Venetia

XVII

Edward had come to London with a double purpose. He wished to consult a physician recommended to him by their good Huntspill—not that he believed there was any cause for alarm, but he could not deny that his cough still hung about him, which set his mother sadly on the fidgets; and so, upon Huntspill’s saying, in his testy way, that if she fancied there might be more amiss than he could discover she had best call in a physician from York, he had taken the resolve to consult a London physician instead. “And I fancy, my dear Venetia, I have no need to tell you why Ipreferred to do so, or what was my other purpose in visiting the metropolis!” he said archly.

“I am sorry you should not be quite recovered yet,” she replied. “Is Mrs. Yardley also in town?”

No, he had come without his mama. She had had a great mind to accompany him, but he had thought that the journey would be too fatiguing for her, and so she had remained at Netherfold. He was putting up at Reddish’s, which had been recommended to him as a genteel hotel, though he had been surprised to find it so much larger than had been described to him. He feared the bill would make him open his eyes.

“However, I daresay it will not ruin me, and when one goes on holiday, you know, it is permissible to be a little extravagant.”

When Mrs. Hendred left the room, which she very soon found an excuse to do, he told Venetia how happy he was to discover her in such comfortable circumstances. He had had no doubt of her aunt’s being a most estimable female, but he had not been able to feel easy in his mind until he should have seen for himself how she went on. He now perceived that she was living in the first style of elegance, no doubt in a regular whirl of fashionable dissipation! “Your aunt, I daresay, has a large circle of acquaintances. She entertains a great deal, I believe. You will have been meeting quite a crowd of new faces!”‘

It was not difficult to see what was his real purpose in coming to London. Damerel he had not recognized to be a danger; but the unknown beaux and tulips of fashion, on whom he quizzed her, laughingly, yet watching her pretty sharply, might well dazzle the eyes of a country innocent.

She interrupted his attempts to discover if this had indeed been the case, by asking him if he had seen Aubrey. His countenance became grave at once; he replied: “Yes, I have seen him. I knew you would wish for news of him, and so I rode over to the Priory—a little against my inclination, I must own, for Damerel is not a man with whom I should wish to stand on terms of more than common civility. That was a very awkward business, Venetia: I was excessively vexed when I heard of it! I wonder your uncle should not have invited Aubrey to come with you to town.”

“He did invite him, but Aubrey didn’t wish to come. It wouldn’t have answered, you know. Is he well? Pray tell me how—how you found everything at the Priory! Aubrey is the wretchedest correspondent!”

“Oh, he is very well! I need not tell you I found him with his nose in a book, and the desk all littered over with papers! I ventured to joke him about his barricades, as I called them. I assure you, if he had pulled one book from the shelves he had pulled a dozen. I told him that I wondered that anyone who cared as much as he does for books should leave them lying all over—on the floor, even! Does he never put away what he has done with?”

“No, never. Did you tell him you were coming to London?”

“Certainly—since that was my object in visiting him! I offered to be the bearer of any message, or letter, he might like to send you, but he was in one of his crotchety moods: you know his way whenever one tries just to give him a hint! He didn’t like my reminding him that they were not his own books on the floor, and so he wouldn’t entrust any message to me!”

“Aubrey doesn’t recognize your authority, Edward. In fact, you are the only person to do so, and I wish you will remember that you have none.”

“As to that—but it was no matter of authority! One would suppose that a boy of his age need not be above accepting a little friendly criticism!”

“Well, not if one knows Aubrey!” she retorted. “The truth is that you and he don’t deal well together.”

“I shall dare to contradict you, my dear Venetia!” he said, smiling. “The truth is that Master Aubrey is jealous, and hasn’t yet learned to overcome it. He’ll do so in time, particularly if one pays no heed to his miffs.”

“You are wrong, Edward,” she said, steadily regarding him. “Aubrey is not jealous. He knows he has no need to be—and I don’t think he would be if there were! He is not much interested in people. I’ve told you that before, but you don’t believe the things I tell you. I don’t wish to give you pain, for we have been very good friends, and—and I am indebted to you for a great deal of kindness, but pray believe one thing at least!—I do not—”

“Now, if I were a young hot-head, like Aubrey, I should let you say what you would later regret!” he interposed, holding up a warning forefinger. “And then, no doubt, we should indulge ourselves with a stupid quarrel, when we might both of us be led into saying what we should regret! But I fancy I have rather more sense than you give me credit for, and also, my dear, that I know you a trifle better than you know yourself! You will tell me that I am impertinent, but so it is, little though you may think it! You are impetuous, your disposition is lively, you are enjoying your first taste of what is called society, and I daresay—indeed, I am sure!—that you have met with a great deal of admiration and flattery. It is very natural that you should be feeling a little giddy—I do not at all grudge you your treat, and you must not be thinking, you know, that when we are married you will not be granted a similar indulgence. I am not, myself, fond of town life, but I believe it may be of benefit to one to go about the world now and then, and certainly it is very diverting to study the manners and customs of persons whose way of life is so far removed from one’s own!”

“Edward, if I ever led you to suppose that I should marry you I am sorry for it, and I tell you now that I shall not!” she said earnestly.

She saw with dismay that her words had made no impression on him. He was still smiling, in a way that she found peculiarly irritating, and he said, in one of his rather ponderous essays in playfulness: “I fancy I must be growing a trifle deaf! But you have not told me, Venetia, how you like London, or what you have seen here! I can picture your astonishment when you first discovered its size, the variety of the aspects of life which it offers to the enquiring gaze, its parks, and monuments, the handsome mansions of the affluent, the wretched hovels of the destitute, the crossing-sweeper in his rags, and the nobleman in his silk and purple!”

“I have never seen a nobleman dressed in silk and purple. I believe they only wear such things on State occasions.”

But he only laughed heartily, saying how well he knew her literal mind, and promising to show her some places of interest which he ventured to think she might not yet have discovered. He himself had twice visited London, and although on the occasion of his first visit he had been too much amazed and bemused to do more than stare about him (for she must know that he had been no older than Aubrey at the time), when he came for the second time he provided himself with an excellent guide-book, which had not only acquainted him with what was most worth his notice, but had supplied him as well with such information as had greatly added to his appreciation of the various edifices to which it had directed him. He added that he had brought this valuable book with him, and had read it from cover to cover on the journey, to refresh his memory.

She could only marvel at him. She had never possessed the key to his mind, and what circumstance it was that made him now so calmly confident was beyond her power to fathom. She did not believe him to be desperately in love with her; she could only suppose that having once made up his mind that she was the wife that would best suit him he had either grown too accustomed to the idea to be able easily to relinquish it, or that the good opinion he had of himself made it impossible for him to believe that she could in all seriousness reject his offer. He did not appear to be put out by her blunt speech; he seemed rather to have decided that she must be humoured, and he adopted an attitude of kindly tolerance, such as a goodnatured man might assume towards a spoiled child.

He could not refrain from chiding her a little for having gone away from Undershaw without sending to inform him of her intention: he had heard the news from his mother, who, in her turn, had had it from Lady Denny, and a severe shock it had been to him. However, he forgave her, and did not mean to scold, for none could guess better than he how distracted she must have been. That led him to animadvert on Conway’s marriage, and on that subject he spoke with a good deal of proper feeling, and in more forthright language than it was his custom to employ when talking to Venetia of her brother. He owned that he had thought better of Conway; and in discussing the affair expressed himself so much like a sensible man that Venetia began to be in charity with him again. He had thought it right to take his mother to leave cards on Lady Lanyon; they had stayed no longer than twenty minutes, but half that space of time would have sufficed to provide him with a pretty fair notion of Mrs. Scorrier’s character. She was an intolerable woman! He found no harm in Charlotte, but it had caused him a pang to see such a dab of a girl supplanting Venetia as mistress of Undershaw. He was sorry for her; he had formed the impression that her situation was not comfortable; and when Mrs. Scorrier had begun to talk of Aubrey’s removal to the Priory, setting it down, of course, to his jealousy, and trying to persuade them that she had done all she could to reconcile him, she had looked as if she might burst into tears. A poor-spirited female! For his part he saw nothing to admire in her: Conway would have done better to have kept faith with Clara Denny.

“Poor Clara! If only she could bring herself to see how very well out of a bad bargain she is!”

He said gravely: “I fancy she does in part realize that she was mistaken in Conway, but it is too soon yet for her to derive consolation from the knowledge that he is unworthy. I am sincerely sorry for her: the consciousness of her own fault weighs very heavily on her spirits, but she behaves with great dignity and courage. I had some conversation with her, and trust I may have given her thoughts a more cheerful direction. The subject is not mentioned at Ebbersley, and that circumstance, you know, has deprived her of the benefit of such rational reflections on the affair as one would have supposed Sir John would have introduced to her mind.”

“I am glad you were kind to her,” Venetia said, her lip quivering involuntarily. “But tell me how it is at Undershaw! Do they go on fairly well? I don’t mean Charlotte and Mrs. Scorrier, but our people!”

“Tolerably well, I think, but it was not to be expected that your people would be well-disposed towards Lady Lanyon when her coming meant your departure. From what Powick said to me, a se’ennight ago, they guess how it is, and resent it. You may be sure I said nothing to Powick to encourage such notions, but I could not but reflect, as I rode away from him, how much to blame—though unwittingly— I am for the awkwardness of the business.”

“You?” she exclaimed. “My dear Edward, what can you mean? Only one person is blameworthy, and that is Conway! You had nothing to do with it!”

“I had nothing to do with Conway’s marriage, nor could I have prevented it: that was not my meaning. But his conduct has shown me that the scruples which forbade me to urge you to consent to our marriage, after Sir Francis’s death, have resulted in an unfortunate situation which, had you been already established at Netherfold, would not have arisen. The present arrangement is on all counts to be lamented. I say nothing of the undesirable gossip it must give rise to—for although Aubrey might naturally have come with you to London, it cannot be thought natural that he should have chosen rather to remove no more than a few miles from Undershaw—but while he is within reach, and, indeed, frequently sees Powick, and your keeper, your people won’t render allegiance to Conway’s wife. I cannot think that right, and I suspect, moreover, that they are falling into the way of applying to him in any little difficulty.”

“I wonder what advice he gives them?” she said. “One never knows with Aubrey! He might give very good advice— if he happened to be in an amiable mood!”

“He should not give any. And however much cause he has to feel obliged to Lord Damerel he ought not to be living under his roof. I do not deny his lordship’s good-nature, but his influence I must think most undesirable, particularly for Aubrey. He is a man of few morals, and the tone of his mind must render him a most unfit companion for a lad of Aubrey’s age and disposition.”

It was a struggle to suppress the indignation which surged up in her, but she managed to say with tolerable composure: “You are mistaken if you imagine that Aubrey stands in danger of being corrupted by his association with Damerel. Damerel would no more dream of such a thing than you would yourself, even if it were possible, which I very much doubt! Aubrey is not easily influenced!”

His smile was one of conscious superiority. He said: “I am afraid that is a subject on which you must allow me to be a better judge than you, Venetia. We won’t argue about it, however—indeed, I should be sorry to engage in any sort of discussion with you on a matter that is not only beyond the female comprehension, but which one could not wish to see within it!”

“Then you were ill-advised to mention it!”

He returned no other answer than a slightly ironical bow, and immediately began to talk of something else. She was thankful that her aunt just then came back into the room, affording her a chance to escape, which she instantly seized, saying that she had a letter she must finish writing before dinner, and must therefore bid her visitor goodbye.

For how long he meant to remain in London she had been unable to discover, but from the evasive nature of his reply to that question she feared he contemplated a visit of indefinite duration. How to bear his company with patience, or how to convince him that his was a sleeveless errand, were problems not made easier to solve by Mrs. Hendred’s well-meaning efforts to further his suit.

Venetia soon discovered that during the period he had spent alone with her aunt he had made an excellent impression on her. In her view he was the stuff of which good husbands were made, for he was kind, dependable, of reasonable consequence, and comfortably circumstanced. He had succeeded in persuading her to the belief that his tardiness in bringing Venetia to the point was due to no lack of ardour, but to the nicety of his principles. Mrs. Hendred, herself a high stickler, perfectly understood his patience, and honoured him for it. He rapidly became established in her mind as a figure of unselfish devotion, and she thought it all very noble and touching, and spared no pains to bring this Jacob’s labours to a happy conclusion. She promoted his plans for Venetia’s entertainment and instruction, included him in her own schemes, and invited him so many times to take what she inaccurately called his pot-luck in Cavendish Square that Venetia was forced to protest, and to disclose that so far from having abandoned her intention of setting up her own establishment she was the more confirmed in it, and had inspected a house in Hans Town which she thought might be made into a comfortable home for herself and Aubrey.

She had not meant to make this announcement, which she knew would meet with much opposition, until she had signed the lease, and engaged a chaperon; but when she found that her aunt had accepted an invitation from Edward to bring her to dine with him at the Clarendon Hotel, and afterwards to go to the theatre at his expense, she was so indignant (having herself declined the invitation) that she could no longer restrain her annoyance.

Mrs. Hendred received the news with horrified incredulity. From her first disjointed ejaculations it was hard to decide whether it was her niece’s determination to embrace a life of spinsterhood that most shocked her, or the deplorably dowdy locality she had chosen for her asylum. The repulsive accents in which she repeated the words, Hans Town? could scarcely have held more disgust had she been speaking of a back-slum; and she several times reiterated the disgusting syllables, interjecting them between assurances that Venetia’s uncle would never countenance so improper a scheme. But she presently saw that although Venetia was listening to her with civility her mind was made up, and she exclaimed, with a sudden change of tone: “Oh, my dearest child, indeed, indeed you must not do it! You would regret it all your life—you can have no notion—you are still young, but only think what it would be like when you are growing old— the loneliness—the mortification of—” She broke off as a quiver ran over Venetia’s face, and leaned forward in her chair to lay one of her plump little hands on Venetia’s. “My dear, marry Mr. Yardley!” she said urgently. “I am persuaded you would be happy, for he is so kind and good, and in every way so eligible!”

The slim hand under hers was rigid; Venetia said in a constricted voice: “Pray do not say any more, ma’am! I don’t love Edward—and that must be the end of the matter.”

“But, dearest, I assure you you are mistaken! It is not in the least necessary that you should love him, for the happiest marriages frequently start with only the most moderate degree of affection! Indeed, I have known several where the couples were barely acquainted, but were content to let their parents arrange the match. You know, my love, girls cannot be better able to judge of what will suit them than their parents!”

“But I am not a girl, ma’am, and I have no parents.”

“No, but— Oh, Venetia, you don’t know what a mistake you would be making!” exclaimed Mrs. Hendred despairingly. “It would be better to marry a man one positively disliked than to remain a spinster! And how are you to make a respectable match if you go to live in Hans Town, and in such a peculiar style? For, after all, even with a disagreeable husband, though of course it would have grave drawbacks to be married to a disagreeable man, you would be a woman of consequence, and you would have all the comfort of your children, which, you know, is a female’s greatest interest—and, in any event, Mr. Yardley is not disagreeable! He is a most amiable person, values you just as he should, and, I daresay, would do everything in his power to make you happy! To be sure, he is not a lively man, but what husband is, after all? If you had fancied Sir Matthew, or Mr. Armyn, or even Mr. Foxcott, though I very much doubt whether he— But I can’t help feeling, dear child, that Mr. Yardley is the very man for you! He understands you so well, and knows what your circumstances are, so that there wouldn’t be an difficulty or awkwardness—and you would be living near your brother, and your friends, and in just the style to which you are accustomed, only not, of course, at Undershaw, but, still, in the country you know! You would feel yourself to be going home!”

“I don’t wish to go home!” The words were wrung from Venetia, and although quietly spoken were charged with anguish. She got up quickly, saying: “I beg your pardon—pray excuse me! There are circumstances—I can’t explain, but I beg you, ma’am, not to say any more! Only believe that I do know what must be the—the disadvantages of the course I am determined to pursue! I’m not so green that—” Her voice failed; she turned, and went with hurried steps to the door.

She was arrested by the sound of a convulsive sob, and looked back in startled dismay to see that her aunt had burst into tears.

Mrs. Hendred did not like the people around her to be unhappy. Even the sight of a housemaid crying with the pain of the toothache made her feel low, for misery had no place in her comfortable existence; and when it obtruded itself on her notice it dimmed the warm sunshine in which she basked, and quite ruined her belief in a world where everyone was contented, and affluent, and cheerful. What she had seen in Venetia’s face overset her completely, and, since she had grown very fond of her niece, really pierced her to the heart. Her pretty features were crumpled: tears rolled down her cheeks; and she uttered in a sort of soft wail: “Oh, my dearest child, don’t, don’t look like that! I cannot bear to see you so wretched! Oh, Venetia, you must not take it so much to heart, indeed you must not! It makes me feel so dreadfully low, for I do most sincerely pity you, but it would not do—I assure you it would not!”

Venetia had started solicitously towards her, but at these words she checked, and stiffened. “What would not do?” she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on Mrs. Hendred’s face in a compelling way which set the final touch to the poor lady’s agitation.

“That man! Oh, don’t ask me! I didn’t mean— Only when I see you in such affliction how can I help but— Oh, my dear Venetia, I can’t endure that you should think I don’t feel for you, for I exactly enter into your sentiments! Oh dear, it brings it all back to me, but I promise you I haven’t thought of him for years, which just shows how soon you will forget, and be perfectly happy again!”

Very pale, Venetia said: “I don’t know how you should be aware of it—but what you have said I can’t have misunderstood! You are speaking of Damerel, aren’t you, ma’am?”

Mrs. Hendred’s tears flowed faster. She dabbed ineffectively at her eyes. “Oh, dear, I ought never— Your uncle would be so vexed!”

“Who told you, ma’am, that Damerel and I—had become acquainted?”

“Pray don’t ask me!” begged Mrs. Hendred. “I should not have mentioned it—your uncle particularly charged me—oh, I believe I am going to have one of my spasms!”

“If my uncle charged you not to speak, of course I won’t press you to do so, but will apply to him instead,” said Venetia. “I am glad I’ve learnt of this in time to see him before he sets out for Berkshire. I believe he has not yet left the house. Excuse me, aunt! I must go at once to find him, or it will be too late!”

“Venetia, no!” almost shrieked her aunt. “I implore you—besides, it wouldn’t be any use, and everything is so uncomfortable when he is displeased! Venetia, it was Lady Denny, but promise me you won’t say a word to your uncle!”

“If you’ll be frank with me, there is no reason that I know of why I should. Don’t cry! Lady Denny! Yes, I see. Did she write to you?”

“Yes, though I never met her in my life, for I was married before Sir John, but it was a very proper letter, and showed her to be a woman of excellent feeling, your uncle said. Though it was very disturbing, and upset me so much that I could scarcely swallow a mouthful of food all that day for thinking about it. For, you know, my dear, Damerel—!Not that you could possibly know, poor child, and I am not in the least surprised you should have fallen in love with him, because he is fatally attractive, though I am not, of course, acquainted with him! Still, one sees him at parties, and in the park, and at the opera, and— Well, my dear, scores of females— But to think of marrying him—! Which your uncle said was in the highest degree improbable—that such a notion should cross his mind, I mean! Only what to do I didn’t know, because your uncle thought it useless to invite you to come to town, and your being of age made it so very difficult, besides that he was persuaded your principles were too high to allow of your—your accepting a carte blanche, as they say!”

“None was offered me!” Venetia said, standing very straight and still in the middle of the room.

“No, my love, I know, but although it seems a dreadful thing to say, to have married him would have been worse! At least, I don’t precisely mean—”

“Don’t distress yourself, ma’am! Lady Denny was mistaken. Lord Damerel’s affections—were not so deeply engaged as she supposed. There was nothing more between us than—a little flirtation. He made me no offer—of any kind!”

“Oh, my poor, poor child, don’t!” cried Mrs. Hendred. “No wonder you should be so wretched! There is nothing somortifying as to fall in love with someone who does not share one’s sentiments, but that pain you need not be made to suffer, whatever your uncle says, for gentlemen don’t understand anything, however wise they may be, and even he owned to me that he had been mistaken in Lord Damerel, so he may just as easily be mistaken in you!”

“Mistaken in Lord Damerel?” Venetia interrupted. “Then—Aunt, are you telling me that my uncle saw Damerel when he came to Undershaw?”

“Well, my love, he—he thought it his duty, when you have no father to protect you! He considered it most carefully, not at first perceiving how he might be able— But then you wrote me the news of Conway’s marriage, and it was the most providential thing that ever happened, though I was never more shocked in my life, for it furnished your uncle with an excellent excuse to remove you from Undershaw, which he saw in a flash, because he is very clever, as I daresay anyone would tell you.”

“Good God!” Venetia said blankly. She pressed a hand to her brow. “But if he saw him— Yes, it must have been before he reached Undershaw—before I saw— Aunt, what passed between them? You must tell me, if you please! If you will not I shall ask my uncle, and if he will not I’ll ask Damerel himself!”

“Venetia, don’t talk in that dreadful way! Your uncle was most agreeably surprised, I promise you! You must not think that they quarrelled, or that there was the least unpleasantness! Indeed, your uncle told me that he felt most sincerely for Lord Damerel, and in general, you know, he never does so. He even said to me that it was a great pity that it should be out of the question—the marriage, I mean—because he was bound to acknowledge that he might have been the very— But it is out of the question, my dear, and so Lord Damerel himself acknowledged. Your uncle says that nothing could have done him greater credit than the open way he spoke, even saying that he had done very ill in not going away from Yorkshire, which your uncle had not accused him of, though of course it is perfectly true. Your uncle was not obliged even to point out to him, which he had expected would have been the case, and a very disagreeable task it would have been, and I’m sure I don’t know how—but that doesn’t signify, because Lord Damerel said that he knew well that it would be infamous to take advantage of you, when you knew nothing about the world, and had never been beyond Yorkshire, or met any other men—well, only Mr. Yardley!—so that you were almost bound to have fallen in love with him, and how could you understand what it would mean to be married to a man of his reputation? And you don’t understand, dear child, but indeed, indeed it would be ruinous!” She paused, largely for want of breath, and was relieved to see that the colour was back in Venetia’s cheeks, and that her eyes were full of light. She heaved a thankful sigh, and said: “I knew you would not feel so badly if you didn’t think yourself slighted! How glad I am that I’ve told you! For you are not so unhappy now, are you, my love?”

“Unhappy?” Venetia repeated. “Oh, no, no! Not unhappy! If I had only known—! But I did know! I did!”

Mrs. Hendred did not quite understand what was meant by that, nor did she greatly care. All that signified was that the haunted look which made her so uncomfortable had vanished from Venetia’s eyes. She gave a final wipe to her own, and beamed upon her suddenly radiant niece, saying with satisfaction: “One thing you may plume yourself on, though, of course, it will not do to say so, for that would not be at all becoming. But to have captivated such a man as Damerel into actually wishing to offer for you is a triumph indeed! For he must have meant to reform his way of life, you know! There was never anything like it, and I don’t scruple to own to you, my love, that if it had been one of my daughters I should be as proud as a peacock—not that I mean to say I think any of them could, though I fancy Marianne may grow to be a very handsome girl—and, of course, I should never dream of letting him come in their way!”

Venetia, who had been paying no attention, exclaimed: “The wretch! The idiotish wretch! How could he think I should care a jot for such nonsense? Oh, how angry I am with the pair of them! How dared they make me so unhappy? Behaving as though I were seventeen, and a stupid little innocent! My dear aunt—my dear, dear aunt, thank you!”

Mrs. Hendred, emerging from an impulsive embrace, and instinctively putting up a hand to straighten her cap, began to be uneasy again, for not even her optimism could ascribe the joy throbbing in Venetia’s voice to mere pride of conquest. “Yes, dear child, but you are not thinking—I mean, it cannot alter anything! Such a marriage would utterly ruin you!”

Venetia looked down at her in a little amusement. “Would it indeed? Well, ma’am, when Damerel came north it was to escape the efforts of his aunts to marry him to a lady of respectable birth and fortune, so that he might become reestablished in the eyes of the world. I don’t see how that was to be achieved if marriage to him meant her social ruin, and I can’t believe that the plot was being hatched without the knowledge and approval of Miss Ubley’s parents!”

“What?” cried Mrs. Hendred, momentarily diverted. “Amelia Ubley? You don’t mean it!”

“But I do mean it, so now, ma’am, will you explain to me how it comes about that though her credit would survive that marriage mine would not?”

Mrs. Hendred’s brief period of relief was over. She stared at her niece with an expression on her face of absurd chagrin, fidgeted with her shawl, started several sentences, and finished none, and finally answered lamely: “The cases are not the same. Oh dear, now I wish—Venetia, you don’t understand these matters! Miss Ubley’s situation—the circumstances— Well, they are quite different!”

“In what way?”

“Oh—oh, in a hundred ways! Good gracious, for one thing she’s more than thirty years old, with a deplorable figure, besides a pug-nose, and she has a way of poking herself forward when she walks, and—oh, she was at her last prayers years ago! No one could blame Latchford for being thankful to accept any offer for her, particularly if the Damerel ladies mean to make him their heir, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least, now I come to think of it. And although I don’t mean to say Miss Ubley is not respectable, for she is dowdily respectable, naturally she cannot be thought an innocent, at her age, and having always lived in town, so that she must be up to snuff, as they say! But in your case, my dear, everyone knows what your circumstances have been, and how you cannot possibly have had any experience! And,” she added, with a flash of inspiration, “if Damerel were to marry you, everyone would say that it was the wickedest thing imaginable, and the most shocking take-in! I assure you, my love, there is something particularly repugnant in the marriage of a rake to a beautiful girl, years younger than himself, and perfectly innocent, as you are, my dear, whatever you may choose to say!”

At the start of this speech a disquietingly confident smile glinted in Venetia’s eyes, but by the time Mrs. Hendred reached her triumphant conclusion it had faded. Anxiously observing her, Mrs. Hendred was thankful to see that she was now looking thoughtful, slightly frowning.

Mrs. Hendred decided to pursue her advantage. “You, dear child, are not aware of the way such things are looked upon—indeed, I don’t know how you should be, any more than a nun!—but you may depend on it that he is!”

Venetia glanced at her. “Yes,” she said slowly, remembering that interrupted scene in the library at Undershaw, and how troubled she had afterwards been by Damerel’s reluctance. You don’t realize what an advantage I should be taking of your innocence! he had said. “Yes,” she repeated. “I begin to see now ...”

“I was persuaded you must, for you have such excellent good sense, my love!” said Mrs. Hendred, much heartened. “I know how it seems to you now, but you may believe me when I tell you that these things don’t endure. Oh, dear! I thought I should have died of despair when Mama—your grandmama, my dear—and Francis made me give up poor Sebastian! I cried for three days without ceasing, but in the end, you know, I was married to your uncle, and I am sure nothing could have been more comfortable!”

“Did you never regret, ma’am?” asked Venetia, looking curiously at her.

“Never!” declared Mrs. Hendred emphatically. “It would have been a shockingly bad match: he had no fortune—hardly a feather to fly with! Only think how disagreeable that would have been! Yes, and that puts me in mind of another thing, my love! Everyone says that Lord Damerel has brought a noble to ninepence with his extravagant ways, which makes him quite ineligible! Naturally, had he been wealthy the case might have been different, for, after all, a handsome fortune— But he has brought his to a nutshell, so there is nothing whatsoever to recommend him, and so he knows, for he said so to your uncle. You would be throwing yourself away, and though I myself very much doubt whether it can be brought about, he and your uncle are both of the opinion that you will make a splendid marriage. And no one, my dear niece, would be more pleased than I should be if you did!”

“No one, however, would be less pleased than myself, ma’am.”

“It is very proper you should say so,” said Mrs. Hendred approvingly. “Nothing is more unbecoming in a girl than to appear mercenary, or on the catch! For my part, I should be happy to see you married to a respectable man, of sufficient consequence, of course, and affluent enough to be able to provide you with the elegancies without which, I do assure you, life would be insupportable!”

Venetia, who had paced over to the window, and back again, said: “It is going to be difficult. Yes, I see that now.”

“No, no, dearest child! Not the least difficulty in the world! I only meant—”

“To whistle happiness down the wind for a scruple!” Venetia said, unheeding. “To me that seems so absurd—so addle-brained—But that’s what he did, and if he has made up his mind to be idiotishly noble— Yes, it is going to be very difficult. I must think!”

Quite forgetful of her aunt, she went quickly out of the room, leaving that harassed lady to reflections which were as uneasy as they were puzzled.