“But you aren’t, Phoebe,” Tom pointed out. “You are under age, and he is your father, you know. Your grandmother has no power to keep you against his will.”
“Oh, no! And perhaps, if he truly wished for my return, I should go back willingly. But he won’t. If I can prevail upon Grandmama to keep me with her I think Papa will be as glad as Mama to be rid of me. At any rate, he won’t care whether I am at Austerby or not, except that he will miss me a little when he discovers how unreliable Swale is when there is no one to watch over the stables.”
Tom did not know what to say to this. He had thought it reasonable enough that she should have fled from her home when faced (as she had believed) with a distasteful marriage; but that she should do so for no other reason than that she was not happy there shocked him a little. He could not approve; on the other hand he was well aware of the misery she would be made to suffer if she were forced to return to Austerby after such an exploit, and he was much too fond of her to withhold whatever help he could render. So he said presently: “What can I do, Phoebe? I’ve made a mull of it, but if there is anything I can do I promise you I will.”
She smiled warmly at him. “You didn’t make a mull of it: it was all that wretched donkey! Perhaps, if we are not discovered before you are able to help yourself, I might still go to London on the stage-coach, and you will buy my ticket for me. But there is no question of that yet.”
“No, not while the snow lasts. And in any event—”
“In any event I hope you don’t think I would leave you in this case! I’m not so shabby! No, don’t tease yourself, Tom! I shall come about, see if I don’t! Perhaps, when the Duke goes away—I should think he would do so as soon as it may be possible, wouldn’t you?—he will carry a letter to Grand-mama for me.”
“Phoebe, has he said anything? About your having run away, I mean?” Tom asked abruptly.
“No, not a word! Isn’t it fortunate?” she replied.
“I don’t know that. Seems to me—Well, he must think it excessively odd! What happened at Austerby, when it was discovered that you had gone away? Hasn’t he even told you that?”
“No, but I didn’t ask him.”
“Good God! I hope he does not think—Phoebe, did he say if he meant to come up to visit me presently?”
“No, do you wish him to?” she asked. “Shall I send him to you? That is, if he has not already gone to look at Trusty for me. He promised he would do so, and put on a fresh poultice if it should be needed.”
“Phoebe!” uttered Tom explosively. “If you made him do so it was perfectly outrageous! You are treating him as though he were a lackey!”
She gave an involuntary chuckle. “No, am I? I daresay it would do him a great deal of good, but I didn’t make him go out to attend to the horses. He offered to do so, and I own I was surprised. Why do you wish him to visit you?”
“That’s my concern. Keighley will be coming in before he goes to bed, and I’ll ask him to convey a civil message to the Duke. You are not to go downstairs again, Phoebe. Understand?”
“No, I am going to bed,” she replied. “I am so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open. But what do you think? That odious man has had Alice Scaling give up her bedchamber to Keighley and set up a trestle for herself in mine! Without so much as asking my leave, and all because he is too proud to let Keighley have a trestle-bed in his room! He said it was because he feared to catch his cold, but I know better!”
“So do I—much better!” said Tom. “Lord, what a goose you are! You go to bed! And mind, Phoebe! be civil to the Duke when you meet him again!”
She was granted the opportunity to obey this order sooner than he had expected, for at that moment Sylvester walked in, saying: “May I come in? How do you go on, Orde? You look a degree better, I think.”
“Yes, pray do come in!” said Phoebe, before Tom could speak. “He was wishing you would come to visit him. Have you been out to the stable yet?”
“I have, ma’am, and you may go to bed with a quiet mind. Trusty shows no disposition to rid himself of his poultice. There is some heat still in his companion’s hock, but nothing to cause uneasiness.”
“Thank you! I am truly obliged to you!” she said.
“So am I, sir—most truly obliged to you!” said Tom. “It is devilish kind of you to put yourself to all this trouble! I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Well, I have thanked him,” said Phoebe, apparently feeling that any further display of gratitude would be excessive.
“Yes, well, it’s time you went to bed!” said Tom, directing a speaking look at her. “His grace will excuse you, so you may say goodnight, and be off!”
“Yes, Grandpapa!” said Phoebe incorrigibly. “Goodnight, my lord Duke!”
“Sleep well, Sparrow!” retorted Sylvester, holding the door for her.
To Tom’s relief she went away without committing any more solecisms. He drew a long breath, as Sylvester shut the door, and said: “I am very conscious, my lord Duke, that an explanation—”
“Call me Salford,” interrupted Sylvester. “Did the sawbones subject you to further tortures? I trust not: he told me that Keighley had done all he should.”
“No, no, he only bound it up again when he had put some lotion on it!” Tom assured him. “And that puts me in mind of something else! I wish you had not gone out in such weather to fetch him, sir! I was excessively shocked when I heard of it! Oh, and you must have paid him his fee, for I did not! If you will tell me what it was—”
“I will render a strict account to you,” promised Sylvester, pulling up a chair to the bedside, and sitting down. “That hock, by the bye, will have to be fomented for a day or two, but there should be no lasting injury. A tidy pair, so far as I could judge by lantern-light.”
“My father bought them last year—proper high-bred ’uns!” Tom said. “I wouldn’t have had this happen to them for a thousand pounds!”
“I’ll go bail you wouldn’t! A harsh parent?”
“No, no, he’s a prime gun, but—!”
“I know,” said Sylvester sympathetically. “So was mine, but—!”
Tom grinned at him. “You must think me a cow-handed whipster! But if only that curst donkey hadn’t brayed—However, it’s no use saying that: my father will say I made wretched work of it, and the worst of it is I think I did! And what sort of a case I should have been in if you hadn’t come to the rescue, sir, I don’t know!”
“If you must thank anybody, thank Keighley!” recommended Sylvester. “I couldn’t have set the broken bone, you know.”
“No, but it was you who fetched Upsall, which was a great deal too kind of you. There’s another thing, too.” He hesitated, looking rather shyly at Sylvester, and colouring a little. “Phoebe didn’t understand—she isn’t by any means fly to the time of day, you know!—but I did, and—and I’m very much obliged to you for what you’ve done for her. Sending that girl to sleep with her, I mean. I don’t know if it will answer, or if—Well, the thing is, sir—now that we are in such a rare mess do you think I ought to marry her?”
Sylvester had been regarding him with friendly amusement, but this naive question brought a startled frown to his face. “But isn’t that your intention?” he asked.
“No—oh, lord, no! I mean, it wasn’t my intention (though I did offer to!) until we were grassed by that overturn. But now that we’re cooped up here perhaps I ought, as a man of honour—Only ten to one she’ll refuse to marry me, and then where shall we be?”
“If you are not eloping, what are you doing?” demanded Sylvester.
“I guessed that was what you must be thinking, sir,” said Tom.
“I imagine you might. Nor am I the only one who thinks it!” said Sylvester. “When I left Austerby I did so because Marlow had already set out for the Border in pursuit of you!”