“I trust you, and I don’t trust him,” said Sylvester. “Moreover,” he added with a spark of malice, “I’ve a fancy to make you run in my harness even if I can only do it by dying. Pour me out a little of that cordial.”
Sir Tristram obeyed his behest, and held the glass to Sylvester’s lips. Perversely, Sylvester chose to hold it himself, but it was apparent that even this slight effort was almost too great a tax on his strength.
“Weak as a cat!” he complained, letting Shield take the glass again. “You’d better go downstairs before that fellow has time to poison Eustacie’s mind. I’ll have you married in this very room just as soon as I can get the parson here. Send Jarvis to me; I’m tired.”
When Sir Tristram reached the drawing-room again the tea table had been brought in. Beau Lavenham inquired after his great-uncle, and upon Sir Tristram’s saying that he found him very much weaker, shrugged slightly, and said: “I shall believe Sylvester is dead when I see him in his coffin. I hope you did not forget to tell him that I am dutifully in attendance?”
“He knows you are here,” said Shield, taking a cup and saucer from Eustacie, “but I doubt whether he has strength enough to see any more visitors tonight.”
“My dear Tristram, are you trying to be tactful?” inquired the Beau, amused. “I am quite sure Sylvester said that he would be damned if he would see that frippery fellow Basil.”
Shield smiled. “Something of the sort. You should not wear a sugarloaf hat.”
“No, no; it cannot be my taste in dress which makes him dislike me so much, for that is almost impeccable,” said the Beau, lovingly smoothing a wrinkle from his satin sleeve. “I can only think that it is because I stand next in the succession to poor Ludovic, and that is really no fault of mine.”
“For all we know you may be further removed than that,” said Tristram. “Ludovic may be married by now.”
“Very true,” agreed the Beau, sipping his tea. “And in some ways a son of Ludovic’s might best solve the vexed question of who is to reign in Sylvester’s stead.”