“I didn’t think it was,” said Edmund, in a satisfied voice.
“It seems to me an extraordinary thing that he should have been allowed to keep kitchen company,” said Sylvester. “I should have supposed that among the four of you—”
“Yes, and it has often seemed extraordinary to me that among I know not how many people he should have been allowed to keep stable company!” flashed Phoebe.
This was so entirely unanswerable that silence reigned until Tom, to relieve the tension, asked Sylvester some question about the next day’s journey. As soon as they left the coffee-room Phoebe took Edmund up to bed, bidding Sylvester a chilly goodnight, and Tom a very warm one.
At breakfast on the following morning punctilious civility reigned, Sylvester addressing suave remarks to Phoebe, and Phoebe replying to them with formal courtesy.
But formality deserted Phoebe abruptly when she discovered that instead of Edmund she was to have Tom for her travelling companion. She said at once: “No, no! Please leave Edmund with me! It was to take care of him that I came with you, Duke, and I assure you I am very happy to do so!”
“You are very good, ma’am, but I will take him today,” he replied.
“But why?” she demanded.
He hesitated, and then said: “I wish it.”
It was spoken in his indifferent voice. She read in it a reflection on her management of Edmund, arising possibly from his overnight solecism, and turned away that Sylvester might not have the satisfaction of seeing how mortified she was. When she next glanced at him she found that he was watching her, she thought with a shade of anxiety in his rather hard eyes. He moved towards her, and said: “What did I say to distress you? I had no such intention!”
She put up her brows. “Distress me? Oh, no!”
“I am taking Edmund with me because I am persuaded you have the headache,” he said bluntly.
It was true, but she disclaimed, begging him to let Edmund go with her. His thought for her disarmed her utterly; her constraint vanished; and when she raised her eyes to his face they were shyly smiling. He looked down at her for a moment, and then said almost brusquely, as he turned away: “No, don’t argue! My mind is made up.”
By the time Calais was reached her headache had become severe, a circumstance to which she attributed her increasingly low spirits. Edmund, when he heard of it, disclosed that Uncle Vester had the headache too.
“I?” exclaimed Sylvester. “I’ve never had the headache in my life, brat!”
“Oh!” said Edmund, adding with a confiding smile: “Just a bit cagged-like!”
Since Tom had had the forethought to consult Sinderby, the inn which housed them that night, though a modest establishment in the unfashionable quarter of the town, was both quiet and comfortable. A tisane, followed by a night’s undisturbed sleep, cured Phoebe’s headache. Her spirits, however, remained low, but as she opened her eyes to see wet window-panes and a sky of a uniform grey this was perhaps not to be wondered at.
“We are in for an intolerably tedious crossing,” Sylvester said, when he joined the rest of the party at breakfast. “There is very little wind—which has this advantage, I suppose, that it will be better for one of our number. I have been able to procure a cabin for you, Miss Marlow, but I fear you will be heartily sick of the crossing—particularly if it continues to rain, as it shows every sign of doing.”
“Why,” demanded Edmund, “am I not let have an egg? I do not want this bread-and-milk. Keighley says it is cat-lap.”
“Never mind!” said Phoebe, laughing. “You may have an egg tomorrow.”
“I may not be hungry tomorrow,” said Edmund gloomily. “I am hungry now!”
“Oh, dear! Are you?”
“Fair gut-foundered!” said Edmund.
Sylvester, who was glancing through a newspaper, lowered it, and said sternly: “You never learned that from Keighley!”
“No,” admitted Edmund. “Jem says it.”
“Who the devil is Jem?”
“The one with the spotty face. Don’t you know, Uncle Vester?” said Edmund, astonished.
“One of the stable-hands?”
Edmund nodded. “He tells me very good words. He is a friend of mine.”
“Oh, is he?” said Sylvester grimly. “Well, unless you want to feel my hand, don’t repeat them!”
Quelled, Edmund returned to his bread-and-milk. Over his head Sylvester said ruefully: “I make his apologies, Miss Marlow. It is the fault of too old a nurse, and by far too old a tutor. I must find a younger man.”
“I don’t think that would answer nearly as well as a sensible female,” said Phoebe. “Someone like my own dear governess, who doesn’t get into a fuss for torn clothes, and likes animals, and collecting butterflies and birds’ eggs, and—oh, you know, Tom!”
“My dear Miss Marlow, only furnish me with her name and her direction!” begged Sylvester.
“You have met her,” she reminded him. “But I am afraid I cannot spare her to you. She and I mean to set up house together, as soon as I come of age.”
“Set up house together!” he repeated incredulously.
“Yes. She is going to keep house, and I—” She stopped suddenly, gave a little gasp, and continued defiantly: “And I am going to write novels!”
“I see,” he said dryly, and retired into the newspaper again.
26
They went aboard the packet in a light drizzle, and with less opposition from Master Rayne than might have been expected. When it was borne in upon him that his all-powerful uncle was unable to waft him miraculously across the sea he did indeed hover on the brink of a painful scene, saying: “No, no, no! I won’t go on a ship, I won’t, I won’t!” on a rising note that threatened a storm of tears. But Sylvester said: “I beg your pardon?” in such blighting accents that he flushed up to the ears, gave a gulp, and said imploringly: “If you please, I don’t want to! It will give me that dreadful pain in me pudding-house!”
“In your what?”
Edmund knuckled his eyes.
“I thought there was more steel in you,” said Sylvester contemptuously.
“There is steel in me!” declared Edmund, his eyes flashing. “Keighley says I have good bottom!”
“Keighley,” said Sylvester, in a casual tone, “ is waiting for us at Dover. Miss Marlow, I must beg you won’t mention to him that Edmund found he couldn’t throw his heart over. He would be very much shocked.”
“I will go on that ship!” said Edmund in a gritty voice. “We Raynes can throw our hearts over anything!”
His heart shyed a little at the gangway, but Sylvester said: “Show us the way, young Rayne!” and he stumped resolutely across it.
“Edmund, you’re a great gun!” Tom told him.
“Game as a pebble!” asserted Edmund.
For Phoebe the crossing was one of unalleviated boredom. Sylvester, wrapping his boat-cloak round Edmund, kept him on deck; and since there was clearly nothing for her to do, and it continued to rain, she could only retire to her cabin and meditate on a bleak future. The packet took nine hours to reach Dover, and never had nine hours seemed longer. From time to time she was visited by Tom, bringing her either refreshments, or the latest news of Edmund. He had been a little sick, Tom admitted, but nothing to cause alarm. They had found a sheltered spot on deck, and were taking it in turns to remain there with him. No, there was nothing for her to do: Edmund, having slept for a time, now seemed pretty bobbish.
Towards the end of the crossing the rain ceased, and Phoebe went on deck. She found Edmund in a boastful mood, and Sylvester civil but curt. It was the first time Sylvester had been called upon to look after his nephew, and he was devoutly hoping it would be the last.
When the packet entered the Tidal Harbour it was nearly eight o’clock, and all four travellers were tired, chilled, and not in the best of spirits. The sight of Keighley’s face, however, exercised a beneficial effect on two of the party: Edmund fell upon him with a squeal of joy, and Sylvester said, with a perceptible lightening of his frown: “Thank God! You may have him, John!”