“Go yourself, your grace?” repeated Keighley. “And may I make so bold as to ask why? If your grace don’t care to have me driving the greys, I hope your grace will pardon me if I was to say that it won’t be quite the first time I’ve done so! P’raps your grace would as lief drive them without me in the curricle at all?”

This withering sarcasm had the effect of clearing the frown from Sylvester’s brow. “Exactly so!” he said, his eyes quizzing his offended henchman. “I am going alone! Oh, no I’m not! I shall have the half-wit with me, shall I not? I hope he may not murder me, or anything of that nature! No, don’t argue with me! Miss Marlow believes you to be sinking into a confirmed consumption, and I will not have your death upon my conscience! Besides, what should I do without you? Where is my greatcoat?”

Keighley turned an amazed and slightly reproachful gaze upon Phoebe. “Me? Lor’, ma’am there’s nothing amiss with me barring a bit of a cold in my head! Now, if your grace will give me your card, I’ll be off! And no more funning, if you please, because if I don’t get started quick there’s no saying but what I’ll end in the ditch, and a nice set-out that would be!”

“No, I am quite determined you shan’t go,” Sylvester said.

“Did you put my coat in my bedchamber? Where is my bedchamber? Direct me to it instantly, and be off to put the horses to! Good God! Ought I, perhaps, to do that too? Miss Marlow, do you think—?”

Keighley intervened before Phoebe was obliged to answer a question she suspected to be deliberately provocative. Reiterating his request to Sylvester to stop funning, he added a strongly worded protest against the impropriety of his chasing all over the country after a mere sawbones. Such unbecoming conduct, he said severely, would not do.

“I’m the best judge of that,” returned Sylvester. “Put the horses to, at once, if you please!”

He strode to the door, but was arrested by Phoebe, who said suddenly: “Oh, pray—! I don’t wish to charge you with an office you might think troublesome, but—but if you are going to Hungerford, would you be so very obliging as to try if you can procure for me a few ounces of muriate of ammonia, a pint of spirit of wine, and some spermacetti ointment?”

Sylvester’s lip twitched, and he burst out laughing. “Oh, certainly, Miss Marlow! Are you sure there is nothing else you would wish me to purchase for you?”

“No,” she replied seriously. “Mrs. Scaling has plenty of vinegar. And if you can’t come by the ointment, she will let me have some lard instead—only I can’t be sure it is perfectly free from salt. It is to put on Trusty’s foreleg,” she explained, seeing that he was still much inclined to laugh. “It is badly grazed: I fancy poor True may have kicked him, when he was struggling to get out of the ditch.”

“I’ll come and take a look at that, miss,” said Keighley, his professional interest aroused. “Showing red, is it? It’ll have to be fomented before the ointment’s put on it.”

“Oh, yes, I have been doing so, every hour, and True’s hock as well! I should be very much obliged to you, if you will look at it, Keighley, and tell me if you think I should apply a bran poultice tonight.”

“Render Miss Marlow all the assistance you can, John, but first put the greys to!” interrupted Sylvester. “See to it that fires are lit in our rooms, bespeak dinner, and a private parlour—no, I expect there isn’t one in so small a house: you had better tell the landlady I’ll hire this room—don’t disturb Mr. Orde, and have everything ready for a bowl of punch as soon as I return. And don’t let Miss Marlow keep you out in the draughty stable too long!”

On this Parthian shot he departed, closely followed by Keighley, who did not cease to expostulate with him until he was actually preparing to mount into the curricle.

“Be damned to you, John, no!” he said. “You will stay here, and nurse your cold. Why didn’t you tell me you were out of sorts, you stupid fellow? I could have taken Swale with me, and left you to follow in the chaise.”

He sounded a little contrite, which would have surprised Keighley had he not been so much revolted by the thought of relinquishing his post to Swale that he never noticed Sylvester’s unusual solicitude. By the time he could trust himself to repudiate the disgraceful suggestion in anything but terms quite unsuited to his position, Sylvester had swung himself up into the curricle, and set his pair in motion. Beside him, Will Scaling, a shambling and overgrown youth of somewhat vacuous amiability, grinned hugely, and sat back with all the air of one prepared to enjoy a high treat.

9

It was nearly eight o’clock before Sylvester returned to the Blue Boar, and for a full hour Phoebe had been picturing just such an accident as had befallen Tom, and wishing that she had not sent him forth on his errand. When he did at last arrive he took her by surprise, for the snow muffled the sound of the horses’ hooves, and he drove his curricle straight into the yard, and came into the house through the back-door. She heard a quick stride in the passage, and looked up to see him standing in the doorway of the coffee-room. He had not stayed to put off his long driving-coat, which was very wet, and had snow still clinging to its many shoulder-capes. She started up, exclaiming: “Oh, you are safely back! I have been in such a fidget, fearing you had met with an accident! Have you brought the doctor, sir?”

“Oh, yes, he is here—or he will be, in a few minutes. I came ahead. Is there a fire in your bedchamber, Miss Marlow?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then may I suggest that you retire there until the surgeon has departed? I haven’t mentioned your presence here to him, for although your brother and sister story may do well enough for the landlady, it is quite possible, you know, that a doctor living at Hungerford might recognize one or other of you. You will agree that the fewer people to get wind of this escapade of yours the better.”

“I shouldn’t think he would know either of us,” she replied, with what he considered to be quite unbecoming sangfroid.“However, I daresay you are right, sir. Only, if I am not to see the doctor, will you take him up to Tom, if you please, and hear what he thinks we should do for him?”

“I’ve told Keighley to do so. He knows much more about such matters than I do. Moreover, I want to put off these wet clothes. Have you dined?”

“Well, no,” she owned. “Though I ate a slice of bread-and-butter just after you went away.”

“Good God! Why didn’t you order dinner when you wished for it?” he said, rather impatiently.

“Because you bespoke it for when you should return. Mrs. Scaling has only one daughter to help her, you know, and she couldn’t dress two dinners. In fact, she has been in a grand fuss ever since she discovered who you are, because, of course, she is not at all in the habit of entertaining dukes.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean that we shall get a bad dinner.”

“Oh, no, on the contrary! She means to feed you in the most lavish way!” Phoebe assured him.

He smiled. “I’m happy to know it: I could eat an ox whole! Stay in this room until you hear Keighley take the surgeon upstairs, and then slip away to your own. I suppose I must, in common charity, give the man a glass of punch before he sets out for Hungerford again, but I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can.” He nodded to her, and went away, leaving her with her mind divided between resentment at his cool assumption of authority and relief that some at least of her burden of responsibility had been lifted from her shoulders.

When the surgeon presently left Tom, she ventured to go and tap on the door of the best bedroom. Tom bade her come in, and she entered to find him sitting up in bed, much restored by his long sleep, but fretting a good deal over her predicament, his own helplessness, and the condition of his father’s horses. She was able to give him a comfortable account of the horses; as for herself, she said that since they could scarcely have hoped to reach Reading she was quite as well off at the Blue Boar as she would have been at an inn in Newbury.

“Yes, but the Duke!” Tom objected. “I must say, there was never anything more awkward! Not but what I’m devilish obliged to him. Still—!”

“Oh, well!” said Phoebe. “We must just make the best of him! And his groom, you know, is a most excellent person. He put the poultice on Trusty’s fore, and he says if we keep the wound pliant with spermacetti ointment until it is perfectly healed, and then dress it with James’s blister, he thinks there will be no blemish at all.”

“Lord, I hope he may be right!” Tom said devoutly.

“Oh, yes, I am persuaded he is!” She then bethought her that the horses had not been the only sufferers in the spill, and conscientiously inquired after Tom’s broken fibula.

He grinned his appreciation of this palpable afterthought, but replied that the surgeon had not meddled with Keighley’s handiwork, beyond applying a lotion to the inflamed surface, and bandaging the leg to a fresh and less makeshift splint. “But the devil of it is that he says I must lie abed for at least a week. And even then I shall be in no case to drive you to London. Lord, I hadn’t thought I was such a clunch as to overturn like that! I am as sorry as could be, but that’s no use! What are we to do?”

“Well, we can’t do anything at present,” she answered. “It is still snowing, you know, and I shouldn’t wonder at it if we were to find ourselves beleaguered by the morning.”

“But what about the Duke?”