Venetia

  CHAPTER IX.

  Venetia still slept: her mother alone in the chamber watched by herside. Some hours had elapsed since her interview with Dr. Masham; themedical attendant had departed for a few hours.

  Suddenly Venetia moved, opened her eyes, and said in a faint voice,'Mamma!'

  The blood rushed to Lady Annabel's heart. That single word affordedher the most exquisite happiness.

  'I am here, dearest,' she replied.

  'Mamma, what is all this?' inquired Venetia.

  'You have not been well, my own, but now you are much better.'

  'I thought I had been dreaming,' replied Venetia, 'and that all wasnot right; somebody, I thought, struck me on my head. But all is rightnow, because you are here, my dear mamma.'

  But Lady Annabel could not speak for weeping.

  'Are you sure, mamma, that nothing has been done to my head?'continued Venetia. 'Why, what is this?' and she touched a lightbandage on her brow.

  'My darling, you have been ill, and you have lost blood; but now youare getting quite well. I have been very unhappy about you; but now Iam quite happy, my sweet, sweet child.'

  'How long have I been ill?'

  'You have been very ill indeed for four or five days; you have had afever, Venetia; but now the fever is gone; and you are only a littleweak, and you will soon be well.'

  'A fever! and how did I get the fever?'

  'Perhaps you caught cold, my child; but we must not talk too much.'

  'A fever! I never had a fever before. A fever is like a dream.'

  'Hush! sweet love. Indeed you must not speak.'

  'Give me your hand, mamma; I will not speak if you will let me holdyour hand. I thought in the fever that we were parted.'

  'I have never left your side, my child, day or night,' said LadyAnnabel, not without agitation.

  'All this time! all these days and nights! No one would do that butyou, mamma. You think only of me.'

  'You repay me by your love, Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, feeling thather daughter ought not to speak, yet irresistibly impelled to lead outher thoughts.

  'How can I help loving you, my dear mamma?'

  'You do love me, you do love me very much; do you not, sweet child?'

  'Better than all the world,' replied Venetia to her enraptured parent.'And yet, in the fever I seemed to love some one else: but fevers arelike dreams; they are not true.'

  Lady Annabel pressed her lips gently to her daughter's, and whisperedher that she must speak no more.

  When Mr. Hawkins returned, he gave a favourable report of Venetia. Hesaid that all danger was now past, and that all that was required forher recovery were time, care, and repose. He repeated to Lady Annabelalone that the attack was solely to be ascribed to some great mentalshock which her daughter had received, and which suddenly had affectedher circulation; leaving it, after this formal intimation, entirely tothe mother to take those steps in reference to the cause, whatever itmight be, which she should deem expedient.

  In the evening, Lady Annabel stole down for a few moments to Dr.Masham, laden with joyful intelligence; assured of the safety of herchild, and, what was still more precious, of her heart, and evenvoluntarily promising her friend that she should herself sleepthis night in her daughter's chamber, on the sofa-bed. The Doctor,therefore, now bade her adieu, and said that he should ride over fromMarringhurst every day, to hear how their patient was proceeding.

  From this time, the recovery of Venetia, though slow, was gradual. Sheexperienced no relapse, and in a few weeks quitted her bed. She wasrather surprised at her altered appearance when it first met herglance in the mirror, but scarcely made any observation on the loss ofher locks. During this interval, the mind of Venetia had been quitedormant; the rage of the fever, and the violent remedies to which ithad been necessary to have recourse, had so exhausted her, that shehad not energy enough to think. All that she felt was a strangeindefinite conviction that some occurrence had taken place with whichher memory could not grapple. But as her strength returned, and as shegradually resumed her usual health, by proportionate though almostinvisible degrees her memory returned to her, and her intelligence.She clearly recollected and comprehended what had taken place. Sherecalled the past, compared incidents, weighed circumstances, siftedand balanced the impressions that now crowded upon her consciousness.It is difficult to describe each link in the metaphysical chain whichat length connected the mind of Venetia Herbert with her actualexperience and precise situation. It was, however, at length perfect,and gradually formed as she sat in an invalid chair, apparentlylistless, not yet venturing on any occupation, or occasionally amusedfor a moment by her mother reading to her. But when her mind had thusresumed its natural tone, and in time its accustomed vigour, the pastdemanded all her solicitude. At length the mystery of her birth wasrevealed to her. She was the daughter of Marmion Herbert; and who wasMarmion Herbert? The portrait rose before her. How distinct was theform, how definite the countenance! No common personage was MarmionHerbert, even had he not won his wife, and celebrated his daughter insuch witching strains. Genius was stamped on his lofty brow, and spokein his brilliant eye; nobility was in all his form. This chivalricpoet was her father. She had read, she had dreamed of such beings, shehad never seen them. If she quitted the solitude in which she lived,would she see men like her father? No other could ever satisfy herimagination; all beneath that standard would rank but as imperfectcreations in her fancy. And this father, he was dead. No doubt.Ah! was there indeed no doubt? Eager as was her curiosity on thisall-absorbing subject, Venetia could never summon courage to speakupon it to her mother. Her first disobedience, or rather her firstdeception of her mother, in reference to this very subject, hadbrought, and brought so swiftly on its retributive wings, suchdisastrous consequences, that any allusion to Lady Annabel wasrestrained by a species of superstitious fear, against which Venetiacould not contend. Then her father was either dead or living. That wascertain. If dead, it was clear that his memory, however cherished byhis relict, was associated with feelings too keen to admit of anyother but solitary indulgence. If living, there was a mysteryconnected with her parents, a mystery evidently of a painfulcharacter, and one which it was a prime object with her mother toconceal and to suppress. Could Venetia, then, in defiance of thatmother, that fond devoted mother, that mother who had watched throughlong days and long nights over her sick bed, and who now, without amurmur, was a prisoner to this very room, only to comfort and consoleher child: could Venetia take any step which might occasion thismatchless parent even a transient pang? No; it was impossible. To hermother she could never speak. And yet, to remain enveloped in thepresent mystery, she was sensible, was equally insufferable. All sheasked, all she wanted to know, was he alive? If he were alive, then,although she could not see him, though she might never see him, shecould exist upon his idea; she could conjure up romances of futureexistence with him; she could live upon the fond hope of some daycalling him father, and receiving from his hands the fervid blessinghe had already breathed to her in song.

  In the meantime her remaining parent commanded all her affections.Even if he were no more, blessed was her lot with such a mother! LadyAnnabel seemed only to exist to attend upon her daughter. No loverever watched with such devotion the wants or even the caprices of hismistress. A thousand times every day Venetia found herself expressingher fondness and her gratitude. It seemed that the late dreadfulcontingency of losing her daughter had developed in Lady Annabel'sheart even additional powers of maternal devotion; and Venetia, thefond and grateful Venetia, ignorant of the strange past, which shebelieved she so perfectly comprehended, returned thanks to Heaven thather mother was at least spared the mortification of knowing that herdaughter, in her absence, had surreptitiously invaded the sanctuary ofher secret sorrow.