Black Sheep

Chapter VIII

Since Oliver showed no signs of exhaustion, and Stacy, behaving with great circumspection, made no attempt to monopolize Fanny’s attention, nothing occurred to spoil Abby’s enjoyment of this mild form of exhilaration. Miles Calverleigh rode beside her for most of the time, and made himself so agreeable that she forgot her anxieties in listening to what he had to tell her of India, and the customs of its people. He had to be coaxed to talk, saying at first that persons who gabbed about their foreign experiences were dead bores, but the questions she put to him were intelligent, and her interest in his replies so real that he soon dropped his reserve, painting a vivid picture for her, and even recounting some of his experiences. These ranged from the adventurous to the comical, but it was not long before he brought them to an end, saying: “And that is enough about me! Now tell me of yourself!”

“Alas, there’s nothing to tell! I’ve done nothing, and have been nowhere. You don’t know how much I envy you—how often I have wished I were a man!”

“Have you, indeed? You must be alone in that wish!”

“Thank you! But you are wrong: my father wished it too! He wanted another son.”

“What, with Rowland and James as grim examples? Or because he hoped that a third son might be less of a slow-top?”

“Certainly not! And although I didn’t like him I must in common justice say that Rowland, at least, was not a slow-top. He was hunting-mad, you know, and a very hard goer.”

“I wasn’t talking about that. Intellectually a slow-top!”

“Oh, yes, but so was my father! Naturally he didn’t count his stupidity a fault in Rowland. In fact, he had the greatest dislike of clever people.”

He chuckled appreciatively, which made her say, in a conscience-stricken voice: “I ought not to have said that. My wretched tongue! I do try to mind it!”

“Then don’t! I like the way you have of saying just what comes into your head.”

She smiled, but shook her head. “No, it is my besetting sin, and I ought long since to have overcome it.”

“From what I recall of your father, I should suppose that he made every effort to help you to do so. Did he dislike you as much as you disliked him?”

“Yes, he—Oh, how dare you? You are quite abominable! You know very well that it would be the height of impropriety for me to say that I disliked my father! Every feeling must be offended!”

“Well, none of mine are,” he responded imperturbably. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but it is one of the things which must never be said. And if he disliked me I am bound to own that it was quite my own fault. I was a sad trial to him, I fear.”

“Yes, of course: too clever by half!”

“I’m not clever—or only if you compare me with the rest of my family,” she said reflectively. “I love them dearly, but Selina and Mary are perfect widgeons, and although my sister Jane has a good deal of commonsense she never thinks of anything but her children, and the failings of her servants. My father merely thought I was bookish, which was the worst he could say of anyone! He ascribed all my undutiful conduct to it.”

“Now, I should have said that you had an all too lively sense of your duty,” he remarked.

“Not when I was a girl. I was for ever rebelling against the restrictions imposed upon me, and oh, how much I detested that hateful word, propriety ! That’s why I was used to wish I were a man: so that I could have escaped from it! Girls can’t, you know. We are always shackled—hedged about—”

“Cabin’d, cribb’d, confined,” he supplied, adding grandiloquently: “I’m bookish too.”

A ripple of laughter broke from her. “So I perceive! And that is just how it was in my family.”

“Was? Still is!” She turned her head, startled. “No! Why, what can you mean?”

He nodded towards the four younger members of the party, riding ahead. “Fanny, of course. Don’t you cabin, crib, and confine her?”

“Indeed I don’t!” she said warmly. “She enjoys far, far more liberty than ever I did!” A quizzically raised eyebrow brought the blood rushing to her cheeks. She stammered: “It’s true! You—you are thinking that I don’t permit her to go anywhere without me, but that is not true! I have never, until your odious nephew came to Bath, accompanied her on such expeditions as this—and if he had not been in question, and young Grayshott had invited her to go with him, she might have done so with my goodwill!” She paused, and, after considering for a moment, said frankly: “No. Not alone. I should have no qualms, but where she is concerned I must take care that she does nothing to provide all the Bath quizzes with food for gossip! You see, my brother entrusted her to my guardianship, and however nonsensical I may think many of the conventions which hedge us about I must, for her own sake, compel her to abide by them. Pray try to understand! What I, at my age, might choose to disregard, she, on the verge of her come-out, must not!”

“Poor girl!” he said lightly. “How many nonsensical conventions are you ready to flout?”

“Oh, a great many, if I had only myself to consider!”

“We’ll put that to the test. Will you go with me to the play on Saturday?”

She hesitated, in equal surprise and doubt. After a moment, she said: “Are you inviting me to form one of your party, sir?”

“Good God, no! I haven’t a party.”

“Oh!” She relapsed again into silence. “I collect you mean to invite Fanny as well?” she hazarded at last.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” he retorted. “You know very well that Fanny is engaged to go with the Grayshotts to Mrs Faversham’s waltzing-party! I wonder you will let her!”

“Do you, indeed? Well, if you think me so—so stuffy, I wonder that you should suppose I would go to the theatre with you alone! The waltz is not danced in the Rooms, but Bath is a very old-fashioned place, and, in London, waltzes, and quadrilles too, are extensively danced. I am very happy that Fanny should be given the opportunity of—of getting into the way of it, before her come-out in the spring! But when it comes to going to the theatre—” She paused, frowning over it.

He waited, regarding her profile with a derisive smile, until she said, struck by a sudden inspiration: “If you were to invite my sister as well! That would make it perfectly unexceptionable!”

“No doubt!”

She could not help laughing. “Yes, I know, but—Well, it is quite absurd, but there is a difference—or there is thought to be—between escorting a lady to—oh, to a concert, in the Assembly Rooms, and to the theatre! I think it is because the concerts, being held by subscription, are more private. Then, too, one doesn’t sit apart, and one mingles with—”

“Oh, if that’s all, we can sit in the pit!”

“—with one’s friends!” finished Abby severely.

“And at the end of the first act, when your escort hopes to enjoy your company, some impudent fellow snabbles you from under his nose, and takes you off to tea—just as I did, when that mooncalf who paid you slip-slop compliments thought you were his own!”

“Well! At least you have the grace to own your impudence!” she retaliated. “However gracelessly you may do so! But Mr Dunston is not a mooncalf, and the compliments he paid me were very pretty.”

“Any man who could tell you that you shone down every other woman present, and said you were as fair as a rose in May can’t help but be a mooncalf. Trying it on much too rare and thick!”

Piqued, she said: “I am not a beauty, and I never was, but I am not an antidote, I hope!”

He smiled. “No, you are neither the one nor the other. What that dunderheaded admirer of yours hasn’t the wit to perceive is that you’ve something of more worth than mere beauty.”

Miss Wendover was well aware that it behoved her to give the audacious Mr Calverleigh a cold set-down, or, at the very least, to ignore this remark; but instead of doing either of these things she directed a look of shy enquiry at him. “Have I? Pray tell me what it may be!”

He looked her over critically, the amusement lingering in his eyes. “Well, you have a great deal of countenance, and an elegant figure. I like your eyes too, particularly when they laugh. But that’s not it. What you have in abundance is charm!”

She blushed rosily, and stammered: “I am afraid, sir, that it is now you who are offering me Spanish coin!”

“Oh, no! Your nose is indifferent, and your mouth a trifle too large, and your hair, though it grows prettily, is an unremarkable brown.”

She broke into laughter. “I acquit you!”

“So I should hope! I might have added that you had also courage, but I doubt it”

She fired up at that. “Then you are mistaken! I collect that’s a jibe, because I hesitated to accept your invitation! Very well, I will go to the play with you!”

“Good girl!” he said approvingly. “Pluck to the backbone! But I won’t take you if you really feel that it would damage your reputation.”

“No,” she said, in a resolute tone. “Not at my age!”

“Just what I was thinking myself,” he agreed.

She looked sharply at him, but he was perfectly grave. “Would it be proper for you to dine with me first, at York House?” he asked.

“Thank you, but I should prefer you to dine in Sydney Place,” she replied. “My sister will be very happy to further her acquaintance with you.”

He bowed a meek acceptance, and, as they had by this time reached their goal, which was the monument erected to the memory of one Sir Basil Grenville, killed in the Civil Wars, their conversation came to an end.

Nor was it resumed; for after the remains of a Saxon fortification, situated near by, had been shown to the Calverleighs, one of whom affected a civil but artificial interest in it, and the other no interest at all, it was judged to be time to turn homeward; and upon the return journey the party split up into a different order, Mr Stacy Calverleigh contriving that Abby should ride with him instead of with his uncle.

“Do, pray, allow me to be your escort, ma’am!” he said. “I have been seeking an opportunity to talk to you, and—I hope—to better my acquaintance with you.”

“By all means,” she answered, in a cool voice. “What is it you wish to say to me, sir?”

He bestowed his flashing smile upon her. “Ah, you know what I wish to say! And I, alas, know that I am addressing myself to an ear little inclined to listen to me!”

“If you mean to address yourself to me in rehearsed periods, you are perfectly right!” she told him. “Without roundaboutation, you wish to obtain my consent to Fanny’s becoming engaged to you. I am afraid you haven’t understood the case: Fanny isn’t my ward, but my brother’s. You must apply to him, not to me. In fact,” she added thoughtfully, “you should have done so before making Fanny an offer. To form a connection with a girl of seventeen without the knowledge of her guardian is really not at all the thing, you know.”

He looked a little discomposed. “Had I known—I thought, at first, that she was Miss Wendover’s ward! Naturally, if I had known—”

“Then what prevented you from asking my sister’s permission before you declared yourself to Fanny?” asked Abby, in an interested voice.

He bit his lip. “I should have done so, of course, but I had no reason to suppose—that is to say, I believed she was aware—did not look upon my suit with disfavour! Then, too, conscious as I am of my unworthiness I did not intend—Ah, Miss Abby, you don’t understand! You make no allowance for the violence of my feelings, which, I confess, carried me beyond the bounds of propriety!”

“No, I don’t think I do,” agreed Abby.

He shot a challenging look at her, which she met with a faint bland smile. “From the moment I saw her I was lost!” he said dramatically. “Oh, I have fancied myself in love before, many times—you see, I don’t attempt to deceive you, ma’am!—but when I met Fanny I knew that it had never been more than fancy, and bitterly did I regret the past—all my follies and indiscretions! Yes, and determined to become worthy of that beautiful angel!”

“Well, you have plenty of time to achieve your ambition,” said Abby cordially. “There is no saying but what, if you were to succeed, my brother might look more kindly upon you, when Fanny reaches her majority.”

“Four years! Miss Abby, neither she nor I could endure it! We hoped—Fanny was fully persuaded that you—her favourite aunt, as she calls you!—would stand our friend! Your support must weigh with Mr Wendover!”

“My dear sir, if I were to lend my support to such an unsuitable and improvident marriage, Mr Wendover would suppose me to have run mad, and would be more likely to have me placed under restraint. And I must say that I shouldn’t blame him!”

“Improvident!” he exclaimed, catching at the word. “Ay, that is the obstacle! Believe me, I feel it as keenly as you do! My inheritance was wasted before I came into it, and when I tell you that my father died before I was of age you may judge how unripe I was, how little able to restore what had been squandered! I hope I am wiser now.”

“I am sure,” said Abby politely, “that all your friends must share that hope. I fear, however, that my brother will require some rather more solid proof.”

Nettled, he said: “You misunderstand me, ma’am! When I spoke of my inheritance having been wasted, I did not mean that I am reduced to penury! Between my fortune and Fanny’s I fear there may be disparity, but although my lands are not in such good heart as I could wish, they are extensive, and I am, after all, the head of my family! There have been Calverleighs at Danescourt since I don’t know when!”

“Since the Conquest,” she supplied, with a reminiscent chuckle. “According to your uncle, the founder of your house was in all probability one of the—the thatchgallows in the Conqueror’s train.”

“My uncle is fond of cutting jokes,” he replied, with a forced smile. “Even Mr James Wendover can scarcely find fault with my lineage! As for fortune, I don’t know what Fanny’s may be, nor do I care—except that if it is to form an insuperable barrier between us I wish it at Jericho!”

“Well, for the next eight years it might as well be,” she said prosaically. “It was left to my brother to be held in trust for Fanny until she reaches the age of five-and-twenty, you know.”

“Five-and-twenty!” he ejaculated, the smile wiped suddenly from his lips. He recovered himself in a flash, saying: “I didn’t know it, and am agreeably surprised. Under those circumstances I must surely escape the stigma of being thought a fortune-hunter.”

This seemed to her so disingenuous that she was too much disgusted to answer him. She rode on at a quickened pace, so that the rest of the party was soon overtaken, and Stacy was obliged to bring his confidences to an end.

Whatever discomfiture he might feel, no sign of it was to be detected, either in his face or in his manner. He seemed, rather, to be in spirits, full of liveliness and wit, keeping Lavinia in giggles, and causing Fanny to ask her aunt, when they rode down Great Pulteney Street together, if she did not find him as charming as he was handsome.

“Why, as to that—he has agreeable manners, but—do you think him charming, Fanny?” said Abby, on a note of surprise.

“Good gracious, Abby, everyone does so!” Fanny cried.

“Oh!”

Ruffled, Fanny said: “This must be prejudice! Pray, what fault do you find in him?”

Abby smiled. “If I were to tell you, love, you would be ready to pull caps with me!”

“Yes—if you said what I believe to be in your mind! You think him a fortune-hunter, don’t you?” She waited for a moment, but as Abby said nothing, continued hotly: “It is false, and—and unworthy of you, Abby! I beg your pardon, but I won’t allow you to abuse him! He didn’t know about my fortune when he fell in love with me, and later, when he learned of it from some odious tattle-box, he was utterly cast down—talked of his presumption, said his case was hopeless, and that he would never, never have approached me if he had known the truth! Such stuff! I verily believe he would have gone away if I hadn’t been able to tell him that it will be four whole years before I have a penny more than the pin-money my uncle doles out to me!”

“I am afraid you misled him a little, dearest, and that the blame rests on my shoulders,” said Abby apologetically. “I thought you knew—at least, that’s what I should have supposed, had I thought about it all. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t. My excuse is that we have never discussed money-matters, have we? You won’t come into possession of your fortune until you are five-and-twenty.”

Fanny looked very much taken aback, and exclaimed heatedly: “You don’t mean it! Well, of all the shabby things to do—! Why, already I need more than my uncle gives me, and I shall need much more when I go to London for my come-out!”

“Of course you will!” agreed Abby, considerably heartened by this naive speech. “Your uncle knows that—indeed, we had some discussion about it when I was in London. You won’t find him ungenerous, I promise you. He wishes you to present what he calls a creditable appearance!”

“Not ungenerous if I am meek and obedient! But if I don’t submit to his tyranny—what then?”

“Really, Fanny!” Abby protested. “What cause have you ever had to talk of his tyranny?”

“None—yet! But if he tries to part me from Stacy it will be tyranny! And I’ll tell you this, Abby!—I don’t care a rush for my hateful fortune, or even if my uncle cuts off my allowance, and Stacy won’t care either! No, and I don’t care if I don’t go to London—not a bit!”

“I wish you will not talk in that skimble-skamble style!” said Abby, with asperity. “Anyone would take you for a perfect zero! Do you, in all seriousness, expect your uncle to allow you to be married out of the schoolroom?”

“He would, if Stacy were wealthy, and were an Earl, or some such thing!” said Fanny, on an angry sob.

“Oh, no, he would not!” replied Abby. “He would have me to reckon with! Do, for heaven’s sake, try for a little common-sense, child! You have tumbled into love, and you believe it to be a lasting attachment—”

“I know it is!” Fanny declared passionately.

“Very well! It may be as you say, and if it should prove to be so you may rest assured of my support. Young Calverleigh has told me that he means to become worthy of you, and if he succeeds in reforming his way of life—”

“He has done so!”

“In that case, I see no reason at all for you to fall into affliction. Neither your uncle nor I are monsters of cruelty, and if, when you have seen a little of the world, you still prefer Calverleigh to all the other men you will meet, and he shows himself to be equally constant, we shall not oppose the marriage.”

“What, wait for nearly a whole year?” cried Fanny, aghast. “ Oh, no, no, no! If you had ever been in love you could not be so heartless!”

“I see nothing very heartless in wishing you to enjoy at least one London season before you embark on eight years of poverty,” said Abby dryly.

“That isn’t what you wish!” Fanny said, her voice trembling. “You wish to take me away from my beloved Stacy! I know just how it would be if I consented! You, and my Aunt Mary, would take good care n-never to let me so m-much as see him! I daresay you think I should soon forget him, but I shan’t! Oh, Abby, Abby, I thought you loved me!”

“You know very well that I do.”

But Fanny, swallowing her tears, shook her head, and rode on in silence.

Meanwhile, Stacy, having begged for the honour of entertaining his uncle to dinner that evening, was taking great pains to order such dishes and wines as would be most likely to put Mr Miles Calverleigh in a mellow mood. Having scrutinized the bill of fare, and bored the waiter by changing his mind three times, he decided at last in favour of a soup, to be removed with a loin of veal, and followed by partridges, accompanied by broiled mushrooms and French beans, with a dressed crab, fat livers in cases, and some artichoke bottoms in sauce, as side-dishes. This elegant repast was served in his private parlour, and although Miles, a sparing eater, could not have been said to do full justice to it, toying with the veal, and refusing the crab and the livers, he ate two partridges, and raised no demur at having his glass constantly refilled.

Until the covers were removed, and a bottle of brandy set upon the table, Stacy confined his conversation to everyday chit-chat, which consisted largely of anecdotes of ton, and the latest titbits of London scandal, but when the waiter left the parlour Miles Calverleigh, pushing his chair back, and stretching his legs out before him, one ankle crossed over the other, yawned, and said: “Cut line, nevvy! You didn’t invite me here to regale me with on-dits. What do you want of me?”

“Good God, sir, nothing! Why, what should I want?”

“I’ve no idea. Or what you imagine I could—or would—do for you.”

This was not encouraging, but Stacy persevered. “Don’t you feel that we should get to know one another, sir?”

“No, why?”

Stacy blinked at him. “Well—our relationship!”

“Don’t give it a thought! Relations are a dead bore.”

“Not you, sir!” said Stacy, with his ready laugh. “Indeed, far from it! I can’t tell you how many times in the past week I’ve heard your praises sung!”

“Well, don’t try. Are you hopeful of borrowing money from me?”

“Much good that would do me! I daresay your pockets are as much to let as mine!” Stacy said, tossing off the brandy in his glass, and stretching out his hand for the bottle.

Miles, who was warming his own glass in his cupped hands, said: “As I don’t know to what extent your pockets are to—”

He was interrupted. “Wholly!” Stacy said, with yet another laugh, this time one devoid of mirth. “I’m all to pieces!” He waited for a moment, but as he won no other response than a polite look of enquiry from his unfeeling relative continued jerkily: “The devil’s been in the cards! Yes, and in the bones too! I’ve only to rattle them and they fall crabs! If I can’t contrive to fly a kite, I shall be gutted!”

Mr Miles Calverleigh, having warmed his glass to his satisfaction, and savoured the aroma of the brandy, sipped it delicately. “I daresay you’ll come about,” he said.

Anger rose in Stacy, and, with it, his colour. “Not if that curst aunt of Fanny’s has anything to say to it! And now she tells me that Fanny don’t come of full age until she’s five-and-twenty!”

“You will have to look for another kite to fly, won’t you?”

Stacy disposed of his second glass of brandy. “Do you suppose I haven’t done so? Damn it, I thought it was all hollow! But when a man’s luck is out it’s ames-ace with him, whatever he sets his hand to! I’ve been punting on tick for weeks past—hardly dare show my face in town!”

“I should go abroad, if I were you.”

“Pray, what should I subsist on?” snapped Stacy.

“Oh, on your wits!” said Miles cheerfully.

“I collect that’s what you did!”

“Yes, of course.”

“They don’t seem to have served you very well!”

Miles laughed. “Better than an apron-string hold would have done, I promise you!”

There was just enough contempt in his voice to put Stacy, already embarking on a third glass, in a flame. He exclaimed: “I don’t know what right you have to hold up your nose, sir! It’s what you did—or tried to do—yourself!”

“Is it?” said Miles. “You seem to be remarkably well informed!”

“You as good as told me so,” Stacy muttered. “In any event, I’ve always known that you ran off with some heiress or another.”

“So I did,” agreed Miles, without the smallest sign of discomposure. “I shouldn’t recommend you to follow my example: you would do better to regard me in the light of a grim warning.”

“I don’t wish to run off with Fanny! It was never my intention, until that archwife returned to Bath to thrust a spoke in my wheel!”

“That what!”

The astonishment in his uncle’s voice recalled to Stacy’s mind his reason for having invited him to dinner, and, with an abrupt change of front, he said: “I should not abuse her! No, or blame her either, I suppose. But when one’s hopes are cut up—She has set her face against the marriage, sir!”

“Well, you certainly can’t blame her for that.”

“I have said I don’t! I’ve done my utmost to bring her about—assured her of my determination to be worthy of Fanny—all to no avail! She is unmoved! Nothing I could say had the least effect on her!”

“You can’t tell that. The chances are you made her feel damned queasy.”

“But it’s true!” Stacy declared, flushing hotly. “I’ll be a pattern-husband, I swear!”

“Hornswoggle!” said his uncle, not mincing matters.

“No, I tell you!”

“Well, don’t! What the devil’s the use of telling me that, or anything else? I’m not the girl’s guardian!”

“You could help me, if you chose to do it!”

“I doubt it”

“Yes, yes, I’m certain of it!” Stacy said eagerly, once more refilling his glass. “Miss Abigail likes you—you’re wondrous great with her! I heard how she was talking to you today, and laughing at the things you said to her! If you were to support me, plead my cause—”

“Yes, you’re a trifle disguised!” interrupted Miles.

“No such thing! I’ll have you know, sir—”

“Oh, not ape-drunk!” said Miles reassuringly. “Just about half-sprung!”

“I’ll engage to see you out, sir!”

Miles looked amused. “You’d be obliged to knock under! However, I’d as lief you made the attempt rather than talk any more balderdash! I plead your cause? What the devil gave you the notion mat I plead any causes but my own? Believe me, it’s wide of the mark!”

“You can’t be such a—such care-for-nobody as to refuse to lift as much as a finger to assist me!” said Stacy indignantly.

“Oh, you’re quite mistaken! I am precisely such a care-for-nobody.”

“But I’m your nephew! You can’t want me to be rolled-up!”

“It’s a matter of indifference to me.”

“Well, upon my soul!” Stacy exploded.

“As it would be to you if that fate befell me,” said Miles, slightly smiling. “Why should either of us care a straw for what becomes of the other?”

Stacy gave an uncertain laugh. “Damme if ever I met such a queer-card as you are!”

“Don’t let it distress you! Comfort yourself with the reflection that it would do you no good if I did choose to recommend you to Miss Abigail Wendover.”

“She would listen to you,” Stacy argued. “And if she could be brought to consent to the marriage I don’t doubt that Wendover would do so too. He doesn’t concern himself with Fanny—never has done so!—and his wife don’t like her. She isn’t going to bring her out next year! I’ll lay you a guinea to a gooseberry she’d be glad to see Fanny safely buckled before she brings out her own daughter!”

“Then why waste your eloquence on me? Address yourself to Mrs James Wendover!”

“With Miss Abigail against me?” Stacy said scornfully. “I’m not such a clunch!”

“My good boy, if you imagine that James Wendover could be persuaded by his sister, or by anyone else, to consent to Fanny’s marriage to a basket-scrambler, you’re a lunatic!” said Miles brutally.

Stacy drained his fourth glass. “What’ll you wager against the chance that he’ll find himself forced to consent?” he demanded, his utterance a little slurred. “Got to force him to—nothing else to be done to bring myself about!”

“What about Danescourt?”

Stacy stared at him rather owlishly. “Danescourt?”

“Why don’t you sell it?” asked Miles coolly.

“Sell it! I’m going to save it! Before they can foreclose!”

“As bad as that?”

“Yes, damn you! Besides—I don’t want to sell it!”

“Why not? You told me you hated it!”

“Yes, but it means something. Gives one consequence. Place in the country, you know: Calverleigh of Danescourt! No substance without it—bellows to mend with me!”

“It appears to be bellows to mend with you already,” said his uncle caustically.