He had picked up a newspaper from the table in the centre of the room, and was glancing through it, but he lowered it, and looked enquiringly across at her. His eyes, which were deep-set and of a light gray made the more striking by the swarthiness of his complexion, held an expression of faint surprise; he said: “Yes?”
If he was surprised, Abby was wholly taken aback. She had formed no very precise mental picture of him, but nothing she had been told had led her to expect to be confronted with a tall, loose-limbed man, considerably older than she was herself, with harsh features in a deeply lined face, a deplorably sallow skin, and not the smallest air of fashion. He was wearing a coat which fitted too easily across his very broad shoulders for modishness, with buckskins and topboots; his neck-tie was almost negligently arranged; no fobs or seals dangled at his waist; and his shirt-points were not only extremely moderate, but even a little limp.
She was so much astonished that for a full minute she could only stare at him, her brain in a whirl. He had been described to her as a young, handsome town-beau, and he was nothing of the sort. He had also been described, by her brother-in-law, as a loose fish, and that she could far more readily believe: there was a suggestion of devil-may-care about him, and these deeply carven lines in his lean countenance might well (she supposed) betray dissipation. But what there was in him to have captivated Fanny—and Selina too!—she found herself quite unable to imagine. Then, as she continued to stare at him, she saw that a look of amusement had crept into his face, and that a smile was quivering at the corners of his mouth, and she perceived very clearly why Fanny had allowed herself to be fascinated by him. But, even as an answering smile was irresistibly drawn from her, it occurred to her that Selina, even in her sillier moments, would scarcely refer to a man of her own age as a very pretty-behaved young man,and she exclaimed, with that impetuosity so frequently deplored by the elder members of her family: “Oh, I beg your pardon! I mistook—I mean,—I mean—Are you Mr Calverleigh?”
“Well, I’ve never been given any reason to suppose that I’m not!” he replied.
“You are? But surely—?” Recollecting herself, Abby broke off, and said, with all the composure at her command: “I must tell you, sir, that I am Miss Wendover!”
She observed, with satisfaction, that this disclosure exercised a powerful effect upon him. That disturbing smile vanished, and his black brows suddenly snapped together. He ejaculated: “Miss who?”
“Miss Wendover,” she repeated, adding, for his further enlightenment : “Miss Abigail Wendover!”
“Good God!” For a moment, he appeared to be startled, and then, as his curiously light eyes scanned her, he disconcerted her by saying: “I like that! It becomes you, too.”
Roused to indignation, Abby, losing sight of the main issue, allowed herself to be lured into retorting: “Thank you! I am excessively obliged to you! It is an outdated name, commonly used to signify a maidservant! You may like it, but I do not!” She added hastily: “Nor, sir, did I make myself known to you for the purpose of discussing my name!”
“Of course not!” he said, so soothingly that she longed to hit him. “Do tell me what it is you Jo wish to discuss! I’ll oblige you to the best of my power, even though I don’t immediately understand why you should wish to discuss anything with me. Forgive me!—I’ve no social graces!—but have I ever met you before?”
“No,” replied Abby, her lips curling in a contemptuous smile. “You have not, sir—as well you know! But you will scarcely deny that you are acquainted with another member of my family!”
“Oh, no! I won’t deny that!” he assured her. “Won’t you sit down?”
“I, sir,” said Abby, ignoring this invitation, “am Fanny’s aunt!”
“No, are you indeed? You don’t look old enough to be anyone’s aunt,” he remarked.
This piece of audacity was uttered in the most casual way, as though it had been a commonplace instead of an impertinence. He did not seem to have any idea that he had said anything improper, nor, from his general air of indifference, could she suppose him to have intended a compliment. She began to think that he was a very strange man, and one with whom it was going to be more difficult to deal than she had foreseen. He was obviously fencing with her, and the sooner he was made to realize that such tactics would not answer the better it would be. So she said coldly: “You must know very well that I am Fanny’s aunt.”
“Yes, you’ve just told me so,” he agreed.
“You knew it as soon as I made myself known to you!” She checked herself, determined not to lose her temper, and said, as pleasantly as she could: “Come, Mr Calverleigh! let us be frank! I imagine you also know why I did make myself known to you. You certainly contrived to ingratiate yourself with my sister, but you can hardly have supposed that you would find all Fanny’s relations so complaisant!”
He was watching her rather intently, but with an expression of enjoyment which she found infuriating. He said: “No, I couldn’t, could I? Still, if your sister likes me—!”
“My sister, Mr Calverleigh, was not aware, until I enlightened her, that you are not, as she had supposed, a man of character, but one of—of an unsavoury reputation!” she snapped.
“Well, what an unhandsome thing to have done!” he said reproachfully. “Doesn’t she like me any more?”
Abby now made the discovery that it was possible, at one and the same time, to be furiously angry, and to have the greatest difficulty in suppressing an almost irresistible desire to burst out laughing. After a severe struggle, she managed to say: “This—this is useless, sir! Let me assure you that you have no hope whatever of gaining the consent of Fanny’s guardian to your proposal; and let me also tell you that she will not come into possession of her inheritance until she is five-and-twenty! That, I collect, is something you were not aware of!”
“No,” he admitted. “I wasn’t!”
“Until that date,” Abby continued, “her fortune is under the sole control of her guardian, and he, I must tell you, will not, under any circumstances, relinquish that control into the hands of her husband one moment before her twenty-fifth birthday, if she marries without his consent and approval. I think it doubtful, even, that he would continue to allow her to receive any part of the income accruing from her fortune. Not a very good bargain, sir, do you think?”
“It seems to be a very bad one. Who, by the way, is Fanny’s guardian?”
“Her uncle, of course! Surely she must have told you so?” replied Abby impatiently.
“Well, no!” he said, still more apologetically. “She really had no opportunity to do so!”
“Had no—Mr Calverleigh, are you asking me to believe that you—you embarked on this attempt to recover your own fortune without first discovering what were the exact terms of her father’s will? That is coming it very much too strong!”
“Who was her father?” he interrupted, regarding her from under suddenly frowning brows. “You talk of her inheritance—You don’t mean to tell me she’s Rowland Wendover’s daughter?”
“Yes—if it should be necessary for me to do so—which I strongly doubt!” said Abby, eyeing him with hostility. “She is an orphan, and the ward of my brother James.”
“Poor girl!” He studied her appraisingly. “So you are a sister of Rowland Wendover! You know, I find that very hard to believe.”
“Indeed! It is nevertheless true—though in what way it concerns the point at issue—”
“Oh, it doesn’t!” he said, smiling disarmingly at her. “Now I come to think of it, he had several sisters, hadn’t he? I expect you must be the youngest of them. He was older than I was, and you are a mere child. By the by, when did he die?”
This question, put to her in a tone of casual interest, seemed to her to be so inapposite that the suspicion that he was drunk occurred to her. He showed none of the recognizable signs of inebriation, but she knew that her experience was limited. If he was not drunk, the only other explanation of his quite fantastic behav
iour must be that he was slightly deranged. Unless he was trying, in some obscure fashion, to set her at a disadvantage? She found it impossible to understand what he hoped to gain by his extraordinary tactics, but the look of amusement on his face made her feel, uneasily, that he had an end in view: probably an unscrupulous end. Watching him closely, she said: “My brother died twelve years ago. I am his youngest sister, but you are mistaken in thinking me a mere child.I daresay you wish I were!”
“No, I don’t. Why should I?” he asked, mildly surprised.
“Because you might find it easier to flummery me!”
“But I don’t want to flummery you!”
“Just as well!” she retorted. “You wouldn’t succeed! I am more than eight-and-twenty, Mr Calverleigh!”
“Well, that seems like a child to me. How much more?” She was by now extremely angry, but for the second time she was obliged to choke back an involuntary giggle. She said unsteadily: “Talking to you is like—like talking to an eel!’
“No, is it? I’ve never tried to talk to an eel. Isn’t it a waste of time?
She choked. “Not such a waste of time as talking to you!”
“You’re surely not going to tell me that eels find you more entertaining than I do?” he said incredulously.
That was rather too much for her: she did giggle, and was furious with herself for having done so. “That’s better!” he said approvingly.
She recovered herself. “Let me ask you one question, sir! IfI seem like a child to you, in what light do you regard a girl of seventeen?”
“Oh, as a member of the infantry!”
This careless reply made her gasp. Her eyes flashed; she demanded: “How old do you think my niece is, pray?”
“Never having met your niece, I haven’t a notion!”
“Never having—But—Good God, then you cannot be Mr Calverleigh! But when I asked you, you said you were!”
“Of course I did! Tell me, is there a nephew of mine at large in Bath?”
“Nephew? A—a Mr Stacy Calverleigh!”
“Yes, that’s it. I’m his Uncle Miles.”
“Oh!” she uttered, staring at him in the liveliest astonishment.
“You can’t mean that you are the one who—” She broke off in some confusion, and added hurriedly: “The one who went to India!”
He laughed. “Yes, I’m the black sheep of the family!” She blushed, but said: “I wasn’t going to say that!”
“Weren’t you? Why not? You won’t hurt my feelings!”
“I wouldn’t be so uncivil! And if it comes to black sheep—!”
“Once you become entangled with Calverleighs, it’s bound to,” he said. “We came to England with the Conqueror, you know. It’s my belief that our ancestor was one of the thatchgallows he brought with him. There were any number of ‘em in his train.”
A delicious gurgle of laughter broke from her. “Oh, no, were there? I didn’t know—but I never heard anyone claim a thatch-gallows for his ancestor!”
“No, I don’t suppose you did. I never met any of us came-over-with-the-Conquest fellows who wouldn’t hold to it, buckle and thong, that his ancestor was a Norman baron. Just as likely to have been one of the scaff and raff of Europe. I wish you will sit down!”
At this point, Abby knew that it behoved her to take polite leave of Mr Miles Calverleigh. She sat down, offering her conscience a sop in the form of a hope that Mr Miles Calverleigh might be of assistance to her in circumventing the designs of his nephew. She chose one of the straight-backed chairs ranged round the table, and watched him dispose his long limbs in another, at right-angles to her. His attitude was as negligent as his conversation, for he crossed his legs, dug one hand into his pocket, and laid his other arm along the table. He seemed to have very little regard for the conventions governing polite conduct, and Abby, in whom the conventions were deeply inculcated, was far less shocked than amused. Her expressive eyes twinkled engagingly as she said: “May I speak frankly to you, sir? About your nephew? I do not wish to offend you, but I fancy he is more the black sheep of your family than you are!”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so at all!” he responded. “He sounds more like a cawker to me, if he’s making up to a girl who won’t come into her inheritance for eight years!”
“I have every reason to think,” said Abby frostily, “that my niece is not the first heiress he has—as you phrase it!—made up to!”
“Well, if he’s hanging out for a rich wife, I don’t suppose she is.”
Her fingers tightened round the handle of her parasol. “Mr Calverleigh, I have not yet met your nephew. He came to Bath while I was away, visiting my sisters, and was called to London, on matters of business, I am told, before I returned. My hope is that he has realized that his—his suit is hopeless, and won’t come back, but your presence in Bath quite dashes that hope, since I collect you must have come here in the expectation of seeing him.”
“Oh, no!” he assured her. “Whatever put that notion into your head?”
She blinked. “I assumed—well, naturally I assumed that you had come in search of him! I mean,—so close a relative, and, I understand, the only member of your immediate family still living—?”
“What of it? You know, fiddle-faddle about families and close relatives is so much humbug! I haven’t seen that nephew of mine since he was a grubby brat—if I saw him then, which very likely I didn’t, for I never went near my brother if I could avoid it—so why the devil should I want to see him now?”
She could think of no answer to this, but it seemed to her so ruthless that she wondered, remembering that he had been packed off to India in disgrace, whether it arose from feelings of rancour. However, his next words, which were uttered in a thoughtful tone, and quite dispassionately, lent no colour to her suspicion. He said: “You know, there’s a great deal of balderdash talked about family affection. How much affection have you for your family?”
Such a question had never before been put to her; and, since it was one of the accepted tenets that one loved and respected one’s parents, and (at the least) loved one’s brothers and sisters, she had not previously considered the matter. But just as she was about to assure this outrageous person that she was devoted to every member of her family the unendearing images rose before her mind’s eye of her father, of her two brothers, and even of her sister Jane. She said, a little ruefully: “For my mother, and for two of my sisters, a great deal.”
“Ah, I never had any sisters, and my mother died when I was a schoolboy.”
“You are much to be pitied,” she said.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so!” he replied. “I don’t like obligations.” The disarming smile crept back into his eyes, as they rested on her face. “My family disowned me more than twenty years ago, you know!”
“Yes, I did know. That is—I have been told that they did,” she said. She added, with the flicker of a shy smile: “I think it was a dreadful thing to have done, and—and perhaps is the reason why you don’t wish to meet your nephew?”
That made him laugh. “Good God, no! What concern was it of his?”
“I only thought—wondered—since it was his father—”
“No, no, that’s fustian!” he expostulated. “You can’t turn me into an object for compassion! I didn’t like my brother Humphrey, and I didn’t like my father either, but I don’t bear them any grudge for shipping me off to India. In fact, it was the best thing they could do, and it suited me very well.”
“Compassion certainly seems to be wasted on you, sir!” she said tartly.
“Yes, of course it is. Besides, I like you, and I shan’t if you pity me.
She was goaded into swift retort. “Well, that wouldn’t trouble me!”
“That’s the barber!” he said appreciatively. “Tell me more about this niece of yours! I collect her mother’s dead too?”
“Her mother died when she was two years old, sir.”
There was an inscrutable expression in his face,
and although he kept his eyes on hers the fancy struck her that he was looking at something a long way beyond her. Then, with a sudden, wry smile, he seemed to bring her into focus again, and asked abruptly: “Rowland did marry her, didn’t he?—Celia Morval?”
“Why, yes! Were you acquainted with her?”
He did not answer this, but said: “And my nephew is dangling after her daughter?”
“I am afraid it is more serious than that. I haven’t met him, but he seems to be a young man of considerable address. He has succeeded in—in fixing his interest with her—well, to speak roundly, sir, she imagines herself to be violently in love with him. You may think that no great matter, as young as she is, but the thing is that she is a high-spirited girl, and her character is—is determined. She has been virtually in my charge—and that of my eldest sister—from her childhood. Perhaps she has been too much indulged—granted too much independence. I was never used to think so—you see, I was myself—we all were!—brought up in such subjection that I vowed I wouldn’t allow Fanny to be crushed as we were. I even thought—knowing how much I was used to long for the courage to rebel, and how bitterly I resented my father’s tyranny—that if I encouraged her to be independent, to look on me as a friend rather than as an aunt, she wouldn’t feel rebellious—would allow herself to be guided by me.”
“And she doesn’t?” he asked sympathetically.
“Not in this instance. But until your nephew bewitched her she did! She’s the dearest girl, but I own that she can be headstrong, and too impetuous.” She paused, and then said ruefully: “ Once she makes up her mind it is very hard to turn her from it. She—she isn’t a lukewarm girl! It is one of the things I particularly like in her, but it is quite disastrous in this instance!”
“Infatuated, is she? I daresay she’ll recover,” he said, a suggestion of boredom in his voice.
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