Black Sheep

Chapter IX

Mr Stacy Calverleigh, having slept off the result of his potations, awoke, far into the following day, with only the haziest recollections of what might have passed between himself and his uncle. So much did he plume himself on his ability to drink all other men under the table that he ascribed the circumstance of his having been put to bed by the boots to the vile quality of the brandy supplied by the White Hart; and when he encountered Mr Miles Calverleigh in Milsom Street, two days later, he laughingly apologized for it, and for its effect upon himself, describing this as having been rendered a trifle above oar. He spoke gaily, but under his insouciance there lurked a fear that he might have been betrayed into indiscretion. He said that he hoped he had not talked a great deal of nonsense, and was reassured by his uncle’s palpable lack of interest He then ventured to express the hope that Miles would not betray him to the ladies in Sydney Place, saying: “I should find myself in the briars if Miss Abigail even suspected that I do, now and then, have a cup too much!”

“What a good thing you’ve warned me not to do so!” responded Miles sardonically. “Entertaining females with accounts of jug-bitten maunderings is one of my favourite pastimes.”

He left Stacy with one of his careless nods, and strode on down the street, bound for the Pump Room. Here he found all the Wendovers: Abby listening with an expression of courteous interest to one of General Exford’s anecdotes; Fanny making one of a group of lively young persons; and Selina, with Miss Butter-bank in close attendance, receiving the congratulations of her friends on her emergence from seclusion. After an amused glance in Abby’s direction, Miles made his way towards Selina, greeting her with the ease of long friendship, and saying, with his attractive smile: “I shan’t ask you how you do, ma’am: to enquire after a lady’s health implies that she is not in her best looks. Besides, I can see that you are in high bloom.”

She had watched his approach rather doubtfully, but she was by no means impervious to flattery, or to his elusive charm, and she returned the smile, even though she deprecated his compliment, saying: “Good gracious, sir, at my age one doesn’t talk of being in high bloom! That is quite a thing of the past—not that I ever was—I mean, no more than passable!”

“Oh, my dear Miss Wendover, how can you say so?” exclaimed Miss Butterbank, throwing up her hands, “ Such a farradiddle I declare I never heard! But you are always so modest! I must positively beg Mr Calverleigh to turn a deaf ear to you!”

Since he was at that moment asking Mrs Leavening how she had prospered that morning in her search for lodgings, he had no difficulty in obeying this behest. The only difficulty he experienced was how to extricate himself from a discussion of all the merits, and demerits, of the several sets of apartments Mrs Leavening had inspected. But having agreed with Selina that Axford Buildings were situated in a horrid part of the town, and with Mrs Leavening that Gay Street was too steep for elderly persons, he laughed, and disclosed with disarming candour that he knew nothing of either locality. “But I believe people speak well of Marlborough Buildings,” he offered. “Unless you would perhaps prefer the peace and quiet of Belmont?”

“Belmont?” said Selina incredulously. “But that would never do! It is uphill all the way! You can’t be serious!”

“Of course he isn’t, my dear!” said Mrs Leavening, chuckling. “He hasn’t the least notion where it is. Now, have you, sir?”

“Not the least! I shall make it my business to find out, however, and I’ll tell you this evening, ma’am,” he promised.

He then bowed slightly, and walked away. Selina, taking umbrage at the suggestion that there was any part of Bath with which she was not fully acquainted, exclaimed: “Well, I must say I think him a very odd creature! One might have supposed—not that I know him at all well, and one shouldn’t judge anyone on a angle morning-visit, even in his riding-dress, which I cannot like—though Abby assures me he won’t dine with us in it—but his manners are very strange and abrupt!”

“Oh, he is certainly an original, but so droll!” said Mrs Leavening. “We like him very much, you know, and find nothing in his manners to disgust us.”

“Exactly what I have been saying to dear Miss Wendover!” interpolated Miss Butterbank. “Anyone of whom Miss Abby approves cannot be other than gentlemanlike!”

“Yes, but it is not at all the thing for her to be going to the play in his company. At least, it doesn’t suit my sense of propriety, though no doubt my notions are antiquated, and, of course, Abby is not a girl, precisely, but to talk as if she was on the shell is a great piece of nonsense!”

Mrs Leavening agreed to this, but as her husband came up at that moment Selina did not tell her old friend that Abby, not content with accompanying Mr Calverleigh to the theatre, had actually invited him to dine in Sydney Place.

This bold stroke had quite overset Selina. The news that Mr Calverleigh had been so kind as to invite Abby to go to the play she had received placidly enough, if with a little surprise: it seemed very odd that a single gentleman should get up a party, but no doubt he wished to return the hospitality of such ladies as Mrs Grayshott, and Lady Weaverham. Were the Ancrums going as well?

Abby was tempted, for a craven moment, to return a noncommittal answer, but she overcame the impulse, and replied in an airy tone: “Oh, it is not a party! Do you think I ought not to have accepted ? I did hesitate, but at my age it is surely not improper? Besides, the play is The Venetian Outlaw, which I particularly want to see! From some cause or another I never have seen it, you know: once I was ill, when it was put on here, and once I was away from home; but you went to see it twice, didn’t you ? And were in raptures!”

“Yes, but not with a gentleman!”Selina said, scandalized. “Once,I went with dear Mama, only you were too young then; and the second time Lady Trevisian invited me—or was that the third time? Yes, because the second time was when George and Mary were with us, and you had a putrid sore throat, and so could not go with us!”

“This time I am determined not to have a putrid sore throat!”

“No, indeed! I hope you will not! But Mr Calverleigh must invite some others as well! I wonder he shouldn’t have done so. It argues a want of conduct in him, for it is not at all the thing, and India cannot be held to excuse it, because there are no theatres there—at least, I shouldn’t think there would be, should you?

“No, dear. So naturally Mr Calverleigh couldn’t know that he was doing anything at all out of the way, poor man! As for telling him that he must invite others as well as me, I hope you don’t expect me to do so! That would indeed be improper! And, really, Selina, what possible objection can there be to my going to the play under the escort of a middle-aged man? Here, too, where I am well known, and shall no doubt meet many of our friends in the theatre!”

“It will make you look so—so particular, dearest! You would never do so in London! Of course, Bath is a different matter, but worse! Only think how disagreeable it would be if people said you were encouraging Mr Calverleigh to dangle after you!”

This thought had already occurred to Abby, causing her to hover on the brink of excusing herself from the engagement; and had Selina said no more she might possibly have done so. But Selina’s evil genius prompted her to utter fatal words. “I am persuaded that James would tell you to cry off, Abby!”

“Are you indeed?” retorted Abby, instantly showing hackle. “Well, that settles the matter! I shall do no such thing! Oh, Selina, pray don’t fly into a great fuss! If you are afraid of what the quizzes may say, you have only to tell them that since you don’t yet venture out in the evening Mr Calverleigh very kindly offered to act as your deputy. And once it becomes known that he dined with us here, before escorting me to the theatre—”

“Nothing—nothing!—would prevail upon me to do anything so unbecoming as to invite a single gentleman to dine with us!” declared Selina, with unwonted vigour.

“No, dear, but you are not obliged to do so,” said Abby mischievously. “I’ve done it for you!”

“Abby!” gasped Selina, turning pale with dismay. “Asked a man to dine with us alone? You can’t be serious! Never have we done such a thing! Except, of course, James, which is a very different matter!”

“Very different!” agreed Abby. “Mr Calverleigh may be an oddity, but he’s not a dreadful bore!”

“I was never so mortified!” moaned Selina. “So brass-faced of you, as though you knew no better, and exactly what dear Papa deplored, and what he would say to it, if he were alive, which I am devoutly thankful he is not, I shudder to think!”

It had taken time, patience, and much tact to reconcile Selina but in the end she consented to entertain Mr Miles Calverleigh, persuaded by the horrid suspicion that if she refused to do so her highty-tighty young sister was quite capable of setting the town in an uproar by dining with him at York House. She had then devoted the better part of the afternoon to the composition of a formal invitation, written in her beautiful copper-plate, and combining to a nicety condescension with gracious civility. Mr Miles Calverleigh responded to this missive with commendable promptness, in a brief but well-expressed note, which conveyed to Selina’s mind the impression that he had invited her sister to go with him to the play in a spirit of avuncular philanthropy. She was thus able to meet him in the Pump Room with a modicum of complaisance; and although, when he left her side, he joined the group round Abby, she had no apprehension of danger. It was not at all remarkable that he should show a preference for her: a great many gentlemen did so; but if it had been suggested to Selina that Abby was quite as strongly attracted to him as he to her she would have thought it not so much remarkable as absurd. Abby enjoyed light flirtations, but Selina had almost ceased to hope that she would ever discover amongst her suitors one who was endowed with all the perfections she apparently demanded.

They were certainly not to be found in Mr Miles Calverleigh, with his swarthy countenance, his casual manners, and his deplorable want of address.

Nor was Abby apprehensive that in pursuing her acquaintance with him she might be running into danger. She was by no means sure that she liked him. He was amusing, and she enjoyed his company; but he frequently put her quite out of temper, besides shocking her by his unconcerned repudiation of any of the virtues indispensable in a man of principle. He was undoubtedly what her brother-in-law succinctly described as a loose screw, and so hopelessly ineligible that it never so much as crossed her mind that in him she had met her fate. Nor did it occur to her that in encouraging his advances she was influenced by anything other than the hope that she might be able to persuade him to send his nephew to the rightabout. He had refused unequivocally to meddle, but the hope persisted, and, with it, the growing conviction that if he wished to bring Stacy’s schemes to fiddlestick’s end he would know just how it could be done. To inspire him with such a wish was clearly her duty; if it had been suggested to her that her duty, in this instance, had assumed an unusually agreeable aspect, she would have acknowledged readily that it was fortunate that she did not find Mr Calverleigh repellent; but she would have been much amused by a further suggestion that she was rapidly losing her heart to a black sheep.

So she was able to greet him, when he descended upon her in the Pump Room, with calm friendliness; and when he presently detached her from her circle, inviting her, with his customary lack of finesse, to take a stroll about the Room, in the accepted manner of those who made the Promenade their daily business, she was perfectly willing to walk off with him.

“I’ve received an invitation from your sister,” he told her. “She hopes that I will give you both the pleasure of dining in Sydney Place on Saturday, but I’m not deceived: her hope is that I may break a leg, or be laid low of a severe colic, before I can expose you to the censure of all your acquaintance. Shall I be doing so?”

She laughed. “Good God, no! I hope my credit is good enough to survive a visit to the theatre in your company! Much I should care if it proved otherwise! I’ve a great desire to see this particular play, and have never yet done so. It has always been popular in Bath, you know.” Her eyes danced. “If only you had had the good sense to have been a widower, I daresay Selina wouldn’t have raised the least objection! She saw no harm in my attending the races with General Exford: there is something very respectable about widowers! Single gentlemen, in her view, are surrounded by an aura of impropriety.”

“What, even the turnip-sucker who pays you extravagant compliments?”

“If,” said Abby, a trifle unsteadily, but with severity, “you are speaking of Mr Dunston, Selina knows him to be a very worthy man who has far too much conduct to transgress the bounds of propriety by as much as an inch!”

“He is a slow-top, isn’t he? Poor fellow!”

“He may be a slow-top, but that’s better than being ramshackle!” retorted Abby, with spirit.

“No, do you think so indeed? Was that a cut at me, by the way, or at Stacy?”

“Well, it was at you,” said Abby frankly. “I don’t think Stacy ramshackle: I think him a shuffling rogue! Mr Calverleigh, if you had heard him trying to cut a wheedle, when we rode back from Lansdown, you must have been disgusted!”

“Very likely. The wonder is that Fanny seems to be not at all disgusted.”

“She is very young, and had never, until that wretch came here, known any men but those who reside here: Selina’s and my friends, or the schoolboy brothers of her own friends! You must know that she has only lately begun to go out into society a little; and although, during the winter, a number of London-visitors come to Bath, she has met none of them. I saw to that!”

“Why let yourself be blue-devilled?” he asked. “She’ll recover!”

“I don’t doubt she would do so, if he were removed from her sight!”

“Or even if she were to be removed from his,” he suggested.

She frowned over that for a moment, and then said, with a sigh: “I’ve thought of it, of course, but I believe it wouldn’t answer. Tames talked of removing her to Amberfield, and that would be fatal: she would run away! And if my sister Brede were to invite her to stay with her in London she would know that it was at my instigation, and to separate her from your nephew. What is more, he would follow her, and you may depend upon it that it would be easier for them to meet in London than it is here, where everyone knows her. I think, too, that if it were possible to prevent this she wouldn’t recover—or, at any hand, not for a long time. Towards me she would be bound to feel resentment: oh, she’s resentful already!” She hesitated, before saying, with a faint smile: “I was used to think, you know, that we stood upon such terms as would make it a simple matter for me to guide her—even to check her! That my influence was strong enough to—But I seem to have none at all. I suppose I’ve gone the wrong way to work with her: nothing I could urge would carry the least weight with her! I wish—oh, how much I wish—that her eyes might be opened to what I am persuaded is his true character! That would be the best thing that could happen! It would be painful for her, poor child, but she wouldn’t wear the willow for long: she has too much pride! And above all she wouldn’t fancy herself a martyr! That’s very important, because if one thinks oneself the victim of tyranny there is every inducement to fall into a lethargy.”

“I should imagine that that would make life very uncomfortable for you. But hasn’t it occurred to you that my nephew has a rival?”

“Oliver Grayshott?” She shook her head. “I don’t think it. She says he is like a brother to her! And although I fancy he has a strong tendre for her he has done nothing to attach her.”

“Well, if you think it nothing to send her laudatory verses masquerading as acrostics, and to ransack all the libraries for the works of her favourite poets, you must be as green as she is!” he said caustically.

She could not help laughing. “Does he do so? I thought they were his favourites too: he is certainly very well read in them.”

“Pea-goose! So would you be, if you made it your business to study them!”

“Poor young man! But even if Fanny did prefer him to your nephew it wouldn’t do, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?”

“Because—as you very well know!—James would consider him to be almost as ineligible as Stacy!”

“I know nothing of the sort. Your brother James whistle a fortune down the wind ? Gammon!”

“But he has no fortune!” she protested. “He is connected with trade, too, which James would very much dislike.”

“Oh, would he? My sweet simpleton, let James get but one whiff of an East India merchant’s heir in Bath, and he won’t lose a moment in setting snares to catch such a prize!”

She disregarded this, exclaiming: “You must be mistaken! Oliver has no such expectations! Indeed, he feels that he has miserably disappointed his uncle.”

“Not he! Balking thinks the world of him, and means to take him into partnership as soon as he’s in good point again.”

“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