Venetia (31 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was amazed, for so far from having had the least warning of this visit she had not yet received a reply to the letter she had written to her aunt, to announce the news of Conway’s marriage. She exclaimed: “My uncle?” so incredulously, that Fingle was pleased with the sensation he had made, and confided to her that he too had been regularly sent to grass. “He come all the way in his own chaise, miss,” he told her, apparently feeling that this circumstance added lustre to the unexpected visit, “
and
his own postilions, I suspicion, by the way he never offered to pay them, nor gave them the money for their board, but sent them on straight to the Red Lion.”

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

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

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

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

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