Black Sheep

Chapter XV

The Leavenings had hired lodgings in Orange Grove. Not an ideal situation, perhaps, admitted Mrs Leavening, when Selina pointed out to her its several disadvantages, but it was a fine, open place, and no need at all to summon up a chair every time she wanted to visit the Pump Room, or do a little shopping. As for the Abbey bells, she didn’t doubt that they would soon grow to be so accustomed to them that they would scarcely notice them. “Well, my dear,” she told Selina placidly, “when you get to be of our age, you must have learnt that you won’t find anything that’s exactly what you want, so, if you’ve a particle of common-sense, you’ll take the best that’s offered you.” She then said, with a chuckle: “Mr Calverleigh will laugh when he hears of it! He would have it, only because I like looking out of the window at what’s passing in the street, that I should never be happy but in the centre of the Town!”

Abby had been taking no more than a polite interest in the Leavenings’ plans, but these words affected her powerfully. She said: “If he ever does hear of it! Does he mean to return to Bath, ma’am?”

She spoke with studied nonchalance, but Mrs Leavening was not deceived. The quizzical gleam in her eye brought the blood into Abby’s cheeks, but all she said was: “Well, my dear, as his rooms are being kept for him at the York House, it’s to be supposed he does!”

That was the only ray of sunlight permitted for many days to break through the clouds surrounding Miss Abigail Wendover. She was enduring a time of trial, for which not Miles Calverleigh alone was responsible, but also her dear sister, and her cherished niece.

Influenza had left Fanny irritable and depressed. It was quite unnecessary for Dr Rowton to say that this uncharacteristic mood was attributable to her illness, and only what was to be expected. Abby knew that, but neither her own good sense nor the doctor’s reassurance made it easier for her to bear patiently the extremely wearing demands made upon her spirits by a convalescent who, when not sunk in gloom which affected everyone in her vicinity, peevishly found fault with everything, from the strength of the tea carried up to her room on her breakfast-tray, to the intolerable dullness of the books so hope-fully chosen by Abby at Meyler’s Library; or stared resentfully out of a rain-spotted window at a leaden sky, and sighed: “If only it would stop raining! If only I could go out!”

Poor little Fanny, said Selina, was quite unlike her merry self: an understatement which kindled a spark of amusement in Abby’s shadowed eyes. Dr Rowton told Abby, in his blunt way, that the sooner she stopped indulging Fanny the better it would be for herself, and Fanny too; but Dr Rowton did not know that there was another and deeper cause of Fanny’s crotchets than influenza. Abby did know, and even when she most wanted to slap her tiresome darling her heart went out to her. She was herself suffering from much the same malady, and if she had been seventeen, instead of eight-and-twenty, no doubt she would have abandoned herself to despair, just as Fanny was doing.

Fanny’s megrims might impose a severe strain upon Abby’s nerves, but it was Selina who rasped them raw, and broke down her command over herself.

Selina had seen Mrs Clapham, and she knew that it was all Too True. She had seen her in the Pump Room, whither a twinge of rheumatism had sent her (braving the elements in her carriage, with the hood drawn up) that morning. She had not at first known who she was, for how should she? She had merely been thinking that the bonnet she was wearing was in excellent style (though she had realized rather later that it bore too many plumes, and was of a disagreeable shade of purple, besides being a most unsuitable hat for a widow), when dear Laura Butterbank had whispered that she was Mrs Clapham.

“Which was a most unpleasant shock, as you may suppose, and almost brought on one of my distressing spasms. Fortunately, I had my vinaigrette in my reticule, for just when I was thinking that I did not at all like the look of her (not that I saw her face, for had her back turned to me, but one can always tell), whom should I see but young Calverleigh, making his way towards her, with that hoaxing smile on his face, all delight and cordiality as though he hadn’t been dangling after Fanny for weeks! And, Abby, he had the impudence to cut me! It’s of no use to say that he didn’t see me, because I am persuaded he did, for he took very good care not to look in my way again, besides going off with that vulgar creature almost immediately. When I recall the way he has been running tame in this house, inching himself in—at least, he did so until you came home and snubbed him and although I thought it a little unkind in you at the time, you were perfectly right, which 1 freely own—well, dearest, I was almost overpowered, and I trembled so much that I don’t know how I was able to reach the carriage, and if it hadn’t been for Mr Ancrum, who gave me his arm, very likely I never should have done so.”

She was obviously much upset. Abbey did what she could to soothe her agitation, but there was worse to come. That Woman (under which title Abby had no difficulty in recognizing the odious Mrs Ruscombe) had had the effrontery to come up to her to commiserate her, with her false, honeyed smile, on poor little Fanny’s humiliating disappointment. And not one word had she been able, in the desperation of the moment, to utter in crushing retort. Nothing had occurred to her!

Unfortunately, all too many retorts occurred to her during the succeeding days, and whenever she was alone with Abby she recalled exactly what Mrs Ruscombe had said, adding to the episode the various annihilating things she herself might have said, and reminding Abby of the numerous occasions when Mrs Ruscombe had behaved abominably. She could think of nothing else; and when, for the third time in one evening, she broke a brooding silence by saying, as though they had been in the middle of a discussion: “And another thing ...!”

Abby’s patience deserted her, and she exclaimed: “For heaven’s sake Selina, don’t start again! As though it wasn’t bad enough to have Fanny saying: ‘ If only it would stop raining!’ a dozen times a day! If you don’t wish to drive me into hysterics, stop talking about Mrs Ruscombe! What she said to you I have by heart, and as for what you might have said to her, you know very well you would never say any such things.”

She repented immediately, of course: indeed, she was horrified by her loss of temper. Begging Selina’s pardon, she said that she thought she was perhaps overtired.

“Yes, dear, no doubt you must be,” said Selina, “It is a pity you wouldn’t rest, as I repeatedly recommended you to do.”

Selina was not offended, oh, dear me, no! Just a little hurt, but she did not intend to say any more about that. She was sure Abby had not meant to wound her: it was merely that she was a trifle lacking in sensibility, but she did not intend to say any more about that either.

Nor did she, but her silence on that and every other topic was eloquent enough, and soon provided Abby with all that was needed to make her long passionately for Miles Calverleigh to come back, and to snatch her out of the stricken household without any more ado.

But it was not Miles Calverleigh who made an unexpected appearance in Sydney Place shortly before noon one morning. It was Mr James Wendover, carrying a small cloak-bag, and wearing the resentful expression of one forced, by the inconsiderate behaviour of his relations, to endure the discomforts of a night-journey to Bath on the Mail Coach.

It was Fanny, seated disconsolately by the window in the drawing-room, who saw him first. When the hack drew up, the hope that it had brought Stacy Calverleigh to her at last soared in her breast for one ecstatic moment, before it sank like a plummet at the sight of Mr Wendover’s spare, soberly clad figure. She exclaimed, startling Abby: “It is my uncle! No, no, I won’t—I can’t! Don’t let him come near me!”

With these distraught words, she rushed from the room, leaving Abby to make her excuses as best she might.

Forewarned, Abby betrayed neither perturbation nor astonishment when Mr Wendover presently entered the room, though she did say, as she got up from her chair: “Well, this is a surprise, “! What brings you to Bath, I wonder?”

Bestowing a perfunctory salute upon her cheek, he replied, in acrid accents: “ I must suppose that you know very well what has brought me, Abby! I may add that it has been most inconvenient—most inconvenient!—but since you have apparently run mad I felt myself compelled to undertake the journey! Where is Selina?”

“Probably drinking the waters, in the Pump Room,” replied Abby calmly. “She will be here directly, I daresay. Did you come by the Mail? What made it so late?”

“It was not late. I arrived in Bath punctually at ten o’clock and have already accomplished part of my mission. Why it should have been necessary for me to do so I shall leave it to your conscience to answer, Abby! If,” he added bitterly, “you have a conscience, which sometimes I am compelled to doubt!”

“It certainly seems as though I can’t have. However, I console myself with the reflection that at least I’m not as buffle-headed as the rest of my family!” said Abby brightly. “I collect that you came to try whether you could put an end to Fanny’s rather unfortunate flirtation with young Calverleigh. Now, if only you had warned me of your intention you would have been spared the journey! You have wasted your time, my dear James!”

His eyes snapped; he said, with a dry, triumphant laugh: “Have I? Have I indeed? I have already seen the young coxcomb, and I made it very plain to him that if he attempted to persuade my foolish niece into a clandestine marriage he would find himself taken very much at fault—very much at fault! I informed him that I should have no hesitation—none whatsoever!—in taking steps to have such a marriage annulled, and that under no circumstances should I disburse one penny of her fortune if she contracted an alliance without my sanction! I further informed him that he would have eight years to wait before deriving any benefit from that fortune!”

“I said you had wasted your time,” observed Abby, “I, too, informed him of these circumstances. I don’t think he believed me, and I am very sure he didn’t set much store by all thisbluster of yours. I have no great opinion of his intelligence but I fancy he is sufficiently shrewd to have taken your measure before ever he decided to make a push to captivate Fanny. Good God, if he had succeeded in eloping with Fanny you would have gone to any lengths to hush up the scandal, and so, depend upon it, he very well knows!”

An angry flush mounted into Mr Wendover’s thin cheeks “Indeed? In-deed! You are very much mistaken, my dear sister!I am aware that you fancy yourself to be awake upon every suit, but in my humble opinion you are as big a wet-goose as Selina! I don’t doubt for a moment that he paid little heed to anything you may have said to him: only a gudgeon could have failed to take your measure! When, however, he was confronted by me, the case was altered! I am happy to be able to inform you that this lamentable affair is now at an end!”

“Yes, it came to an end when Fanny took ill. You had really nothing to do with it, you know. According to all accounts, Stacy Calverleigh, for the past fortnight, has being laying determined siege to a rich widow—a far more desirable conquest than Fanny, I assure you! I have not myself had the felicity of meeting the lady, but I understand that she is much inclined to succumb to his attractions.”

He was so much surprised that his anger was instantly quenched. He exclaimed: “You don’t mean it! Is it indeed so? Well, upon my word! Nothing could be better! A widow, you say? Well! They say he is all to pieces, you know—quite gutted! And Danescourt falling to ruin! I was never more shocked in my life! Fanny is to be congratulated!”

“Very true, but I fear you won’t be able to do so. She is still far from well. In fact, I think it would be wiser if she doesn’t come downstairs today—in case she should still be infectious.”

Since James, as she knew well, shared Selina’s dread of contracting any infectious complaint, he agreed hastily that it would be wisest for Fanny to remain in her room. He said that there was now no need for him to see her: a remark hardly calculated to endear him to his sister. He continued for several minutes to animadvert on Stacy Calverleigh’s character; but suddenly he fell silent, and the pleased expression vanished from his face. He began to fidget about the room, twice began to say something, an apparently thought better of it, and finally came to a halt in front of Abby’s chair, and said portentously; “Abby! There is something I must say to you!”

She could guess what was coming, but she merely raised her brows enquiringly.

“Something or more importance than Fanny’s frippery affair—of far graver importance! It has upset me very much. It made me bilious for two days. You must know that I have always been subject to stomach disorders, and nothing brings on one of my attacks more surely than shock! I suffered a severe shock, sister, when it came to my knowledge that not only was young Calverleigh in Bath, but also his uncle! I had not thought it to have been possible!”

“Why not?” asked Abby.

He seemed to find it difficult to answer this, for after glaring down at her for a moment, he ejaculated, somewhat lamely: “Here! In Bath! I had supposed him to be in India!”

“Well, so he was, but he has now returned to England. I believe it is quite customary for people to do so.”

“Customary! Ay, for some people! And here—here of all unlucky places! That I might be obliged actually to meet the fellow—!”

“Don’t let it distress you!” she said, in a deceptively kind voice. “I don’t wish to seem unfeeling, but you cannot be laid up with a bilious-attack in this house! I hope, since there is no likelihood of your meeting Miles Calverleigh, that that trial at least may be spared us. It so happens that he is not in Bath.”

“He is not?” he said eagerly. “Then where is he?”

“I have no notion where he may be,” she responded coldly.

He regarded her out of narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Does he mean to return?”

“Oh, I hope so!” she said, smiling in a way which should have warned him of danger.

“You hope so! Then it is true, is it? Not only has the fellow had the effrontery to make you the object of his gallantry, but you have encouraged him to do so! You have not outgrown that—unsteadiness of character, which my father was used to fear would one day lead you into serious imprudence. You still have what Cornelia has always believed to be a love of singularity. You still—”

“Do you know, James, I can’t but believe that you would be happier if you paid rather less heed to the reports Mrs Ruscombe so regularly sends to Cornelia?” she interrupted. “If you lived here, you would pay none at all!”

He reddened. “If you tell me that there is no truth in the intelligence she thought it her duty to send Cornelia, I must naturally accept your word.”

“The only thing I have to tell you is what I have already told you: you are wasting your time! I am not a child, and what I do is my own concern! Now, if you please, let us discuss some other subject before we come to dagger-drawing!”

She spoke quite quietly, but she was by this time very angry. He seemed to realize it, for when he had taken another turn about the room he said, in a more moderate tone: “I do not mean to set up your back. Recollect that although I have no authority over you I am your brother! What you do cannot but be of concern to me. I beg you will tell me—have you indeed a partiality for this man?”

She looked at him without speaking, but it was Miles Calverleigh’s face she saw, not his. A smile crept into her eyes; she turned them away from her brother, and sat looking into the fire. “Oh, yes!” she said softly.

He groaned. “And he? Has he had the imp—has he made you an offer?” She nodded, and again he groaned. “My poor girl! I do most sincerely pity you! Rest assured that not one word of what you have divulged to me shall ever pass my lips! You cannot marry Calverleigh. Good God, one would have thought that at your age—” He broke off, and said, with what was meant for an indulgent smile: “Well, well, you are not so old, after all, and one may fancy oneself in love at any age, eh? But you are old enough to reflect before you abandon yourself to folly—to an act of such madness as must ruin your life! You must allow me to speak plainly to you, little though I may relish the task. I own that I look upon it with repulsion: indeed, I never thought to be obliged to discuss such matters with any of my sisters! Calverleigh is a ne’er-do-well. His reputation—”

“Very bad, wasn’t it?” she agreed.

“Yes, my dear sister, it was! I shall not sully your ears with the details of his career—Abigail! Do you find it a matter for laughter?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she said, choking on a giggle. “It is most uncivil to laugh in a person’s face, but I couldn’t help but do so! I suddenly thought how much Miles Calverleigh would enjoy hearing you talk such fustian, and wondered what he would say! Though I have a very good notion of that! It would certainly be outrageous, so perhaps it is as well that he isn’t here, for he would shock you very much—quite enough to make you bilious, I daresay! Don’t s-sully my ears any more, James! Remember that I came out of leading-strings a long time ago! I find that I don’t care a straw for his reputation.”

“You are hysterical!” he exclaimed. “You do not know what you are saying! He is a man without principles, without regard for any of the virtues you have been taught to revere!”

“Oh, quite without regard for them!” she said cordially. “He hasn’t any regard for family obligations either, and I am fast coming to the conclusion that he is perfectly right.”

He said repressively: “I make all allowance for the freakish things you delight in saying, but such wild, unthinking talk as this is very unbecoming in you. When you say that you don’t care a straw for Calverleigh’s reputation, you don’t understand what you arc saying, for you know nothing about it. It would be shocking if you did.”

“Well, you don’t know anything about it either, do you?” she said. “You can’t have known very much before he was sent to India, for you are younger than he is, and he was only twenty at that time; and you can know nothing at all about him from that date onward.”

He found himself obliged to take another turn about the room, his hands clasped behind his back, and his fingers working convulsively. Coming to a halt again, he drew an audible breath, and said: “Abby! There are circumstances which render any alliance between a Wendover and a Calverleigh impossible-unthinkable! I cannot say more: you must believe me when I tell you that it so!”

“There is no need for you to say more,” she replied, with composure. “I know what happened—twenty years ago!”

“What?”He looked, for a moment, horrified, and then incredulous. “You cannot know!”

“Oh, yes! He eloped with Celia, didn’t he? But it was all hushed up, after the manner of her family and ours, and she married Rowland after all.”

“Who told you this?” he demanded, thunderstruck.

“Why, he did, of course—Miles Calverleigh!”

His jaw dropped. He seemed to find it difficult to speak, and stuttered: “C-Calverleigh t-told you? C-Calverleigh himself? Good God!” Words failed him. While she watched him in some amusement, he pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his brow. Regaining a measure of control over his emotions, he said: “It is worse than I had thought it possible it could be! He must be dead to shame! Lost to every vestige of propriety!”

“I shouldn’t think he ever had a vestige of propriety to lose, she said reflectively. “As for shame, I don’t know, but he is not ashamed of running off with Celia. I see little reason why he should be. It was imprudent—and, of course, improper—but he was very young, and when her father forced Celia to become engaged to Rowland, I daresay it seemed to him to be the only thing to be done. I don’t blame him. Those whom I do blame, and from the bottom of my heart despise, are Papa, and Morval, and Rowland!”

He looked fixedly at her, and, lowering his voice, said, in apocalyptic accents: “You do not know all! They were not overtaken until the following day!”

She tried not to laugh, but his awful aspect was too much for her. Quite appalled by such depravity, he said sharply: “Upon my soul! I begin to think you are well matched, you and that scoundrel!

“Yes, James: I begin to think so too!” she agreed, between irrepressible outbreaks of laughter.

It was perhaps fortunate that they were interrupted at this moment by Selina, who came into the room in a flutter of welcome. To Selina, family ties were all-important; her affections, though not deep, were sincere and enduring, and she was genuinely glad to see James, forgetting, as she fondly embraced him, that the last letter she had received from him had roused her to considerable indignation.

“James! Well! Such a surprise! I hadn’t the least notion—and only a fricassee of rabbit and onions for dinner! Now, if only I had known! But Betty or Jane can go into town, and procure some partridges, or perhaps a haunch of venison, which Fletching dresses very well, and is something you were always partial to.”

But James was not staying to dine with his sisters. He was returning to London on the Mail Coach.

Dismayed, Selina faltered: “Not staying? But, James—! You brought your cloak-bag! Mitton has carried it up to your room, and means to unpack it as soon as the bed has been made up!”

“Desire him to bring it down again, if you please. It was my intention to have put up here for a night, but what I have learnt since I entered this room has shocked me so much—I may say, appalled me!—that I prefer to return to London!”

“Good God!” uttered Selina, casting a wildly enquiring look at Abby. “You cannot mean—oh, but Abby has told you surely,that we believe there is no danger to be apprehended now? There has been no continued observance: the wretch has only once called since dear Fanny took ill, and with my own eyes I have seen the Creature he is making up to!”

“I am not referring to young Calverleigh,” said James stiffly “I came to Bath in the hope of discovering that the very disturbing rumours which have reached me had little foundation in truth. Instead, I learn that your sister has become infatuated with a man who should never have been permitted to cross your threshold!”

“No, no! Oh, pray do not say such things, James!” begged Selina faintly. “He is perfectly respectable, though I cannot like the way he dresses—so very careless, and coming to pay us a formal visit in top-boots!—and, of course, he must have been sadly rackety when he was young, to have been sent away to India—not that I think it was right to do such a cruel thing, for I don’t, and I never shall, and I consider it to be most unjust to say that he ought not to have been allowed to cross the threshold after all these years of being condemned to live in India, which may be a very interesting place, but is most unhealthy, and has burnt him as brown as a nut! And Abby is as much your sister as mine!”

“If Abby is so lost to propriety, to all sense of the duty she owes her family, as to marry Calverleigh, she will no longer be a sister of mine!” he said terribly.

“That’s no way to dissuade me!” said Abby.

“No, no, dearest!” implored Selina. “Pray don’t—! James didn’t mean it!”

“When you have heard what I have to say, Selina—”

“Yes, but not now!” said Selina, much agitated. “Mitton is fetching up the sherry, and I must take off my hat and my pelisse, and then it will be time for luncheon, which we always have, you know—just a baked egg, or a morsel of cold meat—and afterwards, when you are calmer,and we shan’t be interrupted, which is always so vexatious when one is enjoying a serious discussion. No, I don’t mean that! Not enjoying it, because already I am beginning to feel a spasm!”

James eyed her a little uneasily, and said, in a milder voice: “Very well, I will postpone what I have to say. I do not myself partake of luncheon, but I should be glad of a cup of tea.”

“Yes dear, of course, though I am persuaded it would do good to eat a mouthful of something after your journey!”

“Don’t press him, Selina! he’s bilious,” said Abby.

“Bilious! Oh, then, no wonder—!” cried Selina, her countenance lightening. “I have the very thing for you, dear James! I will fetch it directly, but on no account sherry!”

She then fled from the room, paying no heed to his exasperated denial of biliousness.

“Take care, James!” said Abby maliciously. “You will find yourself in the suds if you throw Selina into strong convulsions!”

He cast her a repulsive glance. “Spare me any more of your levity, Abigail! I shall say no more until after luncheon.”

“You won’t say any more to me at any time,” replied Abby. “You have already said too much! You may not have noticed it, but the sun came out half an hour ago. What I am going to do after luncheon, dear James, is to take Fanny out for a drive!”

With these words, accompanied by a smile of great sweetness, she went away to inform Fanny of the treat in store for her.

Fanny was also suffering from agitation. She turned an apprehensive, suspicious face towards her aunt, and said: “How long does my uncle mean to remain here? I don’t want to see him !”

“Have no fear, my love!” said Abby cheerfully. “Your uncle is equally reluctant to see you! I told him you were still infectious.”

Fanny gave a spontaneous laugh. “Oh, Abby! What a fib!”

“Yes, it weighs heavily on my conscience, but I don’t grudge a fib or two to save you from what I cannot myself endure. Grimston will bring a tray to you. I must send a message to the stables now.”

But in the end it was not Abby who took Fanny for her drive, but Lavinia Grayshott. Just as Abby was preparing to take her place in the barouche beside Fanny, Lavinia came running up, and exclaimed breathlessly: “Oh famous! Going out at last! Now you will soon be better! Oh, Miss Abby, I beg your pardon!—how do you do? I was coming to see Fanny, just to bring her this book! Oh, and, Fanny, take care how you open it! There’s an acrostic in it, from Oliver!”

Abby saw the brightening look in Fanny’s face, and realized that Fanny would prefer Lavinia’s company to hers. The knowledge caused her to feel a tiny heartache, but she did not hesitate. She said, smiling at Lavinia: “Why don’t you go with Fanny in my place? Would you like to?”

The answer was to be read in Lavinia’s face. “Oh—! But you, ma’am? Don’t you wish to go with her?”

“Not a bit!” Abby said. “I have a thousand and one things to do, and shall be glad to be rid of her! The carriage shall take you home, so if Martha sees no objection I shall resign Fanny into your charge.”

Martha, following more slowly in Lavinia’s wake, readily consented to the scheme; so Lavinia jumped into the carriage. Before it drew out of sight, Abby saw the two heads together, and guessed that confidences were already being exchanged. She stifled a sigh, as she turned back into the house. Between herself and Fanny there was constraint, for Fanny knew her to be hostile to Stacy Calverleigh. Well, perhaps she would unburden herself to Lavinia, and feel the better for it.