Venetia

XIII

Venetia’s optimism was soon found to have been misplaced. Within ten minutes of Damerel’s departure hostilities had been resumed, Mrs. Scorrier, her eyes gleaming with righteous wrath, seeking her out to demand whether it was true that she had not only welcomed his lordship to Undershaw, but had actually presented him to Charlotte. She had been unable (she said) to credit her ears when Charlotte had informed her of this shocking incident; and while she had discovered already that Miss Lanyon behaved with what to her possibly outdated notions of propriety was unbecoming license, she had not supposed she was so lacking in prudence and delicacy as to permit a man of Lord Damerel’s reputation to set foot within the grounds of Undershaw, much less to introduce him to her brother’s innocent bride.

Whatever qualms Venetia might, upon sober reflection, have felt on the wisdom of making Damerel acquainted with Charlotte (since to be on calling terms with him could scarcely add to her credit in the district) vanished in a leaping flame of anger. She retorted swiftly: “Dear me, ma’am, do you consider Charlotte to be in danger of succumbing to his charms? I should have supposed her to be far too deep in love with my brother—but must bow to your better knowledge of her!”

“Miss—Lanyon!” ejaculated Mrs. Scorrier.

“Well?” said Venetia, deceptively cool.

Mrs. Scorrier drew an audible breath. “I ignore your impertinence. It is quite beneath my notice. But I would have you to know that for a modest female in my daughter’s situation—a stranger to this part of the country, and coming to it without the protection of her husband—to be receiving in her house a man of ill-repute would be grossly improper. Of the impropriety of a single female’s claiming friendship with such a person I say nothing!”

“How should you, indeed? My credit won’t suffer, ‘after all! But for the rest you are very right: it was shockingly thoughtless of me, and I beg your pardon! In the circumstances, Charlotte cannot be too careful, of course. When one thinks how much scandal-broth must already be brewing— oh, have no fear, ma’am! I will tell Damerel he must on no account divulge to anyone that he has even clapped eyes on Charlotte!”

Unbecomingly flushed Mrs. Scorrier said in a voice tight with suppressed fury: “Indeed! Indeed, Miss Lanyon? So you fancy your credit won’t suffer? You are strangely mistaken, let me tell you!” She paused, and Venetia waited, her brows slightly raised, a little contemptuous smile on her lips. It seemed to her that a struggle was taking place in Mrs. Scorrier’s bosom; it certainly heaved alarmingly; but after a tense moment or two that lady turned abruptly on her heel, and stalked out of the room.

Venetia discovered that she was trembling, and was obliged to sit down. It was some time before she was able to recover her composure, and longer still before she could bring herself to acknowledge that the reproof, however offensively delivered, was not wholly without justification, and be sorry for her own loss of temper. She did at last realize it, and, after a struggle quite as severe as any Mrs. Scorrier had engaged in, went to offer the lady an apology. It was received with a cold bow, and closely folded lips.

“I ought not to have allowed my indignation to overpower me, ma’am,” Venetia persevered. “I should rather have explained to you that Lord Damerel has been so good a friend to Aubrey that to hear him abused was rather too much for me to bear with patience.”

“We will not discuss the matter, Miss Lanyon. I trust, however, that you will make it plain to Lord Damerel that his visits to Undershaw must cease.”

“No,” said Venetia gently. “I shall not do that, but you need be under no apprehension, ma’am: when he comes it will be to see Aubrey, not Charlotte.”

To this Mrs. Scorrier vouchsafed no other answer than a glance which assured Venetia that it would henceforward be war to the knife between them.

It was the prelude to a week more nearly resembling a nightmare than any Venetia had ever endured. Mrs. Scorrier, abandoning affability, spoke to her as seldom as need be, and then with formal civility; but while contriving largely to ignore her lost no opportunity that presented itself to vex her. If she could find no household custom to overset she discussed with Charlotte, in Venetia’s presence, the changes that must be made in the management and economy of Undershaw. Charlotte, rendered acutely uncomfortable by these tactics, yet lacked the strength of character to combat them. She murmured a few feeble expostulations sometimes, but for the most part gave only monosyllabic answers, and looked miserable. On the rare occasions when Aubrey was present he used his deadly tongue with such excoriating effect that Venetia begged him to keep away from the drawing-room.

To make matters worse, the domestic staff, warmly espousing Venetia’s cause, demonstrated a stubborn loyalty by referring to Venetia the most trivial order received from Mrs. Scorrier. “I will mention the matter to Miss Venetia, ma’am,” was the invariable response she received; and when she imprudently commanded Fingle to bring the phaeton round to the house to take her ladyship for a gentle airing his answer was even more forthright. “I take my orders from Mr. Aubrey, ma’am,” said that blunt Yorkshireman. Before Mrs. Scorrier could find Venetia, to lodge a complaint with her, she was herself sought out by Aubrey, who conveyed to her the unpalatable information that Fingle was his personal groom, and that he would be obliged to her if she would in future deliver her orders to William Coachman, whose business it was to drive the ladies of the establishment out, not in the phaeton, which again belonged to him and he would let none but Venetia drive, but in the barouche.

To all Venetia’s protests her champions turned deaf ears; they had determined on their course, and they pursued it with enthusiasm. The better part of her time was consequently spent either in endorsing Mrs. Scorrier’s commands, or in the hopeless attempt to reconcile bitter opponents.

For Mrs. Scorrier the situation was rendered the more exacerbating by Nurse, who, while paying no heed to her at all, was rapidly acquiring a most undesirable influence over Charlotte. In this she was assisted by the superior Miss Trossell, who was so unfavourably impressed by the Yorkshire scene, and the lack of genteel society at Undershaw, that within twenty-four hours of her arrival she declared her inability to face the rigours of life in the country, adding a strong hint that she had been lured to Yorkshire under false pretences. There was just enough insolence in her tone to rouse Mrs. Scorrier to wrath, and after a stormy scene Miss Trossell departed incontinent, being conveyed to York in the degrading gig, and sped on her way by an assurance from Nurse that her loss would not be felt.

Nor was it; for infinitely preferable to Charlotte were the attentions of Nurse, who scolded, and bullied her, but took a warm interest in her well-being, knew just what to do for her when she felt queasy, and would spend hours talking about Conway, or discussing the future of Conway’s son. Charlotte was never so happy as when resting in her room, with Nurse sewing beside the fire, and the door shut against intruders. Nurse had no sympathy to waste on nervous qualms, or fits of depression: she said: “Now, that’s quite enough of that nonsense, my lady I” and: “You put your trust in the Almighty, my lady, and do what Nurse says, and you won’t have any need to fidget yourself.” But Nurse also unearthed Conway’s christening robe, and as many of his caps and petticoats as had survived Aubrey’s infancy; and made cosy plans for the redecoration of the nurseries. She told Charlotte not to fret about the alarming month-nurse interviewed by Mrs. Scorrier in London, because she knew of a very decent woman living in York; and as for accoucheurs, she wanted to hear no more talk about any Dr. Knightons (whoever he might be), because Dr. Cornworthy, also of York, had brought quite as many babies into the world as any grand London practitioner, and very likely more; and in any event her ladyship would trust Nurse to know what was best for her, and busy herself instead with stitching a cap for the Heir.

Under this bracing treatment Charlotte revived, only to be thrown back by the nervous strain imposed on her by her mama’s determination to gain the upper hand of Venetia. She lived in sick apprehension of just such a scene as she most dreaded; and after an evening of more than ordinary tension had to be scolded by Nurse out of a fit of mild hysterics. This episode led Nurse to take Mrs. Scorrier severely to task; and as her homily included the information that a dry morsel and quietness therewith was better than a house full of sacrifices and strife, it was hardly surprising that it resulted in a sharp skirmish. Mrs. Scorrier, already jealous of Nurse’s influence over Charlotte, told her, with a smile more menacing than amiable, that she would be extremely sorry if she were obliged to recommend her daughter to send her away from Undershaw. She had no real intention of making such an attempt, for she knew very well that old and faithful retainers could not be dismissed, however irritatingly they behaved. She uttered the threat in the hope of intimidating Nurse, but its only effect was to afford Nurse with an opportunity to put her in possession of a fact which made it almost impossible for her to meet Venetia thereafter with even the appearance of complaisance.

“Well, and so I should think, ma’am!” said Nurse. “Where would be the sense in teasing her ladyship to do what she’s got no power to do, and wouldn’t do if she had?” She eyed Mrs. Scorrier’s stiffening countenance with grim satisfaction, and delivered a leveller. “It’s Miss Venetia as is mistress of Undershaw, ma’am, as even the scullery-maid is well aware of, and has a lawyer’s piece with a seal on it, and signed by Sir Conway, to prove it.”

Since Conway had omitted to tell his mother-in-law that he had given Venetia a power of attorney, and she, by some unaccountable oversight, had never considered the probability that he should have done so, this disclosure filled her with wrath which was none the less violent for being impotent. All she could think of to do by way of immediate revenge was to suggest to Charlotte at dinner that evening that she should adopt the library to her own use, since it was quite the best room in the house, and would, from its secluded position, sunny aspect, and door into the garden, provide any lady in delicate health with an admirable retreat. But this amiable scheme to enrage Aubrey (and through him Venetia) was foiled by Charlotte, who stood in even greater awe of Aubrey than of her mother, and hastily stammered out a repudiation of any desire to evict him from his stronghold. As she added that she much preferred even the smallest of the several parlours to it there was no more to be said, except by Aubrey, who cordially invited Mrs. Scorrier to come and try for herself how comfortable the room was.

Letters from Conway did nothing to improve matters, and gratified none but Charlotte, who received two whole sheets covered, and even crossed, with his sprawling writing, and went about the house for days in a glow of rapture. But as the letter, so far from containing a revocation of that infamous power of attorney, adjured Charlotte not to trouble her pretty head about anything whatsoever, but to leave everything to Venetia, whom he depended on to save his darling the least care or disagreeable exertion, it brought no pleasure to Mrs. Scorrier, but rather aggravated her annoyance, and confirmed her in her determination to rid her daughter of a sister-in-law who enjoyed far too much of her brother’s confidence.

Venetia also received a letter from Conway, which, as she told Damerel, would have put her in a towering passion had it not been so irresistibly funny. Exhausted by the labour of composing so handsome a letter to his bride Conway had confined himself to a single sheet in writing to his sister, excusing this brevity on the score of the press of work entailed by the imminent evacuation of the Army of Occupation. He neither explained his sudden marriage nor made the slightest apology for foisting a total stranger upon her without a word of warning. He knew that Venetia could not fail to be pleased with his Charlotte, and depended on her to take the greatest care of her. A dispassionate person, reading this missive, could scarcely have been blamed for supposing that Sir Conway had planned the whole affair with the object of giving his dearest sister a delightful surprise.

Venetia received another letter besides Conway’s, but not through the medium of the post. It was brought over from Netherford by one of Edward Yardley’s grooms, covered several sheets, and afforded her even less gratification than Conway’s short note, since she found nothing in it that tickled her sense of humour. Though surprised and shocked by the news of Conway’s marriage Edward was apparently deriving consolation from the conviction that Venetia must be happy in the companionship of her sister-in-law, and his own relief at the knowledge that in Mrs. Scorrier she had at last acquired an eligible chaperon. After moralizing for two pages on the evils of Venetia’s previous situation, he covered two more with some very sensible advice to her (for he perfectly understood, he assured her, that she might find it difficult, at first, to accustom herself to the change in her circumstances) and an exact description of his own state of health. He ended by deploring that it was not in his power to visit Undershaw, to pay his compliments to Lady Lanyon, and to fortify Venetia with such guidance and counsel as he could give: not only was there still nearly a week to run before he could emerge from quarantine, but she would be sorry to learn that he had developed a cough, which, though slight, was occasioning some disquiet in his mother’s mind. He begged Venetia not to be alarmed, however, since she might depend on him to incur no foolish risks. She would not be surprised to learn, he fancied, that the news that Conway must soon be at home again had done almost as much to hasten his recovery as any of Mr. Huntspill’s excellent prescriptions.

Venetia rode over to Ebbersley to spend one day with Lady Denny, but although the respite from the frets and animosities at Undershaw did her good her visit was not one of unalloyed pleasure. One glance at Clara’s face was enough to confirm her in the belief that more had passed between her and Conway than her parents had suspected. So indeed she had now confessed, as Lady Denny presently disclosed to her young friend, in reluctant answer to a blunt question. “Yes, my dear, I am afraid you were right,” she said. “But as for thinking that Conway was in any way bound to Clara, pray put such a notion out of your head! I need not tell you what were my feelings when I learned that a daughter of mine had behaved with such impropriety, and as for Sir John, I promise you I never saw him more confounded in my life! For, you know, my love, to be exchanging promises with a man without the consent or knowledge of her parents shows such a want of conduct as I had not thought it possible I could discover in Clara! Indeed, it is even worse, for Sir John had expressly forbidden any such exchanges, not because he would not have been very well pleased with the match, but because he judged them both to be too young to enter upon an engagement. If poor Clara had but realized then that her papa knew best, how much pain she would have been spared now!She is very sensible of how deeply she erred, so we don’t reproach her.”

“Conway deserves to be flogged!” exclaimed Venetia.

“No, my dear, that fault was Clara’s, though I don’t deny that he did not behave just as he ought. But young men don’t take such affairs as seriously as you perhaps suppose, and of one thing you may be sure! he neither suggested nor attempted to carry on a clandestine correspondence with Clara!”

“Oh, yes, I am very sure of that!” said Venetia. “Only to think I should live to be thankful he is an illiterate! I wish I might congratulate Clara upon her good fortune, but I collect she does not yet see what an escape she has had!”

“No, and we have agreed amongst ourselves that it is a case of the least said the soonest mended. We think that a change of scene would benefit her, and have planned to send her on a visit to her grandmama. Oh dear, if one knew the trouble one’s children would be to one!” sighed Lady Denny. “First it was Oswald, and now it is Clara, and next, depend upon it, it will be Emily!”

“Dear ma’am, if you are imagining that there was anything more to Oswald’s fancy for me than a fit of boy’s nonsense I promise you there was not!” said Venetia, with her usual frankness. “He certainly made a great goose of himself, but wrote me a very handsome apology, so that I am in perfect charity with him.”

“It is like your sweet nature to say so, my love,” replied Lady Denny, blinking rather rapidly, “but I know very well that he must have behaved most improperly to you, besides vexing Lord Damerel, the very thought of which quite dismayed me!”

“Now, that I am very sure he did not!” declared Venetia. “So Lord Damerel told Sir John,” said her ladyship, with unabated gloom. “Sir John, chancing to meet him the other day, asked him to his head if Oswald had been causing him annoyance, and he replied immediately, Not at all! which convinced Sir John that it was only too true.”

Venetia could not help laughing at this, but she assured her old friend that Oswald had rather amused than annoyed Damerel. Lady Denny remarked with some feeling that it was small comfort to know that one’s only son was setting up as a laughing-stock; but she did seem to derive some comfort from the knowledge, for she made a determined effort to overcome her despondency, and demanded from Venetia an account of the happenings at Undershaw. She was not deceived by the comical aspect which Venetia took care to stress, but expressed her opinion of Mrs. Scorrier’s conduct in unusually forthright terms, and adjured Venetia not to hesitate, should that Creature become outrageous, to pack up her trunks and come at once to Ebbersley.

“I shall pay Lady Lanyon a bride-visit, of course,” she said, with quiet dignity. “Pray, my dear, present my compliments to her, and explain to her that I am prevented at the moment from giving myself the pleasure of making her acquaintance by the illness in my house. Would you believe it, Venetia?—Cook has thrown out a rash this very day!”

On this calamitous note they parted; and it was not until she had waved goodbye to Venetia that Lady Denny realized that her more pressing troubles had driven all thought of Venetia’s unfortunate tendre for Damerel out of her head. She now recalled that the look of radiance had disappeared from that lovely face, and although she was sorry for the cause she could not but hope that the infatuation which had set the girl in a glow had been as brief as it was violent. Much as she desired to alleviate Venetia’s present unhappiness she would have been appalled by the knowledge that only the dangerous rake’s presence in the district enabled Venetia to support her trials with smiling fortitude.

When she was with him the most galling vexation dwindled to a triviality; when she recounted to him Mrs. Scorrier’s latest attack upon her position she perceived all at once that it was funny. She found it as natural to confide in him as in Aubrey, and, under her present circumstances, far less dangerous, since Aubrey was ripe for murder. There was no more need to warn Damerel not to betray, even to Aubrey, what she might have told him than there was to explain to him the thought that lay behind some ill-expressed utterance.

He found her, late one afternoon, seated alone in the library, at Aubrey’s desk. She was not writing, but sitting with her hands rather tightly clasped on the desk, and her frowning gaze fixed on them in deep abstraction. She paid no heed at first to the opening of the door, which seemed not to penetrate her reverie, but after a moment or two, as though aware of the searching scrutiny bent on her, she looked up, and, seeing Damerel on the threshold, uttered an exclamation of surprise, her brow clearing, and a smile lighting her eyes. She had not been expecting him, for in general he came to Undershaw before noon, and she said, as she rose, and went towards him: “You, my dear friend! Oh, I am glad to see you! I fell a prey to blue devils, and needed you so much, to laugh them away! What brings you to us? I didn’t look for you today, for I recall that you told me you would be occupied with business.”

He showed no disposition to laugh, but replied in rather a harsh tone: “You bring me! What is it, my dear delight?”

She gave a tiny sigh, but shook her head, and looked up smilingly into his face. “Mere irritation of the nerves, perhaps. Never mind it! I’m better now.”

“I do mind it.” He had been holding both her hands, but he released one, and drew a finger lightly across her brow. “You mustn’t frown, Venetia. Never in my presence, at all events!”

“Well, I won’t!” she said obligingly. “Are you smoothing it away—stoopid?”

“I wish I might! What has happened to bring the blue devils upon you?”

“Nothing worth the trouble of mentioning to you, or that is not so commonplace as to be a dead bore! A battle royal with Mrs. Gurnard, from which I fled in quaking terror, the cause of the dispute being a complaint against the laundry-maid. Perfectly just, I daresay, but the wretched girl is none other than Mrs. Gurnard’s own niece!”

“A Homeric encounter: you should have stayed to hymn it. That did not bring the frown to your brow.”

“No. If I was frowning, it was in an effort to decide what were best for me to do. I don’t think, you see, that we shall be able to remain here, Aubrey and I, until December, and there seems to be little hope that Conway will be free to return until then.”

“I have never thought you could do so. Tell me the result of your deliberations!” He led her to the sofa as he spoke, and sat down beside her on it.

“None, alas! No sooner do I think of a scheme than objections rear their ugly heads, and I’m back in the suds again. Do you care to advise me? You always give me such good advice, dear friend!”

“If I do, I have the distinction of providing a living refutation of Dr. Johnson’s maxim, that example is always more efficacious than precept,” he said. “What’s your problem? I’ll do my best!”

“It is just the problem of where to go, if I should decide to do so—bearing in mind that Aubrey will go with me, and must not be removed from Mr. Appersett’s tuition. I’ve always said that when Conway was married I should form an establishment of my own, and had he become engaged, in the ordinary mode, I should immediately have formed my own arrangements, so that I might have left Undershaw before ever he brought his wife to it. The very few friends I have were aware that that was my intention, and would not have wondered at it. But as things have turned out the case is altered—or so it seems to me. What do you think?”

“I agree that it is altered, in that if you were to leave Undershaw before your brother’s return it would be generally assumed, since it must be widely known that he entrusted the management of his estate to you, that you were driven from your home. Which would be the plain truth.”

“Exactly so! And that circumstance makes it impossible for me to hire a house in this district.”

“True—if you think you owe it to your brother to preserve appearances which he does not seem to set much store by!”

“My dear friend, I have no such notion in my head, so don’t curl your lip at me so contemptuously!”

“Not at you, simpleton!”

“At Conway? Oh, by all means, then! The truth is that I owe him nothing.”

“On the contrary!”

“Not even that, if you mean that he owes anything to me. I accepted the charge he laid upon me because it suited me to do so. If I hadn’t had Aubrey to think of I shouldn’t have done it, any more than I should have remained here one day after I came of age.”

“Then are you bent on protecting the fair name of Lanyon?” he enquired.

“Stuff! No, be serious, Damerel! you must know I don’t care a rush for fair names—witness my pleasure in your company! The scruple in my mind concerns Charlotte. Aubrey calls her sweetly mawkish, and so she is, but she doesn’t deserve to be made any more uncomfortable than she is already, poor little creature! Conway has done all he can to prejudice people against her, and for me to add the finishing touch to his work would be the outside of enough! She has done me no harm—indeed, she is morbidly anxious to defer to me! To such an extent that if Mrs. Scorrier were hors concours I should infallibly take upon myself her role, and spend the better part of my time reminding Charlotte that she is now mistress at Undershaw! So if I leave Undershaw I must contrive to provide myself with an unexceptionable excuse for doing so, and I must not remain in this neighbourhood. I always meant to go to London, but that was looking ahead to when Aubrey will be at Cambridge. A whole year ahead, and what’s to be done during that period has me in a sad puzzle. There must be excellent tutors to be found in London, yet I doubt whether Aubrey—”

“Leave Aubrey for a moment!” he interrupted. “Before I favour you with my opinion of your scheme of setting up an establishment in London—or York—or Timbuctu—tell me something!”

“Very well—but I haven’t asked you to give me your opinion of that!” she objected.

“You will have it, nevertheless. What has happened since I saw you last, Venetia, to overset you, and make you regard your removal from this place as a matter of sudden urgency?” Her eyes lifted quickly to his; he smiled, in loving mockery, and added: “I don’t want any stories about housekeepers or laundry-maids, my girl, and if you think you can hoax me you will have to learn that you are mistaken! What has that devil’s daughter done?”

She shook her head. “Nothing more than I told you. I never thought of hoaxing you, but only that I was perhaps refining too much upon something that was said—very likely with no other purpose than to vex me!”

“And what was said?”

She hesitated for a moment, before replying: “It concerned Aubrey. Mrs. Scorrier dislikes him quite as much as she dislikes me, I fancy—and I must own that he gives her good reason to do sol He is like a particularly malevolent wasp, which, do what you will, continually eludes your efforts to slay it. She brought it on herself, by being spiteful to me, but I’m not excusing him: he should not do it—it is most improper conduct!”

“Oh, confound the boy!” Damerel exclaimed, in quick exasperation. “I hoped I had scotched that pastime!”

She looked at him in surprise. “Did you tell him he must not?”

“No: merely that what he regarded as an agreeable form of relaxation exposes you to the full blast of that woman’s malice.”

“Then that accounts for it! You did scotch it, and I am truly grateful! During these past two days he has scarcely opened his lips in her presence. But either the mischief is done, or she resents his shutting himself up in his room, and joining us only at dinner-time—with a Greek chorus ringing so loudly in his ears that you may speak his name half-a-dozen times before he hears you! She can’t comprehend that, thinks he does it to be uncivil. Charlotte doesn’t like him either, but that’s because he says things she doesn’t understand, which makes her afraid of him. Unfortunately—she is embarrassed by his lameness, and always looks away when he gets up from his chair, or walks across the room.”

“I noticed that she did so when I met you in the park that day, and hoped she would speedily rid herself of the habit!”

“I think she tries to. But the thing is that it has provided Mrs. Scorrier with a pretext for saying what, I own, has quite sunk my spirits. She told me that Charlotte has a horror of deformity, which makes her wish that just now, when she is in a delicate situation, it might have been possible for Aubrey to visit friends. She did not phrase it as plainly as that, and perhaps I have allowed myself to be stupidly apprehensive.” His countenance had darkened; he said in an altered voice: “No. Far from it! If she was capable of saying that to you I would not bet a groat on the chance that she won’t say it to Aubrey himself, the first time he puts her in a rage.”

“That is what I’m afraid of, but could anyone be so infamously cruel?”

“Oh, lord, yes! This vixen, I daresay, would not, in cold blood, but I told you before, my innocent, that you are unacquainted with her sort. Women of unbridled passions are capable de tout! Let them but lose their tempers and they will say, and afterwards find excuse for, what, on another’s lips, they would condemn with sincere loathing!” He paused, scanning her face with eyes grown suddenly hard and frowning. “What else has she said to you?” he demanded abruptly. “You had much better tell me, you know!”

“Well, so I would, but surely you can’t wish me to repeat to you a list of malicious nothings?”

“No: spare me! That fling at Aubrey was all?”

“It was enough! Damerel, if you knew what tortures of self-hatred have been endured—never mentioned, only to be guessed at!—the shrinking from strangers, the dread of pity or such revulsion as Charlotte tries to hide—”

He broke in on her agitation, saying: “I do know. I think it unlikely that this woman would sink so low, unless offered extraordinary provocation, but the boy is abnormally sensitive. Shall I take him off your hands? I’ve told him already that he may remove to the Priory whenever he chooses. His reply was inelegant, but certainly did him credit. He was much inclined to snap my nose off: demanded if I was in all seriousness inviting him to run sly, leaving you to stand the shock! It seemed scarcely the moment to suggest to him that the shock would be less if he did run sly, but I can still do so, and will, if you tell me to. The only difficulty will be to conceal from him the real cause, and I expect I could overcome that.”

She put out her hand, almost unconsciously, saying playfully, to hide her deeper feeling: “What a good friend you are, Wicked Baron! Where should we be in this pass without you? I know I might, if the worst came to the worst, send Aubrey to you. That thought, I promise you, saved me from distraction! In emergency I shouldn’t hesitate—were you ever before so scandalously imposed on?—but there’s no emergency yet—may never be, if Aubrey will but shut his ears to the things that are said merely to vex and sting. I don’t mean to impose on you unless I must!”

His hand had closed on hers, and he was still holding it, but in a clasp that struck her as being curiously rigid. She glanced enquiringly at him, and saw a strange look in his eyes, and about his mouth the bitter sneer that mocked himself. She must have betrayed bewilderment in her face, for the sneer vanished, he smiled, and said lightly, as he released her hand: “I defy anyone to impose on me! I should be glad to have Aubrey at the Priory. I like the boy, and certainly don’t consider him a charge, if that’s what’s in your mind. No one could accuse him of being a difficult guest to entertain! Let him come to me when you choose, and remain for as long as may suit you both!”

“Thus positively conferring a favour on you!” she said, laughing. “Thank you! It would not, I think, be for very long. Lady Denny tells me that Sir John has heard from Mr. Appersett that he means to return to us before the middle of next month. I suspect his cousin—who was so obliging as to offer to exchange with him after his illness—has no great fancy to spend the winter in Yorkshire! Mr. Appersett told me years ago that if ever I should wish to go away for a time he would readily give Aubrey house-room.”

“Then, Aubrey’s affairs being satisfactorily arranged, we will turn to your own, Admir’d Venetia! Are you serious when you talk of setting up your own establishment?”

“Yes, of course I am!”

“Then it is time someone took order to you!” he said grimly. “Leave nursery-dreams, and come to earth, my dear! It is not possible!”

“But it is perfectly possible! Don’t you know that I’m mistress of what Mr. Mytchett—he is our lawyer, and one of my trustees—calls a considerable independence?”

“I still tell you that it is not possible!”

“Good God, Damerel, you don’t mean to talk propriety to me, do you?” she exclaimed. “I warn you, you won’t easily convince me that the least impropriety attaches to a woman of my years choosing rather to live in her own house than in her brother’s! If I were a girl—”

“You are not only a girl, but a green girl!”

“Green I’ll allow, girl I will not! I’m five-and-twenty, my friend. I know it would be thought improper if I were to live alone, and though I think it nonsensical I don’t mean to outrage the conventions, I promise you. While Aubrey is at Cambridge I shall engage a chaperon. When he has taken his degree—well, I don’t know yet, of course, but I expect he will next become a Fellow, and remained fixed in Cambridge, in which event the likeliest chance is that I shall keep house for him there, for I shouldn’t think he would marry, should you?”

“God give me patience!” he ejaculated, spring up, and taking a hasty turn about the room. “Venetia, will you stop talking like a sapskull? Engage a chaperon! Keep house for Aubrey! Don’t forget to buy a stock of caps suitable for a dowager, or an ageing spinster, I do beg of you! Listen to me, you beautiful idiot! you’ve wasted six—seven—years of your life: don’t waste any more! What, for heaven’s sake, do you imagine would be the advantage in this house of yours? Who is to be your chaperon?”

“I don’t know: how should I? I had supposed that it must be possible to hire, as one would a governess, some lady in impoverished circumstances—a widow, perhaps—who would answer the purpose.”

“Then suppose it no longer! You might hire a score of widows, but not one to answer the purpose. I can picture this establishment! Where is it to be? In Kensington, I think, genteel and retired! Or perhaps in the wilds of Upper Grosvenor Place: just on the fringe of fashion! You will be dismally bored, my dear, I assure you!”

She looked a little amused. “Then I shall travel. I have always wanted to do that.”

“What, with an impoverished widow for escort, no acquaintance anywhere but in Yorkshire, and rather less knowledge of the world than a chit out of boarding-school? My poor innocent, when I think of the only friendships you would be likely to form under such circumstances I promise you my blood runs cold! It won’t do: believe me, I know what I’m talking about! To carry off such an existence as you propose you must needs be fabulously wealthy, and eccentric into the bargain! Wealth, my dear delight, would excuse your eccentricity, and open most doors to you. You might hire a mansion in the best part of town, furnish it with oriental magnificence, force yourself on the notice of the ton by indulging in expensive freaks, boldly send out invitation cards—you would meet with some rebuffs, and not a few cuts-direct, but—”

“Be quiet, you absurd creature!” she interrupted, laughing. “That’s not the life I want! How could you think I should?”

“I don’t think it. Are you going to tell me that you want the life you would most certainly lead under your own scheme? You will be more bored and more lonely than ever in your life, for I assure you, Venetia, without acquaintance, without the correct background, you had as well live on a desert island as in London!”

“Oh, dear! Then what am I to do?”

“Go to your Aunt Hendred!” he replied.

“I mean to do so—but not to stay. I shouldn’t like that— or she either, I fear. Nor would her house do for Aubrey.”

“Aubrey, Aubrey! Think for once of yourself!”

“Well, and so I do! You know, Damerel, I never thought I could bear to stay at Undershaw with another woman as its mistress, and now I’ve discovered that it would fret me very much to live under such conditions anywhere! And to live with my aunt and uncle, submitting to their decrees, as I should be obliged to do, recognizing their authority, would be unendurable, like finding myself back again in the nursery! I’ve been my own mistress for too long, dear friend.”

He looked at her, across the room, a wry smile on his lips. “You would not have to endure it for very long,” he said.

“Too long for me!” she said firmly. “It will be five years at least, I imagine, before Aubrey will be ready to set up in a house of his own, and perhaps by then he won’t wish it! Besides—”

“Greenhead! Oh, greenest of greenheads!” he said. “Go to your aunt, let her launch you into society—as she is well able to do!—and before Aubrey has gone up to Cambridge the notice of your engagement will be in the Gazette!”

She did not speak for a moment, but looked straitly at him, a little less colour in her cheeks, no lurking smile in her eyes. She could find no clue to his thoughts in his face, and was puzzled, but not alarmed. “No,” she said at last. “It won’t be. Did you think that my purpose in going to London was to find a husband?”

“Not your purpose. Your destiny—as it should be!”

“Ah! My aunt’s purpose will be¹ to find a husband for me?” He answered only with a shrug, and she got up, saying: “I’m glad you’ve warned me: is it allowable for an unmarried female to put up at an hotel? if she has a maid with her?”

“Venetia— I”

She smiled, putting up her eyebrows. “My dear friend, you are too stoopid today! Why must you picture me moped to tears, pining for company, bored because I shall be leading the life I’m accustomed to? Why, no! a much more entertaining life! Here, I’ve had books, and my garden, and, since my father died, the estate, to occupy me. In London, there will be museums, and picture-galleries, the theatre, the opera—oh, so much that to you seems commonplace, I daresay! And I shall have Aubrey during his vacations, and since I have an aunt who won’t, I hope, cut my acquaintance, I don’t utterly despair of forming a few agreeable friendships!”

“No, my God, no!” he exclaimed, as though the words had been wrenched out of him, and crossed the room in two hasty strides. “Anything were better than that!” He grasped her by the shoulders, so roughly that she was startled into uttering a protest. He paid no heed to it, but said harshly: “Look at me!”

She obeyed unhesitatingly, and endured with tranquillity a fierce scrutiny as keenly searching as a surgeon’s lancet, only murmuring, a little mischievously: “I bruise very easily!”

His grip slackened, and slid down her arms to gather her hands together, and hold them, clasped strongly between his own. “What were you doing when you were nine years old, my dear love?” he asked.

It was so unexpected that she could only blink.

“Tell me!”

“I don’t know! Learning lessons, and sewing samplers, I suppose—and what in the world has that to say to anything?”

“A great deal. Do you know what I was doing at that date?”

“No, how should I? I don’t even know how old you were—at least, not without doing sums, which I abominate. Well, if you are eight-and-thirty now, and I am five-and-twenty—”

“I’ll spare you the trouble: I was two-and-twenty, and seducing a married lady of quality.”

“So you were!” she agreed affably.

A laugh shook him, but he said: “That was the first of my amorous adventures, and probably the most discreditable. So I hope! There is nothing whatsoever in my life to look back upon with pride, but until I met you, my lovely one, I could at least say that my depravity stopped short of tampering with the young and innocent. I never ruined any reputation but Sophia’s—but don’t account it a virtue in me! It’s a dangerous game, seducing virgins, and, in general, they don’t appeal to me. Then I met you, and, to be frank with you, my dear, I stayed in Yorkshire for no other purpose than to win you—on my own terms!”

“Yes, you told me as much, when we parted on that first day,” she said, quite unperturbed. “I thought it a great piece of impertinence, too! Only then Aubrey had that fall, and we became such good friends—and everything was changed.”

“Oh, no, not everything! You call me your friend, but I never called you mine, and never shall! You remained, and always will, a beautiful, desirable creature. Only my intentions were changed. I resolved to do you no hurt, but leave you I could not!”

“Why should you? It seems to me a foolish thing to do.”

“Because you don’t understand, my darling. If the gods would annihilate but space and time—but they won’t, Venetia, they won’t!”

“Pope,” she said calmly. “And make two lovers happy. Aubrey’s favourite amongst English poets, but not mine. I see no reason why two lovers should not be happy without any meddling with space and time.”

He released her hands, but only to pull her into his arms. “When you smile at me like that, it’s all holiday with me! O God, I love you to the edge of madness, Venetia, but I’m not mad yet—not so mad that I don’t know how disastrous it might be to you—to us both! You don’t realize what an advantage I should be taking of your innocence!” He broke off suddenly, jerking up his head as the door opening on to the passage from the ante-room slammed. The sound was followed by that of a dragging footstep. Damerel said quickly: “Aubrey. As well, perhaps! There’s so much that must be said—but not today! Tomorrow, when we are both cooler!”

There was no time for more; he put her almost brusquely away from him, and turned, as the door was opened, to face Aubrey, who came into the room with his pointer-bitch at his heels.