“No, do I?” he said. “What was that?”

She smiled. “You must know very well that I was too much overpowered to be able to find words with which to express my gratitude!”

“What, for dumping that young spider-shanks on your doorstep? I didn’t expect to be thanked for that!”

She laughed. “Didn’t you? Well, I won’t embarrass you by telling you how deeply grateful I am! I’ll make you known to my friends instead! Lady Weaverham, you must allow me to introduce Mr Calverleigh to you—Mr Miles Calverleigh!” She waited, while he bowed with casual grace to her ladyship, and her eyes met Abby’s for a pregnant moment, before she continued her presentation. She ended it by saying: “I must tell you that Mr Calverleigh is our good angel! But for his exceeding kindness I shouldn’t have had my young spider-shanks restored to me yesterday—or even perhaps, at all!”

“Very true, Mama,” intervened her son, “but you are putting him to the blush! Take care he doesn’t cut his stick!”

“Not at all!” Mr Calverleigh responded. “Never have I won more gratitude with less effort! Continue, ma’am!” As he spoke, he thrust Oliver back into his chair, effectually bringing Mrs Grayshott’s encomiums to an end by sitting down beside Oliver, and asking him if he felt any the worse for yesterday’s journey. Oliver had barely time to assure him that he felt as fresh as a nosegay before Lady Weaverham claimed his attention, telling him how delighted she was to make his acquaintance, and how much she liked his nephew. “Such a very amiable young man, and of the first stare! I am sure he has won all our hearts!”

“No, has he indeed?” he replied, with a smile as bland as her own. “All of them, ma’am?”

To all outward appearances blind to the quizzical gleam in Mr Calverleigh’s eyes as they fleetingly met her own, Abby seethed with indignation. Only the recollection that she had appointed Fanny to join her in Edgar Buildings prevented her from following the example set by Mrs Ancrum, who rose at this moment to take her leave. It was evident, from what Mrs Grayshott had said, that he must have accompanied Oliver home from Calcutta; and equally evident that he had thereby conquered the widow’s grateful heart. Mrs Grayshott had called him a guardian angel, which would have made Abby laugh if it had not instead made her so cross. He might have been carelessly kind to Oliver, but he was far from being an angel; and it would have given Abby much pleasure to have told Mrs Grayshott how mistaken she was. But detestable though he was—and never more so than at this moment, when he was all too obviously enjoying her discomfiture—this thought was a mere wistful dream. There could be no divulging the disreputable nature of his past history without running into danger, for once it became known, or even suspected, that he was what Mr George Brede termed a loose fish there was no knowing how much the scandalmongers might discover. Besides, it would be a shabby thing to do: talebearers were odious; and one had to remember that he had paid for his youthful misdeeds by twenty years of exile. It might well be, Abby thought, rather doubtfully, that he had reformed his way of life.

Mrs Grayshott, coming back into the room from having escorted Mrs Ancrum to the head of the stairs, sat down beside Abby, saying softly: “I had meant to have told you. I could see you were taken quite by surprise.”

“Yes, but it is of no consequence,” Abby assured her.

Mrs Grayshott looked as if she would have said more, but her attention was claimed by Lady Weaverham, and no further opportunity for private conversation offered itself, the arrival, a few minutes later, of the daughter of the house, accompanied by Miss Fanny Wendover, creating a lively diversion.

They came in, still sparkling with laughter at some undisclosed joke, and a very charming picture they made: Lavinia, a pretty brunette, with innocent brown eyes, and a shy smile, providing Fanny with an excellent foil. Divinely fair, her beautiful features framed by a Villager straw hat with ribbons as blue as her eyes, Fanny made an instant hit with one at least of the assembled company: young Mr Grayshott, rising to his feet, stood gazing at her, apparently spellbound, until recalled from this trance by his mother, when he gave a little start, flushed darkly, and came forward to shake hands with Fanny.

Abby observed this without surprise: it was seldom that Fanny failed to rouse admiration, and she was looking particularly becoming today. Instinctively, Abby glanced at Mr Calverleigh, wondering how he was affected by the girl’s resemblance to her mother, which was strong enough, she thought, to make him feel a reminiscent pang. If it did, he gave no sign of it. He was critically surveying Fanny; and when Mrs Grayshott made him known to her he caused Abby’s heart to miss a beat by saying, as he took Fanny’s hand: “How do you do? So you are Celia Morval’s daughter! I’m delighted to make your acquaintance: I was used to know your mother very well.”

Chapter V

For one awful moment Abby felt sick with dread of what he might say next. Then, just as she caught his eyes, a desperate appeal in her own, she realized that he was merely amusing himself at her expense, and was mischievously enjoying her discomfiture. Fright was succeeded by wrath, but not wholehearted wrath: there was apology as well as mockery in the smile directed at her over Fanny’s head, and a disarming suggestion of fellowship, as though Mr Miles Calverleigh believed that in Miss Abigail Wendover he had discovered a kindred spirit.

Fanny, looking up, in her unaffected way, into his face, exclaimed: “Oh, did you know my mother, sir? I never did—that is to say, I can’t remember that I did!” She hesitated, and then asked shyly: “Are you Mr Stacy Calverleigh’s uncle? He is a particular friend of mine!”

If anything, thought Abby, could convince Miles Calverleigh that Fanny was a lamb to be guarded from stray wolves, the artlessness of this remark must have done so. She hoped, but could not be sure. His expression was that of a man listening with slightly bored indulgence to a child’s prattle. He said: “ Then you will be able to introduce him to me, won’t you?”

It was evident, from the look of surprise in Fanny’s eyes, that Mr Stacy Calverleigh had told her nothing about his reprobate uncle: an omission for which, decided Abby, submitting the matter to dispassionate consideration, he could scarcely be blamed. Fanny said, on the edge of laughter: “Oh—! You are joking me, aren’t you? Did I say something gooseish? Of course you must know Stacy much better than I do!”

“On the contrary! I don’t know him at all—shouldn’t recognize him if he walked into the room at this moment! When I left England he must have been in leading-strings.”

“Oh, I see!”said Fanny, her puzzled brow clearing.

“Well, I’ll venture to say that you won’t be disappointed in him!” said Lady Weaverham. “Though I won’t say you may not mistake him for a Bond Street Spark, for I did so myself, until I found he was no such thing. He’s not above being pleased, and, what is more, his head hasn’t been turned, which it might well have been for the caps that have been set at him in Bath!” She added, as Fanny blushed scarlet, and moved away from Mr Calverleigh: “No, no, my dear, I don’t mean you! The boot is quite on the other leg! Not a bit of heed will he pay to the other girls, and I’m sure I’m not surprised!” A fat chuckle shook her massive bosom; she completed Fanny’s discomfiture by saying: “Many’s the time Sir Joshua has said to me that you bear the palm, my dear—not that he had any need to, because well do I know it!”

At this point, Oliver won Abby’s approval by withdrawing Fanny a little away from the group, under pretext of pointing something out to her in the street. They sat down together, and were soon joined by Lavinia and Miss Sophia Weaverham, all four chatting happily until the party was broken up by Lady Weaverham, who heaved herself up from her chair, saying that she and Sophy must be off, or Sir Joshua would be wondering what had become of them. Abby would have followed her example, but received such an unmistakable signal from Fanny that she obediently postponed her leave-taking. The reason for the signal was disclosed as soon as the Weaverhams had departed, Lavinia eagerly asking her mama if Fanny might not stay to dine with them. “Do say she may, Mama! I want to show her the ravishing things Oliver bought for me in India, particularly the shawl—no, not a shawl: I don’t mean the Cashmere shawls, though they are the finest I ever saw in my life!—but the other thing—”

“Sari,” supplied her brother, smiling.

“Oh, yes! Sari!” said Lavinia, committing it to memory. “And the sketches you drew of all those strange places, and natives, and things! Mama—?”

“Why, certainly, my love!” Mrs Grayshott responded. “If Miss Wendover permits!”

“Miss Wendover thinks, as I am persuaded you do too, ma’am, that the invalid has had enough visitors for one day,” said Abby. “Another time, Fanny!”

Fanny nodded, and got up. “Yes, of course. I did think it might not be quite the thing to do!”

This instantly drew protests and assurances from Lavinia and Oliver, under cover of which Mrs. Grayshott said: “I wish you will let her stay! She is doing Oliver so much good! He does his best to hide it from me, but he is in very low spirits, feeling, I think, that he has failed to justify his uncle’s confidence—oh, absurd, of course, but one knows how it is with boys! But dear little Fanny has three times made him laugh, quite in his old way! Let her remain with us! You know we keep country-hours! Martha shall bring her home before it is dark, I promise you.”