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.
XX
Venetia reached York midway through the afternoon of the following day, the mail having been considerably delayed by fog in and around London. If she was in very much better spirits than on her previous journey, she was far more exhausted. She alighted from the coach feeling battered and tousled, and instead of immediately hiring a chaise and pair to convey her to the Priory, which had been her intention, bespoke a bedchamber, some hot water, and some tea. Anxious to reach her journey’s end though she might be, she had no desire to arrive at the Priory in a crumpled dress, her face unwashed, and her hair unbrushed. When the chambermaid at the inn led her up to an empty bedchamber, one glance at the looking-glass was enough to confirm her in the belief that no lady, however handsome, could drive for two hundred miles in a mail-coach carrying its full complement of six inside passengers without emerging at her destination in an unbecomingly travel-worn condition.
She had been fortunate to have succeeded in booking a seat at such short notice; it was naturally not one of the corner seats; and she had very soon discovered that between a private post-chaise and a mail coach there was a world of difference. Unlike two of her fellow passengers, who snored hideously throughout the night, she was quite unable to sleep; and when a respite of twenty minutes was allowed the travellers at breakfast-time she was able only to swallow two sips of scalding coffee before being summoned to resume her place in the coach, because she was obliged to wait for fifteen minutes before the over-driven waiter slapped the coffee-pot down on the table in front of her.
A wash and a cup of tea revived her a little; and she thought that if she lay down on the large fourposter bed for half an hour her headache might go off. That was her undoing, for hardly had she drawn the coverlet over herself than she fell asleep.
She awoke in darkness, and to hear the Minster clock chiming the three-quarters, and started up in dismay, groping for the bell-rope that hung beside the bed. When the chambermaid appeared, bearing a candle, she was somewhat relieved to learn that the hour was not quite so far advanced as she had feared. It wanted ten minutes to seven. The chambermaid, a kindly soul, said that she had taken a look-in at her at four o’clock, but had thought it would be a shame to rouse her. She suggested that Miss must be ready for her dinner, which was now being served in the coffee-room; but Venetia, though ravenously hungry, merely begged her, as she scrambled into the clean dress she had earlier unpacked from her portmanteau, to run downstairs to the landlord, and to bespeak on her behalf a chaise-and-pair, or any other available vehicle, to convey her immediately to Elliston Priory.
It had been her intention, after the refreshment of half an hour on that treacherous bed, to have stepped round to Mr. Mytchett’s place of business, for after buying her ticket on the mail, paying for the breakfast she had had no time to eat, and tipping the guard, her resources had dwindled to no more than would enable her to defray the charges at the inn. She was just able to do that; and presently climbed up into the job-chaise in reduced circumstances, but heartened by the reflection that someone at the Priory—Aubrey, or Damerel, or Imber—could defray the postboy’s charges.
But Imber, opening the door to this wholly unexpected visitor shortly after half-past eight, merely goggled more than ever at an airy request to pay off the postboy, and repeated in such stunned accents: “Pay off the postboy, miss?” that Venetia said, impatient of further delay: “Oh, never mind! His lordship will give you the money! Where shall I find him? Is he in the library?”
Still staring at her with dropped jaw Imber slowly shook his head. A numbing fear clutched her heart; she stammered: “G-gone? Imber, has he left Yorkshire? Don’t stand there gaping at me! do you take me for a ghost? Where is his lordship?”
He swallowed, and replied: “He’s in the dining-room, miss, but—but he’s eaten Hull cheese. Miss Venetia! You hadn’t ought—Miss—!”But as this excursion into the vernacular was quite incomprehensible to Venetia, she paid no heed to the note of urgent entreaty in Imber’s voice, but went quickly down the hall towards the dining-room. Opening the door, she stepped into the room, and stood on the threshold, hesitating a moment, because suddenly, mingled with the longing to see her love again, she was aware of shyness.
All the way north she had pictured this meeting, wondering what Damerel would say, and how he would look, what she herself would say to him. It had not occurred to her that he would neither speak nor look at her, or that their actual meeting would be so wholly unlike anything she had imagined.
He was alone, sprawling in the carved armchair at the head of the table, one arm resting on the table, and the fingers of that hand crooked round the stem of a wineglass. The covers had been removed, and a half-empty decanter stood at his elbow, its stopper lying beside it. He was always rather careless of his appearance, but never had Venetia seen him so untidy. He had loosened his neck-cloth, and his waistcoat hung open, and his black hair looked as if he had been in a high wind. He sat immobile, his shoulders against the high chair-back, his legs stretched out, and his brooding gaze fixed. The harsh lines of his face seemed to be accentuated, and his sneer was strongly marked. As Venetia moved softly forward into the candlelight he at last turned his eyes and looked at her. She stood still, shyness and mischief in her smile, and a hint of enquiry. He stared uncomprehendingly at her, and then, startling her, lifted his hand to his eyes, to shut her from his sight, ejaculating in a thickened voice of repulsion: “O God! No!”
This entirely unexpected reaction to her arrival might well have daunted Venetia, but as she had by this time realized that his lordship was, in the common phrase, extremely well to live, she was undismayed, and even rather amused. She exclaimed: “Oh, Damerel, must you be foxed just at this moment? How odious you are, my dear friend!”
His hand fell; for one instant he gazed at her incredulously, then he was on his feet, knocking over his wineglass. “Venetia!” he uttered. “Venetia!”
Two hasty, uncertain strides brought him round the corner of the table; she moved towards him, and melted into his arms as he seized her.
He held her in a crushing embrace, fiercely kissing her, uttering disjointedly: “My love—my heart—oh, my dear delight! It is you!”
She had flung one arm round his neck, and as he raised his head to devour her face with his eyes she tenderly smoothed back the dishevelled lock of hair from his brow. Whatever qualms or doubts had assailed her had vanished; she smiled lovingly up at him, and said, turning the word into a caress: “Stoopid!”
He gave a laugh like a groan, kissing her again, tightening his arms round her until she could scarcely breathe. Then he seemed to recollect himself a little, and slackened his hold, exclaiming shakily: “I must reek of brandy!”
“You do!” she told him frankly. “Never mind it! I daresay I shall soon grow accustomed to it.”
He released her, pressing his hands over his eyes. “Hell and the devil! I’m jug-bitten—drunk as a wheelbarrow! I can’t—” His hands dropped, he demanded almost angrily: “What brings you here? O God, why did you come?”
“The mail-coach brought me, love, and I’ll tell you why presently. Oh, my dear friend, I have so much to tell you! But first we must pay off the chaise. Imber seems not to have any money, so will you let him have your purse, if you please?”
“What chaise?”
“The one I hired in York to bring me here. I hadn’t enough of my own money left—in fact, I am run quite off my legs, and must now hang on your sleeve! Damerel, do, pray,
give me your purse!”
He dived a hand mechanically into his pocket, but apparently he was not carrying his purse, for he brought it out again empty. His love, apostrophizing him affectionately as a castaway pea-goose, turned from him to go in search of Aubrey, and found that Imber was standing in the doorway, his face a study in disapproval, curiosity, and astonishment.
“Marston is paying the postboy, miss,” he said. “But, begging your pardon, if he’s to be sent back to York—Miss Venetia, you don’t mean to stay here?”
“Yes, I do,” she responded. “Tell Marston to send the chaise away, if you please!”
This seemed to penetrate to Damerel’s somewhat clouded brain. “No!” he said forcefully, if a little huskily.
“No, my lord,” agreed Imber, relieved. “Shall I tell him to rack up for a while, or—”
“Pay no heed to his lordship!” said Venetia. “Surely you must be able to see that he is not himself! Send the chaise off, and then, if you don’t wish me to drop into a swoon, do, I implore you, fetch me some supper! All I’ve eaten since yesterday is one slice of bread-and-butter, and I am famished! Tell Mrs. Imber I beg her pardon for being so troublesome, and that some cold meat will do very well!”
Imber looked for guidance towards his master, but as Damerel was occupied in an attempt to marshal his disordered wits, and paid no attention to him, he went reluctantly away to carry out Venetia’s orders.
“Venetia!” said Damerel, raising his head from between his hands, and speaking with painstaking clarity. “You can’t remain here. I won’t let you. Out of the question. Not so top-heavy I don’t know that.”
“Nonsense, my dear friend! Aubrey is all the chaperon I need. Where is he, by the by?”
He shook his head. “Not here. Gone—forgot the fellow’s name—some parson! Grinder.”
“What, is Mr. Appersett home again?” she exclaimed. “I knew I dared not wait another hour! Has Aubrey left you already? Oh, well! It can’t be helped, and, to own the truth, I don’t care a rush!”
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