CHAPTER IV.
Just as Lady Annabel and her daughter arrived at Rovigo, one of thosesudden and violent storms that occasionally occur at the terminationof an Italian autumn raged with irresistible fury. The wind roaredwith a noise that overpowered the thunder; then came a rattling showerof hail, with stones as big as pigeons' eggs, succeeded by rain, notin showers, but literally in cataracts. The only thing to whicha tempest of rain in Italy can be compared is the bursting of awaterspout. Venetia could scarcely believe that this could be the sameday of which the golden morning had found her among the sunny hills ofArqua. This unexpected vicissitude induced Lady Annabel to alter herplans, and she resolved to rest at Rovigo, where she was glad to findthat they could be sheltered in a commodious inn.
The building had originally been a palace, and in its halls andgalleries, and the vast octagonal vestibule on which the principalapartments opened, it retained many noble indications of the purposesto which it was formerly destined.
At present, a lazy innkeeper who did nothing; his bustling wife,who seemed equally at home in the saloon, the kitchen, and even thestable; and a solitary waiter, were the only inmates, except theHerberts, and a travelling party, who had arrived shortly after them,and who, like them, had been driven by stress of weather to seekrefuge at a place where otherwise they had not intended to remain.
A blazing fire of pine wood soon gave cheerfulness to the vast andsomewhat desolate apartment into which our friends had been ushered;their sleeping-room was adjoining, but separated. In spite of thelamentations of Pauncefort, who had been drenched to the skin, and whorequired much more waiting upon than her mistress, Lady Annabel andVenetia at length produced some degree of comfort. They drew the tablenear the fire; they ensconced themselves behind an old screen; and,producing their books and work notwithstanding the tempest, theycontrived to domesticate themselves at Rovigo.
'I cannot help thinking of Arqua and its happy tenants, mamma,' saidVenetia.
'And yet, perhaps, they may have their secret sorrows,' saidLady Annabel. 'I know not why, I always associate seclusion withunhappiness.'
Venetia remembered Cherbury. Their life at Cherbury was like the lifeof the German at Arqua. A chance visitor to Cherbury in their absence,viewing the beautiful residence and the fair domain, and listening tothe tales which they well might hear of all her mother's grace andgoodness, might perhaps too envy its happy occupiers. But were theyhappy? Had they no secret sorrows? Was their seclusion associated withunhappiness? These were reflections that made Venetia grave; but sheopened her journal, and, describing the adventures and feelings of themorning, she dissipated some mournful reminiscences.
The storm still raged, Venetia had quitted the saloon in which hermother and herself had been sitting, and had repaired to the adjoiningchamber to fetch a book. The door of this room opened, as all theother entrances of the different apartments, on to the octagonalvestibule. Just as she was quitting the room, and about to return toher mother, the door of the opposite chamber opened, and there cameforward a gentleman in a Venetian dress of black velvet. His staturewas much above the middle height, though his figure, which wasremarkably slender, was bowed; not by years certainly, for hiscountenance, though singularly emaciated, still retained tracesof youth. His hair, which he wore very long, descended over hisshoulders, and must originally have been of a light golden colour, butnow was severely touched with grey. His countenance was very pallid,so colourless indeed that its aspect was almost unearthly; but hislarge blue eyes, that were deeply set in his majestic brow, stillglittered with fire, and their expression alone gave life to a visage,which, though singularly beautiful in its outline, from its faded andattenuated character seemed rather the countenance of a corpse than ofa breathing being.
The glance of the stranger caught that of Venetia, and seemed tofascinate her. She suddenly became motionless; wildly she stared atthe stranger, who, in his turn, seemed arrested in his progress, andstood still as a statue, with his eyes fixed with absorbing intereston the beautiful apparition before him. An expression of perplexityand pain flitted over the amazed features of Venetia; and then itseemed that, by some almost supernatural effort, confusion amountingto stupefaction suddenly brightened and expanded into keen andoverwhelming intelligence. Exclaiming in a frenzied tone, 'My father!'Venetia sprang forward, and fell senseless on the stranger's breast.
Such, after so much mystery, so many aspirations, so much anxiety, andso much suffering, such was the first meeting of Venetia Herbert withher father!
Marmion Herbert, himself trembling and speechless, bore the apparentlylifeless Venetia into his apartment. Not permitting her for a momentto quit his embrace, he seated himself, and gazed silently on theinanimate and unknown form he held so strangely within his arms. Thoselips, now closed as if in death, had uttered however one wordwhich thrilled to his heart, and still echoed, like a supernaturalannunciation, within his ear. He examined with an eye of agitatedscrutiny the fair features no longer sensible of his presence. Hegazed upon that transparent brow, as if he would read some secret inits pellucid veins; and touched those long locks of golden hair with atrembling finger, that seemed to be wildly seeking for some vague andmiraculous proof of inexpressible identity. The fair creature hadcalled him 'Father.' His dreaming reveries had never pictured a beinghalf so beautiful! She called him 'Father!' Tha word had touchedhis brain, as lightning cuts a tree. He looked around him with adistracted air, then gazed on the tranced form he held with a glancewhich would have penetrated her soul, and murmured unconsciously thewild word she had uttered. She called him 'Father!' He dared not thinkwho she might be. His thoughts were wandering in a distant land;visions of another life, another country, rose before him, troubledand obscure. Baffled aspirations, and hopes blighted in the bud, andthe cherished secrets of his lorn existence, clustered like cloudsupon his perplexed, yet creative, brain. She called him, 'Father!' Itwas a word to make him mad. 'Father!' This beautiful being hadcalled him 'Father,' and seemed to have expired, as it were, in theirresistible expression. His heart yearned to her; he had met herembrace with an inexplicable sympathy; her devotion had seemed, as itwere, her duty and his right. Yet who was she? He was a father. Itwas a fact, a fact alike full of solace and mortification, theconsciousness of which never deserted him. But he was the father of anunknown child; to him the child of his poetic dreams, rather than hisreality. And now there came this radiant creature, and called him'Father!' Was he awake, and in the harsh busy world; or was it theapparition of au over-excited imagination, brooding too constantly onone fond idea, on which he now gazed so fixedly? Was this some spirit?Would that she would speak again! Would that those sealed lips wouldpart and utter but one word, would but again call him 'Father,' and heasked no more!
'Father!' to be called 'Father' by one whom he could not name, by oneover whom he mused in solitude, by one to whom he had poured forth allthe passion of his desolate soul; to be called 'Father' by this beingwas the aspiring secret of his life. He had painted her to himself inhis loneliness, he had conjured up dreams of ineffable loveliness, andinexpressible love; he had led with her an imaginary life of thrillingtenderness; he had indulged in a delicious fancy of mutual interchangeof the most exquisite offices of our nature; and then, when he hadsometimes looked around him, and found no daughter there, no beamingcountenance of purity to greet him with its constant smile, andreceive the quick and ceaseless tribute of his vigilant affection, thetears had stolen down his lately-excited features, all the consolingbeauty of his visions had vanished into air, he had felt the deepcurse of his desolation, and had anathematised the cunning brainthat made his misery a thousand-fold keener by the mockery of itstransporting illusions.
And now there came this transcendent creature, with a form moreglowing than all his dreams; a voice more musical than a seraphicchorus, though it had uttered but one thrilling word: there came thistranscendent creature, beaming with grace, beauty, and love, and hadfallen upon his heart, and called him 'Father!'
Herbert looked up to heaven as if waiting for some fresh miracle toterminate the harrowing suspense of his tortured mind; Herbert lookeddown upon his mysterious companion; the rose was gradually returningto her cheek, her lips seemed to tremble with reviving breath. Therewas only one word more strange to his ear than that which she haduttered, but an irresistible impulse sent forth the sound.
'Venetia!' he exclaimed.
The eyes of the maiden slowly opened; she stared around her with avague glance of perplexity, not unmingled with pain; she looked up;she caught the rapt gaze of her father, bending over her withfondness yet with fear; his lips moved, for a moment they refused toarticulate, yet at length they again uttered, 'Venetia!' And the onlyresponse she made was to cling to him with nervous energy, and hideher face in his bosom.
Herbert pressed her to his heart. Yet even now he hesitated to creditthe incredible union. Again he called her by her name, but added withrising confidence, 'My Venetia!'
'Your child, your child,' she murmured. 'Your own Venetia.'
He pressed his lips to hers; he breathed over her a thousandblessings; she felt his tears trickling on her neck.
At length Venetia looked up and sighed; she was exhausted by theviolence of her emotions: her father relaxed his grasp with infinitetenderness, watching her with delicate solicitude; she leaned her armupon his shoulder with downcast eyes.
Herbert gently took her disengaged hand, and pressed it to his lips.'I am as in a dream,' murmured Venetia.
'The daughter of my heart has found her sire,' said Herbert in animpassioned voice. 'The father who has long lived upon her fanciedimage; the father, I fear, she has been bred up to hate.'
'Oh! no, no!' said Venetia, speaking rapidly and with a slight shiver;'not hate! it was a secret, his being was a secret, his name was nevermentioned; it was unknown.'
'A secret! My existence a secret from my child, my beautiful fondchild!' exclaimed Herbert in a tone even more desolate than bitter.'Why did they not let you at least hate me!'
'My father!' said Venetia, in a firmer voice, and with returninganimation, yet gazing around her with a still distracted air, 'Am Iwith my father? The clouds clear from my brain. I remember that wemet. Where was it? Was it at Arqua? In the garden? I am with myfather!' she continued in a rapid tone and with a wild smile. 'Oh! letme look on him;' and she turned round, and gazed upon Herbert witha serious scrutiny. 'Are you my father?' she continued, in a still,small voice. 'Your hair has grown grey since last I saw you; it wasgolden then, like mine. I know you are my father,' she added, after apause, and in a tone almost of gaiety. 'You cannot deceive me. I knowyour name. They did not tell it me; I found it out myself, but it mademe very ill, very; and I do not think I have ever been quite wellsince. You are Marmion Herbert. My mother had a dog called Marmion,when I was a little girl, but I did not know I had a father then.'
'Venetia!' exclaimed Herbert, with streaming eyes, as he listened withanguish to these incoherent sentences. 'My Venetia loves me!'
'Oh! she always loved you,' replied Venetia; always, always. Beforeshe knew her father she loved him. I dare say you think I do not loveyou, because I am not used to speak to a father. Everything must belearnt, you know,' she said, with a faint, sad smile; 'and then itwas so sudden! I do not think my mother knows it yet. And after all,though I found you out in a moment, still, I know not why, I thoughtit was a picture. But I read your verses, and I knew them by heart atonce; but now my memory has worn out, for I am ill, and everything hasgone cross with me. And all because my father wrote me verses. 'Tisvery strange, is not it?'
'Sweet lamb of my affections,' exclaimed Herbert to himself, 'I fearme much this sudden meeting with one from whose bosom you ought neverto have been estranged, has been for the moment too great a trial forthis delicate brain.'
'I will not tell my mother,' said Venetia; 'she will be angry.'
'Your mother, darling; where is your mother?' said Herbert, looking,if possible, paler than he was wont.
She was at Arqua with me, and on the lake for months, but where we arenow, I cannot say. If I could only remember where we are now,' sheadded with earnestness, and with a struggle to collect herself, 'Ishould know everything.'
'This is Rovigo, my child, the inn of Rovigo. You are travelling withyour mother. Is it not so?'
'Yes! and we came this morning, and it rained. Now I know everything,'said Venetia, with an animated and even cheerful air.
'And we met in the vestibule, my sweet,' continued Herbert, in asoothing voice; 'we came out of opposite chambers, and you knew me; myVenetia knew me. Try to tell me, my darling,' he added, in a tone ofcoaxing fondness, 'try to remember how Venetia knew her father.'
'He was so like his picture at Cherbury,' replied Venetia.
'Cherbury!' exclaimed Herbert, with a deep-drawn sigh.
'Only your hair has grown grey, dear father; but it is long, quite aslong as in your picture.'
'Her dog called Marmion!' murmured Herbert to himself, 'and myportrait, too! You saw your father's portrait, then, every day, love?'
'Oh, no! said Venetia, shaking her head, 'only once, only once. And Inever told mamma. It was where no one could go, but I went there oneday. It was in a room that no one ever entered except mamma, butI entered it. I stole the key, and had a fever, and in my fever Iconfessed all. But I never knew it. Mamma never told me I confessedit, until many, many years afterwards. It was the first, the only timeshe ever mentioned to me your name, my father.'
'And she told you to shun me, to hate me? She told you I was avillain, a profligate, a demon? eh? eh? Was it not so, Venetia?'
'She told me that you had broken her heart,' said Venetia; 'and sheprayed to God that her child might not be so miserable.'
'Oh, my Venetia!' exclaimed Herbert, pressing her to his breast,and in a voice stifled with emotion, 'I feel now we might have beenhappy!'
In the meantime the prolonged absence of her daughter surprisedLady Annabel. At length she rose, and walked into their adjoiningapartment, but to her surprise Venetia was not there. Returning to hersaloon, she found Pauncefort and the waiter arranging the table fordinner.
'Where is Miss Herbert, Pauncefort?' inquired Lady Annabel.
'I am sure, my lady, I cannot say. I have no doubt she is in the otherroom.'
'She is not there, for I have just quitted it,' replied Lady Annabel.'How very strange! You have not seen the signora?' inquired LadyAnnabel of the waiter.
'The signora is in the room with the gentleman.'
'The gentleman!' exclaimed Lady Annabel. 'Tell me, good man, what doyou mean? I am inquiring for my daughter.'
'I know well the signora is talking of her daughter,' replied thewaiter.
'But do you know my daughter by sight? Surely you you must mean someone else.'
'Do I know the signora's daughter?' said the waiter. 'The beautifulyoung lady, with hair like Santa Marguerita, in the church of the HolyTrinity! I tell the signora, I saw her carried into numero 4, in thearms of the Signor Forestiere, who arrived this morning.'
'Venetia is ill,' said Lady Annabel. 'Show me to the room, my friend.'
Lady Annabel accordingly, with a hurried step, following her guide,quitted the chamber. Pauncefort remained fixed to the earth, the verypicture of perplexity.
'Well, to be sure!' she exclaimed, 'was anything ever so strange! Inthe arms of Signor Forestiere! Forestiere. An English name. There isno person of the name of Forest that I know. And in his arms, too! Ishould not wonder if it was my lord after all. Well, I should be gladif he were to come to light again, for, after all, my lady may saywhat she likes, but if Miss Venetia don't marry Lord Cadurcis, I mustsay marriages were never made in heaven!'