Mr. Hendred, his ill-health notwithstanding, was seldom in Cavendish Square for many days together, but seemed to spend a large part of his time in posting about the country on errands either of private or of public business. It did not appear to Venetia that he took much part in the rearing of his offspring or in the management of his household, but he was held in great respect by everyone, his few commands being instantly and unquestioningly obeyed, and any of his reported utterances being accepted as clinchers to every dispute. Upon installing Venetia in his house, and telling her that she was to apply to him for such sums of money as she required, he left her to his wife to entertain, confining his attentions to the expression every now and then of his hope that she was enjoying herself.
To a certain extent she was enjoying herself. It would have been impossible for her not to have been diverted and interested on the occasion of her first visit to London, where everything was new to her, and so much was wonderful. Her aunt might wish that she could have taken her to the Opera, and to Almack’s, and say a dozen times in a week: “If you had only been here during the season—!” but country-bred Venetia was in a puzzle to know how any more amusements could be squeezed into days already crammed with engagements. London was rather thin of company, but enough members of the haut ton, who shared Mrs. Hendred’s opinion of country life, had flocked back to the metropolis at the beginning of October to constitute what to Venetia was a crowd; and a very respectable number of gilt-edged invitation-cards had been delivered in Cavendish Square. Even the shabbiest play was a treat to one who had never before been inside a theatre; a drive in Hyde Park could hardly be accomplished without Mrs. Hendred’s pointing out to her some notable figure; and a walk down Bond Street, the most fashionable lounge in town, was fraught with interest and amusement, since while on the one hand one encountered there Pinks of astonishing elegance, there were also surely the finest shops in the world to be gazed at. Nor was Venetia’s mind so elevated as to disdain fashion: she was possessed of natural good taste, and the dresses she brought with her from Yorkshire quite relieved Mrs. Hendred’s mind of its fear that she might be a dowd, and had even drawn from her dresser a few words of rare praise; but she was perfectly ready to add to her wardrobe, and, indeed, took a good deal of pleasure in rigging herself out in the first stare of the mode. In her aunt’s company, too, she found endless amusement, for, having lived with selfish persons all her life, she was not in the least alienated by Mrs. Hendred’s determination to let nothing interfere with her own comfort, but continued to think her comical, and to like her very well. But under her enjoyment there was a dull ache of unhappiness, never forgotten, and sometimes turning to acute anguish. She could not banish Damerel from her mind, or cease from thinking, involuntarily, of what she would tell him about St. Paul’s Cathedral, or how he would laugh when he heard of Mrs. Hendred’s conviction that by causing a plate of hard biscuits to be set at her elbow at every meal, while she partook of such delectable dishes as truffle pie and lobster patties, she was adhering to a strict and a reducing diet. Even as the mischievous smile quivered on her lips the recollection that she would never share a joke with him again, perhaps never see him again, would sweep over her, plunging her into such despair that she understood why people like poor Sir Samuel Romilly committed suicide, and envied them their escape from hopelessness. She lived for Aubrey’s infrequent letters, but they brought her little comfort. He was a poor correspondent; and such news as he sent her was mostly concerned with Undershaw. When he mentioned Damerel it was only to say that he had been out shooting with him, or had beaten him three times in succession at chess.
Hers was not a demonstrative nature, and she indulged in no floods of tears, or fits of lethargic abstraction. Only the stricken look in her eyes sometimes betrayed her, and made her aunt uneasy.
On the whole, she dealt very agreeably with Mrs. Hendred, and Mrs. Hendred was well pleased with her. She was an attentive companion; she dressed in admirable taste; her manners were graceful; and instead of being awkward and tongue-tied amongst strangers, as might have been expected, she was perfectly assured, and could converse as easily with a clever man as with a stupid one.
Mrs. Hendred had only one fault to find with her behaviour, and that was her incurable independence. Nothing could persuade her that it was unbecoming in her to think she could manage her life without reference to her seniors, and positively improper of her to walk about London by herself. In almost every other respect Venetia was ready to oblige her, and even to defer to her judgment, but relinquish her freedom she would not. She went shopping alone; she walked alone in the parks; and no sooner did she discover that her aunt visited historic monuments only with extreme reluctance, and was interested in no pictures but those which were painted by fashionable artists, than she formed the appalling habit of sallying forth in the afternoon, while Mrs. Hendred recruited her forces with a peaceful nap on her bed, and driving off in a hack to such places as Westminster Abbey, or the Tower of London, or even to the British Museum.
“Which, setting aside every other consideration,” said Mrs. Hendred tragically, “is enough to make everyone think you a blue-stocking! Nothing could be more fatal!”
This conversation took place at the nuncheon table, and Venetia, who had been watching in great astonishment the extraordinary grimaces her aunt made every time she took a sip of wine, exclaimed: “My dear ma’am, are you sure there is not something wrong with that sherry you are drinking?”
As she spoke she chanced to glance at the butler. He was a wooden-faced individual, but at Venetia’s words he betrayed a quiver of emotion. This was immediately explained by Mrs. Hendred, who said, with a heavy sigh: “Not sherry, dearest: vinegar!”
“Vinegar?” repeated Venetia incredulously.
“Yes,” nodded her aunt, eyeing it despondently. “Bradpole has been obliged to let out my lavender satin—the one with the French bodice, and the train with French double trimming, and lace net all round the neck—two inches! I am obliged to reduce, and there is nothing like vinegar for that. Vinegar and hard biscuits. Byron lived on that diet, you know, because he had a great tendency to put on flesh, and in that way he kept himself down.”
“I wonder that he didn’t kill himself! Aunt, he cannot have subsisted on such a diet!”
“You wouldn’t think so,” agreed Mrs. Hendred, “but I know it’s what Rogers told me. The very first time he dined with Rogers he would partake of none of the dishes set before him, but only ate hard biscuits—or was it potatoes? I am not perfectly sure about that, but I know that he had vinegar.”
“Not to drink!” protested Venetia.