Venetia

XIV

Damerel had placed himself between Venetia and the door, but it was immediately apparent that the precaution was unnecessary. Aubrey was looking stormy, his thin cheeks flushed, and his rather cold gray eyes full of sparks of light. His interest in his fellow-creatures was at the best of times perfunctory; when in the grip of anger he had none whatsoever, and would scarcely have noticed it had he found his sister in Damerel’s arms. He said, in a brittle voice, as he shut the door: “You’ll like to know, Venetia, that the Empress has issued a new ukase! The dogs—my dogs!—must in future be kept chained up! All but Bess here, who is too savage to be kept at all! Take care, Jasper: can’t you see what an ugly-tempered bitch she is?”

Damerel, who was gently pulling the pointer’s ears, while she stood with gracefully waving tail and an expression on her face of idiotic bliss, laughed, and said: “What’s she been doing?”

“Endangering the succession!” Aubrey snapped. “She came into the house—looking for me, of course!—and Charlotte finding her lying at the foot of the stairs was so startled and appalled that she let out a screech, which made Bess lift up her head, and stare at her—as well she might!”

“Oh dear!” sighed Venetia. “I know Charlotte doesn’t care for dogs, but if that’s all that happened—”

“All! It was but the start of Bess’s ferocious assault! Understand, m’dear, that her stare put Charlotte forcibly in mind of a wild beast! She knew not what to do, but decided on retreat—backwards, and stealthily! Whereupon Bess, not unnaturally intrigued, you may think, rose, and advanced towards her. Charlotte then screamed in good earnest, and ran behind a chair; Bess followed, Mrs. Scorrier burst out from the morning-room to discover what villain was attempting to rape her child, and started scolding Bess, and striking at her with the thing she had in her hand— what-d’ye-call-it? tambour frame? So Bess began to bark, Charlotte fell into hysterics, and—”

“Aubrey, how could, you have allowed it?” exclaimed Venetia, between annoyance and amusement. “It was too bad of you!”

“You’re mistaken: I wasn’t there. What I’m recounting I had from the lips of the afflicted ladies.” He grinned sardonically at his sister. “I was your good little brother, m’dear! I arrived in the arena to find Charlotte sunk into a chair, with Mrs. Scorrier waving her vinaigrette under her nose, and Bess baying the pair of them, but wagging her tail to show that though she wouldn’t stomach being chased from her own house she was too well-bred to bite. I didn’t think it of the least use to try sicking her on to the Empress, so I called her off. I even told that henhearted little ninny that she’d no need to be afraid, but all the thanks I got was abuse from the Empress. I brought Bess into the house on purpose to frighten Charlotte; my manners, character, and disposition all passed under unfavourable review, while Charlotte bleated Oh, pray, Mama! Oh, no, Mama! I think I bore it pretty well. Only when the Empress got to talking of Charlotte’s delicate situation I couldn’t resist! Not if I’d tried to, which I didn’t. She said that perhaps I didn’t realize, to which I replied that indeed I did, for Bess was in the same interesting condition. For one halcyon moment I thought she was going off in an apoplexy.”

“Fiend!” Venetia said, trying not to laugh.

“Yes, and, what’s worse, one who thinks because he is a cripple he may go his length,” said Aubrey, in a silken tone. “Oh, don’t look like that, stoopid! Do you imagine I haven’t known from the outset how abhorrent my limp is to the pair of them? I’m sure I don’t blame them for that—but Nurse did! By that time, you understand, she had come bustling downstairs to discover what was the reason for all the commotion. You missed a high treat, m’dear! She told the Empress to think shame on herself; she told Charlotte to stop kicking up such an uproar about nothing; and she told me to go away before I forgot that I at least had been taught better than to raise such a nasty, vulgar disturbance in a gentleman’s establishment!”

“That was the most unkindest cut of all!” remarked Damerel. “I’d back your nurse against fifty Mrs. Scorriers!”

“Well, the issue was undecided when I left, but I daresay Nurse will come off the best,” agreed Aubrey. “The cream of the jest is that she, who always cuts up stiff when even Conway brings his dogs into the house, flew up into the boughs when the Empress announced that she would not allow me to keep Bess unless kennelled, since she was clearly dangerous! She was so imprudent as to order me to chain her immediately, and to demand if I had not heard her, when I turned my back upon all that monstrous regiment, and brought Bess along the passage to my own room. The last I heard of the battle was a demand from Nurse to know what right the Empress quite falsely supposed she had to dictate to a Lanyon born in his own house.”

“Oh dear!” Venetia sighed. She glanced at Damerel, a hint of shyness in her smile. “I must go, and do what I can to settle the dispute. Nurse will start quoting from the Book of Proverbs: she was doing so to me only yesterday, all about brawling and contentious women, and how much better it is to dwell in the corner of the housetop—not that I think she would consent to do so, if that means the attics!”

“Don’t be a sapskull!” Aubrey interrupted sharply. “Let her say what she chooses to that virago! If she can rid us of her, so much the better!”

“Yes, if she could, but Mrs. Scorrier would never permit herself to be worsted by Nurse! And if Nurse becomes outrageous, only think how difficult it would be for us!”

“Do you mean to tell that woman the dogs shall be kept on chains?” he demanded, a still angrier flush staining his cheeks. “I give you fair warning, Venetia, that if you do that I’ll shut Flurry into her bedchamber, with her best bonnet to worry!”

“Oh, love, don’t tempt me!” she said mischievously. “Of course I don’t mean to do any such thing! But I think it no more than just to promise her that you’ll bring the dogs only into this room. It is nonsensical of Charlotte to be so much afraid of them, but—oh, Aubrey, we must remember that it is now her house, and not ours!”

“Remember it! When are we allowed to forget it?” he flung at her.

She said nothing, but turned to the door. Damerel moved to open it for her, and said, as she paused for a moment, looking up at him in silent enquiry: “Decisive, I think! I shall see you tomorrow, but not, I fear, before noon. I was going to tell you—but it’s no matter! My agent is at the Priory: I’ve been closeted with him most of the day, and I fancy shall be so again all the morning. It’s important, or I’d let him go hang. As it is—” he paused, and smiled faintly, “—as it is, I must bear with him. Don’t let that woman vex you to death!”

She shook her head, his smile reflected in her eyes, and hurried away, across the ante-room.

He shut the door, and turned, meditatively surveying Aubrey, who had gone over to the fire, and was savagely stirring the logs to a blaze. He did not look up from this task, but as though aware that he was being studied said pugnaciously: “It was no fault of mine!”

“Well, don’t start ripping up at me!” replied Damerel. “I haven’t said it was. Stop putting yourself into a passion for nothing more than a storm in a teacup!” Aubrey looked at him, his mouth hard shut, and two deep clefts between his brows. “Gudgeon!” Damerel said, friendly mockery in his eyes.

Aubrey gave a short laugh. “I’d give a monkey to be present when she tells Conway she won’t have his dogs in the house! As for Charlotte, she’d do well to accustom herself to them, for she ain’t likely ever to see him without at least three at his heels. What’s more, Conway’s dogs are the worst trained in the county, and infernal nuisances! He lets ‘em jump on the chairs, and gives ‘em scraps of meat at table. I don’t make fools of my dogs! Oh, hell and the devil confound him, beef-witted Jack Pudding that he is!”

“Come back to the Priory, and we’ll confound him in unison!” invited Damerel. “I have some worse epithets for him under my tongue!”

Aubrey grinned, but shook his head. “No, I’m not so paltry! I wish to God I were back at the Priory, but I’ve told you already I won’t rub off.”

“Well, I never try conclusions with mules, so I’ll rub off myself,” Damerel said, shrugging, and picking up his hat and his whip from the chair on which he had laid them. “Hasta manana, you resty pup!”

Aubrey glanced quickly at him, seemed to hesitate, and then said: “Are you out with me? I didn’t mean—”

“No, I’m not out with you, chucklehead!” Damerel answered, laughing at him. “Stand buff, if you feel you must— I daresay I should do the same in your shoes.”

He went away, and Aubrey, after a few minutes, sat down at the desk and expended his spleen on the composition of a venomous Latin epigram. After several unsatisfactory essays he achieved four neat and splendidly scurrilous lines, which pleased him so much that he sat down to dinner in a mood of almost bland complaisance. Informed by Mrs. Scorrier that until he expressed contrition for his behaviour she must decline to notice him, he merely bestowed a flickering smile upon her before applying himself with unusual appetite to his dinner.

Little conversation was exchanged, Mrs. Scorrier’s loss of temper having been succeeded by majestic sulks, and Charlotte’s hysterical fit by a nervous despondency which led her to reply to any remark addressed to her in a scared, breathless voice that discouraged further attempts to divert her mind from morbid self-contemplation. On rising from the table she excused herself, pleading a severe headache, and went upstairs to bed; and as Venetia accepted an invitation from Aubrey to play billiards Mrs. Scorrier was left to enjoy her sulks in solitude. Whether as a result of this treatment, or from the inescapable realization that in ostracizing the Lanyons she distressed no one but Charlotte, she appeared next morning with so firm a smile, and so inexhaustible a flow of amiable commonplaces, that she might have been supposed to have suffered a complete loss of memory. Venetia was not deceived, for the glitter in Mrs. Scorrier’s eyes gave the lie to her smile, but she responded with absent civility to whatever was said to her, too preoccupied with her own affairs to perceive that her abstraction was causing Mrs. Scorrier to feel quite as much uneasiness as vexation. It had been forcibly brought home to Mrs. Scorrier that in her eagerness to ensure Charlotte’s supremacy at Undershaw she had gone too far. She wanted to rid Undershaw of Venetia and Aubrey, but not under such circumstances as must render herself and Charlotte odious; and she had had the painful experience of seeing the daughter of whom, in her overbearing fashion, she was sincerely fond, turn not to the parent who was fighting her battles but to the detestable old woman who threatened to throw a jug of cold water over her if she did not instantly abate her hysterical tears. It had not previously occurred to Mrs. Scorrier that she might drive the Lanyons away only to find that Charlotte, instead of being grateful, and ready to convince Conway that she had been made wretched by their unkindness, was ranged on their side, and a great deal more likely to tell Conway that their eviction had been none of her doing.

Finding Venetia unresponsive even to compliment, she smiled more widely than before and forced her unwilling tongue to describe the irresistible prompting of maternal instinct to fly to the support of a beloved child. The result of this magnanimous gesture was disappointing, for after staring blankly at her for a minute, all Venetia said was: “Oh—Bess! Poor Charlotte! I do hope she will contrive to overcome her fear of dogs. Conway’s are always so boisterous and unruly that I’m afraid her life will be a misery if she doesn’t.”

After that, she went away, and was next heard desiring Ribble to send a message to the stables that her mare was to be brought up to the house. From what Mrs. Scorrier presently overheard her saying to Aubrey she gathered that she was going to visit some tenant or retainer, who was the victim of an unnamed accident; and that at once deepened her resentment, because she felt that it was for Charlotte to enact the role of lady bountiful; and she would have liked very much to have accompanied her daughter in the carriage, dispensing comforts to the sick and indigent, giving good advice to the improvident, and in general showing all Conway’s dependants how to contrive to the best advantage. Had she but known it, neither charity nor advice would have been acceptable to the afflicted household, whose master was, in fact, a respectable farmer; and the accident which had befallen his youngest son, a lusty young man of some ten summers, was not one that called for jellies or sustaining broths, but rather (in the opinion of his incensed parent) for very different treatment, since all he had done was to break his arm, and that through an act of foolhardy disobedience. Venetia’s visit was one merely of civility, and might not have been paid had she been feeling less restless, or more able to bear with patience the complaints of the various members of the domestic staff at Undershaw, who let no day pass without soliciting her aid against the encroachments of Mrs. Scorrier.

At the time, although she had wished him otherwhere, Aubrey’s intrusion upon a scene that belonged to herself and Damerel alone had not greatly disturbed her. She had been obliged immediately to grapple with a crisis of a very different order; and it was not until much later that she had had the opportunity to think over all that had passed in the library, and to wonder what might have been the meaning behind some of the things Damerel had said to her. She no more doubted that she was loved than that the sun would rise on the morrow; yet, as she lay wakeful in her bed, her deep content, which neither the domestic brawl nor Mrs. Scorrier’s sulks had the power to penetrate, became ruffled by a sense of misgiving, too inchoate to be at first recognizable, but gradually turning content to a vague disquiet. Nothing had been said that she could not attribute to some scruple of masculine honour, too frivolous not to be easily overcome; but even as she smiled at man’s folly the fear that a different interpretation could be set upon Damerel’s reluctance to commit himself peeped in her mind for a searing instant. It vanished as swiftly in the recollection of tenderness which instinct told her was far removed from the fleeting lust of a voluptuary; it was causeless, springing either from the irrational misgivings of a tired brain, or from mankind’s superstitious dread of the unknown, malignant gods, whose sport was to ruin mortal happiness.

In the morning these fears abated. The night had been stormy; Venetia thought, as she looked from her window at the withered leaves blown in drifts across the lawn, that it had been the mournful howl of the wind and the flurries of rain beating against the windowpanes which had kept her awake and encouraged her to indulge morbidity. Damerel was coming to Undershaw, and the night’s apprehensions had been nothing but lurid fancies imposed on weariness by the elements. Then she recalled that he had said he had business to attend to which would keep him at home all the morning, and was daunted again, until she remembered that he had told her that he had summoned his agent to the Priory. The agent was probably an attorney, and must certainly have come from London to wait upon him, and would as certainly be anxious to transact whatever the business was as speedily as might be. Damerel, too, would scarcely wish to keep him kicking his heels in Yorkshire for any longer than was necessary. So she argued away the thought that if Damerel were as lost in love as she believed him to be, no business, however important, would have kept him away from her for so many hours; but the serenity which had been like a warm cloak wrapped about her was disturbed; she found herself questioning what it had never before occurred to her to doubt; could not bring her mind to bear on any other problem than her own, harness her impatience, or tolerate the efforts of Mrs. Scorrier or Mrs. Gurnard to intrude upon her abstraction.

The farm she went to visit was in a distant part of the estate; the mare was fresh, and although the day was dull and a sharpness in the wind reminded her that the loveliest autumn within her memory was sliding into winter, the ride did much to lighten the unaccountable oppression of her spirits. She reached Undershaw again a few minutes before noon, knowing that today there was little chance that Aubrey would interrupt a tete-a-tete, since he had gone to one of the farther coverts, packing into the gig himself, his two spaniels, the gamekeeper, his treasured Mantons, and a large hamper containing such a nuncheon as Mrs. Gurnard and Cook considered suitable for a delicate youth whose thin form they had for years been trying to fatten. No broken meats would be brought home to wound their sensibilities; and if either dame suspected that the game-pie, the galantine, the pigeon in jelly, and the Queen cakes, warm from the oven, would be much appreciated by the keeper and the spaniels, while Aubrey lunched on a morsel of cheese and an apple, she could be trusted to keep such dispiriting reflections to herself.

As Venetia slipped from the saddle, and gathered up the long skirt of her habit, Fingle came out of the harness-room, to take the mare’s bridle. She saw at once that he was big with news, and so indeed it proved: he disclosed that she had not been gone from Undershaw above half an hour when a chaise-and-four had driven up to the house, and set down no less a person than Mr. Philip Hendred.

She was amazed, for so far from having had the least warning of this visit she had not yet received a reply to the letter she had written to her aunt, to announce the news of Conway’s marriage. She exclaimed: “My uncle?” so incredulously, that Fingle was pleased with the sensation he had made, and confided to her that he too had been regularly sent to grass.

“He come all the way in his own chaise, miss,” he told her, apparently feeling that this circumstance added lustre to the unexpected visit, “and his own postilions, I suspicion, by the way he never offered to pay them, nor gave them the money for their board, but sent them on straight to the Red Lion.”

“Sent them to the Red Lion!” she interrupted, quite shocked. “Good heavens, how did Ribble—or you—come to allow such a thing?”

But it appeared that Mr. Hendred had silenced every hospitable protest, which, Fingle reminded Venetia, was to have been expected, seeing that when he had spent close on a se’ennight at Undershaw, when the master took and died, he would not for any persuasion suffer them to house his postilions, nor yet his cattle. “But he fetched his valet up with him that time, miss, which this time he hasn’t.”

This information, which was delivered in the voice of one reaching a climax, failed to astonish Venetia. She only said that she must go at once to greet her guest, and hurried away just as Fingle was preparing to describe to her in slow detail the several points and blemishes of the team of post-horses harnessed to the chaise.

She did not stay to change her riding-dress, but went immediately to the drawing-room, in which apartment Ribble informed her she would find Mr. Hendred being entertained by her ladyship and Mrs. Scorrier. Entering it, she paused for a moment on the threshold, still holding her whip in one hand, her cheeks becomingly flushed by the wind, and the tail of her habit cast over her arm. Then, as Mr. Hendred rose from a chair by the fire, and came towards her, she let her skirt fall about her feet, cast aside her whip, and advanced to meet him with her hands held out: “My dear sir, of all the charming surprises! I am so happy to see you—but that, I give you warning, shan’t stop me from plucking a crow with you! Let me tell you that we think ourselves insulted in Yorkshire when our guests send their servants and their horses to rack up at an inn!”

Before he could answer, Mrs. Scorrier broke in, saying archly: “Ah, did I not assure you, sir, that Miss Lanyon would cry out on you? But you must know, dear Miss Lanyon, that it has lately become the rule in many establishments far larger than this not to take in the horses of visitors, or more than one servant.”

“That does not suit our northern notions of hospitality,” said Venetia. “But tell me, sir, what brings you to Undershaw? I hope you mean to make a respectable stay with us on this occasion, and not post off in a great hurry before we have well realized that you have arrived!”

His rather severe countenance relaxed into a slight smile; he replied in a dry, precise voice: “My time, you know, my dear Venetia, is not as much my own as I could sometimes wish. The purpose of my visit concerns yourself, as I hope presently to explain to you.”

She was a little surprised, but since he was her principal trustee supposed that he must have come to discuss some matter of business with her. She twinkled at him, and said: “If you are come to tell me that my fortune has vanished away on that mysterious thing called Change, wait until I have provided myself with a few burnt feathers and some sal volatile!”

He smiled again, but perfunctorily, because such a suggestion was too shocking to be humorous. Mrs. Scorrier again insinuated herself into the conversation. “It is too bad of you to keep her in suspense, Mr. Hendred, particularly when you have such a delightful treat in store for her! Don’t fear, Miss Lanyon! You have my word for it that your uncle’s errand is such as must be more likely to cast you into transports than into dismay!”

By this time two circumstances had been made plain to Venetia. From Mrs. Scorrier’s effusive civility she gathered that she was well acquainted with Mr. Hendred’s social and financial standing, and was determined to ingratiate herself with him; and from the cold glance with which her efforts were received that Mr. Hendred had taken her in strong dislike. Venetia thought it as well to remove him from her vicinity before he was provoked into giving her an acid set-down, so she invited him to go with her to the morning-room, since there were one or two matters of business she would like to discuss with him. Mrs. Scorrier took this in surprisingly good part, explaining her complaisance to her daughter, as soon as they were alone, by the simple announcement that Mr. Hendred was said to be worth every penny of £20,000 a year.

That made Charlotte stare, for there was nothing in Mr. Hendred’s appearance to suggest opulence. But for the subtle distinction attaching to any coat, however plain, of Weston’s making he might have passed for a lawyer in respectable but unassuming circumstances. He was a thin man, of rather less than medium height, with spindle-shanks, sparse gray hair, and a sharp-featured countenance which bore all the marks of chronic dyspepsia. He always dressed with neatness and propriety, but since any form of extravagance or display was abhorrent to him he wore no other jewellery than his signet-ring, and a modest gold pin securing the folds of his neck-cloth; never sported startling waistcoats or exaggerated shirt-points; and had inexorably transferred his patronage from Stulz to Weston when Mr. Stulz had been so unwise as to send home his new coat embellished with buttons designed according to the very latest fashion, and twice as large as Mr. Hendred considered seemly.

His avoidance of the extremes of fashion notwithstanding, Mr. Hendred was a gentleman of the first consequence, for besides possessing all the advantages of a very large fortune he was so well connected as to make it unwise to utter disparaging remarks in his presence about any member of the nobility, since the chances were that he was in some way related to that particular peer. He was a Member of Parliament, a Justice of the Peace, and, since his remarkable turn for business was allied to a rigid sense of duty, his was the first name that occurred to anyone needing a trustee or an executor.

Without being clutchfisted he liked to be beforehand with the world. He would tolerate no unnecessary expenditure in his household; and while he paid as much as £60 a year to a French cook, and never travelled with hired post-boys, his lady knew better than attempt to persuade him to engage one more footman than he thought necessary for the smooth running of the establishment. Besides a mansion in Cavendish Square he had a large estate in Berkshire, and two less important ones in different parts of the country; but, unlike the fifth Duke of Devonshire, who had maintained no fewer than ten houses fully staffed the year round, he kept his in good order with no more than skeleton staffs.

Venetia had first made his acquaintance when she had been invited by her aunt to spend a week at Harrogate. Mr. Hendred had been advised to try what the famous waters would do to cure him of his stomachic disorders, but unfortunately neither the waters nor the climate agreed with his constitution, and after ten days of miserable discomfort he beat a nauseated retreat. But in spite of his ailments he had been a kind and an attentive host, promoting every scheme for Venetia’s entertainment, and contriving to make it plain to her, without committing the impropriety of uttering any criticism of his brother-in-law’s eccentricity, that he strongly disapproved of the restricted life she was obliged to lead, and would be glad to rescue her from it. That had not been possible; and when, on Sir Francis Lanyon’s death, he had renewed his offer of hospitality it had seemed to her no more possible than before. She had declined it; he had acquiesced in her decision; and as the matter had then been allowed to drop she had supposed that he had accepted her refusal as irrevocable. She was therefore a good deal startled to learn from him that his sole purpose in coming to Undershaw was to carry her off immediately to Cavendish Square, where he trusted she would believe herself to be a welcome addition to his family.

She was very much touched, but he would not permit her to express the sense of her obligation. Setting the tips of his bony fingers together, and speaking with measured severity, he said: “You are aware, I don’t doubt, my dear Venetia, of what my sentiments have always been. I hope it is not necessary for me to add that both your aunt and I hold you in affection and esteem. Hyperbole is foreign to my nature, but I don’t hesitate to tell you that your conduct, distinguished as it has always been by good sense and upright principles, is such as must command respect. In fact, my dear niece,” he added, warming to his theme, “you are a very good girl, and have been shabbily used by those who should have made your comfort their first concern! Let me assure you that it will give me a great deal of pleasure to do whatever may be in my power to recompense you for the years you have sacrificed to what you saw to be your duty!”

She made a gesture of protest, but he merely frowned at her, and said with asperity: “Allow me to be plain with you, I beg! Reluctant as I am to open my lips to you on the subject of your late father’s peculiarities I believe it to be proper for me to say that although I do not deny that he was in many ways an estimable man his behaviour upon the unhappy event which occurred during your childhood seemed to me to be as selfish as it was ill-judged. He was aware of my sentiments: more I will not say, except that I could not but acknowledge the propriety of a daughter’s submitting to a parent’s will. When, upon his sudden demise, you felt it to be your duty to remain here during the then unavoidable absence of your elder brother, I could not deny the force of your arguments, or think it right to press you. Nor did I renew my persuasions when it became apparent that Conway, instead of returning to set you free from the responsibilities you had been so unselfish as to have taken upon your own shoulders, had no notion of consulting anything but his own pleasure, for I was well aware that it would be useless, since you could be depended on to find excuses for him. When, however, I was made aware of the contents of the letter you wrote to your aunt—Venetia, I do not scruple to say that I have seldom been more shocked, or that I consider Conway’s conduct in thrusting upon you in such a fashion not only his wife, but also her mother, is outrageous, and such as to release you from all obligation to continue at Undershaw!”

“Of course it is!” she agreed, a good deal amused. “I don’t scruple to say so either! But I have never believed it to be my duty to stay here on his account, you know. I remained for Aubrey’s sake—and pray don’t imagine that the least sacrifice was entailed, my dear sir! He and I are the best of good friends, and have kept house very comfortably together, I assure you.”

He regarded her with bleak approval, but said, in his dryest voice: “You will hardly do so now that Mrs. Scorrier has quartered herself upon you, however.”

“No, indeed we shan’t! I had already realized that the sooner I make other arrangements for us both the better it will be. I fancy Mrs. Scorrier has shown you her most conciliating face, so that you might find it impossible to believe how odious I find her!”

“My dear Venetia, you have no need to tell me, for I am well-acquainted with her sort! A very pushing, overbearing female, who wants both conduct and manner. Depend upon it; the unseemly haste of this marriage may be laid at her door! A very good match for her daughter she has contrived, upon my word! I am excessively displeased that Conway should have had no more sense than to shackle himself to such a dab of a girl, who has nothing to recommend her but a pretty face and an amiable temper. Her birth is no more than respectable, and as for fortune, I should doubt of her having above a thousand pounds settled upon her, and very likely less, for the Scorriers are not wealthy, and her father, besides, was a younger son.”

This circumstance seemed to increase his disgust, and for several minutes he was unable to dismiss it from his mind. But when he had delivered himself of sundry pungent observations, and moralised briefly on the evils of impetuosity and improvidence he returned to the object of his visit, and in a manner that showed him to have formed the fixed resolve of removing Venetia from Undershaw immediately. “I do not wish to put you to inconvenience, Venetia, but it would be very agreeable to me if you could be ready to go with me tomorrow morning.”

“But I could not! Even if— Dear sir, you must allow me time to think! There are so many considerations—Aubrey—Undershaw— Oh, sometimes I think I shall be obliged to remain here until Conway returns, for heaven only knows what that woman might not do if she were left in command here!”

“As to that, it will not be in her power to overset your arrangements, my dear. I do not doubt that she has every disposition to do so, and so I thought it prudent to inform her that since Lady Lanyon has neither the authority nor the experience to assume the government of her husband’s affairs, all such power will be left in Mytchett’s hands. Indeed, I have already spoken to Mytchett, and all that remains to be done is for you to put him in possession of the necessary information, and to give him whatever directions you think right. I ventured to tell him that I hoped to bring you to his place of business tomorrow, on our way to London. For Aubrey, I should have explained to you that my invitation was naturally meant for him as well as for you.”

She pressed a hand to her brow rather distractedly, for she really knew not what to say, or even what to do. To the objections she raised he returned calm answers that demolished them; and when she confided to him her scheme of setting up her own establishment he said, after a moment’s silence, that he would be happy to discuss future plans with her when she was living under his roof. He then told her kindly that he regretted to be obliged to hurry her so uncomfortably, but was persuaded that when she had considered the matter for a little while her good sense would enable her to perceive the wisdom of withdrawing from Undershaw, and under his protection.

“I shall leave you now,” he announced, rising to his feet. “I am, as you know, an indifferent traveller, and can never go above a short distance without bringing on my tic. Lady Lanyon will, I must hope, excuse me if I retire to my bedchamber until dinner-time. No, do not put yourself to the trouble of accompanying me, my dear niece! I know my way, and have already desired your excellent housekeeper to send up a hot brick when I ring my bell. A hot brick to the feet, you know, will frequently alleviate cases of severe tic.” She knew him well enough not to persist, and he went away, leaving her to try to collect her scattered wits. It was no easy task, and after a very few moments the only clear thought in her head was that before trying to reach a decision she must see Damerel. This put her in mind of his promise to visit her as near noon as might be, and made her look quickly at the clock. It wanted only a few minutes to one o’clock. She thought he might already be awaiting her in the library, and went there immediately. He was not there. She hesitated, and then, on a sudden resolve, left the house by the garden-door, and went swiftly back to the stables.