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.”
“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.