“No, does he indeed? I am so glad! But as for thinking of his marrying Fanny, that’s moonshine! I own, I should be thankful if she did fall in love with him—though she is much too young for marriage—but there’s no likelihood of her doing so while she’s besotted of your odious nephew.”
“You know, if you mean to talk of nothing but your totty-headed niece and my odious nephew I shall have a colic,” he informed her.
“Well, of all the detestably uncivil things to say—!” she gasped.
“If it comes to that, what a detestably boring thing to talk about!”
“I bee your pardon!” she said icily. “To me, it is a subject of paramount importance!”
“Yes, but it isn’t so to me.
Since Miss Butterbank came up at that moment, to tell her that dear Miss Wendover was ready to go home, she was prevented from uttering the retort that rose to her lips; but when her graceless tormentor presented himself in Sydney Place on Saturday she received him with a good deal of chilly reserve. As far as she could discover, this had no effect on him whatsoever. He devoted himself largely to Selina, listening good-naturedly to her rambling discourse, until she embarked on a catalogue of the various illnesses suffered by herself and several of her friends when he retaliated by telling her of the terrible diseases rife in India. From there it was a small step to a description of such aspects of Indian life, climate, and scenery as were most calculated to hold spellbound a middle-aged lady of enquiring mind and credulous disposition. Selina mellowed perceptibly under this treatment, and told Abby, when they had withdrawn from the dining-room, leaving their guest to enjoy a glass of port in solitary state, that really Mr Calverleigh was a most interesting man. “I declare I feel as if I had actually been to India myself!” she said. “So vivid, and droll—all those strange customs! Tigers and elephants, too—not that I should care to live with tigers, and although I believe elephants are wonderfully docile I don’t think I could ever feel myself at ease with them. But so very interesting—quite like a fairy story!”
Abby, who thought that some of Mr Calverleigh’s tales were exactly like fairy stories, was able to agree to this with perfect sincerity. She had every intention of maintaining her punctilious civility, and might have done so had he not said, as he took his seat beside her in the carriage he had hired for the evening: “I wish I had ordered a hot brick to be provided.”
“Thank you, but there was not the least need to do so: I don’t feel at all cold.”
“I daresay icebergs don’t feel cold either, but I do!”
She was betrayed into a smothered choke of laughter, whereupon he added: “From having lived so long in a hot climate, you understand.”
“I understand you perfectly, sir, and shall take leave to tell you that there’s neither truth nor shame in you!”
“Well, not much, perhaps!” he owned.
Since this quite overset her gravity, she was obliged to relent towards him, and by the time Beaufort Square was reached their former good relationship had been so well restored that she was able to look forward to an evening of unalloyed enjoyment, which not even the surprised stares of several persons with whom she was acquainted seriously disturbed. Mr Calverleigh proved himself to be an excellent host: not only had he hired one of the handsomely appointed first-tier boxes, but he had also arranged for tea and cakes to be brought to it during one of the intervals. Abby said appreciatively: “How comfortable it is not to be obliged to inch one’s way through the press in the foyer! You are entertaining me in royal style, Mr Calverleigh!”
“What, with cat-lap and cakes? If I entertained you royally I should give you pink champagne!”
“Which I shouldn’t have liked half as well!”
“No, that’s why I didn’t give it to you.”
“I expect,” said Abby, quizzing him, “it is invariably drunk in India—even for breakfast! Another of the strange customs you described to my sister!”
He laughed. “Just so, ma’am!”
“Well, if she recounts your Canterbury tales to young Grayshott you will have come by your deserts! He will refute them, and you will look no-how!”
“No, no, you wrong the boy! He’s not such a clodpole!”
“Incorrigible! It was a great deal too bad of you to make a May-game of poor Selina.”
“Oh, I didn’t! It was made plain to me that she has a very romantical disposition, and delights in the marvellous, so I did my best to gratify her. Turning her up sweet, you know.”
“Trying how many brummish stories you could persuade her to swallow is what you mean! How many did you tell me?”
He shook his head. “None! You should know better than to ask me that. I told you once that I don’t offer you Spanish coin, I’ll tell you now that I don’t offer you Canterbury tales either “ He saw the startled look in her eyes, the almost imperceptible gesture of withdrawal, and added simply: “You wouldn’t believe ‘em.”
This made her laugh again, but for a moment she had indeed been startled, perceiving in his light eyes a glow there could be no mistaking. She had felt suddenly breathless, and embarrassed, for she had hitherto suspected him of pursuing nothing more serious than an idle flirtation. But there had been a note of sincerity in his voice, and his smile was a caress. Then, just as she was thinking: This will never do! he had uttered one of his impishly disconcerting remarks, which left her wondering whether she had allowed her imagination to mislead her.
His subsequent behaviour was irreproachable, and there was so little of the lover in his manner that her embarrassment swiftly died. She reflected that he was really a very agreeable companion, with a mind so much akin to her own that she was never obliged to explain what she meant by some elliptical remark, or to guard her tongue for fear of shocking him. He was attentive to her comfort, too, but in an everyday style: putting her shawl round her shoulders without turning the office into an act of homage; and neither pressing nor retaining her hand when he assisted her to enter the carriage. This treatment made her feel so much at her ease that when he asked her casually if she would join an expedition to Wells, and show him the cathedral there, she had no hesitation in replying: “Yes, willingly: going to Wells, to see the knights on horseback, has always been a high treat to me!”
“What the deuce are they?” he enquired.
“A mechanical device—but I shan’t tell you any more! You shall see for yourself! Who else is to join your expedition?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I do, though! We’ll take Fanny and young Grayshott!”
She smiled, but said: “You should invite Lavinia too.”
“Oliver wouldn’t agree with you. Nor do I. There will be no room in the carriage for a fifth person.”
“She could take my place. Or even Mrs Grayshott. She would enjoy the drive.”
“She would find it too fatiguing. Can’t you think of anyone else to take your place?”
“Yes, Lady Weaverham!” she said instantly, a gurgle of merriment in her throat.
“No, I think, if I must find a substitute for you, I shall invite your sister’s bosom-bow—what’s her name? Buttertub? Tallow-faced female, with rabbit’s teeth.”
“Laura Butterbank!” said Abby, in a failing voice. “Odious, infamous creature that you are!”
“Oh, I can be far more odious than that!” he told her. “And if I have any more wit and liveliness from you, Miss Abigail Wendover, I’ll give you proof of it!”
“Quite unnecessary!” she assured him. “I haven’t the least doubt of it!”
She could not see his face in the darkness of the carriage, but she knew that he was smiling. He said, however, in stern accents: “Will you go with me to Wells, ma’am, or will you not?”
“Yes, sir,” said Abby meekly. “If you are quite sure you wouldn’t prefer Miss Butterbank’s company to mine!”
The carriage had drawn up in front of her house. Mr Calverleigh, alighting from it, and turning to hand her down, said: “I should, of course, but having
already invited you I feel it would be uncivil to fob you off.”
“Piqued, repiqued, and capoted!” said Abby, acknowledging defeat
Chapter X
The visit to the theatre produced its inevitable repercussions. Only such severe critics as Mrs Ruscombe saw anything to shock them in it, but it was surprising how quickly the word sped round Bath that Mr Miles Calverleigh was becoming extremely particular in his attentions to Miss Abigail Wendover. There was nothing in this to give rise to speculation, for Abby had never lacked admirers; but considerable interest was lent to the affair by what was generally considered to be her encouragement of the gentleman’s pretensions.
“Only think of her going to the play with him all by herself! When Lady Templeton told me of it I could only stare at her! I’m sure she has never done such a thing before!” said Mrs Ancrum.
“Mark my words,” said Lady Weaverham, “it’s a Case! Well, I’m sure I wish them both very happy!”
“Quite a new come-out!” said Mrs Ruscombe, with her thin smile. “It doesn’t astonish me: I have always thought her a trifle bold.”
Abby was well aware that she had become overnight an object for curiosity; and so, within a couple of days, was Selina, who was thrown into what she called a taking by the arch efforts of one of her acquaintances to discover whether dear Miss Abigail was about to contract an engagement.
“I was never so much provoked in my life!’ she declared. ‘Such impertinence! I gave her a sharp set-down, as you may suppose! You and Mr Calverleigh—! If I hadn’t been vexed to death, I could have laughed in her face! Why, he isn’t even well-favoured, besides being quite beneath your touch—not, of course, by birth, but a man of most unsavoury reputation, though that Mrs Swainswick knows nothing about, and you may depend upon it I didn’t breathe a syllable to her. But how she could have the impudence to imagine—not but what I knew how it would be from the start, and I must beg you, dear Abby, to keep hint at a proper distance!”
Abby was quite as much vexed as Selina, but her indignation took a different form. “What a piece of work about nothing!” she said contemptuously. “I should rather think you would give that vulgar busy head a sharp set-down! What would be quite beneath my touch would be to pay the smallest attention to anything she, or others like her, may choose to say of me!”
If more than the vulgar Mrs Swainswick’s sly question had been needed to rouse the spirit of rebellion slumbering in her breast, it was provided by Mr Peter Dunston, who told her that he was afraid his mother had been quite shocked by the news of her escapade. “She is old-fashioned, you know. I need hardly assure you thatI do not share her sentiments! What you do could never be wrong, Miss Abigail. Indeed, if I had as little regard for your good name in Bath as Calverleigh I should have ventured to invite you to go to the play in my company!”
This put Abby in such a flame that if Mr Calverleigh had asked her to jaunter off to Wells with only himself as escort she would instantly have agreed to it. Not being informed of her state of mind, he did not do so; but as the two younger members of his party soon wandered off together, when they reached Wells, he did, in fact, become her only escort for a large part of the day, the only flaw to this agreeable arrangement being that none of the Bath quidnuncs knew anything about it. But this regret was soon forgotten in the pleasure of introducing, to a Cathedral she loved, one who was quick to appreciate its beauty, needing no prompting from her. She thought, in touching innocence, that in Miles Calverleigh she had found a friend, and a better one by far than any other, because his mind moved swiftly, because he could make her laugh even when she was out of charity with him, and because of a dozen other attributes which were quite frivolous—hardly attributes at all, in fact—but which added up to a charming total, outweighing the more important faults in his character. She was aware of these, but she could find excuses for his cynicism, and even for the coldness of heart which made him look upon the problems or the troubles besetting other people with a detachment so profound as to seem inhuman. It was no wonder that twenty years of exile had made him uncaring, the wonder was that he was not embittered. As for the life he had led during those years, she did not suppose that virtue had played a noticeable part in it, but she felt it to be no concern of hers. Nor did she wish to know how many mistresses he had had or what excesses he might have committed: the past might keep its secrets, leaving her to the enjoyment of the present.
If she spared a thought for her niece, whom she had so reprehensibly allowed to escape from her chaperonage, it was merely to hope that Fanny was enjoying the day as much as she was. The child had not been in spirits at the start of the expedition. She had tried to hide it with rather more than her usual vivacity, but her gaiety had had a brittle quality. Abby dared not hope that she had quarrelled with Stacy; probably she was downcast because she had begun to despair of winning her family’s consent to her projected engagement. Perhaps Oliver would succeed in coaxing her out of the dumps; perhaps, if Lavinia, who had not yet learnt to withhold confidences from those she loved, had told him the story of Fanny’s infatuation, he might even venture to offer her a little advice. Abby had no doubt that it would be good advice, and very little that advice from a man with whom Fanny stood on friendly terms would be listened to far more readily than advice from an aunt.
Oliver did know the story, but the only advice he gave was addressed to his sister. He had listened to her sentimental outpourings in silence, disappointing her by saying quietly, when she had done: “Lavvy, you shouldn’t repeat what Fanny tells you.”
“Oh, no! Only to you—and Mama, of course!”
“Well, to Mama, perhaps, but not to me. I let you do so only because I already knew, from Mama, that Fanny had formed an—an attachment which her aunt dislikes. And because I fancy you are much in sympathy with her.”
“Yes, indeed I am!” she said earnestly. “It is the most affecting thing imaginable, for they fell in love the first time they met! He is so handsome, too, and has such an air! And merely because he hasn’t the advantage of fortune—as though it signified, when Fanny is positively rolling in riches!—”
“It isn’t that,” he interrupted, hesitating a little. “Not wholly that.”
“Oh, you are thinking that he was used to be very wild, and expensive, but—”
“No, I’m not, Lavvy. I know nothing about him, except that—” Again he hesitated; and then, as she directed a look of puzzled enquiry at him, said, with a little difficulty: “He isn’t a halfling, you know, or a greenhorn. He must be a dozen year older than Fanny, and a man of the world into the bargain.”
“Yes!” said Lavinia enthusiastically. “Anyone can see he is of the first stare, which makes it so particularly romantic that he should have fallen in love with Fanny! I don’t mean to say that she isn’t ravishingly pretty, because she is, but I should think there must be scores of fashionable London-girls on the catch for him, wouldn’t you?”
“Listen, Lavvy!” he said. “The thing is that he hasn’t behaved as he ought! A man of honour don’t flummery a girl into meeting him upon the sly, and he don’t pop the question to her without asking leave of her guardian!”
“Oh, Oliver, you are repeating what Mama says! How can you be so stuffy? Next you will be saying that Fanny ought to wait meekly until her guardian bestows her on a man of his choice!”
“I shan’t say anything of the sort. But I’ll tell you this, Lavvy: if Calverleigh had made you the object of his havey-cavey attentions I’d knock his teeth down his throat!”
Startled, and rather impressed, she said: “Good gracious! Would you? Well!”
“Try to, at all events,” he said, laughing. “It’s what any man would do.”
She did not look to be entirely convinced. He put his arm round her, and gave her a brotherly hug. “It isn’t for me to interfere: I haven’t the right. But you’ll be a poor friend to Fanny if you don’t make a push to persuade her not to throw her cap over the windmill. That’s the way to return by Wee
ping Cross.” He had said no more, and how much of what he had said was repeated to Fanny he had no means of knowing, because he was wary of betraying to his sister that he took far more than a neutral interest in the affair, and so would not ask her. Between himself and Fanny it was never discussed, and much as he longed to beg her not to throw herself away on a court-card who, in his view, was an ugly customer if ever he saw one, it did not come within his province to meddle in the affairs of a girl who would never be more to him than an unattainable dream, or within his code of honour to cry rope upon a fellow behind his back. Given the flimsiest of excuses—if only he had been even remotely related to Fanny!—he would speedily have cut the fellow’s comb for him; for although he was not yet in high force he had no doubt of his ability to draw the elegant Mr Stacy Calverleigh’s cork, besides darkening both his daylights, before tipping him a settler. His hands clenched themselves instinctively into two bunches of purposeful fives as he allowed his fancy to dwell for a moment on the pleasing vision of a regular set-to with Stacy. He was innately chivalrous, but he would have no compunction whatsoever in milling down this sneaking rascal, who, if he had ever come to handy-blows in his life (which Mr Grayshott doubted) was certainly no match for one whose science, and punishing left, had won fame for him in the annals of his school and college. But only for a moment did the vision endure: even the excuse of rivalry was denied him. Mr Grayshott, setting out for India in high hope, and eager determination to prove himself worthy of his uncle’s trust, had been defeated by his constitution, and saw himself as a failure. Mr Balking had told him not to tease himself about the future, and not to take it so much to heart that his health had broken down. “For how could you help it? I wish I’d never sent you to Calcutta—except that the experience you’ve gained will stand you in good stead. I’ve a place for you in the London house, but time enough to talk of that when you’re on your pins again.”
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