“No—that is, she does not know him, but only his reputation, and I fancy she thinks I might be taken-in.”

“Oh!” He frowned ahead, checking his horses a little as they approached the lodge-gates. “I don’t know much about such things, but I shouldn’t think you would be. Ought I to ask Jasper what his intentions are?”

She could not help laughing. “I beg you will not!”

“Well, I’d as lief not,” he owned. “Besides, I see no sense in it: he couldn’t tell me he meant to seduce you, even if he did, and, anyway, what a totty-headed notion that is! Why, when I wanted to get rid of Nurse he said she must stay at the Priory to play propriety! I never thought much about the stories people told of him, but I daresay they weren’t true. In any event, you probably know more about ’em than I do, and if you don’t care why should I?”

They had passed through the gates by this time, and were bowling up the avenue that wound through the park. Venetia said: “I don’t know why anyone should care, but they all seem to think that because I’ve lived my whole life in this one place I must be a silly innocent with much more hair than wit. I’m glad you don’t, love. I can’t tell what may happen, but—if Damerel did wish to marry me— you at least wouldn’t dislike it, would you?”

“No, I think I should be glad of it,” he replied. “I shall be going up to Cambridge, of course, next year, but there will be the vacations, you know, and I’d rather by far spend them in Damerel’s house than in Conway’s.”

This view of the matter made her smile, but no more was said, for at that moment the last bend in the avenue brought the house into sight, and she was surprised to see that a laden post-chaise-and-four was drawn up at the door.

“Hallo, what’s this?” exclaimed Aubrey. “Good God, it must be Conway!”

“No, it isn’t,” Venetia said, catching sight of a feathered bonnet. “It’s a female! But who in the world—oh, can it be Aunt Hendred?”

But when Aubrey pulled his horses up behind the chaise and the visitor turned, Venetia found herself staring down at a complete stranger. She was still more astonished by the discovery that the stranger was apparently superintending the removal from the chaise of a formidable quantity of portmanteaux and bandboxes. She turned her bewildered gaze towards Ribble, her brows lifting in a mute question; but he was looking quite stunned, and before she could ask for an explanation the stranger, who was middle-aged lady, dressed in the height of fashion, stepped forward, saying with an air of affable assurance: “Miss Venetia Lanyon? But I need not ask! And the poor little lame boy? I am Mrs. Scorrier, which you have perhaps guessed—though the butler seems not to have been informed of our expected arrival!”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Venetia, descending from the phaeton, “but there must be some mistake! I am afraid I don’t understand!”

Mrs. Scorrier stared at her for a moment, an expression far removed from affability in her face. “Do you mean to tell me that what that man said is true, and you have not received a letter from—I might have known it! oh, I should certainly have guessed as much when I discovered in London that no notice had been sent to the Gazette!”

“Notice?” repeated Venetia. “Gazette?”

Recovering her affability. Mrs. Scorrier said, with a little laugh: “So naughty and forgetful of him! I shall give him a tremendous scold, I promise you! I daresay you must be quite at a loss. Well, I have brought you a surprise, but not, I hope, an unpleasant one! Charlotte, my pet!”

In response to this call, which was directed towards the open door, a very fair girl, with large, apprehensive eyes of a light blue, a quantity of flaxen ringlets, and a soft, over-sensitive mouth, emergedfrom the house, saying, in a nervous breathless voice: “Yes, Mama?”

“Come here, my love!” invited Mrs. Scorrier. “Dear child! Yon have been so anxious to meet your new sister, and your little lame brother, have you not? Here they both are! Yes, Miss Lanyon: this is Lady Lanyon!”

XI

The shock held Venetia silent for several moments, which was perhaps fortunate, since the first thought to leap to her mind was that the announcement could not be true. She realized immediately that it must be true; and, as the extraordinary nature of the situation came home to her, began to laugh. “Oh, how outrageous of Conway, and how like him!” she exclaimed. She put out her hand to Charlotte. “How do you do? What a shocking welcome you have had to your new home! You must forgive us, for indeed we had not the least notion that we were to have this pleasure! I collect that Conway is not with you? Where— Oh, you will tell us all about it presently, but first I must see Mrs. Gurnard—our housekeeper, and tell her which rooms to prepare. Pray let me take you in! I daresay you must both be tired after your journey.”

She led the way into the house, and to the drawing-room, where a fire had recently been lit, and begged the two ladies to be seated. Charlotte, who seemed to be too shy to raise her eyes for more than an instant, murmured something about kindness, and being so very sorry, to which Venetia replied smilingly: “Now that we have each of us begged pardon of the other I think we should unite in abusing the real culprit, don’t you? I believe Conway would do almost anything rather than write a letter—to him a Herculean labour!—but it is certainly too bad of him to have failed on this occasion! Won’t you take off your hat, and your pelisse? I am sure you will be glad of some refreshment after your journey: do you like tea? You shall have some directly, and then I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Thank you! So very kind! If it is not a trouble!”

Mrs. Scorrier, who had been looking appraisingly about her, laughed at this, and exclaimed: “You will make Miss Lanyon think you quite a goose, my love, if you talk like that! You must remember that you are in your own house, must she not, dear Miss Lanyon? Some tea would be very welcome, though I do not in general indulge in that luxury at this hour. But Charlotte, I must tell you, is in a delicate situation, and although we lay at Doncaster last night I daresay she is quite done-up.”

“In a delicate situation!” Venetia looked in some amazement at Charlotte. “You have been married for some time, then!”

“July,” whispered Charlotte, blushing. “Conway was on furlough, you see—in Paris.”

“I don’t wonder you should look amazed, Miss Lanyon!” said Mrs. Scorrier, disposing herself on a sofa beside the fire, and drawing off her gloves. “I promise you I was so much amazed that I let Sir Conway sweep me quite off my feet. Such a whirlwind-romance as it was! A case of love at first sight, and nothing would do for Sir Conway but to carry his treasure back to Headquarters with him. Indeed, I believe if I had refused my consent to the marriage he would positively have eloped with her!”

“Oh, Mama!” faintly protested Charlotte.

“But—you were not previously acquainted? I had supposed—Well, that was certainly a romance! I shall look forward to your telling me all about it—when you have had some tea!”

She excused herself gracefully, and went away to confer with Mrs. Gurnard. She had seen her standing at the foot of the stairs when she had entered the house, and had known, without venturing to meet her speaking eye, that she was far from pleased. She had now acquired reinforcements, in the persons of Nurse and Ribble, and no more than a glance at these three devoted retainers was enough to inform Venetia that trouble lay ahead. No time was lost in disclosing its root: upon being desired to send in a tea-tray to the new arrivals Mrs. Gurnard replied in icy accents: “I have already ordered it to be done, Miss Venetia— her ladyship’s mama having desired me to do so. Not,” she added carefully, “that it was necessary for her to have spoken to me on the matter, for it was on the tip of my tongue to have asked her ladyship if she would take some tea, or a glass of wine, to refresh her after her journey.”

“Miss Venetia!” broke in Nurse. “In my very hearing that Mrs. Scorrier, or whatever she calls herself, told Mrs. Gurnard to be sure the beds were well-aired! If she had had the audacity to say such a thing to me I’d have told her to her head that this is a gentleman’s seat, and not a common inn!”

“I would not so demean myself, Nurse,” said Mrs. Gurnard loftily. “But when it comes to her saying that the best bedchamber must be prepared instantly for her ladyship—”

“and informing us that until her fine London abigail arrives here one of the housemaids must wait on her ladyship!” interpolated Nurse.

“—I felt obliged to say, miss, that no doubt you would give me whatever orders you thought proper.”

“That’s just what I said, ma’am!” nodded Ribble approvingly. “The lady seemed to feel, Miss Venetia, that without she attended to the matter herself no one here would think to send in to York tomorrow to meet the young woman, who, I understand, will be coming by the stage. I trust I was able to set her mind at rest. I assured her, miss, that I shouldn’t fail to ask you what you wish done.”

With a sinking heart Venetia applied herself to the task of soothing these ruffled sensibilities. With only one of the indignant parties did she achieve a modicum of success: Nurse, learning that the bride was already in the family way, showed by the fanatical light in her eyes that this circumstance did much to reconcile her to Charlotte. Though lamentably unworthy of the position she had been called upon to fill she could (and, indeed, must) be tolerated for the sake of the infant over whom Nurse had every intention of exercising the fullest control. Mrs. Gurnard, foreseeing that the happy event would elevate Nurse once more to her vacated throne, spoke ominously of her advancing years and inability to accustom herself to new ways; and Ribble, not presuming to comment upon an affair of such delicacy, added a still more sinister note to the symposium by begging leave to enquire whether Mrs. Scorrier would be making a prolonged stay at Undershaw.

Having succeeded in slightly mollifying these important members of the household Venetia prepared to grapple with the far more difficult task of persuading Aubrey to behave at least with propriety towards his sister-in-law and her mama. He had driven off to the stables without having uttered one word, and Venetia had thought it prudent to refrain from making any attempt to detain him. She guessed that he must have come into the house through the garden-door, and went to look for him in the library, reflecting, as she walked down the broad passage that led to it from the front hall, that a very little of Mrs. Scorrier’s somewhat overpowering personality would suffice to turn Aubrey into as obstinate a recluse as ever his father had been. As she had expected, he was in the library. He had obviously been awaiting her appearance with a good deal of impatience, for he demanded almost before she had shut the door into the ante-room: “What have you done with them? Do you believe such a tale? I don’t! Even Conway couldn’t serve us such a trick!”

“That was my own thought,” she admitted. “But it won’t do, love: it must be true! A horrid shock, wasn’t it? I don’t yet know how we are to make the best of it, but that’s what we must do.”

“Don’t you know? Then I’ll tell yon! We’ll set up house for ourselves—exactly as you planned to do in this event!”

“Yes, of course, but we can’t do so immediately, my dear! You must perceive how impossible it would be! Until Conway returns I’m responsible for Undershaw.”

“And failing you, Mytchett!” he said swiftly. “Conway empowered both of you to act for him. I remember Mytchett’s coming here to discuss the terms of the power of attorney with you before he sent it to Conway to be signed!”

“To be sure he did, but that was because he knew he was very much fitter than I to take care of the invested capital, and, of course, any legal business that might arise. He did not bargain to have all the everyday affairs of the estate thrust upon him as well. Besides, Aubrey, we could not leave Undershaw the instant Conway’s wife entered it! It would be most improper, and unkind as well.”

“As improper and as unkind as to have foisted her on to us without one word of warning?”

“Well, I fancy that wasn’t her fault. In fact, I’m sure of it. Poor creature, she is so much mortified she dare hardly speak above a whisper! I am very sorry for her. And I don’t find her in the least objectionable, love: she seems to be a gentle, shy sort, of a girl, and I daresay we shall soon grow to be very much attached to her.”