Venetia

  CHAPTER II.

  It was a bright and soft spring morning: the dewy vistas of Cherburysparkled in the sun, the cooing of the pigeons sounded around, thepeacocks strutted about the terrace and spread their tails withinfinite enjoyment and conscious pride, and Lady Annabel came forthwith her little daughter, to breathe the renovating odours of theseason. The air was scented with the violet, tufts of daffodils werescattered all about, and though the snowdrop had vanished, and theprimroses were fast disappearing, their wild and shaggy leaves stilllooked picturesque and glad.

  'Mamma,' said the little Venetia, 'is this spring?'

  'This is spring, my child,' replied Lady Annabel, 'beautiful spring!The year is young and happy, like my little girl.'

  'If Venetia be like the spring, mamma is like the summer!' replied thechild; and the mother smiled. 'And is not the summer young and happy?'resumed Venetia.

  'It is not quite so young as the spring,' said Lady Annabel, lookingdown with fondness on her little companion, 'and, I fear, not quite sohappy.'

  'But it is as beautiful,' said Venetia.

  'It is not beauty that makes us happy,' said Lady Annabel; 'to behappy, my love, we must be good.'

  'Am I good?' said Venetia.

  'Very good,' said Lady Annabel

  'I am very happy,' said Venetia; 'I wonder whether, if I be alwaysgood, I shall always be happy?'

  'You cannot be happy without being good, my love; but happinessdepends upon the will of God. If you be good he will guard over you.'

  'What can make me unhappy, mamma?' inquired Venetia.

  'An evil conscience, my love.'

  'Conscience!' said Venetia: 'what is conscience?'

  'You are not yet quite old enough to understand,' said Lady Annabel,'but some day I will teach you. Mamma is now going to take a longwalk, and Venetia shall walk with her.'

  So saying, the Lady Annabel summoned Mistress Pauncefort, agentlewoman of not more discreet years than might have been expectedin the attendant of so young a mistress; but one well qualified forher office, very zealous and devoted, somewhat consequential, full ofenergy and decision, capable of directing, fond of giving advice, andhabituated to command. The Lady Annabel, leading her daughter, andaccompanied by her faithful bloodhound, Marmion, ascended one of thosesloping vistas that we have noticed, Mistress Pauncefort followingthem about a pace behind, and after her a groom, at a respectfuldistance, leading Miss Herbert's donkey.

  They soon entered a winding path through the wood which was thebackground of their dwelling. Lady Annabel was silent, and lost in herreflections; Venetia plucked the beautiful wild hyacinths that thenabounded in the wood in such profusion, that their beds spread likepatches of blue enamel, and gave them to Mistress Pauncefort, who, asthe collection increased, handed them over to the groom; who, in turn,deposited them in the wicker seat prepared for his young mistress. Thebright sun bursting through the tender foliage of the year, the clearand genial air, the singing of the birds, and the wild and joyousexclamations of Venetia, as she gathered her flowers, made it acheerful party, notwithstanding the silence of its mistress.

  When they emerged from the wood, they found themselves on the browof the hill, a small down, over which Venetia ran, exulting in thehealthy breeze which, at this exposed height, was strong and fresh.As they advanced to the opposite declivity to that which they hadascended, a wide and peculiar landscape opened before them. Theextreme distance was formed by an undulating ridge of lofty and savagehills; nearer than these were gentler elevations, partially wooded;and at their base was a rich valley, its green meads fed by a clearand rapid stream, which glittered in the sun as it coursed on, losingitself at length in a wild and sedgy lake that formed the furthestlimit of a widely-spreading park. In the centre of this park, andnot very remote from the banks of the rivulet, was an ancient gothicbuilding, that had once been an abbey of great repute and wealth, andhad not much suffered in its external character, by having served fornearly two centuries and a half as the principal dwelling of an oldbaronial family.

  Descending the downy hill, that here and there was studded with fineold trees, enriching by their presence the view from the abbey, LadyAnnabel and her party entered the meads, and, skirting the lake,approached the venerable walls without crossing the stream.

  It was difficult to conceive a scene more silent and more desolate.There was no sign of life, and not a sound save the occasionalcawing of a rook. Advancing towards the abbey, they passed a pile ofbuildings that, in the summer, might be screened from sight by thefoliage of a group of elms, too scanty at present to veil theirdesolation. Wide gaps in the roof proved that the vast and drearystables were no longer used; there were empty granaries, whose doorshad fallen from their hinges; the gate of the courtyard was prostrateon the ground; and the silent clock that once adorned the cupola overthe noble entrance arch, had long lost its index. Even the litter ofthe yard appeared dusty and grey with age. You felt sure no human footcould have disturbed it for years. At the back of these buildings werenailed the trophies of the gamekeeper: hundreds of wild cats, dried toblackness, stretched their downward heads and legs from the moulderingwall; hawks, magpies, and jays hung in tattered remnants! but allgrey, and even green, with age; and the heads of birds in plenteousrows, nailed beak upward, and so dried and shrivelled by the suns andwinds and frosts of many seasons, that their distinctive characterswere lost.

  'Do you know, my good Pauncefort,' said Lady Annabel, 'that I havean odd fancy to-day to force an entrance into the old abbey. It isstrange, fond as I am of this walk, that we have never yet entered it.Do you recollect our last vain efforts? Shall we be more fortunatethis time, think you?'

  Mistress Pauncefort smiled and smirked, and, advancing to the oldgloomy porch, gave a determined ring at the bell. Its sound mightbe heard echoing through the old cloisters, but a considerable timeelapsed without any other effect being produced. Perhaps Lady Annabelwould have now given up the attempt, but the little Venetia expressedso much regret at the disappointment, that her mother directed thegroom to reconnoitre in the neighbourhood, and see if it were possibleto discover any person connected with the mansion.

  'I doubt our luck, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort, 'for they dosay that the abbey is quite uninhabited.'

  ''Tis a pity,' said Lady Annabel, 'for, with all its desolation, thereis something about this spot which ever greatly interests me.'

  'Mamma, why does no one live here?' said Venetia.

  'The master of the abbey lives abroad, my child.'

  'Why does he, mamma?'

  'Never ask questions, Miss Venetia,' said Mistress Pauncefort, in ahushed and solemn tone; 'it is not pretty.' Lady Annabel had movedaway.

  The groom returned, and said he had met an old man, pickingwater-cresses, and he was the only person who lived in the abbey,except his wife, and she was bedridden. The old man had promised toadmit them when he had completed his task, but not before, and thegroom feared it would be some time before he arrived.

  'Come, Pauncefort, rest yourself on this bench,' said Lady Annabel,seating herself in the porch; 'and Venetia, my child, come hither tome.'

  'Mamma,' said Venetia, 'what is the name of the gentleman to whom thisabbey belongs?'

  'Lord Cadurcis, love.'

  'I should like to know why Lord Cadurcis lives abroad?' said Venetia,musingly.

  'There are many reasons why persons may choose to quit their nativecountry, and dwell in another, my love,' said Lady Annabel, veryquietly; 'some change the climate for their health.'

  'Did Lord Cadurcis, mamma?' asked Venetia.

  'I do not know Lord Cadurcis, dear, or anything of him, except that heis a very old man, and has no family.'

  At this moment there was a sound of bars and bolts withdrawn, and thefalling of a chain, and at length the massy door slowly opened, andthe old man appeared and beckoned to them to enter.

  ''Tis eight years, come Martinmas, since I opened this door,' said theold man, 'and it sticks a bit. You must walk about
by yourselves, forI have no breath, and my mistress is bedridden. There, straight downthe cloister, you can't miss your way; there is not much to see.'

  The interior of the abbey formed a quadrangle, surrounded by thecloisters, and in this inner court was a curious fountain, carved withexquisite skill by some gothic artist in one of those capricious moodsof sportive invention that produced those grotesque medleys for whichthe feudal sculptor was celebrated. Not a sound was heard except thefall of the fountain and the light echoes that its voice called up.

  The staircase led Lady Annabel and her party through several smallrooms, scantily garnished with ancient furniture, in some of whichwere portraits of the family, until they at length entered a noblesaloon, once the refectory of the abbey, and not deficient insplendour, though sadly soiled and worm-eaten. It was hung withtapestry representing the Cartoons of Raffael, and their still vividcolours contrasted with the faded hangings and the dingy damask of thechairs and sofas. A mass of Cromwellian armour was huddled together ina corner of a long monkish gallery, with a standard, encrusted withdust, and a couple of old drums, one broken. From one of the windowsthey had a good view of the old walled garden, which did nottempt them to enter it; it was a wilderness, the walks no longerdistinguishable from the rank vegetation of the once cultivated lawns;the terraces choked up with the unchecked shrubberies; and here andthere a leaden statue, a goddess or a satyr, prostrate, and coveredwith moss and lichen.

  'It makes me melancholy,' said Lady Annabel; 'let us return.'

  'Mamma,' said Venetia, 'are there any ghosts in this abbey?'

  'You may well ask me, love,' replied Lady Annabel; 'it seems aspell-bound place. But, Venetia, I have often told you there are nosuch things as ghosts.'

  'Is it naughty to believe in ghosts, mamma, for I cannot helpbelieving in them?'

  'When you are older, and have more knowledge, you will not believe inthem, Venetia,' replied Lady Annabel.

  Our friends left Cadurcis Abbey. Venetia mounted her donkey, hermother walked by her side; the sun was beginning to decline when theyagain reached Cherbury, and the air was brisk. Lady Annabel was gladto find herself by her fireside in her little terrace-room, andVenetia fetching her book, read to her mother until their dinner hour.