Venetia (32 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was very much touched, but he would not permit her to express the sense of her obligation. Setting the tips of his bony fingers together, and speaking with measured severity, he said: “You are aware, I don’t doubt, my dear Venetia, of what my sentiments have always been. I hope it is not necessary for me to add that both your aunt and I hold you in affection and esteem. Hyperbole is foreign to my nature, but I don’t hesitate to tell you that your conduct, distinguished as it has always been by good sense and upright principles, is such as must command respect. In fact, my dear niece,” he added, warming to his theme, “you are a very good girl, and have been shabbily used by those who should have made your comfort their first concern! Let me assure you that it will give me a great deal of pleasure to do whatever may be in my power to recompense you for the years you have sacrificed to what you saw to be your duty!” She made a gesture of protest, but he merely frowned at her, and said with asperity: “Allow me to be plain with you, I beg! Reluctant as I am to open my lips to you on the subject of your late father’s peculiarities I believe it to be proper for me to say that although I do not deny that he was in many ways an estimable man his behaviour upon the unhappy event which occurred during your childhood seemed to me to be as selfish as it was ill-judged. He was aware of my sentiments: more I will not say, except that I could not but acknowledge the propriety of a daughter’s submitting to a parent’s will. When, upon his sudden demise, you felt it to be your duty to remain here during the
then
unavoidable absence of your elder brother, I could not deny the force of your arguments, or think it right to press you. Nor did I renew my persuasions when it became apparent that Conway, instead of returning to set you free from the responsibilities you had been so unselfish as to have taken upon your own shoulders, had no notion of consulting anything but his own pleasure, for I was well aware that it would be useless, since you could be depended on to find excuses for him. When, however, I was made aware of the contents of the letter you wrote to your aunt—Venetia, I do not scruple to say that I have seldom been more shocked, or that I consider Conway’s conduct in thrusting upon you in such a fashion not only his wife, but also her mother, is
outrageous,
and such as to release you from all obligation to continue at Undershaw!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XV

nidd, who had served Damerel for almost as many years as had Marston, accepted the charge of Venetia’s mare without betraying that he saw anything remarkable in the visit of an unattended lady to a bachelor’s establishment. It was otherwise with Imber, admitting her to the house with reluctance, and exhibiting by every means short of actual speech the utmost disapproval. He ushered her into one of the saloons, and left her there while he went off to inform Damerel of her arrival.

She remained standing by one of the windows, but it was several minutes before Damerel came to her. The saloon seemed unfriendly, with no fire burning in the hearth, and the furniture primly arranged. They had never sat in it when Aubrey was at the Priory, but always in the library, and it still bore the appearance of a room that was never used. Venetia supposed that Imber must have led her to it either to emphasize his disapproval, or because Damerel had not yet finished his business with his agent. It was cheerless, and rather dark; but perhaps that was because heavy clouds were gathering in the sky, and it had started to mizzle.

She had began to wonder whether she had missed Damerel, who might have set out for Undershaw by way of the road instead of taking the shorter way across country, when the door opened, and he came in, demanding: “Now, what in thunder has your Empress been doing to drive you from home, Admir’d Venetia?”