“So you think I’m offering you Spanish coin, do you? I can’t imagine why you should, for you know how beautiful you are! You told me so!”
“I?” she gasped. ‘“I never said such a thing!”
“But you did! You were picking blackberries at the time— my blackberries!”
“
Oh
!
Well, that was only to give you a set-down!” she said, blushing a little.
“Good God, girl, and you said you had a mirror!”
“So I have, and it tells me that I am well-enough. I believe I take after my mother in some degree—at least, Nurse told me once, when I was indulging a fit of vanity, that I should never be equal to her.”
“She was mistaken.”
“Oh, did you know her?” she asked quickly. “She died when I was only ten years old, you know, and I can scarcely remember her. We saw so little of her: she and Papa were always away, and her likeness was never taken. Or, if it was, Papa destroyed it when she died. He could not bear even to hear her name spoken—forbade the least mention of her! And no one ever did mention her at Undershaw, except Nurse, on that one occasion. I think it an odd way of showing one’s devotion, but then he
was
odd. Do I resemble her at all?”
“I suppose some might think so. Her features—as I recall—were more perfect than yours, but your hair is a richer gold, your eyes a deeper blue, and your smile is by far the sweeter.”
“Oh dear, now you are back in your nonsensical vein! You cannot possibly remember at this distance of time how blue her eyes were, or how gold her hair, so stop hoaxing me!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly. “I had far rather talk of
your
eyes, or even of your pretty lips, which you quite wrongly described as
indifferent red.
”
“I cannot conceive,” she interrupted, with some severity, “why you will persist in recalling an episode which you would do better to forget!”
“Can’t you?” He put out his hand, and took her chin in his long fingers, tilting it up. “Perhaps to remind you, my dear, that although I am obliged at this present to behave with all the propriety of a host it’s only a veneer—and God knows why I should tell you so!”
She removed his hand, but said with a chuckle: “I don’t think your notion of propriety would
take
in the first circles! And furthermore, my dear friend, it is high time you stopped trying to make everyone believe you are much blacker than you have been painted. That’s a habit you fell into when you were young and foolish, and
perfectly
understandable in the circumstances. Though also very like Conway, when he used to boast to me of the shocking pranks he played at Eton. Banbury stories, most of them.”
“Thank youl But I have never done that: there has been no need for Banbury stories. With what improbable virtues are you trying to endow me? An exquisite sensibility? Delicacy of principle?”
“Oh, no, nothing of that nature!” she replied, getting up. “I allow you all the vices you choose to claim—indeed, I know you for a gamester, and a shocking rake, and a man of sadly unsteady character!—but I’m not so green that I don’t recognize in you one virtue at least, and one quality.”
“What, is
that
all? How disappointing! What are they?”
“A well-informed mind, and a great deal of kindness,” she said, laying her hand on his arm, and beginning to stroll with him back to the house.
VII
edward yardley returned to Netherfold in a mood of dissatisfaction but with no apprehension that Damerel might prove to be his rival. He had not liked him, and could perceive nothing either in his manners or his appearance that might reasonably be supposed to take Venetia’s fancy. Punctilious himself in every expression of civility, Edward considered that Damerel’s easy carelessness was unbecoming in a man of rank; while his rather abrupt way of talking could only disgust. As for his appearance, it was no great thing, after all: his figure was good, but his countenance was harsh, with features by no means regular, and a swarthy complexion; and there was nothing particularly modish about his raiment. Females, Edward believed, were often dazzled by an air of fashion; and had Damerel worn yellow pantaloons, Hessians of mirror-like gloss, a tightly waisted coat, a monstrous neckcloth, exaggerated shirt-points, rings on his fingers, and fobs dangling at his waist it might have occurred to Edward that he was a dangerous fellow. But Damerel wore a plain riding-coat and buckskin breeches, quite a modest neckcloth, and no other ornaments than a heavy signet ring, and a quizzing-glass: he was no Pink of fashion; he was not even a very down-the-road looking man, though report made him a first-rate driver: quite a top-sawyer, in fact. Edward, who had expected a Corinthian, was disposed to rate him pretty cheap: more squeak than wool, he thought, remembering some of the exotic stories which had filtered back to Yorkshire. He flattered himself that he had never believed the half of them: that noble Roman lady, for instance, who was said to have deserted husband and children to cruise with Damerel in the Mediterranean aboard the yacht which he had had the effrontery to christen
Corinth;
or the dazzling high-flyer, whose meteoric progress across liberated Europe under his protection had been rendered memorable by the quantites of fresh rose-petals he had caused to be strewn on the floors of her various apartments, and the sea of pink champagne provided for her refreshment. Edward, solemnly trying to compute the cost of this extravagant freak, had certainly not believed that tale; and now that he had met Damerel face to face he wholly discredited it. He had not really been afraid that a sensible female would succumb to the lure of such trumpery magnificence, but when he rode away from the Priory there was an unacknowledged relief in his breast. Damerel might try to make Venetia the object of his gallantry (though he had not seemed to be much impressed by her beauty), but Edward, who knew his own worth, could not feel that he stood in danger of being eclipsed in her eyes by such a brusque, bracket-faced fellow. Females were naturally lacking in judgment, but Edward considered Venetia’s understanding to be superior to that of the generality of her sex, and although she had met few men the three whom she knew well—her father, Conway, and himself—must have provided her with a standard of manners and propriety by which she had enough sense to measure Damerel.
The worst feature of the affair, Edward decided, was the damage that would be done to her reputation if her daily visits to the Priory became known; and this possibility teased him so much that he told his mother the whole story.
A meek little woman, Mrs. Yardley, so colourless that no one would have suspected how deep and jealous was her adoration of her only child. Her skin was parchment, with thin, bloodless lips, and eyes of a shallow, faded blue; and her hair, which she wore neatly banded under a widow’s cap, was of an indeterminate hue, between sand and gray. She was not a talker, and she listened to Edward without comment, and almost without expression. Only when he told her, a trifle too casually, that Venetia was visiting Aubrey daily at the Priory did a flicker of emotion show in her eyes, and then it was no more than a darting, lizard-like look, gone as quickly as it had appeared. He did not notice it, but went on explaining all the circumstances to her, not asking her opinion, but rather instructing her, as his habit was. When he paused she said: “Yes,” in the flat voice that offered no clue to her thoughts. In general he would have been perfectly satisfied with this meagre response, but on this occasion he found it insufficient, because in telling her how unexceptionable it was for Venetia to visit the Priory when she had Nurse for a chaperon he had been arguing against his own convictions, and wanted reassurance.
“One couldn’t expect her not to do so,” he said. “You know how devoted she is to Aubrey!”
“Yes, indeed. He is very much obliged to her. I have always said so,” she replied.
“Oh, as to that—! I should be glad to think it, but he is one who takes all for granted. The thing is that there is no harm in Venetia’s visiting him.”
“Oh, no!”
“Under the circumstances, you know, and with Nurse there—and it is not as if she were a young girl, after all. I do not see that there is anything in it to set people talking, do you?”
“Oh, no! I am persuaded they will not.”
“Of course, I cannot like her being thrown into acquaintanceship with such a man, but I fancy I made it plain to him how the matter stands—just hinted him away, you know, in case he had some notion of trying to attach her. Not that I have any great apprehension of it: I believe I am a pretty good judge, and it did not seem to me that he was at all struck by her.”
“I expect she is not in his style.”
His countenance lightened. “No, very likely she is not! No doubt he is bored by virtuous females. And
she,
you know, doesn’t want for sense. Under that sportive playfulness she has true delicacy of character, and the tone of her mind is too nice to allow of her encouraging his lordship in any encroaching fancy.”
“Oh, no! I am persuaded she would not do so.”
He looked relieved; but after fidgeting with the blind-cord for a few moments he said in a vexed tone: “It is an awkward situation, however! I should be excessively reluctant to be obliged to be on terms of intimacy with Lord Damerel, even if we lived near enough to the Priory to make frequent visits to his house possible. In that event I should feel it to be my duty, perhaps— But to be riding thirty miles every day—there and back, you know!—is out of the question.”
“Oh, yes, dear, you are very right! I don’t think you should go there at all. I daresay Aubrey will be well enough to go home in a day or two, and it is not to be supposed that Lord Damerel will continue at the Priory for long. He never does so, does he?”
This placid view of the matter did much to allay his uneasiness; and he was further relieved by the discovery, on the following evening, when he escorted his mother to a dinner-party at Ebbersley, that his hostess regarded it as a matter of no particular moment.
In this he was mistaken, but Lady Denny did not like sententious young men, and she took care to conceal the dismay she had felt ever since Sir John had broken the news to her. Sir John had had it from Damerel, whom he had encountered in Thirsk, and had communicated it to her in the most casual way imaginable. When she had exclaimed in horror, he had stared at her with his brows raised; and when she had demanded what was to be done he had first required her to explain what she meant; and then, when he had received a pretty forthright explanation, he had continued to stare at her for a full minute, as though she had been talking gibberish; and had finally retired again into his book with a dryly uttered recommendation to her not to be so foolish.
But it was not she who was foolish, as she immediately pointed out to him. He might say what he liked (a generous permission of which he showed no disposition to avail himself) but she knew very well what was likely to come of throwing an inexperienced girl into the arms of a notorious libertine. There was no need for Sir John to tell her that Damerel would make no improper advances to a lady in Venetia’s situation: very likely he would not—though there could be no guessing what a man with such a reputation might do—but, pray, had he considered how extremely likely it was that he would induce the poor innocent to fall in love with him, and then go off, leaving her with a broken heart?
Thus straitly questioned Sir John said No, he had not considered this. He did not think Venetia a poor innocent: she was five-and-twenty, a woman of superior sense, and calm disposition; and in his opinion she was very well able to take care of herself. He added that he trusted that her ladyship would refrain alike from making a great piece of work about nothing, and from meddling in what was no concern of hers.
This stupid sort of indifference could not be allowed to pass without rebuke; but after Lady Denny had dealt with it as it deserved she began to think it might contain perhaps a grain of truth, and that nothing very dreadful, after all, would come of Venetia’s acquaintance with a rake. In any event she did not mean to encourage Edward Yardley’s pretensions, so when he said, in a grave tone, that doubtless she had heard of Aubrey’s unfortunate accident she made light of the whole affair, even going so far as to say that she was thankful that a happy chance had taken Damerel to the spot, and that he had had the good sense to send immediately for Dr. Bentworth.
This was going too far, and Edward’s countenance assumed an expression of severity. Lady Denny turned from him to greet Mr. and Mrs. Trayne, but the scion of the house, observing his lengthening upper lip, eyed him scornfully, and uttered in a sinister undervoice: “No need to put yourself about: Miss Lanyon knows she can rely on
me
!”
Since propriety forbade him to give young Mr. Denny a set-down Edward was obliged to pretend he had not heard this speech. His temper was ruffled, and his doubts returned; but during the course of the evening he derived a certain amount of consolation from Miss Denny, who confided to him that she sincerely pitied Venetia. In her eyes, which were filled with the sentimental vision of a blonde and handsome soldier, Damerel was horridly ugly, quite old, and not at all conversable. “Poor Venetia!” said gentle Clara. “She will be worn-out with civility, and bored to tears, I daresay! He hardly spoke to Emily or me when Papa brought him home once, and to Mama he talked the merest commonplace. That will never do for Venetia, will it? For she is so lively, and she is used, besides, to converse with you, and Aubrey. You are all of you so very clever!”
Edward was pleased, but he replied with an indulgent smile at feminine simplicity: “I hope my conversation is
rational,
but I don’t pretend to scholarship, you know. In that line I fear I am quite outshone by Aubrey!”