Yet that was what had happened, for Damerel, though not precisely corresponding to the creature of the dream, was certainly a ravisher. But instead of seeking protection from his loathsome advances Venetia, utterly deceived by the mask he wore, was positively encouraging them. Like the statue, she had been brought to life, but not by a goddess, not even by her heroic young adorer, but by her would-be seducer.

As he watched the meeting of their eyes, and listened to their light, funning talk, some hardly recognized perception of the affinity between them made Oswald feel so sick with hatred of Damerel that he could not bring himself to respond to any of the attempts made to draw him into the conversation, but answered only in a manner that sounded boorish even in his own ears, and soon took an abrupt leave of his hostess. This hatred, so much more intense than the dislike he felt for Edward Yardley, or the jealousy with which he would have regarded any other rival, sprang from his unacknowledged recognition in Damerel of the romantic figure he himself longed to become. He was the devil-may-care outlaw who roamed the world, dark secrets locked in his bosom, nameless crimes littering his past; and had Venetia not existed Oswald would almost certainly have copied his style of dress, his unconventional manners, and would have done his best to have acquired his air of unconcerned assurance. These were all things which a youth chafing against the restrictions of a polite age admired: but when he met them in a rival he bitterly resented them, because he knew himself to be at a disadvantage, playing the Corsair’s role in front of the Corsair himself.

Had Sir John been privileged to know what emotions were raging in his son’s breast he might have regretted his decision not to send him up to Oxford or Cambridge, but he was too well accustomed to Oswald’s moodiness to attach any significance to what he thought a fit of the sullens, arising out of the boy’s calf-love for Venetia. He merely trusted that this phase would be as short-lived as it was violent, and paid no other heed to it than to recommend Oswald not to make a fool of himself. Lady Denny would have shown more sympathy had she had the leisure to study him, but Edward Yardley, not content (she said) with contracting chicken-pox himself, had communicated it to Anne, the youngest of the Denny family, whom he had met out walking with the rest of the schoolroom party on the very day he later took to his bed. He was so kind as to indulge her with a ride on his horse, for he was very fond of children, and that was when the mischief must have been done. Anne had lost no time in passing it on to her next sister, Louisa, and to the nursery-maid; and Lady Denny lived in hourly expectation of seeing a rash break out on Elizabeth as well, and had no eyes for her only son’s spiritual ills.

Having no particular friend in the neighbourhood, and despising the company of his sisters, Oswald had very little to do but brood over the disastrous effect of Damerel’s continued residence at the Priory; and it was not long before he had persuaded himself that before Damerel’s arrival on the scene he had been in a fair way to winning Venetia. He recalled every instance of her past kindness, and by magnifying these, minimizing her occasional snubs, and contrasting both with her present attitude he soon became convinced that Damerel had deliberately cut him out, and occupied most of his waking hours trying to think how best to win her back.

He had arrived at no satisfactory answer to this problem when he became an unsuspected witness of an episode which brought all his festering resentment to a head. Having ridden to Undershaw on the flimsiest excuse, the first sight to meet his eyes, as he dismounted in the stableyard, was Damerel’s big gray being led into the stable by Aubrey’s groom. Fingle said, with the hint of a dour smile, that his lordship had ridden in not five minutes earlier, bringing with him a book for Mr. Aubrey. Oswald vouchsafed no reply to this, but he looked so thunderous that the hinted smile grew into a broad grin, as Fingle watched him stride off towards the house.

Ribble, opening the door to Oswald, rather thought that Miss Venetia was in the garden; but when Oswald asked ominously after Lord Damerel he shook his head. He had not seen his lordship that day.

“Oh, indeed?” said Oswald. “Yet his horse is in the stables!”

Ribble did not seem to be surprised, but he looked a little worried, and replied after a moment’s pause that his lordship very often walked up to the house through the garden, entering it by way of the door Sir Francis had had made in the ante-room which led to his library. Ribble added, as Oswald gave a snort of indignation: “His lordship frequently brings Mr. Aubrey books, sir, and stays talking with him for quite a while—about his studies, I understand.”

There was a troubled note in his voice, but Oswald did not hear it, or realize that Ribble was trying to reassure himself. He thought him a gullible old fool, and turned on his heel, saying that if Miss Lanyon was in the garden he would look for her there, since he had come to visit her, not Mr. Aubrey. He strode off, seething with anger. Even Edward Yardley, who had been permitted to enter Undershaw for years, never did so except through the front door, yet this buccaneering stranger was apparently free to walk in whenever he chose, and without the least ceremony.

There was no sign of Venetia either in the gardens or the shrubbery, but just as Oswald was about to follow Damerel’s example, and go into the house through the ante-room door, he bethought him of the orchard. She was not there either, but Oswald heard her voice, raised in laughing protest, and coming from an old barn, which had once housed cattle, and had been used of late years as a storehouse for the gardener’s tools and a workshop for Aubrey, who occasionally amused himself with carpentry. There was no mistaking the voice that spoke in answer to hers, and when he heard it Oswald fell into such a fever of suspicious rage that without so much as considering the impropriety of his conduct he went stealthily up to the barn, and paused beside the big double-door, out of sight, but well within hearing of whatever might be going on inside the barn. A cautious peep revealed no glimpse of Venetia, but it did show him Damerel’s back-view, as he stood in the middle of the floor with his head tilted back, as though Venetia were some way above him.

This puzzled Oswald, unfamiliar with the barn, but, in fact, Venetia had mounted by means of a short ladder into the open loft which covered half the barn, to rescue a litter of hungry kittens, whose parent, absent from her duties for a day and a night, was presumed to have met with an untimely end. Damerel had located her by the simple expedient of calling her name, and had been instantly summoned to her assistance. “For that ladder is not at all steady, and I had as lief not climb down it carrying the kittens,” she explained.

“Is that what you have in that basket?” he asked. “How the deuce did they get up there?”

“Oh, they were born here! It’s the kitchen-cat: she always comes here to have her kittens. But I’m afraid something must have happened to her this time, and the poor little things are starving. That I cannot bear, though if they can’t lap yet I suppose they will have to be drowned.”

“Well, that fate will be preferable to starvation,” he said. “Hand over the orphans!”

She knelt on the edge of the loft, and reached the basket down to his upstretched hand. He grasped it, and set it down on the floor, and looked up again, rather wickedly smiling. “Shall I hold the ladder for you, my dear delight?”

“Certainly not!” said Venetia firmly.

“But you said it was unsteady!”

“It is, but if I could come up it I can come down it.”

“Do!” he said cordially. “I shall have a stiff neck if I’m obliged to converse with you at that level. Or shall I come up?”

She looked down at him with laughter in her eyes, but said severely: “No, you will not come up! Odious creature! You know very well I can’t come down that ladder while you stand there watching me!”

“Can’t you? Oh, that’s easily remedied!” he retorted, and removed the ladder, and laid it down.

It was this impish action which drew the protest from her which Oswald heard. “Fiend!” she said. “Do put it back, and go away!”

“Not I!” he replied, grinning up at her.

“But it is most unchivalrous of you!” she complained.

“No, no, on the contrary! The ladder is clearly unsafe.”

She tried to make her mouth prim, but failed. “Do you know, my dear friend, that besides being most ungentlemanly you are shockingly untruthful?” she enquired.

“No, am I? Do you know entrancing your face is when seen from this angle?”

She was still kneeling, resting her hands on the edge of the loft, and looking directly down at him. “Upside down? Well, of all the unhandsome things to say! Now, Damerel, will you be so very obliging as to stop behaving like a horrid schoolboy, and set the ladder up again?”

“No, dear torment, I will not!”

“Wretch! Do you mean to keep me a prisoner up here? I warn you, the instant your back is turned I shall jump down!”

“Oh, don’t wait for that! Jump now!” he said. “I’ll catch you!”

“Thank you, I had as lief not be caught!”

“What, are you afraid I’ll let you fall? Little craven! And you a Lanyon of Undershaw!”

“Pooh!” said Venetia, making a face at him. She then altered her position, drew her flounced skirt tightly round her ankles, swung her legs over the edge of the loft, and slid down into Damerel’s arms.