Venetia

XI

The shock held Venetia silent for several moments, which was perhaps fortunate, since the first thought to leap to her mind was that the announcement could not be true. She realized immediately that it must be true; and, as the extraordinary nature of the situation came home to her, began to laugh. “Oh, how outrageous of Conway, and how like him!” she exclaimed. She put out her hand to Charlotte. “How do you do? What a shocking welcome you have had to your new home! You must forgive us, for indeed we had not the least notion that we were to have this pleasure! I collect that Conway is not with you? Where— Oh, you will tell us all about it presently, but first I must see Mrs. Gurnard—our housekeeper, and tell her which rooms to prepare. Pray let me take you in! I daresay you must both be tired after your journey.”

She led the way into the house, and to the drawing-room, where a fire had recently been lit, and begged the two ladies to be seated. Charlotte, who seemed to be too shy to raise her eyes for more than an instant, murmured something about kindness, and being so very sorry, to which Venetia replied smilingly: “Now that we have each of us begged pardon of the other I think we should unite in abusing the real culprit, don’t you? I believe Conway would do almost anything rather than write a letter—to him a Herculean labour!—but it is certainly too bad of him to have failed on this occasion! Won’t you take off your hat, and your pelisse? I am sure you will be glad of some refreshment after your journey: do you like tea? You shall have some directly, and then I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Thank you! So very kind! If it is not a trouble!”

Mrs. Scorrier, who had been looking appraisingly about her, laughed at this, and exclaimed: “You will make Miss Lanyon think you quite a goose, my love, if you talk like that! You must remember that you are in your own house, must she not, dear Miss Lanyon? Some tea would be very welcome, though I do not in general indulge in that luxury at this hour. But Charlotte, I must tell you, is in a delicate situation, and although we lay at Doncaster last night I daresay she is quite done-up.”

“In a delicate situation!” Venetia looked in some amazement at Charlotte. “You have been married for some time, then!”

“July,” whispered Charlotte, blushing. “Conway was on furlough, you see—in Paris.”

“I don’t wonder you should look amazed, Miss Lanyon!” said Mrs. Scorrier, disposing herself on a sofa beside the fire, and drawing off her gloves. “I promise you I was so much amazed that I let Sir Conway sweep me quite off my feet. Such a whirlwind-romance as it was! A case of love at first sight, and nothing would do for Sir Conway but to carry his treasure back to Headquarters with him. Indeed, I believe if I had refused my consent to the marriage he would positively have eloped with her!”

“Oh, Mama!” faintly protested Charlotte.

“But—you were not previously acquainted? I had supposed—Well, that was certainly a romance! I shall look forward to your telling me all about it—when you have had some tea!”

She excused herself gracefully, and went away to confer with Mrs. Gurnard. She had seen her standing at the foot of the stairs when she had entered the house, and had known, without venturing to meet her speaking eye, that she was far from pleased. She had now acquired reinforcements, in the persons of Nurse and Ribble, and no more than a glance at these three devoted retainers was enough to inform Venetia that trouble lay ahead. No time was lost in disclosing its root: upon being desired to send in a tea-tray to the new arrivals Mrs. Gurnard replied in icy accents: “I have already ordered it to be done, Miss Venetia— her ladyship’s mama having desired me to do so. Not,” she added carefully, “that it was necessary for her to have spoken to me on the matter, for it was on the tip of my tongue to have asked her ladyship if she would take some tea, or a glass of wine, to refresh her after her journey.”

“Miss Venetia!” broke in Nurse. “In my very hearing that Mrs. Scorrier, or whatever she calls herself, told Mrs. Gurnard to be sure the beds were well-aired! If she had had the audacity to say such a thing to me I’d have told her to her head that this is a gentleman’s seat, and not a common inn!”

“I would not so demean myself, Nurse,” said Mrs. Gurnard loftily. “But when it comes to her saying that the best bedchamber must be prepared instantly for her ladyship—”

“and informing us that until her fine London abigail arrives here one of the housemaids must wait on her ladyship!” interpolated Nurse.

“—I felt obliged to say, miss, that no doubt you would give me whatever orders you thought proper.”

“That’s just what I said, ma’am!” nodded Ribble approvingly. “The lady seemed to feel, Miss Venetia, that without she attended to the matter herself no one here would think to send in to York tomorrow to meet the young woman, who, I understand, will be coming by the stage. I trust I was able to set her mind at rest. I assured her, miss, that I shouldn’t fail to ask you what you wish done.”

With a sinking heart Venetia applied herself to the task of soothing these ruffled sensibilities. With only one of the indignant parties did she achieve a modicum of success: Nurse, learning that the bride was already in the family way, showed by the fanatical light in her eyes that this circumstance did much to reconcile her to Charlotte. Though lamentably unworthy of the position she had been called upon to fill she could (and, indeed, must) be tolerated for the sake of the infant over whom Nurse had every intention of exercising the fullest control. Mrs. Gurnard, foreseeing that the happy event would elevate Nurse once more to her vacated throne, spoke ominously of her advancing years and inability to accustom herself to new ways; and Ribble, not presuming to comment upon an affair of such delicacy, added a still more sinister note to the symposium by begging leave to enquire whether Mrs. Scorrier would be making a prolonged stay at Undershaw.

Having succeeded in slightly mollifying these important members of the household Venetia prepared to grapple with the far more difficult task of persuading Aubrey to behave at least with propriety towards his sister-in-law and her mama. He had driven off to the stables without having uttered one word, and Venetia had thought it prudent to refrain from making any attempt to detain him. She guessed that he must have come into the house through the garden-door, and went to look for him in the library, reflecting, as she walked down the broad passage that led to it from the front hall, that a very little of Mrs. Scorrier’s somewhat overpowering personality would suffice to turn Aubrey into as obstinate a recluse as ever his father had been. As she had expected, he was in the library. He had obviously been awaiting her appearance with a good deal of impatience, for he demanded almost before she had shut the door into the ante-room: “What have you done with them? Do you believe such a tale? I don’t! Even Conway couldn’t serve us such a trick!”

“That was my own thought,” she admitted. “But it won’t do, love: it must be true! A horrid shock, wasn’t it? I don’t yet know how we are to make the best of it, but that’s what we must do.”

“Don’t you know? Then I’ll tell yon! We’ll set up house for ourselves—exactly as you planned to do in this event!”

“Yes, of course, but we can’t do so immediately, my dear! You must perceive how impossible it would be! Until Conway returns I’m responsible for Undershaw.”

“And failing you, Mytchett!” he said swiftly. “Conway empowered both of you to act for him. I remember Mytchett’s coming here to discuss the terms of the power of attorney with you before he sent it to Conway to be signed!”

“To be sure he did, but that was because he knew he was very much fitter than I to take care of the invested capital, and, of course, any legal business that might arise. He did not bargain to have all the everyday affairs of the estate thrust upon him as well. Besides, Aubrey, we could not leave Undershaw the instant Conway’s wife entered it! It would be most improper, and unkind as well.”

“As improper and as unkind as to have foisted her on to us without one word of warning?”

“Well, I fancy that wasn’t her fault. In fact, I’m sure of it. Poor creature, she is so much mortified she dare hardly speak above a whisper! I am very sorry for her. And I don’t find her in the least objectionable, love: she seems to be a gentle, shy sort, of a girl, and I daresay we shall soon grow to be very much attached to her.”

“Do you? And as for her mother, I collect we shall positively dote on her!”

She laughed. “For my part, no! A detestable woman—she has set up the servants’ backs already, and mine too, a little! But I don’t mean to show her anything but civility, and I beg you won’t either!”

He looked at her out of narrowed eyes, but said nothing. The most she could wring from him was a promise that he would say nothing uncivil to Mrs. Scorrier unless she offered him provocation, and with this she had to try at least to be satisfied. But as what Aubrey might regard as provocation depended to a large extent upon his mood her expectations were not high; and it was with considerable foreboding that she took him to the drawing-room to be formally introduced.

They found the two ladies discussing tea and macaroons. Mrs. Scorrier welcomed Venetia into the room with a gracious smile, saying: “Such delicious tea, dear Miss Lanyon! I must really ask the housekeeper where she procures it.” She then saw that Aubrey had entered the room in his sister’s wake, and included him in her welcome. He bowed rather stiffly, and shook hands with her before turning to Charlotte, and saying: “How do you do? How did you leave my brother! Will he soon be following you?”

“I don’t know—I hope—I did not like to leave him, but Mama thought—”

“Mama thought that her daughter would be very much better away from the hurly-burly of Cambray!” interrupted Mrs. Scorrier, with the laugh that was already beginning to irritate Venetia. “Your brother will certainly be at home by the end of the year, for the Duke means to begin removing the Army at the beginning of next month. Miss Lanyon, I have been saying to Charlotte what a pretty room this is! Quite charming, indeed, and wants nothing but fresh hangings to make it as elegant a saloon as any I have seen.”

Venetia was a little taken aback by this, but replied with composure, and, in the hope that if she could engage Mrs. Scorrier in conversation Aubrey and Charlotte might become acquainted, sat down beside her on the sofa.

Mrs. Scorrier was perfectly ready to talk, and soon showed that she possessed the ability to maintain more than her share of one conversation while interpolating remarks every now and then into another. Whatever was addressed to her daughter she answered, and whatever Charlotte said she either corrected or amplified. Her manner was good-humoured, she smiled almost continuously, but it was not long before Venetia became convinced that she was being regarded with suspicious hostility. Mrs. Scorrier was lavish in paying her compliments, but contrived at the same time to disparage; and Venetia, who had never before encountered her like, was puzzled to account for her attitude. She seemed to be determined to see in her daughter’s sister-in-law a foe whom it was necessary to overcome; and by talking about the changes Charlotte would no doubt inaugurate at Undershaw, and assuring Venetia how well she understood what must be her feelings at being obliged to hand over the reins of government to another, she made it plain that she was very jealous of Charlotte’s rights, and very ready to do battle in defence of them.

At the end of nearly an hour, when Mrs. Gurnard came in, at her most stately, to offer to conduct the two ladies to their respective bedchambers, Venetia knew that the comfort of Undershaw was over, and that the immediate future promised nothing but strife and vexation. In addition to her hostility Mrs. Scorrier possessed a managing disposition, and an uncontrollable desire to show everyone, from Venetia down to the gardener’s boy, a better way of performing any given ‘ task, whether it was the direction of a household or the preservation of geraniums. Even the cook, whose macaroons Mrs. Scorrier had declared to be as good as Gunter’s, was to be given a recipe which would be found to be superior; and, as though the mental vision conjured up by this promise was not horrid enough, she further promised to furnish Venetia with the name of an excellent surgeon who, she had no doubt at all, would know just what to do to cure Aubrey’s lameness. Venetia acquitted her of malice, but found no difficulty in understanding why it was that so many people had (according to herself) so frequently behaved disgracefully to her.

Once she was assured that the bedchamber prepared for Charlotte had been occupied by her predecessor she was pleased to approve of it; but when Venetia smiled at Charlotte, and said: “You will tell me, won’t you, if you have not everything you need?” she shook a reproving finger, and said in a rallying tone: “No, no, Miss Lanyon, don’t, I beg of you, encourage my lazy little puss to depend on you! I have been telling her that now she is a married lady and the mistress of her own house she must learn to give her own orders, and not rely upon me, or you, to manage for her.”

When Venetia presently left her own room, and went downstairs again, she found Charlotte seated alone in the drawing-room. She was elegantly dressed in an evening-gown of silk with a demi-train, but she looked far more like a scared schoolgirl than a fashionable matron, and she instinctively rose to her feet as soon as she saw Venetia. Glad to have an opportunity of talking to her without the intervention of Mrs. Scorrier, Venetia exerted herself to put her at her ease. She was only partially successful, and soon realized that while Charlotte’s pliant disposition and amiability of temper made her anxious to please, these meek attributes also made it impossible for her to withstand the domination of her strongminded mother. If she had put it into words (a feat of which she was wholly incapable) that Mrs. Scorrier had warned her to beware of her sister-in-law, that fact could not have been more evident; and since she had neither a sense of humour nor the habit of plain speaking, Venetia’s smiling request that she might not be regarded as an ogress merely served to cast her into incoherent embarrassment. Only when she spoke of Conway did she become at all natural, and forget her shyness in hero-worship. He was a demi-god who had miraculously fallen in love with her; the very thought of his magnificence made her cheeks glow, and her soft eyes shine; and in recounting his daring deeds and sage utterances she grew quite animated.

Venetia might be amused by this unrecognizable portrait of her brother but she was also touched, and readily perceived what it was that had attracted Conway to this somewhat insipid girl. She said kindly: “It must have made you very unhappy to have been obliged to leave him. I do most sincerely feel for you!”

Tears sprang to Charlotte’s eyes. “Oh, it was so dreadful! I didn’t wish to go, but he thought it the only thing, because Colonel Skidby was uncivil to Mama, which made it so very awkward for Conway, because of course Mama wouldn’t submit to being insulted, and so we couldn’t invite the Colonel to our parties, which made it excessively uncomfortable for Conway! Only fancy! that horrid man spread the most untruthful tales about poor Mama, and a great many people believed him, and took his part, and behaved very unkindly, so that she was positively obliged to tell Lord Hill the whole story, which made Conway say that—which made him think that it would be best if we came back to England!” She ended this impulsive recital on an apprehensive note, and added hurriedly: “And, besides that, I was not very well!”

“I don’t wonder at it!” said Venetia, a merry twinkle in her eye. “In your place I rather think I should have taken to my bed! I can conceive of nothing worse than finding oneself in the centre of a quarrel.”

“Oh, it was so dreadful!” said Charlotte involuntarily, and shuddering at the recollection. “It made me quite hysterical, so of course Mama would not leave me—not that there was any question—for I am sure I could never bear to be parted from her, and particularly when I’m feeling poorly!” She began to pleat her handkerchief, and said haltingly: “Mama—Mama sometimes says things—but she doesn’t mean them—and she has had a great deal to bear, because Papa was not wealthy, and his family behaved in such a disagreeable way, taking my Aunt Elizabeth’s part when she was rude to poor Mama, and not making her beg pardon, so that there was nothing for Mama to do but to cut the connection. And then Papa died of fever, which he contracted in the Peninsula, for he was a military man, like Conway, you know, and so Mama had only my sister and me to live for.”

“Have you just the one sister?” enquired Venetia, unable to think of a suitable comment to make on Mrs. Scorrier’s trials.

“Yes, my sister Fanny. She is older than I am, but we were the greatest friends! It was so sad! She was married two years ago, and has a dear little baby, which I have never seen, because my brother-in-law, whom we had thought to be a most amiable man, has such a jealous disposition that he was quite unpleasant to Mama when we went to stay with him and Fanny, and said he would not have her meddling and making trouble in his house, only because she thought it her duty to advise my sister to turn off the housekeeper, who was quite shockingly extravagant, and even, Mama suspected, dishonest!”

Before Venetia had well recovered from the effects of this artless speech Mrs. Scorrier had entered the room, and the impulse to warn Charlotte that any attempt to rid Undershaw of its housekeeper could only lead to the discomfiture of her mama had to be abandoned.

Mrs. Scorrier came in all affability, and full of brisk plans for the future. She seemed to have extracted from the housemaid sent by Mrs. Gurnard to wait on her every detail of the organization of Undershaw, and she saw much room for improvement. What was very proper for an unmarried female living in retirement with her brother would by no means do for Lady Lanyon. In particular did her consequence require that there should be two uniformed men-servants under the butler; but Miss Lanyon must not be thinking that this need mean any considerable increase in expenditure, for (if she might venture to say so) she believed that the number of females employed in the house was excessive. “Not that I mean to say that you have not managed very creditably, my dear Miss Lanyon,” she assured Venetia kindly. “Indeed, I must own I am most agreeably surprised by all I have seen, and can truthfully say that you have no need to blush for your housekeeping.”

“None at all!” agreed Venetia, amusement quivering in her voice. “Though I might blush to accept a compliment that is due to another! Mrs. Gurnard has been housekeeper at Undershaw since before I was born.” She turned her head to address Charlotte, saying lightly: “I expect she will wish to conduct you through every department of the house tomorrow. Don’t mind it if she should seem a trifle stiff! She will very soon take to you when she sees that you don’t mean to upset all her economies and arrangements. Talk to her about Conway! She dotes on him, you know—even allows him to call her his dear old Gurney, which I should never dare to do. She will very likely present you with her keys. I’ve no need to warn you, I’m persuaded, that you must beg her to keep them!”

“Oh, no! I should not dream of—”

“Well, as to that, my love,” interrupted Mrs. Scorrier, “I believe it is best to begin as you mean to continue. It is very natural that Miss Lanyon should be shy of asserting herself, having known the woman for so long, but for you it is another matter. It is always the same with old retainers! They are quick to take advantage, and become perfect tyrants. If you will be advised by me, my dear—”

“She’d do better to be advised by my sister,” said Aubrey, who had entered the room in time to hear this interchange. “Lord, what a dust Conway would kick up if he came home to find Mrs. Gurnard had left Undershaw in a pelter!”

The thought of Conway’s displeasure made Charlotte turn pale, and even seemed to give Mrs. Scorrier pause. She countented herself with saying: “Well, we shall see,” but although the smile remained firmly pinned to her lips the glance she cast at Aubrey was by no means amiable. Venetia could only pray that she would not offer him any further provocation.

The prayer was not answered, and long before dinner came to an end it must have been apparent to anyone acquainted with Aubrey that he had decided to war. Upon entering the dining-room, and finding that she was expected to sit at the head of the table, Charlotte had hung back, stammering with instinctive good feeling: “Oh, pray—! That is where you are used to sit, Miss Lanyon, is it not? If you please, I would by far rather not take your place!”

“But I would far rather not take yours!” returned Venetia. “I wish, by the way, that you will call me Venetia!”

“Oh, yes! Thank you, I should be very happy! But pray won’t you—”

“My dear Charlotte, Miss Lanyon will think you are quite gooseish if you don’t take care!” said Mrs. Scorrier. “She is very right, and you need have no scruples, I assure you.” She flashed a particularly wide smile at Venetia, and added: “It is the fate of sisters, is it not, to be obliged to take second place when their brothers marry?”

“Undoubtedly, ma’am.”

“Doing it rather too brown, m’dear!” said Aubrey, a glint in his eye. “You’ll still be first in consequence at Undershaw if you eat your dinner in the kitchen, and well you know it!”

“What a devoted brother!” remarked Mrs. Scorrier, with a slight titter.

“What a nonsensical one!” retorted Venetia. “Do you like to sit near the fire, ma’am, or will you—”

“Mrs. Scorrier ought to sit at the bottom of the table,” said Aubrey positively.

“You mean the foot of the table: opposite to the head, you understand,” said Mrs. Scorrier instructively.

“Yes, of course,” replied Aubrey, looking surprised. “Did I say bottom? I wonder what made me do that?”

Venetia asked Charlotte if she had enjoyed her visit to Paris. It was the first of the many hasty interventions she felt herself obliged to make during the course of what she afterwards bitterly described as a truly memorable dinner-party, for while Aubrey offered no unprovoked attacks he was swift to avenge any hint of aggression. Since he made it abundantly plain that he had constituted himself his sister’s champion, and won every encounter with the foe, Venetia could only suppose that Mrs. Scorrier was either very stupid, or compelled by her evil genius to court discomfiture. She really seemed to be incapable of resisting the temptation to depress Venetia’s imagined pretensions, so the dining-room rapidly became a battlefield on which (Venetia thought, with an irrepressible gleam of amusement) line inevitably demonstrated its superiority to column. Unable to counter Aubrey’s elusive tactics, Mrs. Scorrier attempted to give him a heavy set-down. Bringing her determined smile to bear on him she told him that no one would ever take him and Conway for brothers, so unlike were they. What unflattering comparisons she meant to draw remained undisclosed, for Aubrey instantly said, with a touch of anxiety: “No, I don’t think anyone could, do you, ma’am? He has the brawn of the family, I have the brain, and Venetia has the beauty.”

After this it was scarcely surprising that Mrs. Scorrier rose from the table with her temper sadly exacerbated. When she disposed herself in a chair by the drawing-room fire there was a steely look in her eyes which made her daughter quake, but her evident intention of making herself extremely unpleasant was foiled by Venetia’s saying that since it behoved her to write two urgent letters she hoped Charlotte would forgive her if she left her until tea-time to the comfort of a quiet evening with only her mama for company. She then left the room, and went to join Aubrey in the library, saying, with deep feeling, as she entered that haven: “Devil!”

He grinned at her. “What odds will you lay me that I don’t rid the house of her within a se’ennight?”

“None! It would be robbing you, for you won’t do it. And, indeed, love, you might consider Charlotte’s feelings a trifle! She may be a ninnyhammer, but she can’t help that, and her disposition, I am quite convinced, is perfectly amiable and obliging.”

“So sweetly mawkish and so smoothly dull, is what you mean to say!”

“Well, at least the sweetness is something to be thankful for! Do you wish to use your desk? I must write to Aunt Hendred, and to Lady Denny, and I haven’t had the fires lit in the saloon, or the morning-room.”

“You haven’t had them lit?” he said pointedly.

“If you don’t wish to see me fall into strong hysterics, be quiet!” begged Venetia, seating herself at the big desk. “Oh, Aubrey, what a shocking pen! Do, pray, mend it for me!”

He took it from her, and picked up a small knife from the desk. As he pared the quill he said abruptly: “Are you writing to tell my aunt and the Dennys that Conway is married?”

“Of course, and I do so much hope that with Lady Denny at least I shall be beforehand. My aunt is bound to read it in the Gazette—may already have done so, for that detestable woman tells me she sent in the notice before she left London! You’d think she might have waited a few days longer, after having done so for three months!”

He gave the pen back to her. “Conway wasn’t engaged to Clara Denny, was he?”

“No—that is, certainly not openly! Lady Denny told me at the time that they were both of them too young, and that Sir John wouldn’t countenance an engagement until Conway was of age and Clara had come out, but there’s no doubt that he would have welcomed the match, and no doubt either that Clara thinks herself promised to Conway.”

“What fools girls are!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Conway might have sold out when my father died, had he wished to! She must have known that!”

Venetia sighed. “You’d think so, but from something she once said to me I very much fear that she believed he remained with the Army because he thought it to be his duty to do so.”

“Conway ? Even Clara Denny couldn’t believe that moonshine!”

“I assure you she could. And you must own that anyone might who was not particularly acquainted with him, for besides believing it himself, and always being able to think of admirable reasons for doing precisely what suits him best, he looks noble!”

He agreed to this, butsaid after a thoughtful moment: “Do I do that, m’dear?”

“No, love,” she replied cheerfully, opening the standish. “You merely do what suits you best, without troubling to look for a virtuous reason. That’s because you’re odiously conceited, and don’t care a button for what anyone thinks of you. Conway does,”

“Well, I’d a deal rather be conceited than a hypocrite,” saidAubrey, accepting this interpretation of his character with equanimity. “I must say I look forward to hearing what the reason was for this havey-cavey marriage. Come to think of it, what was the reason? Why the deuce didn’t he write to tell us? He knew he must tell us in the end! Too corkbrained by half!”

Venetia looked up from the letter she had begun to write. “Yes, that had me in a puzzle too,” she admitted. “But I thought about it while I was dressing for dinner, and I fancy I have a pretty fair notion of how it was. And that is what makes me afraid that the news will come as a shocking blow to poor Clara. I think Conway did mean to offer for Clara. I don’t mean to say that he was still in that idiotish state which made him such a bore when he was last at home, but fond enough of her to think she would make him a very agreeable wife. What’s more, I should suppose that there had been an exchange of promises, however little the Dennys may have suspected it. If Conway thought he was in honour bound to offer for Clara I see just why he never wrote to us.”

“Well, I don’t!”

“Good God, Aubrey, you know Conway! Whenever there’s a difficult task to be performed he will put off doing anything about it for as long as he possibly can! Only think how difficult it must have been to write to tell me that in the space of one furlough he had met, fallen in love with, and married a girl he never saw before in his life, and had jilted Clara into the bargain!”

“Knew he’d made a cod’s head of himself. Yes, he wouldn’t like that,” said Aubrey reflectively. “I suppose Charlotte was on the catch for him.”

“Not she, but Mrs. Scorrier most certainly—and had no intention of letting him slip through her fingers! She was responsible for that hasty marriage, not Conway—and I give her credit for being shrewd enough to guess that if she did not tie the knot then, the chances were that he would forget Charlotte in a month! And when it was clone, I daresay he meant to write to me—not that day, but the next! And so it went on, just as when he put off for the whole of one holiday breaking it to Papa that he wished him to buy him a pair of colours, instead of sending him up to Oxford—yes, and in the end I had to speak to Papa, for Conway had gone back to Eton! On this occasion there was no one to act for him, and I haven’t the least doubt that he postponed writing until it must have seemed quite impossible to write at all. Perhaps he then persuaded himself that it would be better not to write, but to bring Charlotte home with him, trusting to chance or our pleasure at having him restored to us to make all right! Only Mrs. Scorrier scotched that scheme, by quarrelling with some Colonel or other, and making things so awkward for Conway that he saw nothing for it but to be rid of her on any terms. You can’t doubt she would have kicked up a tremendous dust if he had tried to send her packing without Charlotte, and he would never face her doing that at Headquarters!”

“So he sent Charlotte home with her,” said Aubrey, his lips beginning to curl. “You were wrong, stoopid! There was someone to break the news for him! What a contemptible fellow he is!”

With this he stretched out a hand for the book that was lying open on a table, and immediately became absorbed in it, while Venetia, amused by his detachment and a little envious of it clipped her pen in the ink again, and resumed her letter to Mrs. Hendred.