Venetia, who had listened to this in amazement, said slowly: “So that was why Papa shut himself up at Undershaw, and wouldn’t let anyone mention her! Of all the mutton-headed things to have done— But how like him! how very like him!”

“Hush, Venetia!” said Edward sternly. “Remember of whom you are speaking!”

“I shall not hush!” she retorted. “You know perfectly well that I never held him in affection, and if you think that this is a suitable moment for me to pretend I loved him you must have windmills in your head! Was there ever such a selfish folly? Pray, how much affection had he for me when, instead of taking care I should be brought up as other girls so that everyone might have been well-acquainted with me, he buried me alive? Why, for anything that is known of me I might be as like Mama in disposition as I’m held to be like her in appearance!”

“Exactly so, my love!” corroborated Mrs. Hendred, replacing the stopper of her vinaigrette. “It is why I am for ever telling you that you cannot be too careful not to give people the smallest cause to say you are like her! Not but what I for one couldn’t blame your poor papa, though your uncle, of course, did his utmost to persuade him that he would be making the greatest mistake, for he is very strong-minded, and never pays the least heed to gossip. But Francis was always such a high stickler, never passing the line, and holding himself so very much up! He could not bear to be so mortified, and I’m sure it wasn’t to be wondered at, for instead of hiding herself from the world, as one might have supposed she would, Aurelia—your mama, I mean, and how very dreadful to be speaking to you of her in such terms, but I do feel, dear child, that you should know the truth!—well, she positively flaunted herself all over town, though not, of course, received, and only think how degrading for Francis it would have been! No sooner did Sir Lambert marry her—and the wonder is that he did marry her, when it was an open secret that she was his mistress, and costing him a fortune, too!—no sooner did he marry her than she became perfectly outrageous! Nothing would do for her but to put us all to the blush, and set everyone staring at her! She used to drive a high-perch phaeton every afternoon in the park, with four cream-coloured horses in blue and silver harness, which they say Sir Lambert bought from Astley, just as though she had not been his wife at all, but something very different!”

“Good heavens!” said Venetia, on a tiny choke of laughter. “How—how very dashing of her! I see, of course, that that would never have done for Papa. Poor man! the last in the world to be set dancing to the tune of Cuckolds All Awry!”

“Well, yes, my dear, though I do beg you won’t use such improper language! But you do perceive how awkward it was? And particularly when it was time for you to be brought out, which your uncle insisted I must urge your papa to consent to. And no one can say I didn’t offer to present you, but when your papa declined it—well, only think what a quake I should have been in, for they were then living in Brook Street—the Steeples, I mean—and Aurelia was always so capricious that heaven only knows what she might not have taken it into her head to do! Why, she had the effrontery to wave her hand to you this very evening! I shall never cease to be thankful that there was no one I’m acquainted with to see her! Oh, dear, what in the world has brought them back to England, I wonder?”

“They don’t live here now, ma’am?”

“No, no, not for years, though I fancy Sir Lambert comes every now and then, for he has a very large property in Staffordshire. It’s my belief Aurelia thought that because she entertained the Prince Regent, and that set, the ton would receive her again, but of course it was no such thing, and so Sir Lambert sold the London house—oh, six or seven years ago!—and I believe they went to Lisbon, or some such place. Lately—since the Peace, I mean—they have been living in Paris. Why they must needs come to London at this moment—and your uncle away from home, so that what’s to be done I cannot think!”

“My dear ma’am, nothing!” said Venetia. “Even my uncle can’t be expected to drive them out of the country!” She got up from her chair, and began to walk about the room. “My head is in a perfect whirl!” she said, pressing her hands to her temples. “How is it possible that I should never have heard so much as a whisper of this? Surely they must have known—? Everyone at home—Miss Poddemore, Nurse—the villagers!”

“Your papa forbade anyone to speak of it, my dear. Besides, it is not to be supposed that they knew the whole at Undershaw, for it was very much hushed up—your uncle saw to that!—and in any event I am persuaded Miss Poddemore—such an excellent woman!—would never have opened her lips on the subject to a soul!”

“No. Or Nurse, or— But the maids— No, they all held Papa in such awe: they wouldn’t have dared, I suppose. But later, when I grew up—”

“You forget that until Sir Francis’s death you were acquainted only with the Dennys, and with my mother and myself,” said Edward. “By then, moreover, several years had passed. I do not say that the scandal was forgotten, but it was too old to be much thought about in Yorkshire any longer. It was not at all likely that you would ever hear it mentioned.”

“I never did. Good God, why could not Papa have told me? Of all the infamous— Does Conway know?”

“Yes, but Conway is a man, dear child! And of course he had to know, when he was sent to Eton, but Papa forbade him ever to speak of it!”

“Gothic! perfectly Gothic!” said Venetia. Her eyes went to Edward. “So that iswhy Mrs. Yardley doesn’t like me!” she exclaimed.

He lifted his hand. “I assure you, my dear Venetia, you are mistaken! My mother has frequently told me that she likes you very well. That she did not, for some time, wish for the connection is—I know you must agree—understandable, for her principles are high, and anything in the nature of scandal is repugnant to her—as, indeed, it must be to anyone of propriety.”

“Such as yourself?” she asked.

He replied weightily: “I do not deny that it is not what I like. Indeed, I struggled to overcome what I felt was an attachment I ought never to have allowed myself to form. It would not do, however. I became persuaded that there was nothing in your character, or your disposition, that made you unworthy to succeed my dear mother as mistress of Netherfold. You have sometimes a trifle too much volatility, as I have had occasion now and then to hint to you, but of your virtue I have no doubt.”

“Edward, this encomium un—unwomans me!” said Venetia faintly, sinking into a chair, and covering her eyes with one hand.

“You are upset,” he told her kindly. “It is not to be wondered at. It has been painful for you to learn what cannot but cause you to feel great affliction, but you must not allow your spirits to become too much oppressed.”

“I will put forth my best endeavours not to fall into flat, despair,” promised Venetia, in a shaking voice. “Perhaps you had better go now, Edward! I don’t think I can talk about it any more without becoming hysterical!”

“Yes, it is very natural that you should wish to be alone, to reflect upon all you have heard. I shall leave you, and in good hands,” he added, bowing slightly to Mrs. Hendred. “One thing, which occurs to me, I will say before I go. It may be that—er—Lady Steeple will seek an interview with you. You will not, of course, grant such a request, but if she should send a message to you, do not reply to it until you have seen me again! It will be an awkward business, but I shall think it over carefully, and don’t doubt that by tomorrow I shall be able to advise you in what terms your reply should be couched. Now, do not think you must ring for your butler to show me out, ma’am, I beg! I know my way!”

He then shook hands with his hostess, patted Venetia reassuringly on the shoulder, and took himself off. Slightly affronted, Mrs. Hendred said: “Well, if anybody should advise you how to reply to Aurelia I should have thought— however, I am sure he meant it kindly! Poor child, you are quite overset! I wish to heaven—”

“I am quite in stitches!” retorted Venetia, letting her hand drop, and showing her astonished aunt a countenance alive with laughter. “Oh, my dear ma’am, don’t look so shocked, I do beg of you! Can’t you see how absurd— No, I see you can’t! But if he had stayed another instant I must have been in whoops! Painful news? I never was more overjoyed in my life!”

“Venetia!” gasped Mrs. Hendred. “My dearest niece, you are hysterical!”

“I promise you I am not, dear ma’am—though when I think of all the nonsense that has been talked about my reputation, and my prospects I wonder I am not lying rigid on the floor and drumming my heels! Damerel must have known the truth! He must have known it! In fact, I daresay he is very well acquainted with my mama, for she looked to me precisely the sort of female he would be acquainted with! Yes, and now I come to think of it he said something to me once that proves he knows her! Only he was in one of his funning moods, and I thought nothing of it. But—but why, if he knew about my mother, did he think it would ruin me to marry him? It is quite idiotish!”

Mrs. Hendred, reeling under this fresh shock, said: “Venetia, I do implore you—! It is precisely what makes it of the very first importance that you should not marry him! Good gracious, child, only think what would be said! Like mother, like daughter! How many times have I impressed upon you that your circumstances make it imperative that you should conduct yourself with the greatest propriety! Heaven knows it is difficult enough—though your uncle says that he is confident you will receive very eligible offers, for he holds, and Lord Damerel too, I make no doubt, that when you are seen to be an unexceptionable girl—not at all like your mother, however much you may resemble her, which, I must own, it is a thousand pities you do—no man of sense will hesitate—though the more I think of Mr. Foxcott, the more doubtful I feel about him, because—”