‘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 inpeople. 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 indulgeourselves with a stupid quarrel, when we mightbothof 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 calledsociety, 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 trifledeaf! 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 herliteral 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, andon 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, tohisjealousy, and trying to persuade them thatshehad 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 realise that she was mistaken in Conway, but it is too soon yet for her to derive consolation from the knowledge that he was 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 whenhercoming meantyourdeparture. 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 –Iam 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 toourmarriage, 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 tohimin any little difficulty.’
‘I wonder what advice he gives them?’ she said. ‘One never knows with Aubrey! Hemightgive very good advice – if he happened to be in an amiable mood!’
‘He should not giveany. 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 seewithinit!’
‘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 haveheld 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 marriagesfrequentlystart 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, girlscannotbe 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 apeculiarstyle? For, after all, even with a disagreeable husband, though of course it would have grave drawbacks to be married to adisagreeable man, you would be a woman of consequence, and you would have all the comfort of your children, which, you know, is a female’sgreatestinterest – and, in any event, Mr Yardley isnotdisagreeable! 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 alivelyman, but what husbandis, after all? If you had fancied Sir Matthew, or Mr Armyn, or even Mr Foxcott, though I very much doubt whetherhe– 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 any 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 youknow! You would feel yourself to be goinghome!’
‘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 faceoverset 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’tlook like that! I cannot bear to see you so wretched! Oh, Venetia, you must not take it so much to heart,indeedyou must not! It makes me feel so dreadfully low, for I do most sincerely pity you, but it would notdo– Iassureyou it would not!’
