Venetia

  CHAPTER III.

  Two serene and innocent years had glided away at Cherbury since thismorning ramble to Cadurcis Abbey, and Venetia had grown in loveliness,in goodness, and intelligence. Her lively and somewhat precocious mindhad become greatly developed; and, though she was only nine years ofage, it scarcely needed the affection of a mother to find in her aninteresting and engaging companion. Although feminine education waslittle regarded in those days, that of Lady Annabel had been anexception to the general practice of society. She had been broughtup with the consciousness of other objects of female attainment andaccomplishment than embroidery, 'the complete art of making pastry,'and reading 'The Whole Duty of Man.' She had profited, when a child,by the guidance of her brother's tutor, who had bestowed no unfruitfulpains upon no ordinary capacity. She was a good linguist, a finemusician, was well read in our elder poets and their Italianoriginals, was no unskilful artist, and had acquired some knowledgeof botany when wandering, as a girl, in her native woods. Since herretirement to Cherbury, reading had been her chief resource. The hallcontained a library whose shelves, indeed, were more full than choice;but, amid folios of theological controversy and civil law, there mightbe found the first editions of most of the celebrated writers of thereign of Anne, which the contemporary proprietor of Cherbury, a man ofwit and fashion in his day, had duly collected in his yearly visits tothe metropolis, and finally deposited in the family book-room.

  The education of her daughter was not only the principal duty of LadyAnnabel, but her chief delight. To cultivate the nascent intelligenceof a child, in those days, was not the mere piece of scientificmechanism that the admirable labours of so many ingenious writers havesince permitted it comparatively to become. In those days there was noMrs. Barbauld, no Madame de Genlis, no Miss Edgeworth; no 'Evenings atHome,' no 'Children's Friend,' no 'Parent's Assistant.' Venetia lovedher book; indeed, she was never happier than when reading; but shesoon recoiled from the gilt and Lilliputian volumes of the good Mr.Newbury, and her mind required some more substantial excitement than'Tom Thumb,' or even 'Goody Two-Shoes.' 'The Seven Champions' wasa great resource and a great favourite; but it required all thevigilance of a mother to eradicate the false impressions which suchstudies were continually making on so tender a student; and todisenchant, by rational discussion, the fascinated imagination of herchild. Lady Annabel endeavoured to find some substitute in the essaysof Addison and Steele; but they required more knowledge of theevery-day world for their enjoyment than an infant, bred in suchseclusion, could at present afford; and at last Venetia lost herselfin the wildering pages of Clelia and the Arcadia, which she pored overwith a rapt and ecstatic spirit, that would not comprehend the warningscepticism of her parent. Let us picture to ourselves the high-bredLady Annabel in the terrace-room of her ancient hall, working ather tapestry, and, seated at her feet, her little daughter Venetia,reading aloud the Arcadia! The peacocks have jumped up on thewindow-sill, to look at their friends, who love to feed them, and bytheir pecking have aroused the bloodhound crouching at Lady Annabel'sfeet. And Venetia looks up from her folio with a flushed and smilingface to catch the sympathy of her mother, who rewards her daughter'sstudy with a kiss. Ah! there are no such mothers and no such daughtersnow!

  Thus it will be seen that the life and studies of Venetia tendedrather dangerously, in spite of all the care of her mother, to thedevelopment of her imagination, in case indeed she possessed thatterrible and fatal gift. She passed her days in unbroken solitude, orbroken only by affections which softened her heart, and in a scenewhich itself might well promote any predisposition of the kind;beautiful and picturesque objects surrounded her on all sides; shewandered, at it were, in an enchanted wilderness, and watched the deerreposing under the green shadow of stately trees; the old hallitself was calculated to excite mysterious curiosity; one wing wasuninhabited and shut up; each morning and evening she repaired withher mother and the household through long galleries to the chapel,where she knelt to her devotions, illumined by a window blazoned withthe arms of that illustrious family of which she was a member, andof which she knew nothing. She had an indefinite and painfulconsciousness that she had been early checked in the natural inquirieswhich occur to every child; she had insensibly been trained to speakonly of what she saw; and when she listened, at night, to the longivy rustling about the windows, and the wild owls hooting about themansion, with their pining, melancholy voices, she might have beenexcused for believing in those spirits, which her mother warned her todiscredit; or she forgot these mournful impressions in dreams, caughtfrom her romantic volumes, of bright knights and beautiful damsels.

  Only one event of importance had occurred at Cherbury during these twoyears, if indeed that be not too strong a phrase to use in referenceto an occurrence which occasioned so slight and passing an interest.Lord Cadurcis had died. He had left his considerable property to hisnatural children, but the abbey had descended with the title to a verydistant relative. The circle at Cherbury had heard, and that was all,that the new lord was a minor, a little boy, indeed very little olderthan Venetia herself; but this information produced no impression. Theabbey was still deserted and desolate as ever.