Venetia (36 page)

She found it an exhausting and dispiriting task, but she had been living for a full month with her aunt, and not only did she feel that a month constituted a very reasonable visit, but she was increasingly anxious to form her own establishment. Perhaps, if she could be busy all the time, as she meant to be, she might not feel so unhappy; perhaps, in household cares, she could forget her love, or grow at least accustomed to desolation, as Aubrey had grown accustomed to his limp.

She returned one afternoon from one of these expeditions to be informed by the footman who admitted her into the house that a gentleman had called to visit her, and was sitting with Mrs. Hendred in the drawing-room. She stood rooted, feeling her heart miss a beat.

“A Mr. Yardley, miss,” said the footman.

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
I
preferred 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 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.”