Venetia

XIX

When she was in London, Mrs. Hendred’s breakfast was invariably carried up to her bedchamber on a tray, but it was Venetia’s custom, like that of many other ladies of more energetic habit than Mrs. Hendred, to rise betimes, and sally forth, either to do a little hum-drum shopping, or to walk in one of the parks. Breakfast was served on her return in a parlour at the back of the house, and such was the esteem in which she was held in the household that it was Worting’s practice to wait on her himself, instead of deputing this office to the under-butler. Worting, like Miss Bradpole, had recognized at a glance that Mrs. Hendred’s niece from Yorkshire was no country miss on her probation, or indigent hanger-on unexpectant of any extraordinary civility. Miss Lanyon was Quality; and it was easy to see that she was accustomed to rule over a genteel establishment. Moreover, she was a very agreeable young lady, on whom it was quite a pleasure to wait, for she was neither familiar nor high in the instep. She could depress a pert London housemaid with no more than a look, but many was the chat Worting had enjoyed with her in the breakfast-parlour. They discussed such interesting topics as Domestic Economy, Town Life as contrasted with Country Life, and the Changes that had taken place since Worting had first embarked on his distinguished career. It was he who was Venetia’s chief guide to London, for she did not at all disdain to ask his advice. He told her what places were considered worthy of being visited, how they were to be reached, and what it was proper to bestow on chairmen, or the drivers of hacks.

On the morning following Edward Yardley’s unlucky theatre-party she did not go out before breakfast, nor did she wish for information about any historic monument. She wanted to know which were the most elegant hotels in town, and she could scarcely have applied to anyone more knowledgeable. Worting could tell her something about them all, and he was only too happy to do so, reciting, with a wealth of detail, a formidable list ranging from such hostelries as Osborne’s Hotel, in Adam Street (genteel accommodation for families, and single gentlemen), to such establishments as the Grand, in Covent Garden (superior), and (if one of the First Houses was required) Grillon’s, the Royal, the Clarendon, the Bath, and the Pulteney, all of which (and a great many others besides) catered exclusively for the Nobility and the Gentry. He was himself inclined to favour the Bath, on the south side of Piccadilly, by Arlington Street: a rambling house, conducted on old-fashioned lines, and patronized by persons of taste and refinement, but if Miss had in mind something generally considered to stand at the height of the mode, he would recommend her to enquire for her friends at the Pulteney.

Miss had; and after learning that during the somewhat premature Peace Celebrations held in London in 1814 the Pulteney had housed no less a personage than the Tsar of Russia (not to mention his impressive sister, the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg), she decided to place it at the head of her list of hotels where she was most likely to discover Sir Lambert and Lady Steeple. Charging Worting with a message for his mistress that she had been obliged to go out on an urgent shopping expedition, she presently set forth, charmingly attired in a blue velvet pelisse trimmed with chinchilla, and a fetching velvet hat with three curled ostrich plumes, and a high poke lined with gathered silk. She carried a large chinchilla muff, and altogether presented so delightful a picture that when she reached the hackney coach stand in Oxford Street the competition for her custom amongst the assembled Jehus was fierce, and extremely noisy.

Arrived at the Pulteney, which stood on the north side of Piccadilly, and overlooked the Green Park, she found that her instinct had not erred: Sir Lambert and Lady Steeple were occupying the very suite allotted, four years earlier, to his Imperial Majesty.

Venetia sent up her card; and in a very short space of time was being ushered into an ornate saloon upon the first floor, where Sir Lambert, gorgeously arrayed in a befrogged dressing-gown, had just (and rather hastily) swallowed the last mouthful of a large and varied breakfast. Nothing could have been more gratifying than the affability with which he received her. It might even have been considered to be a trifle excessive, for after rapidly running over her the eye of a connoisseur he claimed the right of a father-in-law to greet her with a kiss. Venetia accepted this demurely, repressed a strong inclination to remove herself from the circle of his arm, and smiled upon him with dazzling sweetness.

He was delighted. He gave her waist a little squeeze, saying: “Well, well, well, who would have thought such a dull, gray morning would bring such a beautiful surprise? I declare the sun has come out after all! And so you are my daughter! Let me look at you!” He then held her at arms’ length, scanning her up and down appreciatively, and in a way that gave her the uncomfortable feeling that she had ventured forth far too lightly clad. “Upon my word, I never thought to have such a lovely gal for my daughter!” he told her. “Aha, that makes you blush, and devilish pretty you look, flying your colours, my dear! But you have no need to colour up, you know! If your papa-in-law may not pay you a compliment I wish you will tell me who may! And so you have come to see us! I am not astonished. No, I said last night to Aurelia that you looked like a sweet gal, and so you are! When she saw you with Maria Hendred she guessed at once who you was, but ‘depend upon it,’ she said, ‘Maria will take care not to let her come within tongue-shot of me!’”

“Did—did my mother wish to see me?” asked Venetia.

“Who wouldn’t wish to see you, my dear? Yes, yes, I’ll venture to say she’ll be devilish glad you came. She don’t speak of it, you know, but I fancy she didn’t above half like it when that brother of yours never came to call. A fine young man, but holds himself too much up!”

“Conway?” she exclaimed. “Where was this, sir? In Paris?”

“No, no, in Lisbon! Silly young jackanapes would do no more than bow—as top-lofty as his father! Ay, and a pretty mess he’s made of his marriage, eh? Lord, my dear, what made him fall into that snare? ‘Well,’ I said, when I heard the Widow had snabbled him, ‘here’s a come-down from his high ropes!’ And what brings you to town, my pretty little daughter?”

She told him she was on a visit to her aunt, and when he learned that it was her first, he exclaimed that he wished he might take her to see all the lions.

After about twenty minutes a smart French maid came into the room, announcing that miladi was now ready to receive mademoiselle; and Venetia was led through a smaller saloon and an ante-room and ushered into a large and opulent bedchamber. It was redolent of a subtle scent, which brought Venetia up short on the threshold, exclaiming involuntarily: “Oh, your scent! I remember it! I remember it so well!”

A laugh like a peal of bells greeted this. “Do you? I’ve always used it—always! Oh, you used to sit and watch me when I dressed to go to a party, didn’t you? Such a quaint little creature you were, but I thought very likely you would grow to be pretty!”

Recalled from her sudden nostalgia, Venetia stammered, as she dropped a curtsy: “Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am! How—how do you do?”

Lady Steeple laughed again, and rose from her chair before a dressing-table loaded with jars, bottles, and trinket-boxes, and came towards her daughter, holding out her hands. “Isn’t it absurd?” she said, offering Venetia a delicately tinted and powdered cheek to kiss. “I don’t feel it to be possible that I can have a grown-up daughter!”

Obedient to a nudge from her good angel, Venetia responded: “Nor could anyone, ma’am—I don’t myself!”

“Darling! What did they tell you about me—Francis and Maria, and all their stuffy set?”

“Nothing, ma’am, except that I should never be as beautiful as you, and that I had from Nurse! Until yesterday I believed you had died when you left us.”

“Oh, no, did you? Did Francis tell you so? Yes, I’m sure he did, for it would be so like him! Poor man, I was such a trial to him! Were you fond of him?”

“No, not at all,” replied Venetia calmly. This made her ladyship laugh again. She waved Venetia to a chair, and herself sat down again before the dressing-table, looking her daughter over critically. Venetia now had leisure to observe that the foam of lace and gauze in which she was wrapped was in reality a dressing-gown. It was not at all the sort of garment one would have expected one’s mama to wear, for it was as improper as it was pretty. Venetia wondered whether Damerel would like the sight of his bride in just such a transparent cloud of gauze, and was strongly of the opinion that he would like it very much.

“Well, tell me all about yourself!” invited Lady Steeple, picking up her hand mirror, and earnestly studying her profile. “You are excessively like me, but your nose is not as straight as mine, and I fancy your face is not quite aperfect oval. And I do think, dearest, that you are a fraction too tall. Still, you have turned out remarkably well! Conway is very handsome too, but so stiff and stupid that it put me in mind of his father, and I couldn’t but take him in dislike. What a mull he made of it in Paris! Should you have liked it if I had upset the Widow’s scheme? I daresay I might have, for she is such a respectable creature that it is an object with her to pretend she doesn’t know I exist! I had that from someone who knew it for a fact! I had a great mind to pay her a visit—to make the acquaintance of my future daughter-in-law, you know! It would have been so diverting! I forget why I didn’t go after all: I expect I was busy, or perhaps the Lamb—oh, no, I remember now! It was so hot in Paris that we removed to the chateau—my Trianon! The Lamb bought it, and gave it to me for a surprise-present on my birthday: the sweetest place imaginable! Oh, well, if Conway finds himself leg-shackled to an insipid little nigaude he is very well-served! Why aren’t you married, Venetia? How old are you? It is so stupid not to be able to remember dates, but I never can!”

“More than five-and-twenty, ma’am!” replied Venetia, a rather mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Five-and-twenty!” Lady Steeple seemed for a moment to shrink, and did actually put up her hand as though to thrust something ugly away. “Five-and-twenty!” she repeated, glancing instinctively at the mirror with searching, narrowed eyes. What she saw seemed to reassure her, for she said lightly: “Oh, impossible! I was the merest child when you were born, of course! But what in the world have you been doing with yourself to be left positively on the shelf?”

“Nothing whatsoever, ma’am,” said Venetia, smiling at her. “You see, until I came to London a month ago, I had never seen a larger town than York, nor been farther from Undershaw than Harrogate!”

“Good God, you can’t be serious?” cried Lady Steeple, staring at her. “I never heard of anything so appalling in my life! Tell me!”

Venetia did tell her, and although the thought of Sir Francis as a recluse made her break into her delicious laugh she really was horrified by the story, and exclaimed at the end of it: “Oh, you poor little thing! Do you hate me for it?”

“No, of course I don’t!” replied Venetia reassuringly.

“You see, I never wished for children!” explained her ladyship. “They quite ruin one’s figure, and when one is in the straw one looks positively hideous, and they look hideous, too, all red and crumpled, though I must say you and Conway were very pretty babies. But my last—what did Francis insist on naming him? Oh, Aubrey, wasn’t it, after one of his stupid ancestors? Yes, Aubrey! Well, he looked like a sick monkey—horrid! Of course Francis thought it was my duty to nurse him myself, as though I had been a farm-wench! I can’t think how he came by such a vulgar notion, for I do know that old Lady Lanyon always hired a wet-nurse! But it didn’t answer, for it made me perfectly ill to look at such a wizened creature. Besides, he was so fretful that it made me nervous. I never thought he would survive, but he did, didn’t he?”

Within the shelter of her muff Venetia’s hands clenched till the nails dug into her palms, but she answered coolly: “Oh, yes! Perhaps he was fretful because of his hip. He had a diseased joint, you see. It is better now, but he suffered a great deal when he was younger, and he will always limp.”

“Poor boy!” said her ladyship compassionately. “Did he come with you to London?”

“No, he is in Yorkshire. I don’t think he would care for London. In fact, he cares for nothing much but his books. He’s a scholar—a brilliant scholar!”

“Good gracious, what a horrid bore!” remarked Lady Steeple, with simple sincerity. “To think of being shut up with a recluse and a scholar makes me feel quite low! You poor child! Oh, you were the Sleeping Beauty! What a touching thing! But there should have been a Prince Charming to kiss you awake! It is too bad!”

“There was,” said Venetia. She flushed faintly. “Only he has it fixed in his head that he isn’t a Prince, but a usurper, dressed in the Prince’s clothes.”

Lady Steeple was rather amused. “Oh, but that spoils the story!” she protested. “Besides, why should he think himself a usurper? It is not at all likely!”

“No, but you know what that Prince in the fairy tale is like, ma’am! Young, and handsome, and virtuous! And probably a dead bore,” she added thoughtfully. “Well, my usurper is not very young, and not handsome, and certainly not virtuous: quite the reverse, in fact. On the other hand, he is not a bore.”

“You have clearly fallen in love with a rake! But how intriguing! Tell me all about him!”

“I think perhaps you know him, ma’am.”

“Oh, no, do I? Who is he?”

“He is Damerel,” replied Venetia.

Lady Steeple jumped. “What? Nonsense! Oh, you’re shamming it! You must be!” She broke off, knitting her brows. “I remember now—they have a place there, haven’t they? The Damerels—only they were hardly ever there. So you have met him—and of course he came round you— and you lost your heart to him, devil that he is! Well, my dear, I daresay he has broken a score of hearts besides yours, so dry your tears, and set about breaking a few hearts yourself! It is by far more amusing, I promise you!”

“I shouldn’t think anything could be as amusing as to be married to Damerel,” said Venetia.

“Married to him! Heavens, don’t be so gooseish! Damerel never wanted to marry anyone in all his scandalous career!”

“Oh, yes, he did, ma’am! He wanted once to marry Lady Sophia Vobster, only most fortunately she fell in love with someone else; and now he wants to marry me.”

“Deluded girl! He’s been hoaxing you!”

“Yes, he tried to hoax me into thinking he had only been trifling with me, and if it hadn’t been for my aunt’s letting the truth slip out he would have succeeded! That—that is why I’ve come to see you, ma’am! You could help me—if you would!”

“I help you?” Lady Steeple laughed, not this time so musically. “Don’t you know better than that? I could more easily ruin you, let me tell you!”

“I know you could,” said Venetia frankly. “I’m very much obliged to you for saying that, because it makes it much less awkward for me to explain it to you. You see, ma’am, Damerel believes that if he proposed marriage to me he would be doing me a great injury, because between them he and my Uncle Hendred have decided that I should otherwise make a brilliant match, while if I married him I should very likely be shunned by the ton, and become a vagabond, like himself. I should like that excessively, so what I must do is to convince him that instead of contracting a brilliant match I am on the verge of utter social ruin. I’ve racked my brains to discover how it can be done, but I couldn’t find any way—at least, none that would answer the purpose!—and I was in such flat despair—oh, in such misery! And then, last night, when my aunt told me—she thought I should be aghast, but I was overjoyed, because I saw in a flash that you were the one person who could help me!”

“To social ruin! Well, upon my word!” cried her ladyship. “And all to marry you to Rake Damerel—which I don’t believe! No, I don’t believe it!”

But when she had heard the story of that autumn idyll she did believe it. She looked oddly at her daughter, and then began to fidget with the pots on the dressing-table, arranging and rearranging them. “You and Damerel!” she said, after a long silence. “Do you imagine he would be faithful to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Venetia. “I think he will always love me. You see, we are such dear friends.”

Lady Steeple’s eyes lifted quickly, staring at Venetia. “You’re a strange girl,” she said abruptly. “You don’t know what it means, though, to be a social outcast!”

Venetia smiled. “But thanks to you and to Papa, ma’am, that’s what I have been, all my life.”

“I suppose you blame me for that, but how should I have guessed—”

“No, indeed I don’t blame you, but you will allow, ma’am, that you haven’t given me cause to be grateful to you,” Venetia said bluntly.

Lady Steeple shrugged, saying with a pettish note in her voice: “Well, I never wished for children! I told you so.”

“But I can’t believe that you wished us to be made unhappy.”

Of course I did not! But as for—”

“I am unhappy,” Venetia said, her gaze steady on that lovely, petulant countenance. “You could do a very little thing for me—such a tiny thing!—and I might be happy again, and grateful to you from the bottom of my heart!”

“It is too bad of you!” exclaimed Lady Steeple. “I might have known you would only try to cut up my peace—throw me into an irritation of nerves— What do you imagine I can do to help you?”

Sir Lambert, venturing to peep into the room half an hour later, found his daughter-in-law preparing to take her leave, and his wife in an uncertain temper, poised between laughter and vexation. He was not surprised; he had been afraid that she might find this meeting with her lovely daughter a little upsetting. Fortunately he was the bearer of tidings that were bound to raise her spirits.

“Oh, is it you, Lamb?” she called out. “Come in, and tell me how you like my daughter! I daresay you have been flirting with her already, for she is so pretty! Isn’t she? Don’t you think so?”

He knew that voice, rather higher-pitched than usual, full of brittle gaiety. He said: “Yes, that she is! Upon my soul, it’s devilish hard to tell you apart! I fancy you have the advantage, however—ay, you ain’t quite the equal of your mama, my dear—and you won’t mind my saying it, because she has perfect features, you know. Yes, yes, that was what Lawrence said, when he painted her likeness! Perfect features!”

Lady Steeple was seated at a small writing-table, but she got up, and came with a hasty step to stand beside Venetia, pulling her round to face a long looking-glass. For a minute she stared at the two mirrored faces, and then, to Venetia’s dismay, cast herself upon Sir Lambert’s burly form, crying: “She is five-and-twenty, Lamb! five-and-twenty!”

“Now, my pretty! now, now!” he responded, patting her soothingly. “Plenty of time for her to grow to be a beauty like her mama! There, now!”

She gave a hysterical little laugh, and tore herself away. “Oh, you are too absurd! Take her away! I must dress! I abominate morning callers! I look hagged!”

“Well, I can tell you that you don’t,” said Venetia, tucking a sealed letter into her reticule. “I was used to think, you know, when I was a little girl, that you were like a fairy, and so you are. I never was made to feel so clumsy in my life! I wish I knew how to walk as if I were floating!”

“Flattering creature! There, kiss me, and be off to seek your fortune! I wish you may find it! You won’t, of course, but don’t blame me for it!”

“Going to seek her fortune, is she?” said Sir Lambert. “So you have set up a secret between you? But here is your woman, my pretty, on the fret to make you ready to receive I know not how many people sent round from Roberts’s!”

“Oh, my new riding-habit!” exclaimed Lady Steeple, her face lighting up. “Send Louise in to me directly, Lamb! Dear child, I must bid you goodbye—I positively must! No Frenchman can make a riding-habit: Roberts has made mine ever since I came out! That’s why I came with the Lamb! I hate London—and in November, too!”

Once more Venetia was given a soft, scented cheek to kiss; she said: “Goodbye, ma’am—and thank you! You have been very, very kind to me!”

She curtsied as Lady Steeple made a wry mouth at her, and then Sir Lambert ushered her out of the room, saying as he closed the door: “That’s a good gal! I’m glad you said that to her! She feels it, you know—gets into the dumps! Not as young as she was! You didn’t object to my saying you wasn’t her equal?”

Venetia reassured him; he then said that he would take her downstairs to her maid, and, upon her disclosing that she had come alone, declared his resolve to escort her back to Cavendish Square. She begged him not to put himself out, saying that she was used to walk alone, and meant to do a little shopping in Bond Street, but to no avail.

“No, no, it will not do! I wonder at Maria Hendred, upon my word, I do! A lovely gal walking by herself! Ay, and all the Bond Street beaux ogling you, the rascals! You must give me the pleasure of escorting you, and no need to be in a worry that your mama might not like me to go with you. I promise you she won’t take a pet, for,” said Sir Lambert simply, “I shan’t mention the matter to her.”

So, as soon as Sir Lambert’s man had eased his master into his overcoat, handed him his hat, his gloves, and his walking-cane, Venetia sallied forth in his company, not ill-pleased to demonstrate to as many of her aunt’s acquaintances as she might be fortunate enough to meet that she stood on the best of terms with her disreputable stepfather. Sir Lambert’s was an impressive figure, and since his corpulence made rapid movement impossible to him their progress was slow. By the time they had turned into Bond Street they were fast friends, and Sir Lambert, besides behaving in a very gallant manner to his fair companion, had regaled her with several anecdotes of his youth, which made her laugh in a way that delighted him very much, and encouraged him to confide several rather warmer anecdotes to her. He accompanied her into a linen-draper’s shop, and was of the greatest assistance to her in choosing muslin for a dress; and when they came out would have carried the parcel for her had she not tucked it into her muff, telling him that she had never yet seen a Pink of the Ton carrying anything so dowdy as a parcel tied up with string.

There were a good many carriages in the road, and quite a number of modish-looking strollers, but it was not until Grosvenor Street was reached that Venetia had the satisfaction of seeing anyone with whom she was acquainted. She then recognized in an astonished countenance a lady whom she had met in Cavendish Square, and bowed slightly. Sir Lambert, always very polite, raised the beaver from his pomaded locks, and bowed too. The Cumberland corset which he wore creaked protestingly, but Venetia was quite amazed to see with what majestic grace so portly a man could perform this courtesy.

By this time they were abreast of a jeweller’s shop, and Sir Lambert, struck by a happy thought, said: “You know, my dear, I think, if you should not dislike it, we will take a look in here. Poor Aurelia is subject to fits of dejection, and there’s no doubt she was a trifle overset. You shall help me to choose some little thing to divert her mind!”

She was very willing, and considerably entertained to discover that his interpretation of “some little thing” proved to be a diamond pendant. Aurelia, he said, was partial to diamonds. It did not seem to Venetia that he stood in much need of guidance from her in making his choice, but she soon found that he liked to have his taste approved, so she stopped preferring any of the pendants which did not take his fancy, and dutifully admired each one of the three which obviously appealed to him. The choice at last made, he demanded to be shown some brooches, and here Venetia was allowed to have her way. She could not prefer an opulent brooch made up of sapphires and diamonds to a very pretty one of aquamarines. He did his best to persuade her that the aquamarines were mere trumpery, but when she laughed at him, and insisted that they were charming, he said: “Well, well, if you think so indeed I will buy it, for you have excellent taste, my dear, and I daresay you know best!”

They emerged from the shop to find Edward Yardley standing with his hands behind his back, closely studying a tray of rings set out in one of the windows. He turned his head just as Venetia tucked her hand in Sir Lambert’s proffered arm, and ejaculated in a voice loud enough to make a passer-by look over his shoulder at him: “Venetia!”

“Good-morning, Edward!” she said, with what he felt to be brazen calm. “I am very glad to see you, but pray don’t make the whole street a present of my name! Sir, will you allow me to present Mr. Yardley to you? He is an old friend of mine, from Yorkshire. Edward, you are not acquainted, I fancy, with my father-in-law—Sir Lambert Steeple!”

“How-de-do?” said Sir Lambert, giving Edward two fingers. “Aha, you wish me at Jericho, don’t you? Well, I don’t blame you, but I don’t give up my prize! No, no, you may glare as much as you choose, but this little hand shall stay where it is!”

Edward might be said to have been taking full advantage of the permission so genially accorded him. As he spoke Sir Lambert patted the little hand on his arm in a fatherly way, and smiled down into Venetia’s merry eyes in a manner so far removed from fatherly that Edward was quite unable to contain himself, but said with a good deal less than his usual grave deliberation: “I am on my way to Cavendish Square, sir, and will escort Miss Lanyon!”

Sir Lambert was amused. His prominent blue eyes took Edward in from top to toe, missing no detail that marked him as the country squire of comfortable fortune but no touch of town bronze. This, then, was the inevitable pretendant, and, judging by the familiarity with which Venetia addressed him, he enjoyed her favour. Sir Lambert thought she might have done better for herself, but he wasn’t an ill-looking young fellow, and no doubt she knew her own business best. He looked down at her, a roguish gleam in his eye. “Shall we let him go along with us, my dear, or shall we give him the go-by? What do you say?”

This was too much for Edward. His countenance was already unbecomingly flushed, for not only had his wrath been aroused by the sight of Venetia with her hand in Sir Lambert’s arm, but his self-esteem was smarting under that experienced roue’s jovial but faintly contemptuous, scrutiny. Sir Lambert might be nearly double Edward’s age, but Edward resented his lazy assurance, and still more did he resent being regarded by Sir Lambert as a jealous stripling. He glared more fiercely than ever, and said with awful civility: “Miss Lanyon is obliged to you, sir, but will not put you to the trouble of escorting her farther!”

Sir Lambert chuckled. “Yes, yes, I see how it is! You would like to have it out with me at dawn! That’s the dandy! I like to see a young fellow ready to sport his canvas! Lord, I was the devil of a fire-eater myself in my day, but that was before you were born, my boy! You can’t call me out, you know! Well, well, it’s too bad of me to roast you! Do you go along with us to the top of the street, and then, if my pretty little daughter likes, you may take her the rest of the way by yourself.”

Edward nearly choked. Before he could utter whatever rash words surged to his tongue Venetia intervened, saying in a tone of cool amusement: “Oswald Denny to the life! My dear Edward, do not you make a cake of yourself, I beg!”

“And who,” demanded Sir Lambert, pleasantly intrigued, “is Oswald Denny, eh? Oh, you may look demurely, but you don’t bamboozle me, puss! Yes, yes, I can see what a twinkle you have in your eye! I’ll be bound you have all the cockerels in Yorkshire squaring up to each other!”

She laughed, but turned it off, directing the conversation into channels less exacerbating to Edward. He, determined not to leave her with Sir Lambert and unable to wrest her forcibly away from that elderly buck, had nothing to do but to fall in beside her, and to reply, in stiff monosyllables, to such remarks as were from time to time addressed to him.

Arrived at the top of the street, Venetia stopped, and, withdrawing her hand from Sir Lambert’s arm, turned to face him, saying, with her friendliest smile: “Thank you, sir. You are a great deal too good to have come so far with me, and it would be quite infamous of me to drag you any farther. I am so very much obliged to you—and you were perfectly right: the Indian muslin will make up much better than the sprig!”

She held out her hand to him, and he clasped it warmly, sweeping off his curly-brimmed and shining beaver with an air many a budding dandy would have envied. She found that he was pressing into her hand the smaller of the two jeweller’s cases, and was for a moment bewildered. “But, sir—!”

He closed her fingers over the little box. “There, it’s nothing! A trumpery thing, but you seemed to like it the best! You will let me give you a little present—a trifle from your father-in-law!”

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “Indeed, sir, you mustn’t! Pray—!”

“No, no, take it, my dear! You will oblige me very much by taking it! I never had a daughter, you know, but if I had I should have wished for one like you, with your sweet face, and your pretty ways!”

She was very much touched, and regardless alike of the passers-by and Edward’s speechless anger stood on tiptoe to kiss Sir Lambert’s cheek, one hand on his broad shoulder. “And I wish very much that you had been my father, sir,” she said. “I should have loved you much more than ever I loved my own, for you are a great deal kinder! Thank you! indeed I will take it, and remember you whenever I wear it, I promise you!”

He returned her embrace, putting his arm round her, and giving her a hug. “That’s a good gal!” he said. He then dug Edward in the ribs with the head of his cane, and said, with a slight lapse from his parental mood: “Well, you young dog, you may take her now, but if I were ten years younger damme if I wouldn’t cut you out!”

After that he executed another of his practised bows, settled the beaver on his head again, and sauntered off down the street, keeping a weather eye cocked for any personable female who might come within his orbit.

“You know, he may be a sad rip, but he’s the dearest creature!” Venetia said, forgetting that Edward’s mood was scarcely in harmony with hers.

“I can only suppose you to have taken leave of your senses!” he said.

She had been watching, with a little smile of appreciative amusement, Sir Lambert’s progress down the street, but she turned her head at this, and said with considerable asperity: “I certainly supposed you to have taken leave of yours! What can have possessed you to behave with such a want of conduct? I was never more mortified!”

“You were never more mortified!” he said. “I do not know how you can stand there, Venetia, speaking in such a manner!”

“I don’t mean to stand here speaking in any manner at all,” she interrupted, stepping off the flagway in the wake of the urchin who was zealously sweeping the crossing for her. “Stop looking as sulky as a bear, and give that boy a penny!”

He caught up with her as she reached the opposite side of Oxford Street. “How came you to be in that old court-card’s company?” he demanded roughly.

“Pray remember that you are speaking of my father-in-law!” she replied coldly. “I have been visiting my mother, and he was so obliging as to escort me home.”

“Visiting your mother?” he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears.

“Certainly. Pray, have you any objection?”

He replied in a resolutely controlled voice: “I have every objection, and you shall presently learn what they are! I do not choose to bandy words with you in public! We will be silent, if you please!”

She returned no answer, but walked on, her countenance untroubled. He kept step beside her, his brow frowning, and his mouth grimly set. She made no attempt to speak to him until they stood on the steps of her uncle’s house, when, glancing thoughtfully at him, she said: “You may come in with me, if you wish, but don’t show the porter that face, if you please! You have advertized your displeasure to enough people already.”

As she spoke, the door was opened, and she stepped into the house It was the under-butler who had admitted her, and she paused to ask him if his mistress was in. On learning that Mrs. Hendred, having suffered a disturbed night, had not yet left her bedchamber, she took Edward up to the drawing-room, and said, as she began to strip off her gloves: “Now say what you will, but try to recollect, Edward, that I am my own mistress! You appear to believe that you have authority over me, but you have not, and so I have told you very many times!”

He stood looking at her gloomily, and at length replied: “I have been mistaken in your character. I allowed myself to believe that the levity of which I have frequently had cause to complain sprang from a natural liveliness rather than from any want of disposition in you. My eyes have been opened indeed!”

“I am extremely glad to hear it, for it was certainly time they should be. Don’t accuse me, however, of deceiving you! You deceived yourself, for you would never believe that I mean the things I say. The truth is, Edward, that we are poles apart. I have a great respect for you—”

“I wish I might say the same of you!”

“How very uncivil of you! Come, let us shake hands, and say no more, except to wish each other happy!”

He made no movement to take the hand stretched out to him, but said heavily: “My mother was right!”

Her ready sense of the ridiculous overcame her annoyance; her eyes began to dance; she said cordially: “To be sure, she was!”

“She begged me not to allow my judgment to be overborne by my infatuation. I wish that I had heeded her. I might then have been spared the mortification of discovering that the female whom I had intended to make my wife had neither heart nor delicacy!”

“Well, I wish you had, too, but all’s well that ends well, you know! In future you will do as your mother bids you, and I expect she will find the very wife to make you comfortable, I’m sure I hope she will.”

“I should have known what to expect when you did not scruple, in spite of my representations, to visit the Priory daily. You appear to have a preference for libertines!”

The smile swept over her face, transfiguring it. “It’s very true, Edward: I have indeed! Now I think you had better go. You have rung a fine peal over me, and it is time I went up to see how my aunt does.”

“I shall leave London by the first coach tomorrow morning!” he announced, and on this valedictory line stalked from the room.

Hardly had his step died away on the stair than the door opened again, this time to admit Mrs. Hendred, who came in looking very much startled, and instantly exclaimed: “My love, what has happened, to send Mr. Yardley off in such a pucker? I was coming downstairs when he rushed out of this room with such a countenance that I declare I was quite alarmed! I spoke to him, as you may suppose, asking if anything was amiss, but he wouldn’t stop—said only that you would tell me, and was gone before I could fetch my breath! Oh, Venetia, don’t tell me you have quarrelled?”

“Well, I won’t tell you, if you had rather I didn’t, dear aunt, but it is the truth, for all that!” replied Venetia, laughing. “Oh, dear, what a goose he did make of himself! I could almost forgive him for it! I’m afraid you will be quite as shocked as he was, ma’am: I have been to call on Mama, and Edward met me in New Bond Street, coming home on Sir Lambert’s arm!”

She was obliged to repeat this confession before Mrs. Hendred could at all take it in, and then to support the poor lady to her favourite chair. This second disaster, following on the shock of the previous evening’s encounter, proved too much for Mrs. Hendred’s shattered nerves: she burst into tears, and between her painful sobs delivered herself of a disjointed monologue which was at once a jeremiad and a diatribe. Venetia made no attempt to defend herself against the various charges levelled at her, but devoted herself to the task of soothing and petting her afflicted relative into comparative calm. Exhausted by her emotions, Mrs. Hendred at last lay back in her chair with her eyes shut, merely moaning faintly, and feebly repulsing her ungrateful niece. Venetia looked doubtfully at her, decided against making any further announcement, and went away to summon Miss Bradpole.

Consigning Mrs. Hendred to her competent care, she once more left the house, and made her way to the hackney stand. “To Lombard Street, if you please!” she told the jarvey. “The General Post Office!”

The afternoon was considerably advanced when she again returned to Cavendish Square. She learned from Miss Bradpole that Mrs. Hendred had retired to bed, but had declined all offers to summon the doctor to her side. She had been coaxed to toy with a light nuncheon—just a cup of broth, a morsel of chicken, and some ratafia cream—and now seemed a trifle easier, and inclined to sleep. Venetia, showing a proper concern, favoured Miss Bradpole with a glib explanation of her aunt’s collapse, and went away to her own room.

It was not until much later that she ventured to tap gently on Mrs. Hendred’s door. A failing voice bade her come in, and she entered to find her aunt reclining against a mountain of pillows, a very pretty nightcap tied under her chin, her handkerchief in one hand, her vinaigrette in the other, and on the table beside the bed a battery of sedatives and restoratives. Upon hearing Venetia’s voice, she turned reproachful eyes towards the door, and uttered a heart-rending sigh. Then she perceived that Venetia was wearing a travelling dress under a thick pelisse, and her demeanour underwent an abrupt change. She sat up with a jerk, and demanded in far from moribund accents: “Why are you dressed like that? Where are you going?”

Venetia came to the bedside, and bent over her aunt, kissing her cheek affectionately: “Dearest aunt, I’m going home!”

“No, no!” cried Mrs. Hendred, clutching her sleeve. “Oh, dear, I shall become perfectly distracted! I didn’t mean it! Heaven knows what’s to be done, but your uncle will think of something, depend upon it! Venetia, if I said anything—”

“Of course you didn’t, ma’am!” Venetia said, smiling at her, and patting her shoulder caressingly. “But you cannot hope to re-establish my credit, and I would so much rather you didn’t make the attempt. You have been too kind to me already, and I’m a wretch to make you so uncomfortable. But, you see, it’s my whole life I’m fighting for, and I can’t be sure that even now it’s not too late! Pray try to forgive me, my dear aunt, and—and understand a little!”

“Venetia, only consider!” implored Mrs. Hendred. “Good God, you cannot throw yourself at that man’s head! What would he think of you?”

“I have considered. It does seem quite shocking, doesn’t it? I hope my courage won’t fail! No, I don’t think it will, because there’s nothing I couldn’t say to him, or he not understand. Don’t be distressed! I wish I need not have disturbed you again, but I couldn’t go without bidding you goodbye, and thanking you for being so very kind to me. I’ve told Bradpole and Worting that Edward brought me bad news of Aubrey, and is to accompany me to York by the mail, so you mustn’t fret over what any of the servants will think. And I have packed my trunk, and desired Betty to cord it, and to send it to me by the carrier—when I write to tell you my direction. I can’t take more than a portmanteau on the mail, you know.”

“Listen, Venetia, only wait until we can consult your uncle!” said Mrs. Hendred feverishly. “He will be at home by breakfast-time tomorrow—why, he may even arrive this very evening! Now, do, do—”

“Not for the world!” said Venetia, with a quiver of laughter. “I am very much obliged to my uncle, but the thought that he might find another way of rescuing me from my dear rake puts me in the liveliest dread!”

“Wait, dear child! I have had a very good notion! If you find your affections don’t change when you have had time to see more of the world—no, no, do but listen!—I won’t say a word against this dreadful marriage! But Lord Damerel would tell you himself that it’s far too soon for you to commit yourself! Your uncle shall think of a way to overcome what happened today, and I shall put off Theresa’s coming-out in the spring, and bring you out instead!”

“Oh, poor Theresa!” exclaimed Venetia, laughing outright. “When she is counting the days!”

“She may very well wait for another year,” said Mrs. Hendred resolutely. “Indeed, I am much inclined to think she should, for I noticed a spot on her face the other evening, and you know, my dear, if she is going to fall into that vexatious way young girls have of throwing out a spot whenever one particularly wishes them to be in their best looks, it would be useless to bring her out next year! Now, what do you say to that?”

“Horrid!” replied Venetia, rubbing her cheek lightly against her aunt’s before disengaging herself from the clutch on her sleeve, and going to the door. “Long before the season ended—if not before it started!—Damerel would be heaven knows where, strewing rose-leaves about for some abandoned female to tread on! Well, one thing at least I’m determined on! If he must indulge in such wasteful habits he shall strew his rose-leaves for me to tread upon, not one of his ridiculous Paphians!” She blew a kiss to her aunt, and the next instant was gone.