The worst feature of the affair, Edward decided, was the damage that would be done to her reputation if her daily visits to the Priory became known; and this possibility teased him so much that he told his mother the whole story.
A meek little woman, Mrs. Yardley, so colourless that no one would have suspected how deep and jealous was her adoration of her only child. Her skin was parchment, with thin, bloodless lips, and eyes of a shallow, faded blue; and her hair, which she wore neatly banded under a widow’s cap, was of an indeterminate hue, between sand and gray. She was not a talker, and she listened to Edward without comment, and almost without expression. Only when he told her, a trifle too casually, that Venetia was visiting Aubrey daily at the Priory did a flicker of emotion show in her eyes, and then it was no more than a darting, lizard-like look, gone as quickly as it had appeared. He did not notice it, but went on explaining all the circumstances to her, not asking her opinion, but rather instructing her, as his habit was. When he paused she said: “Yes,” in the flat voice that offered no clue to her thoughts. In general he would have been perfectly satisfied with this meagre response, but on this occasion he found it insufficient, because in telling her how unexceptionable it was for Venetia to visit the Priory when she had Nurse for a chaperon he had been arguing against his own convictions, and wanted reassurance.
“One couldn’t expect her not to do so,” he said. “You know how devoted she is to Aubrey!”
“Yes, indeed. He is very much obliged to her. I have always said so,” she replied.
“Oh, as to that—! I should be glad to think it, but he is one who takes all for granted. The thing is that there is no harm in Venetia’s visiting him.”
“Oh, no!”
“Under the circumstances, you know, and with Nurse there—and it is not as if she were a young girl, after all. I do not see that there is anything in it to set people talking, do you?”
“Oh, no! I am persuaded they will not.”
“Of course, I cannot like her being thrown into acquaintanceship with such a man, but I fancy I made it plain to him how the matter stands—just hinted him away, you know, in case he had some notion of trying to attach her. Not that I have any great apprehension of it: I believe I am a pretty good judge, and it did not seem to me that he was at all struck by her.”
“I expect she is not in his style.”
His countenance lightened. “No, very likely she is not! No doubt he is bored by virtuous females. And she, you know, doesn’t want for sense. Under that sportive playfulness she has true delicacy of character, and the tone of her mind is too nice to allow of her encouraging his lordship in any encroaching fancy.”
“Oh, no! I am persuaded she would not do so.”
He looked relieved; but after fidgeting with the blind-cord for a few moments he said in a vexed tone: “It is an awkward situation, however! I should be excessively reluctant to be obliged to be on terms of intimacy with Lord Damerel, even if we lived near enough to the Priory to make frequent visits to his house possible. In that event I should feel it to be my duty, perhaps— But to be riding thirty miles every day—there and back, you know!—is out of the question.”
“Oh, yes, dear, you are very right! I don’t think you should go there at all. I daresay Aubrey will be well enough to go home in a day or two, and it is not to be supposed that Lord Damerel will continue at the Priory for long. He never does so, does he?”
This placid view of the matter did much to allay his uneasiness; and he was further relieved by the discovery, on the following evening, when he escorted his mother to a dinner-party at Ebbersley, that his hostess regarded it as a matter of no particular moment.
In this he was mistaken, but Lady Denny did not like sententious young men, and she took care to conceal the dismay she had felt ever since Sir John had broken the news to her. Sir John had had it from Damerel, whom he had encountered in Thirsk, and had communicated it to her in the most casual way imaginable. When she had exclaimed in horror, he had stared at her with his brows raised; and when she had demanded what was to be done he had first required her to explain what she meant; and then, when he had received a pretty forthright explanation, he had continued to stare at her for a full minute, as though she had been talking gibberish; and had finally retired again into his book with a dryly uttered recommendation to her not to be so foolish.
But it was not she who was foolish, as she immediately pointed out to him. He might say what he liked (a generous permission of which he showed no disposition to avail himself) but she knew very well what was likely to come of throwing an inexperienced girl into the arms of a notorious libertine. There was no need for Sir John to tell her that Damerel would make no improper advances to a lady in Venetia’s situation: very likely he would not—though there could be no guessing what a man with such a reputation might do—but, pray, had he considered how extremely likely it was that he would induce the poor innocent to fall in love with him, and then go off, leaving her with a broken heart?
Thus straitly questioned Sir John said No, he had not considered this. He did not think Venetia a poor innocent: she was five-and-twenty, a woman of superior sense, and calm disposition; and in his opinion she was very well able to take care of herself. He added that he trusted that her ladyship would refrain alike from making a great piece of work about nothing, and from meddling in what was no concern of hers.
This stupid sort of indifference could not be allowed to pass without rebuke; but after Lady Denny had dealt with it as it deserved she began to think it might contain perhaps a grain of truth, and that nothing very dreadful, after all, would come of Venetia’s acquaintance with a rake. In any event she did not mean to encourage Edward Yardley’s pretensions, so when he said, in a grave tone, that doubtless she had heard of Aubrey’s unfortunate accident she made light of the whole affair, even going so far as to say that she was thankful that a happy chance had taken Damerel to the spot, and that he had had the good sense to send immediately for Dr. Bentworth.
This was going too far, and Edward’s countenance assumed an expression of severity. Lady Denny turned from him to greet Mr and Mrs. Trayne, but the scion of the house, observing his lengthening upper lip, eyed him scornfully, and uttered in a sinister undervoice: “No need to put yourself about: Miss Lanyon knows she can rely on me!”
Since propriety forbade him to give young Mr. Denny a set-down, Edward was obliged to pretend he had not heard this speech. His temper was ruffled, and his doubts returned; but during the course of the evening he derived a certain amount of consolation from Miss Denny, who confided to him that she sincerely pitied Venetia. In her eyes, which were filled with the sentimental vision of a blonde and handsome soldier, Damerel was horridly ugly, quite old, and not at all conversable. “Poor Venetia!” said gentle Clara. “She will be worn-out with civility, and bored to tears, I daresay! He hardly spoke to Emily or me when Papa brought him home once, and to Mama he talked the merest commonplace. That will never do for Venetia, will it? For she is so lively, and she is used, besides, to converse with you, and Aubrey. You are all of you so very clever!”
Edward was pleased, but he replied with an indulgent smile at feminine simplicity: “I hope my conversation is rational, but I don’t pretend to scholarship, you know. In that line I fear I am quite outshone by Aubrey!”
“Of course he is very bookish, isn’t he?” agreed Clara.
“That is how I should describe him, I own, but Lord Damerel, I apprehend, considers his intellect to be remarkable.”
“Does he? Yes, I expect it is, for I am sure I don’t understand above half the things he says. But you are very well-informed too, and you express yourself much more clearly, so that I am able to follow your arguments, even if I am not clever enough to take part in them.”
He had too great a regard for the truth to reassure her on this head, but he told her very kindly that he had no great liking for blue-stockings, and amused her with a paradox: that the wisest of her sex did not aspire to be cle
ver. She laughed heartily at this, exclaiming: “There! That is precisely what I meant when I said that Venetia would find Lord Damerel a bore! I daresay he would never think of saying anything as witty!”
So, while Lady Denny was trying to persuade herself that Venetia had too much commonsense to fall in love with a rake, Edward went home cheered by the vision of her being bored by Damerel’s lack of conversation. And since neither of them set eyes on her for a considerable period this peaceful complacency remained undisturbed by any knowledge of the glow of happiness which was giving an added bloom to the lovely Miss Lanyon’s beauty.
Aubrey remained for ten days at the Priory, and even the weather conspired to make them halcyon days for his sister. There was only one wet and chilly day in all the ten, and then the gold of the mellowing landscape crept into the house, for Damerel had a fire kindled in the library, and its light, flickering over the tooled backs of the volumes that lined the room from wainscot to cornice, made them glow like turning leaves. He carried Aubrey down, and laid him on a sofa, and they played three-handed cribbage, pored over books of engravings, discovered rare treasures on the crowded shelves, and argued hotly on every imaginable subject, from the esse of material things to the proposition that a black horse with no spot of white upon him must necessarily be full of mischief and misfortunes. Then Damerel brought out his Grecian sketch-book, setting Aubrey in a blaze; and Nurse, established by the window with her interminable tatting, looked over her spectacles at the group by the fire, and was satisfied. The Lanyons had their heads together over a book of pictures, Venetia on the floor beside the sofa, and Aubrey explaining them to her, and the pair of them looking up every now and then at his lorship and pelting him with questions as he stood leaning over the back of the sofa. Nurse saw them as children, and Damerel as an adult person, like herself, good-naturedly allowing them to tease him with their questions. Perhaps it was wrong to let them form the habit of such easy intercourse with a sinner, but although the Scriptures warned one that the wicked were like a troubled sea, whose waters cast up mire and dirt, they also yielded some pretty pungent warnings against backbiters and unrighteous witnesses. Every neighbour will walk with slanders, said the prophet Jeremiah, and one had only to cast an eye over the district to know how true that was. Nurse was much inclined to think that his lordship had been a victim of false report. If anyone were to ask her, all she could say was that she took people as she found them, and she had found him just what any gentleman of his age ought to be, behaving more like an uncle to Miss Venetia and Mr. Aubrey than a seducer, and understanding much better than most gentlemen how hard a task it was to take care of such a headstrong couple. If it was true that he had once run off with a married lady—well, it had happened a great many years ago, and Nurse knew what to think of such ladies: hussies, that’s what they were, and heaven help the young man they got their claws into! And if it were true that there had been nasty goings-on at the Priory only one year ago—well, the Scriptures adjured the wicked to forsake his way, and perhaps that was what his lordship had done. There were no nasty goings-on now, that was all Nurse knew.
It had taken Damerel three days to bring Nurse round his thumb: cutting a wheedle, Aubrey called it, when he had almost brought the trap down on him by going into stifled laughter at hearing Damerel agreeing with her that it was of no use to muffle all the furniture in holland covers, and hope to keep the moth away by such means; that indeed the chairs and the tables and the cabinets in the disused saloons ought to be well polished; that he would be only too glad if the whole house could be set in order. That had been quite enough for Nurse, never permitted at Undershaw to encroach on Mrs. Gurnard’s ground. But Mrs. Imber was a feckless, humble creature, who did as she was bid, and was grateful for advice and instruction. Nurse, who had gone to the Priory with the utmost reluctance, was enjoying herself enormously, and did not mean to leave it until, with the assistance of the Imbers, the gardener’s wife, and a Stout Girl from the village, she had (as Imber resentfully phrased it) turned the house out of doors. For the first time since the days when she had reigned over the nursery at Undershaw she held undisputed sway, and just as soon as she had decided that there was nothing to be feared from Damerel she relaxed her vigilance, and trotted about the great, rambling house, harrying her slaves, so deeply absorbed in housewifery that she neither noticed the glow in Venetia’s eyes nor suspected that when she supposed her to have gone home she was with Damerel, perhaps sitting in the garden, perhaps strolling along the river-bank, or allowing him to escort her back to Undershaw by the longest possible route.
Damerel’s groom and his valet both knew, but Nidd did not tell Nurse how many hours were spent in the Priory stables by Venetia’s mare, or the cob she drove in the gig; and Marston did not tell her, when she asked him if Venetia had gone home, that she had done so in his master’s company.
Nidd thought it was a queer set-out, but when he said as much to Marston he won no other response than a blank stare. But Marston thought it queer too, because it wasn’t like his lordship to throw out lures to innocent young ladies, much less sit in their pockets. He was loose in the haft, but not as loose as that. Or maybe he was too fly to the time of day to meddle with virgins of quality: Marston did not know, but he did know that in all the years he had served his lordship he had never seen him dangling after such a lady as Miss Lanyon. He had never seen him behave to any of his loves as he was behaving to her, either; or known him to stay so quiet and sober. He had not been as much as half-sprung since the day he carried Mr. Aubrey into the house, and that was a sure sign that he wasn’t bored, or in one of his black moods. He wasn’t even restless, yet he hadn’t meant to remain at the Priory above a day or two. They had been on their way to Lord Flavell’s shooting-lodge, but they were not going there after all: he had told Marston that he had written to cry off. Were they going back to London, then, when Mr. Aubrey had left the Priory? His lordship had made no plans, but thought he should remain in Yorkshire for a while.
It might be that he was amusing himself with a new kind of flirtation, but in any other man it would have looked remarkably like courtship. If that was it, Marston wondered whether Miss Lanyon knew what sort of a life his lordship had led, and what that elder brother of hers would have to say to such a match.
He would have been shocked had he guessed how much Venetia knew, and how much she was entertained by some of Damerel’s more repeatable adventures; and he would have been considerably astonished had he known on what terms of easy camaraderie this very odd couple stood.
They were fast friends: a stranger might have supposed them to be related, so frank and unceremonious were their interchanges, and so far removed from mere dalliance. Accepting, as a matter of tactics in the game few knew better than he how to play, the role of fidus Achates thrust upon him, Damerel soon found himself advising Venetia on knotty problems arising out of her stewardship of her elder brother’s estates, or discussing with her the peculiar difficulties presented by her younger brother’s apparent determination to allow his powerful mind to wear out his frail constitution. He gave her better advice than he had ever put into practice, but told her bluntly that there was little she could do to divert Aubrey from his devouring passion. “He has been too much alone. If it had been possible to have sent him to Eton he would no doubt have formed friendships there, but as it is he seems to have only two friends: yourself, and his old grinder—this parson he talks about: I forget his name. What he needs is to rub shoulders with sprigs of his own age and tastes—and to overcome his dread of being pitied or despised.”
She gave him a speaking glance. “Do you know, you are the first person ever to have perceived that he hates his lameness in that way? Even Dr. Bentworth doesn’t properly understand, and I can only guess, because he doesn’t speak of it. But he has talked to you, hasn’t he? He told me the thing you said to him—that if you were offered the choice between a splendid body or a splendid mind you would choose the mind, because it would long
outlast the body. I know he was a good deal struck, for he would not else have told me about it, and I was so grateful I could have embraced you!”
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