She could only marvel at him. She had never possessed the key to his mind, and what circumstance it was that made him now so calmly confident was beyond her power to fathom. She did not believe him to be desperately in love with her; she could only suppose that having once made up his mind that she was the wife that would best suit him he had either grown too accustomed to the idea to be able easily to relinquish it, or that the good opinion he had of himself made it impossible for him to believe that she could in all seriousness reject his offer. He did not appear to be put out by her blunt speech; he seemed rather to have decided that she must be humoured, and he adopted an attitude of kindly tolerance, such as a goodnatured man might assume towards a spoiled child.
He could not refrain from chiding her a little for having gone away from Undershaw without sending to inform him of her intention: he had heard the news from his mother, who, in her turn, had had it from Lady Denny, and a severe shock it had been to him. However, he forgave her, and did not mean to scold, for none could guess better than he how distracted she must have been. That led him to animadvert on Conway’s marriage, and on that subject he spoke with a good deal of proper feeling, and in more forthright language than it was his custom to employ when talking to Venetia of her brother. He owned that he had thought better of Conway; and in discussing the affair expressed himself so much like a sensible man that Venetia began to be in charity with him again. He had thought it right to take his mother to leave cards on Lady Lanyon; they had stayed no longer than twenty minutes, but half that space of time would have sufficed to provide him with a pretty fair notion of Mrs. Scorrier’s character. She was an intolerable woman! He found no harm in Charlotte, but it had caused him a pang to see such a dab of a girl supplanting Venetia as mistress of Undershaw. He was sorry for her; he had formed the impression that her situation was not comfortable; and when Mrs. Scorrier had begun to talk of Aubrey’s removal to the Priory, setting it down, of course, to his jealousy, and trying to persuade them that she had done all she could to reconcile him, she had looked as if she might burst into tears. A poor-spirited female! For his part he saw nothing to admire in her: Conway would have done better to have kept faith with Clara Denny.
“Poor Clara! If only she could bring herself to see how very well out of a bad bargain she is!”
He said gravely: “I fancy she does in part realize that she was mistaken in Conway, but it is too soon yet for her to derive consolation from the knowledge that he is unworthy. I am sincerely sorry for her: the consciousness of her own fault weighs very heavily on her spirits, but she behaves with great dignity and courage. I had some conversation with her, and trust I may have given her thoughts a more cheerful direction. The subject is not mentioned at Ebbersley, and that circumstance, you know, has deprived her of the benefit of such rational reflections on the affair as one would have supposed Sir John would have introduced to her mind.”
“I am glad you were kind to her,” Venetia said, her lip quivering involuntarily. “But tell me how it is at Undershaw! Do they go on fairly well? I don’t mean Charlotte and Mrs. Scorrier, but our people!”
“Tolerably well, I think, but it was not to be expected that your people would be well-disposed towards Lady Lanyon when her coming meant your departure. From what Powick said to me, a se’ennight ago, they guess how it is, and resent it. You may be sure I said nothing to Powick to encourage such notions, but I could not but reflect, as I rode away from him, how much to blame—though unwittingly— I am for the awkwardness of the business.”
“You?” she exclaimed. “My dear Edward, what can you mean? Only one person is blameworthy, and that is Conway! You had nothing to do with it!”
“I had nothing to do with Conway’s marriage, nor could I have prevented it: that was not my meaning. But his conduct has shown me that the scruples which forbade me to urge you to consent to our marriage, after Sir Francis’s death, have resulted in an unfortunate situation which, had you been already established at Netherfold, would not have arisen. The present arrangement is on all counts to be lamented. I say nothing of the undesirable gossip it must give rise to—for although Aubrey might naturally have come with you to London, it cannot be thought natural that he should have chosen rather to remove no more than a few miles from Undershaw—but while he is within reach, and, indeed, frequently sees Powick, and your keeper, your people won’t render allegiance to Conway’s wife. I cannot think that right, and I suspect, moreover, that they are falling into the way of applying to him in any little difficulty.”
“I wonder what advice he gives them?” she said. “One never knows with Aubrey! He might give very good advice— if he happened to be in an amiable mood!”
“He should not give any. And however much cause he has to feel obliged to Lord Damerel he ought not to be living under his roof. I do not deny his lordship’s good-nature, but his influence I must think most undesirable, particularly for Aubrey. He is a man of few morals, and the tone of his mind must render him a most unfit companion for a lad of Aubrey’s age and disposition.”
It was a struggle to suppress the indignation which surged up in her, but she managed to say with tolerable composure: “You are mistaken if you imagine that Aubrey stands in danger of being corrupted by his association with Damerel. Damerel would no more dream of such a thing than you would yourself, even if it were possible, which I very much doubt! Aubrey is not easily influenced!”
His smile was one of conscious superiority. He said: “I am afraid that is a subject on which you must allow me to be a better judge than you, Venetia. We won’t argue about it, however—indeed, I should be sorry to engage in any sort of discussion with you on a matter that is not only beyond the female comprehension, but which one could not wish to see within it!”
“Then you were ill-advised to mention it!”
He returned no other answer than a slightly ironical bow, and immediately began to talk of something else. She was thankful that her aunt just then came back into the room, affording her a chance to escape, which she instantly seized, saying that she had a letter she must finish writing before dinner, and must therefore bid her visitor goodbye.
For how long he meant to remain in London she had been unable to discover, but from the evasive nature of his reply to that question she feared he contemplated a visit of indefinite duration. How to bear his company with patience, or how to convince him that his was a sleeveless errand, were problems not made easier to solve by Mrs. Hendred’s well-meaning efforts to further his suit.
Venetia soon discovered that during the period he had spent alone with her aunt he had made an excellent impression on her. In her view he was the stuff of which good husbands were made, for he was kind, dependable, of reasonable consequence, and comfortably circumstanced. He had succeeded in persuading her to the belief that his tardiness in bringing Venetia to the point was due to no lack of ardour, but to the nicety of his principles. Mrs. Hendred, herself a high stickler, perfectly understood his patience, and honoured him for it. He rapidly became established in her mind as a figure of unselfish devotion, and she thought it all very noble and touching, and spared no pains to bring this Jacob’s labours to a happy conclusion. She promoted his plans for Venetia’s entertainment and instruction, included him in her own schemes, and invited him so many times to take what she inaccurately called his pot-luck in Cavendish Square that Venetia was forced to protest, and to disclose that so far from having abandoned her intention of setting up her own establishment she was the more confirmed in it, and had inspected a house in Hans Town which she thought might be made into a comfortable home for herself and Aubrey.