Black Sheep (17 page)

“—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.