The smile won Tom; he said in a burst of confidence: ‘Well, the truth is the whole thing was a fudge, but Lady Marlow told Phoebe you were going to Austerby to make her an offer! I must say it sounded like a hum to me, but it seems Lord Marlow thought so too, so one can’t blame Phoebe for being taken in, and cast into flat despair because of it.’

‘In fact,’ said Sylvester, ‘an offer from me would not have been welcome to her?’

‘Oh, lord, no!’ said Tom. ‘She said nothing would induce her to marry you! But I daresay you may have seen how it is in that house: if you had meant to offer for her Lady Marlow would have bullied her into submitting. The only thing was for her to run away.’ He stopped, uneasily aware of having said more than was discreet. There was an odd expression in Sylvester’s eyes, hard to interpret but rather disquieting. ‘You know what females are, sir!’ he added, trying to mend matters. ‘It was all nonsense, of course, for she scarcely knew you. I hope-I mean-perhaps I shouldn’t have told you!’

‘Oh, why not?’ Sylvester said lightly, smiling again.

10

Tom was relieved to see the smile, but he was not wholly reassured. ‘I beg pardon!’ he said. ‘I thought it wouldn’t signify, telling you how it was, if you didn’t wish to offer for her-and you don’t, do you?’

‘No, certainly not! What did I do to inspire Miss Marlow with this violent dislike of me?’

‘Oh, I don’t know! Nothing, I daresay,’ said Tom uncomfortably. ‘I expect you are not just her style, that’s all.’

‘Not timbered up to her weight, in fact. Where, by the way, are you meaning to take her?’

‘To her grandmother. She lives in London, and Phoebe is persuaded she will take her part-or that she would have done so, if it had been necessary.’

Sylvester’s eyes lifted suddenly to Tom’s. ‘Do you mean Lady Ingham?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Tom nodded. ‘The other one died years ago. Are you acquainted with Lady Ingham, sir?’

‘Oh, yes!’ replied Sylvester, a laugh in his voice. ‘She is my godmother.’

‘Is she, though? Then you must know her pretty well. Do you think she will let Phoebe stay with her? Phoebe seems to think there can be no doubt, but I can’t help wondering whether she won’t think it pretty shocking of her to have run off from home, and perhaps send her back again. What do you think, sir?’

‘How can I say?’ countered Sylvester. ‘Miss Marlow, I collect, still holds by her scheme, even though the menace of an offer from me doesn’t exist?’

‘Oh yes! I did suggest to her that she need not go to London after all, but she says she will do so, and I must say I think she should-if only the old lady will receive her kindly! You know, sir, Lady Marlow is a regular brute, and it’s not a particle of use thinking Marlow will protect Phoebe, because he won’t! Phoebe knows there’s no help to be got from him-well, he told her so, when she begged him to stand by her!-and now she says she shan’t go back on any account. Only what’s to be done? Even if the snow melted tomorrow I can’t escort her, and I know I ought not to let her go alone. But if that detestable woman catches her here the trap will be down!’

‘Not so much fretting and fussing, Galahad!’ said Sylvester. ‘There’s no immediate danger, and before it becomes imminent I don’t doubt you will have hit upon an answer to the problem. Or I might do so for you.’

‘How?’ asked Tom quickly.

‘Well,’ replied Sylvester, getting up, ‘somewhere between this place and Austerby I have a chaise. I have left orders at the Bear, in Hungerford, that when it arrives there my servants are to be directed to this inn. In the circumstances, I shall be delighted to convey Miss Marlow to her grandmother!’

Tom’s face lightened; he exclaimed: ‘Oh, by Jove, would you do that, sir? It would be the very thing-if she will go with you!’

‘Let me beg you not to fidget yourself into a fever on the chance that she won’t! You had much better try if you can go to sleep. I only hope you may not be too uncomfortable to do so.’

‘Oh, no! That is, Dr. Upsall left some stuff he said I should drink: syrup of poppies, or some such thing. I daresay I shall sleep like a log.’

‘Well, if you should wake, and wish for anything, knock on the wall behind you,’ said Sylvester. ‘I shall hear you: I am a tolerably light sleeper. I’ll send Keighley to you now. Goodnight!’

He went away with a nod and a smile, leaving Tom to his various reflections. Prominent among these was a determination to endure hours of wakefulness rather than to drag his noble acquaintance from his bed. Thanks, however, to Keighley, interpreting the surgeon’s instructions liberally, he very soon succumbed to a large dose of the narcotic prescribed for him, and slept the night through. His dreams were untroubled, for although, when Sylvester left him, he thought over all that he had disclosed, and wished the greater part of it unsaid, he was soon able to persuade himself that he had been grossly indulging his imagination when he had read danger in that queer look of Sylvester’s. When he came to consider the matter he could not remember that he had said anything to arouse anger in Sylvester. It was not given to Tom, rating himself modestly, to understand the emotions of one who had been encouraged all the years of his adult life to set his value high.

But the discovery that Phoebe had decided he was not at all the sort of man she wished to marry had made Sylvester furious. While he believed her to be eloping with her true love he bore her no ill-will; but the case was now altered, and the more he thought of it the more did the wound to his self-esteem smart. He had chosen to single out from among the debutantes a little dab of a country girl, without style of countenance, and she had had the impertinence to snub him. She had done it in such a way, too, as to make a fool of him, and that was not an injury he could easily forgive. It was possible to forgive it when he supposed her to be in love with another man; but when he learned that her flight from her home-an outrageous action which only a passionate attachment to Tom could in some measure excuse-was due to a dread of being compelled to receive his addresses he was not only unable to forgive it, but became possessed of a strong desire to teach Miss Marlow a lesson. To be sure, her crest would very soon be lowered if she thought any match half as brilliant would be offered her, but that was not quite what Sylvester wanted. Something of greater importance than his consequence had been hurt. That he could shrug away; he could not shrug off the knowledge that she apparently found him repulsive. She had had the insolence to criticise him, too; and she did not scruple to show him that she held him cheap. What was it Tom had said? Nothing would induce her to marry you! A little too cocksure, Miss Marlow! The opportunity will not be granted you-but let us see if you can be made to feel sorry!

Sylvester dropped asleep on this vengeful thought; and since no summons was rapped on the wall dividing his room from Tom’s, he did not wake until Keighley brought his breakfast to him at ten o’clock next morning. He then discovered that his faithful henchman was not only looking heavy-eyed, but had lost his voice as well. He said: ‘Go back to bed at once, John! Good God, I have knocked you up! You ought to have a mustard-plaster on your chest. Tell Mrs. Scaling to fetch one up to you-and go away!’

Keighley started to whisper reassurance, but was stopped by a paroxysm of coughing.

‘John, don’t be a nodcock! Do you think I want your death at my door? Go to bed! And tell them to kindle a fire in your room-my orders!’

‘How can I lay up, your grace?’ whispered Keighley. ‘Who’s to look after Mr. Orde if I do?’

‘To hell with Mr. Orde! Can’t the half-wit attend to him? Well, if he can’t, I must. What has to be done for him?’

‘I’ve done all that’s needful for the moment, your grace, and seen to the greys, but-’

‘Then you have nothing to worry about, and may go to bed without more ado. Now, don’t be a gudgeon, John! You will only give him your cold if you hang about him!’

‘He’s got it,’ croaked Keighley.

‘No, has he? Well, I have no wish to catch it, so don’t let me see you again until you’re rid of it!’ He saw that Keighley was torn by a longing for his bed and a determination not to leave his post, and said threateningly: ‘If I have to get up to you, John, you’ll be sorry!’

That made Keighley laugh, which brought on another paroxysm. This left him feeling so exhausted that he was very glad to obey his master.

An hour later, Sylvester, beautiful to behold in a frogged dressing gown of crimson and gold brocade, strolled into Tom’s room, saying cheerfully: ‘Good morning, Galahad! So you’ve taken Keighley’s cold, have you? What a mutton-headed thing to do! Did you sleep well?’

‘Oh, like a top, thank you, sir! As for the cold, if I must stay in bed I might as well have a cold as not. But I’m devilish sorry for Keighley: he’s as sick as a horse!’

‘You will soon be devilish sorry for yourself, for I’ve sent him to bed, and you will be obliged to endure my ministrations in place of his. What, as a start, can I do for you?’

‘Good God, nothing!’ replied Tom, looking horrified. ‘As though I would let you wait on me!’

‘You won’t have any choice in the matter.’

‘Yes, yes, I will! The boy can do all I want, sir!’

‘What, the half-wit? If you think that a choice I’ll thank you not to be so insulting, Thomas!’

Tom laughed at that, but insisted that for the moment at least he needed nothing, except (with a sigh) something to do.

‘That’s what we shall all of us be pining for, if the snow lasts,’ said Sylvester. ‘If Mrs. Scaling cannot supply us with a pack of cards we shall be obliged to make up charades, or something of that nature. Do you care to read The Knight of St. John? It came out last year, and is by the author of The Hungarian Brothers. I’ll fetch it for you.’

Tom was no great reader, but when Sylvester, handing him the first volume of Miss Porter’s latest romance, said: ‘I don’t like it as well as The Hungarian Brothers, but it’s quite a lively tale,’ he realized that the work was not, as he had feared, a history, but a novel, and was much relieved. He accepted it with thanks, and then, after a thoughtful moment, asked Sylvester if he read many novels.

‘Any that come in my way. Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know!’ Tom said. ‘I thought perhaps you might not.’

Sylvester looked a little surprised, but said after a moment: ‘Oh, did you think that because my mother is a poetess I might have a turn for verse? No: nothing of the sort!’

‘Is she?’ said Tom, awed.

‘Yes, indeed she is. And I assure you she does not despise novels! I fancy she buys almost all that are published. She is an invalid, you see, and reading is her greatest solace.’

‘Oh!’ said Tom.

‘I must go and look to my horses,’ said Sylvester. ‘I collect that Miss Marlow is in the stables already, probably fomenting that hock. I only hope I may not fall under her displeasure for making so belated an appearance!’

He went away to finish dressing; and then, after consigning Keighley to Mrs. Scaling’s care, went out to join Phoebe. It was still snowing hard, but a brazier was burning in the stable. Phoebe, having turned True in his stall, and removed his quarterpiece, was vigorously brushing him.

‘Good morning!’ said Sylvester, removing his coat, and rolling up his sleeves. ‘I’ll do that for you, Miss Marlow. How is the hock?’

‘Better, I think. I have just been fomenting it again. I don’t think Tom would like it if I let you dress the horses, Duke.’

‘Then don’t tell him,’ said Sylvester, taking the brush away from her. ‘Doesn’t he think me capable of the task?’

‘Oh, it isn’t that! He has a great respect for your consequence, you see, and perhaps wouldn’t think it proper for you to do it! But in general he is not at all stupid, I assure you!’ The smile that went with this remark was so ingenuous that Sylvester was obliged to laugh. Phoebe would have set to work on Trusty with the currycomb, but was deterred by Sylvester’s pointing out to her that her skirt was already covered with True’s hairs. He recommended her to change her dress, giving the one she had on to Alice to brush, but she replied that as the only other dress she had with her was of muslin, she rather thought she might freeze to death in it. ‘Besides, Alice has gone to tell old Mr. Shap that we must have his pig. It isn’t full-grown, so perhaps he won’t sell it.’

‘Why not?’