CHAPTER V.
The daughter still kneels before the form of the father, of whom shehad heard for the first time in her life. He is at length discovered.It was, then, an irresistible destiny that, after the wild musings andbaffled aspirations of so many years, had guided her to this chamber.She is the child of Marmion Herbert; she beholds her lost parent. Thatbeing of supernatural beauty, on whom she gazes with a look of blendedreverence and love, is her father. What a revelation! Its realityexceeded the wildest dreams of her romance; her brightest visions ofgrace and loveliness and genius seemed personified in this form; theform of one to whom she was bound by the strongest of all earthlyties, of one on whose heart she had a claim second only to that of thebeing by whose lips his name was never mentioned. Was he, then, nomore? Ah! could she doubt that bitterest calamity? Ah! was it, wasit any longer a marvel, that one who had lived in the light of thoseseraphic eyes, and had watched them until their terrestrial splendourhad been for ever extinguished, should shrink from the converse thatcould remind her of the catastrophe of all her earthly hopes! Thischamber, then, was the temple of her mother's woe, the tomb of herbaffled affections and bleeding heart. No wonder that Lady Annabel,the desolate Lady Annabel, that almost the same spring must havewitnessed the most favoured and the most disconsolate of women, shouldhave fled from the world that had awarded her at the same time a lotso dazzling and so full of despair. Venetia felt that the existenceof her mother's child, her own fragile being, could have been thatmother's sole link to life. The heart of the young widow of MarmionHerbert must have broken but for Venetia; and the consciousness ofthat remaining tie, and the duties that it involved, could alone havesustained the victim under a lot of such unparalleled bitterness. Thetears streamed down her cheek as she thought of her mother's misery,and her mother's gentle love; the misery that she had been so cautiousher child should never share; the vigilant affection that, with allher own hopes blighted, had still laboured to compensate to herchild for a deprivation the fulness of which Venetia could only nowcomprehend.
When, where, why did he die? Oh that she might talk of him to hermother for ever! It seemed that life might pass away in listening tohis praises. Marmion Herbert! and who was Marmion Herbert? Young as hewas, command and genius, the pride of noble passions, all the glory ofa creative mind, seemed stamped upon his brow. With all his marvellousbeauty, he seemed a being born for greatness. Dead! in the very burstof his spring, a spring so sweet and splendid; could he be dead? Why,then, was he ever born? It seemed to her that he could not be dead;there was an animated look about the form, that seemed as if it couldnot die without leaving mankind a prodigal legacy of fame.
Venetia turned and looked upon her parents' bridal bed. Now thatshe had discovered her father's portrait, every article in the roominterested her, for her imagination connected everything with him. Shetouched the wreath of withered roses, and one instantly broke awayfrom the circle, and fell; she knelt down, and gathered up thescattered leaves, and placed them in her bosom. She approached thetable in the oriel: in its centre was a volume, on which reposed adagger of curious workmanship; the volume bound in velvet, and theword 'ANNABEL' embroidered upon it in gold. Venetia unclasped it. Thevolume was his; in a fly-leaf were written these words:
'TO THE LADY OF MY LOVE, FROM HER MARMION HERBERT.'
With a fluttering heart, yet sparkling eye, Venetia sank into a chair,which was placed before the table, with all her soul concentred in thecontents of this volume. Leaning on her right hand, which shaded heragitated brow, she turned a page of the volume with a trembling hand.It contained a sonnet, delineating the feelings of a lover at thefirst sight of his beloved, a being to him yet unknown. Venetiaperused with breathless interest the graceful and passionate pictureof her mother's beauty. A series of similar compositions detailed thehistory of the poet's heart, and all the thrilling adventures of hisenchanted life. Not an incident, not a word, not a glance, in thatspell-bound prime of existence, that was not commemorated by his lyrein strains as sweet and as witching! Now he poured forth his passion;now his doubts; now his hopes; now came the glowing hour when he wasfirst assured of his felicity; the next page celebrated her visit tothe castle of his fathers; and another led her to the altar.
With a flushed cheek and an excited eye, Venetia had rapidly poredover these ardent annals of the heart from whose blood she had sprung.She turns the page; she starts; the colour deserts her countenance;a mist glides over her vision; she clasps her hands with convulsiveenergy; she sinks back in her chair. In a few moments she extends onehand, as if fearful again to touch the book that had excited so muchemotion, raises herself in her seat, looks around her with a vacantand perplexed gaze, apparently succeeds in collecting herself, andthen seizes, with an eager grasp, the volume, and throwing herself onher, knees before the chair, her long locks hanging on each side overa cheek crimson as the sunset, loses her whole soul in the lines whichthe next page reveals.
ON THE NIGHT OUR DAUGHTER WAS BORN.
I.
Within our heaven of love, the new-born star We long devoutly watched, like shepherd kings, Steals into light, and, floating from afar, Methinks some bright transcendent seraph sings, Waving with flashing light her radiant wings, Immortal welcome to the stranger fair: To us a child is born. With transport clings The mother to the babe she sighed to bear; Of all our treasured loves the long-expected heir!
II.
My daughter! can it be a daughter now Shall greet my being with her infant smile? And shall I press that fair and taintless brow With my fond lips, and tempt, with many a wile Of playful love, those features to beguile A parent with their mirth? In the wild sea Of this dark life, behold a little isle Rises amid the waters, bright and free, A haven for my hopes of fond security!
III.
And thou shalt bear a name my line has loved, And their fair daughters owned for many an age, Since first our fiery blood a wanderer roved, And made in sunnier lands his pilgrimage, Where proud defiance with the waters wage The sea-born city's walls; the graceful towers Loved by the bard and honoured by the sage! My own VENETIA now shall gild our bowers, And with her spell enchain our life's enchanted hours!
IV.
Oh! if the blessing of a father's heart Hath aught of sacred in its deep-breath'd prayer, Skilled to thy gentle being to impart, As thy bright form itself, a fate as fair; On thee I breathe that blessing! Let me share, O God! her joys; and if the dark behest Of woe resistless, and avoidless care, Hath, not gone forth, oh! spare this gentle guest. And wreak thy needful wrath on my resigned breast!
An hour elapsed, and Venetia did not move. Over and over again sheconned the only address from the lips of her father that had everreached her ear. A strange inspiration seconded the exertion of anexercised memory. The duty was fulfilled, the task completed. Thena sound was heard without. The thought that her mother had returnedoccurred to her; she looked up, the big tears streaming down her face;she listened, like a young hind just roused by the still-distanthuntsman, quivering and wild: she listened, and she sprang up,replaced the volume, arranged the chair, cast one long, lingering,feverish glance at the portrait, skimmed through the room, hesitatedone moment in the ante-chamber; opened, as all was silent, the nolonger mysterious door, turned the noiseless lock, tripped lightlyalong the vestibule; glided into her mother's empty apartment,reposited the key that had opened so many wonders in the casket; and,then, having hurried to her own chamber, threw herself on her bed in aparoxysm of contending emotions, that left her no power of ponderingover the strange discovery that had already given a new colour to herexistence.