Venetia

  CHAPTER II.

  We have indicated in a few pages the progress of three years. Howdifferently passed to the two preceding ones, when the Cadurcis familywere settled at the abbey! For during this latter period it seemedthat not a single incident had occurred. They had glided away in oneunbroken course of study, religion, and domestic love, the enjoymentof nature, and the pursuits of charity; like a long summersabbath-day, sweet and serene and still, undisturbed by a singlepassion, hallowed and hallowing.

  If the Cadurcis family were now not absolutely forgotten at Cherbury,they were at least only occasionally remembered. These last threeyears so completely harmonised with the life of Venetia before theirarrival, that, taking a general view of her existence, their residenceat the abbey figured only as an episode in her career; active indeedand stirring, and one that had left some impressions not easilydiscarded; but, on the whole, mellowed by the magic of time, Venetialooked back to her youthful friendship as an event that was only anexception in her lot, and she viewed herself as a being born and bredup in a seclusion which she was never to quit, with no aspirationsbeyond the little world in which she moved, and where she was to diein peace, as she had lived in purity.

  One Sunday, the conversation after dinner fell upon Lord Cadurcis.Doctor Masham had recently met a young Etonian, and had made someinquiries about their friend of old days. The information he hadobtained was not very satisfactory. It seemed that Cadurcis was a morepopular boy with his companions than his tutors; he had been ratherunruly, and had only escaped expulsion by the influence of hisguardian, who was not only a great noble, but a powerful minister.

  This conversation recalled old times. They talked over the arrival ofMrs. Cadurcis at the abbey, her strange character, her untimely end.Lady Annabel expressed her conviction of the natural excellence ofPlantagenet's disposition, and her regret of the many disadvantagesunder which he laboured; it gratified Venetia to listen to his praise.

  'He has quite forgotten us, mamma,' said Venetia.

  'My love, he was very young when he quitted us,' replied Lady Annabel;'and you must remember the influence of a change of life at so tenderan age. He lives now in a busy world.'

  'I wish that he had not forgotten to write to us sometimes,' saidVenetia.

  'Writing a letter is a great achievement for a schoolboy,' said theDoctor; 'it is a duty which even grown-up persons too often forgetto fulfil, and, when postponed, it is generally deferred for ever.However, I agree with Lady Annabel, Cadurcis was a fine fellow, andhad he been properly brought up, I cannot help thinking, might haveturned out something.'

  'Poor Plantagenet!' said Venetia, 'how I pity him. His was a terriblelot, to lose both his parents! Whatever were the errors of Mrs.Cadurcis, she was his mother, and, in spite of every mortification, heclung to her. Ah! I shall never forget when Pauncefort met him comingout of her room the night before the burial, when he said, withstreaming eyes, "I only had one friend in the world, and now she isgone." I could not love Mrs. Cadurcis, and yet, when I heard of thesewords, I cried as much as he.'

  'Poor fellow!' said the Doctor, filling his glass.

  'If there be any person in the world whom I pity,' said Venetia, ''tisan orphan. Oh! what should I be without mamma? And Plantagenet, poorPlantagenet! he has no mother, no father.' Venetia added, with afaltering voice: 'I can sympathise with him in some degree; I, I, Iknow, I feel the misfortune, the misery;' her face became crimson, yetshe could not restrain the irresistible words, 'the misery of neverhaving known a father,' she added.

  There was a dead pause, a most solemn silence. In vain Venetiastruggled to look calm and unconcerned; every instant she feltthe blood mantling in her cheek with a more lively and spreadingagitation. She dared not look up; it was not possible to utter a wordto turn the conversation. She felt utterly confounded and absolutelymute. At length, Lady Annabel spoke. Her tone was severe and choking,very different to her usual silvery voice.

  'I am sorry that my daughter should feel so keenly the want of aparent's love,' said her ladyship.

  What would not Venetia have given for the power or speech! butit seemed to have deserted her for ever. There she sat mute andmotionless, with her eyes fixed on the table, and with a burningcheek, as if she were conscious of having committed some act of shame,as if she had been detected in some base and degrading deed. Yet, whathad she done? A daughter had delicately alluded to her grief at theloss of a parent, and expressed her keen sense of the deprivation.

  It was an autumnal afternoon: Doctor Masham looked at the sky, and,after a long pause, made an observation about the weather, and thenrequested permission to order his horses, as the evening came onapace, and he had some distance to ride. Lady Annabel rose; theDoctor, with a countenance unusually serious, offered her his arm; andVenetia followed them like a criminal. In a few minutes the horsesappeared; Lady Annabel bid adieu to her friend in her usual kind tone,and with her usual sweet smile; and then, without noticing Venetia,instantly retired to her own chamber.

  And this was her mother; her mother who never before quitted her foran instant without some sign and symbol of affection, some playfulword of love, a winning smile, a passing embrace, that seemed toacknowledge that the pang of even momentary separation could only bealleviated by this graceful homage to the heart. What had she done?Venetia was about to follow Lady Annabel, but she checked herself.Agony at having offended her mother, and, for the first time, wasblended with a strange curiosity as to the cause, and some hesitatingindignation at her treatment. Venetia remained anxiously awaitingthe return of Lady Annabel; but her ladyship did not reappear. Everyinstant, the astonishment and the grief of Venetia increased. It wasthe first domestic difference that had occurred between them. Itshocked her much. She thought of Plantagenet and Mrs. Cadurcis. Therewas a mortifying resemblance, however slight, between the respectivesituations of the two families. Venetia, too, had quarrelled with hermother; that mother who, for fourteen years, had only looked upon herwith fondness and joy; who had been ever kind, without being everweak, and had rendered her child happy by making her good; that motherwhose beneficent wisdom had transformed duty into delight; thatsuperior, yet gentle being, so indulgent yet so just, so gifted yet socondescending, who dedicated all her knowledge, and time, and care,and intellect to her daughter.

  Venetia threw herself upon a couch and wept. They were the first tearsof unmixed pain that she had ever shed. It was said by the householdof Venetia when a child, that she had never cried; not a single tearhad ever sullied that sunny face. Surrounded by scenes of innocence,and images of happiness and content, Venetia smiled on a world thatsmiled on her, the radiant heroine of a golden age. She had, indeed,wept over the sorrows and the departure of Cadurcis; but those weresoft showers of sympathy and affection sent from a warm heart, likedrops from a summer sky. But now this grief was agony: her browthrobbed, her hand was clenched, her heart beat with tumultuouspalpitation; the streaming torrent came scalding down her cheek likefire rather than tears, and instead of assuaging her emotion, seemed,on the contrary, to increase its fierce and fervid power.

  The sun had set, the red autumnal twilight had died away, the shadowsof night were brooding over the halls of Cherbury. The moan of therising wind might be distinctly heard, and ever and anon the branchesof neighbouring trees swung with a sudden yet melancholy sound againstthe windows of the apartment, of which the curtains had remainedundrawn. Venetia looked up; the room would have been in perfectdarkness but for a glimmer which just indicated the site of theexpiring fire, and an uncertain light, or rather modified darkness,that seemed the sky. Alone and desolate! Alone and desolate andunhappy! Alone and desolate and unhappy, and for the first time! Wasit a sigh, or a groan, that issued from the stifling heart of VenetiaHerbert? That child of innocence, that bright emanation of love andbeauty, that airy creature of grace and gentleness, who had never saidan unkind word or done an unkind thing in her whole career, but hadglanced and glided through existence, scattering happiness andjoy, and receiving the pleasure
which she herself imparted, howoverwhelming was her first struggle with that dark stranger, Sorrow!

  Some one entered the room; it was Mistress Pauncefort. She held ataper in her hand, and came tripping gingerly in, with a new capstreaming with ribands, and scarcely, as it were, condescending toexecute the mission with which she was intrusted, which was no greaterthan fetching her lady's reticule. She glanced at the table, but itwas not there; she turned up her nose at a chair or two, which sheeven condescended to propel a little with a saucy foot, as if thereticule might be hid under the hanging drapery, and then, unable tofind the object of her search, Mistress Pauncefort settled herselfbefore the glass, elevating the taper above her head, that she mightobserve what indeed she had been examining the whole day, the effectof her new cap. With a complacent simper, Mistress Pauncefort thenturned from pleasure to business, and, approaching the couch, gavea faint shriek, half genuine, half affected, as she recognised therecumbent form of her young mistress. 'Well to be sure,' exclaimedMistress Pauncefort, 'was the like ever seen! Miss Venetia, as I live!La! Miss Venetia, what can be the matter? I declare I am all of apalpitation.'

  Venetia, affecting composure, said she was rather unwell; that shehad a headache, and, rising, murmured that she would go to bed. 'Aheadache!' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, 'I hope no worse, for thereis my lady, and she is as out of sorts as possible. She has a headachetoo; and when I shut the door just now, I am sure as quiet as a lamb,she told me not to make so much noise when I left the room. "Noise!"says I; "why really, my lady, I don't pretend to be a spirit; but ifit comes to noise--" "Never answer me, Pauncefort," says my lady. "No,my lady," says I, "I never do, and, I am sure, when I have a headachemyself, I don't like to be answered." But, to be sure, if you have aheadache, and my lady has a headache too, I only hope we have not gotthe epidemy. I vow, Miss Venetia, that your eyes are as red as if youhad been running against the wind. Well, to be sure, if you have notbeen crying! I must go and tell my lady immediately.'

  'Light me to my room,' said Venetia; 'I will not disturb my mother, asshe is unwell.'

  Venetia rose, and Mistress Pauncefort followed her to her chamber, andlit her candles. Venetia desired her not to remain; and when she hadquitted the chamber, Venetia threw herself in her chair and sighed.

  To sleep, it was impossible; it seemed to Venetia that she could neverrest again. She wept no more, but her distress was very great. Shefelt it impossible to exist through the night without being reconciledto her mother; but she refrained from going to her room, from the fearof again meeting her troublesome attendant. She resolved, therefore,to wait until she heard Mistress Pauncefort retire for the night, andshe listened with restless anxiety for the sign of her departure inthe sound of her footsteps along the vestibule on which the doors ofLady Annabel's and her daughter's apartments opened.

  An hour elapsed, and at length the sound was heard. Convinced thatPauncefort had now quitted her mother for the night, Venetia venturedforth, and stopping before the door of her mother's room, she knockedgently. There was no reply, and in a few minutes Venetia knockedagain, and rather louder. Still no answer. 'Mamma,' said Venetia, in afaltering tone, but no sound replied. Venetia then tried the door,and found it fastened. Then she gave up the effort in despair, andretreating to her own chamber, she threw herself on her bed, and weptbitterly.

  Some time elapsed before she looked up again; the candles were flaringin their sockets. It was a wild windy night; Venetia rose, andwithdrew the curtain of her window. The black clouds were scuddingalong the sky, revealing, in their occasional but transient rifts,some glimpses of the moon, that seemed unusually bright, or of a starthat trembled with supernatural brilliancy. She stood a while gazingon the outward scene that harmonised with her own internal agitation:her grief was like the storm, her love like the light of that brightmoon and star. There came over her a desire to see her mother, whichshe felt irresistible; she was resolved that no difficulty, noimpediment, should prevent her instantly from throwing herself on herbosom. It seemed to her that her brain would burn, that this awfulnight could never end without such an interview. She opened her door,went forth again into the vestibule, and approached with a nervous butdesperate step her mother's chamber. To her astonishment the door wasajar, but there was a light within. With trembling step and downcasteyes, Venetia entered the chamber, scarcely daring to advance, or tolook up.

  'Mother,' she said, but no one answered; she heard the tick of theclock; it was the only sound. 'Mother,' she repeated, and she dared tolook up, but the bed was empty. There was no mother. Lady Annabel wasnot in the room. Following an irresistible impulse, Venetia knelt bythe side of her mother's bed and prayed. She addressed, in audible andagitated tones, that Almighty and Beneficent Being of whom she wasso faithful and pure a follower. With sanctified simplicity, shecommunicated to her Creator and her Saviour all her distress, all hersorrow, all the agony of her perplexed and wounded spirit. If she hadsinned, she prayed for forgiveness, and declared in solitude, to Onewhom she could not deceive, how unintentional was the trespass; if shewere only misapprehended, she supplicated for comfort and consolation,for support under the heaviest visitation she had yet experienced, thedispleasure of that earthly parent whom she revered only second to herheavenly Father.

  'For thou art my Father,' said Venetia, 'I have no other fatherbut thee, O God! Forgive me, then, my heavenly parent, if in mywilfulness, if in my thoughtless and sinful blindness, I have sighedfor a father on earth, as well as in heaven! Great have thy merciesbeen to me, O God! in a mother's love. Turn, then, again to me theheart of that mother whom I have offended! Let her look upon her childas before; let her continue to me a double parent, and let me pay toher the duty and the devotion that might otherwise have been divided!'

  'Amen!' said a sweet and solemn voice; and Venetia was clasped in hermother's arms.