Mrs. Hendred, somnolent after her sumptuous repast, had dozed peacefully through the first act of the play, and was now listening sleepily to Edward’s measured discourse, and wishing that the curtain would rise on the second act, and so allow her to drop off again. Edward’s voice was monotonous enough to make it hard for her to remain awake, but she was saved from sliding back into sleep by Venetia’s saying suddenly: “Aunt, who is that lady in the box over there?”
There was a sharpened note in her voice which startled Mrs. Hendred enough to rouse her, and drive away the fog of drowsiness. She straightened herself, giving her plump shoulders a little twitch, and said: “Which lady, my love?” in a slightly thickened voice, but with an assumption of bright interest.
“Almost directly opposite, ma’am! I can’t point to her, because she is watching me. She has been doing so these past ten minutes, and I— Aunt Hendred, who is she?”
“My dear, I’m sure I don’t know, for I saw no one in any of the boxes with whom I am acquainted. Which box do you say—” She stopped with a gasp, and ejaculated in a stunned tone: “Good God!”
Venetia’s hands were tightly clasped over her folded fan; she said: “You know her, don’t you, ma’am?”
“No, no!” declared Mrs. Hendred. “Good gracious, no! As though I should know any female who wore such a dress! The most indecent— Dear child, don’t seem to notice them! Such impertinence, staring at you like— Hush, my love, the curtain is going up and we must not talk any more! Dear me, how I long to discover what will happen in this act! An excellent first act, was it not? I don’t know when I have enjoyed a play more! Ah, here is the comical man, and his valet! We mustn’t talk, or we shall miss the diverting things they say!”
“Only tell me, ma’am—”
“’Sh,” uttered Mrs. Hendred.
As this sibilant command was endorsed by the party in the adjoining box, in an even more menacing manner, Venetia relapsed into silence. Mrs. Hendred was agitatedly fanning herself; and instead of joining in the burst of laughter which greeted one of the diverting things that was said on the stage she seize the opportunity to tweak Edward’s sleeve, and, upon his bending towards her, to whisper something in his ear. Venetia, who had not joined in the laughter either, but who was sitting bolt upright, an expression on her face compound of incredulity and bewilderment, did not hear what was said; but in another minute or two Edward whispered to her: “Venetia, your aunt is feeling faint! You will not object to removing from this box? It is very stuffy— I am conscious of it myself, and believe Mrs. Hendred will revive if she can but be got into the air!”
Venetia rose with alacrity, and, while Edward led the afflicted lady out, she flung her own cloak over her shoulders, caught up her aunt’s, and slipped out of the box, to find two of the attendants solicitously reviving Mrs. Hendred with smelling-salts, vigorous fanning, and drops of water sprinkled on her brow. Her colour seemed a trifle high for a lady on the brink of a swoon, but when Edward, who was looking very grave, told Venetia, in a lowered voice, that he thought they should take her home as soon as she was a little recovered, Venetia at once agreed to it, and recommended him (since Mrs. Hendred’s coachman would not bring her carriage to the theatre for another hour) to go at once to summon a hackney. He went off immediately, to confer with the door-keeper; and Mrs. Hendred, allowing herself to be supported by the two box-attendants to the stairway, said, in failing accents, that she feared her unfortunate indisposition was due to the evil effect upon her system of woodcock a la Royale. “Or, perhaps, it was the croque enbouche aux pistaches, but I would not for the world say so to Mr. Yardley!”
Venetia replied to this with remarkable calm, making no attempt, either then or when she sat beside her aunt in the somewhat malodorous vehicle procured for their conveyance, to repeat the question which had played so large a part in throwing Mrs. Hendred into queer stirrups. But when Mrs. Hendred, upon arrival in Cavendish Square, announced her intention of instantly retiring to bed, she said, with more amusement than concern: “Yes, if you wish, ma’am, but I warn you I am not to be so easily fobbed off! I’ll go with you!”
“No, no, dear child! I can feel one of my spasms coming on! That is, I can’t imagine what you can possibly— Worting, why do you not send to fetch Miss Bradpole to me, when you can see how unwell I am?”
Before Worting could remind his mistress that she had granted her dresser leave of absence until eleven o’clock, Edward, who had accompanied the ladies into the house, intervened, saying heavily: “I believe, ma’am, upon consideration, that the wisest course will be for you to inform your niece of the circumstance which made it unhappily necessary for us to quit the theatre before the end of the act.”
“You may depend upon it that it will be!” said Venetia. “Do you take my aunt upstairs to the drawing-room, while I mix a dose of hartshorn and water for her! That will make you feel very much more the thing, dear ma’am!”
She ran lightly up the stairs, as she spoke, heedless of the protesting moan that pursued her.
When she presently entered the drawing-room, it was to find her aunt sunk into an armchair, her expression that of one resigned to the worst bludgeonings of fate. Edward, his countenance preternaturally solemn, was standing on the hearth-rug; and Worting, having lit the candles and made up the fire, was preparing to take his reluctant departure.
Mrs. Hendred distastefully eyed the potion her niece had prepared, but accepted the glass with faint thanks. Venetia glanced over her shoulder to be sure the door was firmly shut behind Worting; and then said, without preamble: “Who was that lady, ma’am?”
Mrs. Hendred shuddered; but Edward, who had apparently taken the conduct of the affair on himself, replied with deliberation: “She is Lady Steeple, my dear Venetia. She was accompanied, Mrs. Hendred informs me, by her husband, Sir Lambert Steeple. I am aware, however, that these names can convey but little to you.”
“An understatement, Edward!” Venetia interrupted. “They convey nothing whatsoever to me, and I wish very much that you will allow my aunt to answer for herself! Ma’am, when I first caught sight of her I had the oddest feeling— But I knew it to be impossible, and thought it was just one of those resemblances for which there is no accounting. Only she stared at me so hard, and directed her husband’s attention to me, and lifted her hand, not quite waving to me, but—but as though she meant it as a sign of recognition! It cannot be so, of course, but the most fantastic notion shot into my brain! I—I thought she was my mother!”
Mrs. Hendred moaned, and took a sip of hartshorn and water. “Oh, my dear child!”
“Your quickness of wit, Venetia, has made it easier for me to discharge the unpleasant duty—for such I feel it to be under these unforeseen circumstances—of divulging to you that she is, in fact, your mother,” said Edward.
“But my mother is dead!” exclaimed Venetia. “She has been dead for years!”
“Oh, if only she had been!” Mrs. Hendred set down the glass she was holding, and added bitterly: “I said it at the time, and I shall always say it! I knew she would never cease to afflict us! And just now, when we thought she was fixed in Paris—! I shouldn’t wonder at it if she came back on purpose to ruin you, my poor child, for what has she ever done but make trouble, besides being the most unnatural parent!”
“But how is this possible?” demanded Venetia, looking, and, indeed, feeling, quite stunned. “Mama—Lady Steeple?Then—”
“I don’t wonder that you should find it difficult to understand,” said Edward kindly. “Yet I fancy that a moment’s reflection will inform you of how it must have been. Let me suggest to you, my dear Venetia, that you sit down in this chair, while I procure a glass of water for you. This has been a shock to you. It could not be otherwise, and although the truth must have been divulged to you it has been my earnest hope that this need not have been until you had become established in life.”