'No, what he worshipped was good ton. I wasn't good ton at all, so he was glad of the chance to be rid of me, and I can't say I blame him. I was very expensive, you know.'
'From what I have heard, your brother was even more expensive!' she said. 'I wonder he didn't get rid of him! '
He smiled. 'Ah, but Humphrey was his heir! Besides, his debts were those of honour: quite unexceptionable, particularly when contracted in clubs of high fashion! He was used to move in the first circles, too, which I – er – didn't!'
'No doubt he would have taken no exception to his son's ruinous career!'
'Oh, that doesn't follow at all! Being badly under the hatches himself, he would probably have taken the most violent exception to it. However, he died before Stacy came of age, so we shall never know. Judging by my own experience, Stacy might have got himself into Dun territory at Oxford, but he could scarcely have gone to pigs-and-whistles – unless, of course, he was a regular out-and-outer, which, from what you've told me, he don't seem to be.'
'Were you up at Oxford?' she asked curiously.
'No, I was down from Oxford – sent down!' he replied affably.
She choked, but managed to say, after a brief struggle: 'What – whatever may have been your youthful f-follies, sir, I must believe that you have outgrown them, and – and I cannot think that you would wish your nephew – the head of your house! – to – to retrieve his fortunes by seducing a girl – oh, a child ! – into a clandestine marriage!'
'But if the poor fellow is rolled-up what else can he do?'
he asked.
She said through gritted teeth: 'For all I care, he may do anything he chooses, except marry my niece! Surely – surely you must perceive how – how wrong that would be!'
'I must say, it seems mutton-headed to me,' he agreed. 'He'd do better to fix his interest with a girl who is already in possession of her fortune.'
'Good God, is that all you have to say?' she cried.
'Well, what do you expect me to say?' he asked.
'Say! I – I expect you to do something!'
'Do what?'
'Put an end to this affair!'
'How?'
'Speak to your nephew – tell him – oh, I don't know! You must be able to think of something!'
'Well, I'm not. Besides, why should I?'
'Because it is your duty! Because he is your nephew!'
'You'll have to think of some better reasons than those. I haven't any duty to Stacy, and I don't suppose I should do it if I had.'
'Mr Calverleigh, you cannot wish your nephew to sink himself so utterly below reproach!'
'Wish? I haven't any feelings in the matter at all. In fact, I don't care a straw what he does. So if you are looking to me to rake him down, don't!'
'Oh, you are impossible!' she cried, starting up.
'I daresay, but I'm damned if I'll preach morality to oblige you! A nice cake I should make of myself ! I like the way your eyes sparkle when you're angry.'
They positively flashed at this. One fulminating glance she cast at him before turning sharply away, and walking out of the room.
The Leavenings were forgotten; it was not until she had reached Laura Place that she remembered that the note she had written had been left on the writi
ng-table. She could only hope that it would be found, and delivered to Mrs Leavening. By this time her seething anger had abated a little, and she was able to review her encounter with Mr Miles Calverleigh in a more moderate spirit. Slackening her pace, she walked on, into Great Pulteney Street, so deeply preoccupied that she neither acknowledged, nor even saw, the salutation directed towards her from the other side of the street by her clerical admirer, Canon Pinfold: an aberration which caused the Very Reverend gentleman to subject his conscience to a severe search, in an effort to discover in what way he could have offended her.
It was not long before Miss Abigail Wendover, no selfdeceiver, realised that she was strangely attracted to the abominable Mr Miles Calverleigh. Out of his own careless mouth he had convicted himself of being a person totally unworthy of respect, but when she recalled the things he had said to her a most reprehensible bubble of laughter rose within her. A very little reflection, however, was enough to bring a blush to her cheeks. It was no laughing matter, and strangely depraved she must be to have felt the smallest inclination to laugh at the cool recital of his misdeeds. She knew that he had been expelled from Eton; he had told her in the most unconcerned way, that he had been sent down from Oxford; and it now appeared that he had crowned his iniquities by attempting to elope with a girl out of the schoolroom. Curiously enough she was less shocked by this escapade than by the rest: he could hardly, she supposed, have been much older himself, and it did seem that he had been desperately in love. It was bad, of course, but what was worse was his unblushing avowal of his sins. He had not mentioned them in a boastful spirit, but as though they had been commonplaces, which he regarded with amusement – even with ribaldry, she thought, once more obliged to suppress a reminiscent smile. When she remembered his callous refusal to intervene to save Fanny from his nephew's designs, however, she had no desire to laugh: she felt it to be unpardonable. He disclaimed any affection for Stacy; and, although he was certainly not in love with the memory of Celia, it was surely reasonable to suppose that enough tenderness remained with him to make him not wholly indifferent to her daughter's fate.