Mr Balking had been kindness itself, but Oliver, his spirits as much as his gaunt frame worn down by recurrent fever, foresaw that he was destined to become a clerk in the counting-house from which lowly position he was unlikely to rise for many dreary years. He had set no store by Uncle Leonard’s assurances that he was very well satisfied with his work in Calcutta: that was the sort of thing that an affectionate uncle might be expected to say. He had reached Bath in a state of deep depression, but as his health improved so did his spirits, and he began to think that it might not be so very long before he worked his way up to a position of trust. When he was able to look back dispassionately over the two years he had spent in India, he thought that perhaps his uncle really was satisfied with his progress there. He had found his work of absorbing interest, and knew that he had a talent for business. In fact, if he had been a windy-wallets, boasting of his every small success, he would have said that he had done pretty well in the Calcutta house. As he was a diffident, and rather reticent young man, he maintained a strict silence on the subject, and waited, in gradually increasing hopefulness, for the day when his doctor should pronounce him well enough to apply himself once more to business.
But his optimism did not lead him to the length of supposing that the Wendovers would ever consider him to be an eligible husband for Fanny. Older than his years, he recognized in Fanny’s passionate attachment to Stacy a schoolgirl’s brief, violent infatuation. He was reminded of the throes into which Lavinia, at the age of fifteen, had been cast when she fell suddenly, and inexplicably, in love with one of the visiting professors at Miss Timble’s Seminary. It had made her remarkably tiresome for several weeks, but there had been no harm in it, her passion being unrequited, and the professor a respectable man, with a wife, and five children, to all of whom he was devoted. Neither Oliver nor Mrs Grayshott had set any store by the event; Oliver thought that he would have set as little by Fanny’s present bewitchment had she but lost her foolish heart to a man of character. As it was, he was pretty sure that she had walked into a snare set for her by a handsome fortune-hunter, and he was extremely uneasy. Something Lavinia had let slip from her tongue, and hastily retracted, had given rise in his mind to the incredible suspicion that a runaway marriage was in contemplation. He found that his mother shared this suspicion, and was only partly reassured when he learned that she had warned Miss Abigail Wendover of possible danger. Miss Abigail was no fool, but he felt that the situation demanded a man’s hand. Failing her brother, who did not seem to be one on whom Miss Abigail placed any reliance, the obvious man to intervene was Mr Miles Calverleigh. But Miles showed no disposition to do so, or even to take any interest in his nephew’s activities. That did not surprise Oliver: he had not spent several weeks in Mr Calverleigh’s company without discovering that he never did take any interest in persons he didn’t like. It was inconceivable that a man of his cut could like Stacy, and useless to suppose that regard for the good name of his family would impel him to exert himself to preserve it: he had no such regard. On the other hand, there could be no doubt that he liked Miss Abigail Wendover very much indeed. Oliver, naturally precluded from discussing Stacy with Stacy’s uncle, could only hope that his tendre for her would move him to come to her assistance. He was a strange man, so cold, and yet so kind; there was no understanding him, but one thing was sure: if he did befriend one, there were no Emits to the help he would, in his unconcerned way, extend. It was possible, of course, that Miss Abigail, like himself, would feel all the awkwardness of broaching the matter to him. Oliver thought that perhaps his mother might prevail upon her to overcome such scruples, and decided to nudge her into making the attempt.
During the drive to Wells he realized, as quickly as her aunt, that Fanny was doing her best to hide some inward care under a mask of gaiety. His heart went out to her, the sweet, silly baby that she was. He felt almost sick with the longing to gather her into his arms; but that desire must be repressed: not only did his circumstances make it impossible for him to declare himself, butFanny did not want his love, but only his friendship. She had said once, when his mother had reproved him for calling her by her name: “Oh, but I begged him to do so, ma’am! Because Lavvy and I have always been like sisters, so Oliver must be my brother!”
Half a loaf was better than no bread: he didn’t know who had been responsible for that silly proverb, only that he must have been a cod’s head. It wasn’t better; when the lovely, darling girl you would have given your soul to possess invited you to be her brother it was infinitely worse.
But if a brother was what Fanny wanted, a brother she should have; and perhaps, adopting that distasteful role, he might, at least, be admitted into her confidence, and be granted the opportunity to offer her wiser counsel than she would get from his foolish sister.
So when they had stayed for some time in the chapel in the north aisle of the Cathedral, where the famous clock had been placed, and had watched the little knights endlessly tilting at each other across the barrier which surmounted it, he detained Fanny, as she was preparing to follow her aunt and Mr Calverleigh to another part of the Cathedral, and suggested that they might go and sit down outside for a while. She agreed readily to this, causing his heart to melt by looking up at him in quick anxiety, and saying: “Yes, to be sure we’ll do that, if you wouldn’t liefer go back to the Swan? There’s nothing so fatiguing as Cathedrals! You are tired already, aren’t you?”
“No, I promise you I’m not—or only a very little!” he answered. “I think I might be, however, if I were obliged to go all over this place, because that would mean standing to gaze at tombs, and screens, and windows! I don’t know why it should be so, but standing is a thing I can’t yet do, though I am beginning to walk with the best of you.”
“Well, you shan’t stand. If it is not too chilly for you, we’ll go and sit by the moat round the Palace, and watch the swans. And if my aunt should ask you what you think of the figures on the West Front you may say that you’ve never seen anything truly exquisite. That wouldn’t be a fib, do you think?”
His eyes were full of tender amusement; he said gravely: “No, just suggestio falsi! Ought I to see them?”
“Good gracious, no! There are tiers and tiers of them!”
“In that case, I’m ready to tell any number of fibs—even a real bouncer!”
She laughed, and then fell silent for a minute or two. He made no attempt to break into her abstraction, but presently she seemedto recall herself, and embarked on some light, everyday chit-chat, rather in the manner of a hostess trying to entertain a difficult guest. It was plainly an effort, and he stopped her, saying involuntarily: “Ah, don’t, Fanny!”
Startled, she looked quickly up at him, a question in her big eyes. “Don’t?”
“Don’t think yourself obliged to make conversation! That’s not treating me as though I were your brother!”