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 Ipreferred 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.