow, and the pretentiousness, sanctimonious hypocrisy, and cruelty of his spouse. They soon had their heads together, leaving Tom and Phoebe to talk undisturbed in the window-bay.

Knowing his Phoebe, Tom had come in the expectation of being pelted with questions about everyone at Austerby and at the Manor, but except for a polite inquiry after Mrs. Orde’s health, and an anxious one about Trusty and True, Phoebe asked him none. She was in regular communication with Miss Battery, an excellent correspondent, had received several letters from Susan, and even one or two scribbled notes from Lord Marlow, his lordship’s happy disposition having led him to believe, within a very short time, that if he had not actually connived at his daughter’s flight to her grandmother, at least this adventure had had his approval. Phoebe was more interested to learn what had brought Tom to town, and for how long he meant to remain.

Well, the Squire had had business to transact, and it was so abominably slow at home, when one couldn’t yet ride, or fish, or even walk very far, that there was no bearing it, so Tom had come to London with his father. They were putting up at Reddish’s Hotel, and meant to stay for at least a se’enight. The Squire had promised to take his son to visit one or two places he had long wanted to see. No, no, not edifices. He had seen them years ago! Interesting places, such as the Fives Court, and Jackson’s Saloon, and Cribb’s Parlour, and the Castle Tavern. Not in Phoebe’s line, of course. And he was going to call on Salford.

“He told me to be sure and do so if ever I was in town, so I shall. He wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t meant it, do you think?”

“Oh, no, but he has gone out of town,” Phoebe replied. “I am not perfectly sure when he means to return, but I daresay it will be before you go away: he spoke of it as if he meant only to be gone a short while. He is at Chance, visiting his mother.”

“Do you see him, then?” Tom asked, surprised.

“Yes, frequently,” Phoebe answered, blushing faintly. “I have come to know one of his cousins, you see, and—and so we often meet. But, oh, Tom, the most terrible thing has happened, and if you do see Salford you must take the greatest care not to betray me! I dread his return, for how to look him in the face I don’t know!”

“Betray you?” demanded Tom, astonished. “What the deuce are you talking about?”

“My wretched, wretched book!”

“Your—Oh, that! Well, what of it?”

“It is a success!” said Phoebe, in a voice of tragedy.

“Good God, you don’t mean it? I wouldn’t have believed it!” exclaimed Tom, adding still more infelicitously: “Though I must say it had a devilish handsome binding: Sibby showed it to me, you know.”

“It isn’t the binding people are talking about!” said Phoebe, with asperity. “They are talking about the characters in it, and the author! Everyone wants to know who wrote it! Now do you understand?”

Tom did understand. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle, and after a minute said: “Has Salford read it?”

“No—at least—no, he can’t have done so yet, surely! He went away almost immediately after it was published.”

“I wonder if he’ll guess?” said Tom slowly. “You needn’t be afraid I shall let it out, but it wouldn’t surprise me if—You know what I should do if I were you?” She shook her head, her eyes fixed on his face. “I’d make a clean breast of it,” said Tom.

“I did think of doing so, but when I remember what I wrote—” She broke off with a shudder.

“Devilish difficult thing to do,” he agreed. “All the same—”

“I don’t think I could,” she confessed. “If he were to be angry—! It makes me sick only to imagine it! And my grandmother says on no account must I tell him.”

“Well, I daresay she knows best,” responded Tom somewhat dubiously. “What will you do if he charges you with it? Deny it?”

“Oh, don’t, Tom!” begged Phoebe.

“Yes, but you’d best make up your mind,” he insisted. “I shouldn’t think, myself, that he’ll believe you: you never could tell a bouncer without looking guilty!”

“If he asks me,” said Phoebe despairingly, “I must tell the truth.”

“Well, perhaps he won’t ask you,” said Tom, perceiving that she was looking rather sickly already. “But take care you don’t mention it to anyone else, that’s all! Ten to one you’ll blurt it out to somebody! I know you!”

“Blurt it out! No, indeed!” she assured him.

She thought there could be little fear of it, but some severe trials had to be undergone, when she found herself obliged to endure in silence such discussions about her book as made her long to cry out: No! I never meant it so! For the one feature of The Lost Heir which aroused the curiosity of society was the character of Count Ugolino. The levelheaded might dismiss it as a piece of impertinence; Sylvester’s friends might be up in arms; but it seemed to Phoebe that the idiots who asserted there was never smoke without a fire were legion. She was speedily made to realize that she had not been Ianthe’s only confidante. Before ever The Lost Heir was written Ianthe had apparently blackened Sylvester’s character to as many persons as would listen to her grievances. “Oh, the circumstances have been changed, of course!” some avid-eyed female would say. “I don’t mean to say that Salford has done the same as Ugolino—well, he couldn’t, nowadays! But as soon as I read the book I remembered how poor Lady Henry told me once ...”

“Could it be true that Lady Henry’s son is the real Duke of Salford?” breathed the credulous. “They were twins, were they not, Salford and Lord Henry?”

That lurid fancy had almost proved to be Phoebe’s breaking-point. But for her grandmother’s quelling eye she believed she must have spoken. It caught hers in the very nick of time, and she remained silent. That eye was absent when she heard the same lurid fancy on Ianthe’s lips.