“But I didn’t know that you meant to marry him,” said Selina simply.

“Well, nor did I, at that time. Come, my dear, there is no occasion for this despair!”

But by the time Selina, still clutching her hand, had enumerated the ills which would result from such a marriage there seemed to be every reason for despair. The list was a long one, and it ranged over a wide ground, which included the mortification which would be suffered by the family at the marriage of one of its members to a black sheep; the sneers of Mrs Ruscombe; the impossibility of Selina’s remaining in Bath, where she was so well known; the harm that would be done to Fanny, on the verge of her come-out; of Fanny’s unhappiness at being separated from her dearest aunt; of her own misery at being estranged from James, and Jane, and perhaps even Mary.

At this point, Abby was moved to expostulate: “But you wouldn’t be, stoopid!”

“James warned me. He left me in such anger! Because I told him that I should never give you up, whatever you did, which I never, never would! And he said that if I supported you I should cut myself off from the family—so dreadful, Abby!—so that I should do well to consider carefully before I made my choice, only there is no choice, so what a silly thing to say, and how could he suppose I would choose anyone but you, if there were? And as for not looking to see his face again, I said that if he was unkind to you he need not look to see my face, which is true, only I can’t bear to think of it, because we have always been so happy, and even if we don’t very often see the others they are our family!”

Abby was so much touched by this unexpected championship that tears started to her eyes. “Oh, my dearest! How brave of you—how loyal! Do you indeed love me so much?”

“But of course I do!” said Selina.

Abby kissed her. “Best of my sisters!” she said, mistily smiling. “But as for James—! How dared he talk to you like that? I wish very much that I had been present!”

“Oh, no Abby! It would have been much, much worse! And I couldn’t blame him. Not when he told me!”

“Told you what?” asked Abby sharply.

Selina turned her face away, shuddering. “ Celia ...!”

“So he told you that, did he? Of all the chuckleheaded dummies!” Abby exclaimed wrathfully.

“He felt himself obliged to tell me, and, or course, I quite see—because I thought it was just that Mr Calverleigh had been very wild when he was young, which is not what I could like,but still—! So he had to tell me the truth, and it has sunk me utterly, and I can’t help wishing that he hadn’t, for it would have been so much more comfortable, only very wrong, but I shouldn’t have known it was!”

“Put it out of your mind!” said Abby. “If it doesn’t concern me, it need not concern you! To be sure, it would be a little awkward if people knew of it, but they don’t, and, in any event, Celia wasn’t Rowland’s wife when it happened!”

Selina stared at her in horror. “Abby, you could not! A man who—Abby, think! No, no, promise me you won’t do it!” Tears began to roll down her cheeks. “Oh, Abby, don’t leave me! How could I live without you?”

“Hush, Selina! Nothing is decided yet. Don’t, I beg of you, fall into one of your—into a fuss! Come, let me put you into bed! You’re tired out. Fardle shall bring up your dinner to you, and—”

“Rabbit and onions!” uttered Selina, breaking into sobs of despair. “I couldn’t, I couldn’t!”

“Oh!” A wry smile twisted Abby’s lips. “No, I don’t think I could either.”

This was perhaps fortunate, for no opportunity was offered her to partake of this or any other dish. Selina’s sobs were the prelude to one of her dreaded fits of hysteria, and as this was accompanied by spasms and palpitations it was long before Abby could leave her. When Selina at last fell into an exhausted sleep, the only thing her equally exhausted sister wished for was her bed.

The morning brought confirmation of her suspicion that Lavinia had indeed been tattling. Mrs Grayshott came to Sydney Place to see Abby.

“For I could do no less than tell you, Abby, and beg your pardon! I have never been so vexed with Lavinia! And the worst of it is that she did it on purpose, and is not sorry for it! She told me what she had done the instant she came home yesterday knowing, of course, that I should be extremely displeased, but saying that she was Fanny’s friend, and that she knew she had been right to warn her.”

“Perhaps she was,” said Abby. “I don’t know. I don’t think Fanny quite believes it.”

“No, that also Lavinia told me. But Oliver thinks that even if she does not, the shock of discovering that it is true will have been lessened for the poor child. But it was not Lavinia’s business to have meddled! My dear, how tired you look!”

“I am a little tired,” owned Abby. “My sister is not quite well today, so ...”

She left the sentence unfinished, but she had said enough to send Mrs Grayshott back to Edgar Buildings in a state of such seething and impotent indignation that she informed her son, with unusual venom, that the sooner Miss Wendover’s numerous ailments carried her off the better it would be for Abby.

Hardly had she left Sydney Place than a sealed letter was delivered at the house. It was directed to Fanny, and brought to her in the drawing-room by Mitton. She took it with a shaking hand, made as if to tear it open, and then, with an inarticulate excuse, went out of the room.

She did not return. Abby, who had guessed that the missive must have been sent by Stacy Calverleigh, waited in growing disquiet for a full hour, and then went up to her room.

Fanny was seated by the window. She looked at Abby, but said nothing, and her face was so stony that Abby hesitated. Then she saw the helpless suffering in Fanny’s eyes, and went to her, not speaking, but folding her in her arms, and holding her close. Fanny did not resist, but for perhaps a minute she was as rigid as a statue Stroking the bright curls, Abby said huskily, as though to a much younger Fanny, who had tumbled down, and grazed her knees: “Never mind, my darling, never mind!”

She could have cursed herself for the inadequacy of these foolish words; but a quiver ran through Fanny, a rending sob broke from her, she turned in Abby’s arms, and clung to her, torn and shaken by the pent-up emotions of the past fortnight.

It was long before she could be calm again, but gradually the sobs dwindled into pathetic hiccups, and she lay limply in Abby’s embrace, her head on Abby’s shoulder, and her lashes wet on her cheeks. When Abby would have fetched some water for her to drink, she said brokenly: “Oh, no! This is so comfortable!” Presently she said: “You knew, didn’t you?”

“I knew, but I haven’t known how to tell you.”

“Lavinia told me. I wouldn’t believe her. But it was true. It was just my fortune, wasn’t it?”

“I am afraid so, darling.”

Another silence fell, before Fanny said: “I’ve been very stupid. Wicked, too. I meant to elope with him.”

“I don’t suppose you would have done so, however.”

Fanny sighed. “I don’t know. Sometimes I thought I couldn’t, but when I was with him—” Her voice failed, and it was a moment or two before she could speak again. “Then I was ill, and he didn’t come, or—or write to me, even when other people came to visit me. I tried to believe it was because he was afraid you might not let him see me, but I think I knew—Only I went on hoping, and when Lavinia told me about Mrs Clapham I felt at first that it couldn’t be true, and then I wasn’t quite sure, and then—and then the letter came.” A shudder ran through her. “Abby, it made me feel sick! Really sick!”

“He told you that he had changed his mind?”

“No. I—I think I could have borne that. People do fall out of love, don’t they? If he had told me that he had met someone he liked better than me—But he didn’t. I was only a silly school-girl before I was ill, but I’m grown-up now, and I shall never be taken-in again.”

Abby was not tempted to smile. She said: “I hope no one will ever try to take you in again, dearest.”

“No, for I don’t feel that I shall ever fall in love again. My uncle saw him yesterday, didn’t he? Abby, you didn’t send for him, did you?”

“I not only didn’t send for him, but I came to cuffs with him before he had been in the house above ten minutes.”

“I thought you could not have done so. Oh, Abby, I beg your pardon! I’ve been horridly cross and unkind, but I didn’t mean it! I love you more than anyone in the world!”

“Then I shall try my very hardest to forgive you!”

A watery chuckle greeted this sally. “I’m so glad I’ve got you still. For always, Abby!” She lifted Abby’s hand to her cheek, and cuddled it there. “I love Aunt Selina too, of course, but in a—dutiful way. I couldn’t bear to go on living here, if there was only my Aunt Selina.”

Abby heard this with mixed feelings. Though it warmed her heart it also caused it to sink. Miles Calverleigh’s image seemed to be drawing farther and farther away.

“I burned the letter,” Fanny said abruptly. “And the lock of hair. Do you think I might write to tell him so?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t do that! Far more dignified to pay no heed to him at all!”

“Y-yes, only—” Her breast heaved. “He says he shall keep mine to the day of his death, in memory of the only girl he ever truly loved! That was what made me feel sick!”

“I’m not surprised. It is making me feel sick too.”

“And he pretends that he is giving me up for my own sake, because he realizes, since he has talked to my uncle, that he has no hope of winning his consent, and it would be very wrong for us to be married without it, and he fears I should regret it, and—Abby, it was false, every word of it! I could not have believed that he could write me such stuff! And to think I was widgeon enough to be taken-in! Because he knew from the very start that my uncle wouldn’t consent, and he knew you wouldn’t either, and that was why he wanted me to elope with him!” She sat up, her eyes and cheeks aflame with indignation, and her hands clenched. “I hate him! I can’t think how I ever came to fall in love with him!”

Abby was happy to encourage her in this frame of mind. Fanny raged for several minutes, but the mood could not last. Suddenly she flung herself back into Abby’s arms in a fresh passion of grief, wailing: “What shall I do?Oh, Abby, I’m so unhappy! What shall I do?”

“Well, I think the best thing to do is to follow Dr Rowton’s advice,” replied Abby.

“Go away? Oh, no! I don’t want to go away! I can’t! I won’t!”

“To be sure, when he first told me that you ought to go to the sea-side, to set you up again, I own that I felt doubtful, for in my opinion there is nothing more melancholy than the sea-side in November. But when he suggested Exmouth I remembered how delighted the Trevisians were with the place—and they, you know, were there in December. They stayed at the Globe, and Lady Trevisian almost persuaded your aunt to go there, when she was so sadly out of frame last winter, for she said they had been as comfortable there as in their own home. The climate is excellent, too, and there are several charming walks, besides I know not how many interesting expeditions to be made. I have been wondering whether, if we decided to try how we liked it, Mrs Grayshott would spare Lavinia to us. Do you think she might?”

The bait failed. Fanny was vehement in her entreaties not to be taken away from Bath. “Everyone would think it was because I have been jilted!!”

“Well,” said Abby dryly, “when I consider that poor Mitton is worn out with plodding to the front-door to take in flowers, and fruit, and books from your army of admirers, my love, I think it very much more likely that you will be held to have been the jilt!”

She did not press the matter; but derived a certain amount of comfort from the belief that Fanny’s pride had received almost as severe a blow as her heart.

Fanny meant to be good, not to be cross, or to allow it to be seen that she was in great affliction, but although she tried very hard, every now and then, to appear cheerful, her spirits remained low and oppressed, and, like her eldest aunt, she could not forbear discussion of her trouble with Abby. Hoping that she might soon talk herself out of her despair, Abby listened patiently, diverting her mind whenever an opportunity presented itself but never withholding her sympathy.