CHAPTER X.
It is curious to recall our feelings at a moment when a great eventis impending over us, and we are utterly unconscious of its probableoccurrence. How often does it happen that a subject which almostunceasingly engages our mind, is least thought of at the very instantthat the agitating suspense involved in its consideration is perhapsabout to be terminated for ever! The very morning after the mysteriousgondola had rested so long before the Manfrini Palace, Venetia rosefor the first time since the flight from Rovigo, refreshed by herslumbers, and tranquil in her spirit. It was not in her powerto recall her dreams; but they had left a vague and yet sereneimpression. There seemed a lightness in her heart, that long had beenunusual with her, and she greeted her mother with a smile, faintindeed, yet natural.
Perhaps this beneficial change, slight but still delightful, might beattributed to the softness and the splendour of the morn. Before theapproach of winter, it seemed that the sun was resolved to remind theVenetians that they were his children; and that, although his raysmight be soon clouded for a season, they were not to believe thattheir parent had deserted them. The sea was like glass, a golden hazesuffused the horizon, and a breeze, not strong enough to disturb thewaters, was wafted at intervals from the gardens of the Brenta, fitfuland sweet.
Venetia had yielded to the suggestion of her mother, and had agreedfor the first time to leave the palace. They stepped into theirgondola, and were wafted to an island in the Lagune where there wasa convent, and, what in Venice was more rare and more delightful, agarden. Its scanty shrubberies sparkled in the sun; and a cypressflanked by a pine-tree offered to the eye unused to trees a novel andpicturesque group. Beneath its shade they rested, watching on one sidethe distant city, and on the other the still and gleaming waters ofthe Adriatic. While they were thus sitting, renovated by the soft airand pleasant spectacle, a holy father, with a beard like a meteor,appeared and addressed them.
'Welcome to St. Lazaro!' said the holy father, speaking in English;'and may the peace that reigns within its walls fill also yourbreasts!'
'Indeed, holy father,' said Lady Annabel to the Armenian monk, 'I havelong heard of your virtues and your happy life.'
'You know that Paradise was placed in our country,' said the monk witha smile. 'We have all lost Paradise, but the Armenian has lost hiscountry too. Nevertheless, with God's blessing, on this islet we havefound an Eden, pure at least and tranquil.'
'For the pious, Paradise exists everywhere,' said Lady Annabel.
'You have been in England, holy father?' said Venetia.
'It has not been my good fortune,' replied the monk.
'Yet you speak our tongue with a facility and accent that surpriseme.'
'I learnt it in America where I long resided,' rejoined the Armenian.
'This is for your eye, lady,' continued the monk, drawing a letterfrom his bosom.
Lady Annabel felt not a little surprised; but the idea immediatelyoccurred to her that it was some conventual memorial appealing to hercharity. She took the paper from the monk, who immediately moved away;but what was the agitation of Lady Annabel when she recognised thehandwriting of her husband! Her first thought was to save Venetiafrom sharing that agitation. She rose quickly; she commanded herselfsufficiently to advise her daughter, in a calm tone, to remain seated,while for a moment she refreshed herself by a stroll. She had notquitted Venetia many paces, when she broke the seal and read theselines:
'Tremble not, Annabel, when you recognise this handwriting. It is thatof one whose only aspiration is to contribute to your happiness; andalthough the fulfilment of that fond desire may be denied him, itnever shall be said, even by you, that any conduct of his should nowoccasion you annoyance. I am in Venice at the peril of my life, whichI only mention because the difficulties inseparable from my positionare the principal cause that you did not receive this communicationimmediately after our strange meeting. I have gazed at night upon yourpalace, and watched the forms of my wife and our child; but one wordfrom you, and I quit Venice for ever, and it shall not be my fault ifyou are ever again disturbed by the memory of the miserable Herbert.
'But before I go, I will make this one appeal if not to your justice,at least to your mercy. After the fatal separation of a life, we haveonce more met: you have looked upon me not with hatred; my hand hasonce more pressed yours; for a moment I indulged the impossible hope,that this weary and exhausted spirit might at length be blessed. Withagony I allude to the incident that dispelled the rapture ofthis vision. Sufficient for me most solemnly to assure you thatfour-and-twenty hours had not elapsed without that feeble andunhallowed tie being severed for ever! It vanished instantaneouslybefore the presence of my wife and my child. However you decide, itcan never again subsist: its utter and eternal dissolution was theinevitable homage to your purity.
'Whatever may have been my errors, whatever my crimes, for I will notattempt to justify to you a single circumstance of my life, I humblemyself in the dust before you, and solicit only mercy; yet whatevermay have been my career, ah! Annabel, in the infinite softness of yoursoul was it not for a moment pardoned? Am I indeed to suffer for thatlast lamentable intrusion? You are a woman, Annabel, with a brain asclear as your heart is pure. Judge me with calmness, Annabel; werethere no circumstances in my situation to extenuate that deplorableconnection? I will not urge them; I will not even intimate them; butsurely, Annabel, when I kneel before you full of deep repentance andlong remorse, if you could pardon the past, it is not that incident,however mortifying to you, however disgraceful to myself, that shouldbe an impassable barrier to all my hopes!
'Once you loved me; I ask you not to love me now. There is nothingabout me now that can touch the heart of woman. I am old before mytime; bent with the blended influence of action and of thought, and ofphysical and moral suffering. The play of my spirit has gone for ever.My passions have expired like my hopes. The remaining sands of my lifeare few. Once it was otherwise: you can recall a different picture ofthe Marmion on whom you smiled, and of whom you were the first love. OAnnabel! grey, feeble, exhausted, penitent, let me stagger over yourthreshold, and die! I ask no more; I will not hope for your affection;I will not even count upon your pity; but endure my presence; let yourroof screen my last days!'
It was read; it was read again, dim as was the sight of Lady Annabelwith fast-flowing tears. Still holding the letter, but with handsfallen, she gazed upon the shining waters before her in a fit ofabstraction. It was the voice of her child that roused her.
'Mother,' said Venetia in a tone of some decision, 'you are troubled,and we have only one cause of trouble. That letter is from my father.'
Lady Annabel gave her the letter in silence.
Venetia withdrew almost unconsciously a few paces from her mother. Shefelt this to be the crisis of her life. There never was a moment whichshe believed required more fully the presence of all her energies.Before she had addressed Lady Annabel, she had endeavoured to steelher mind to great exertion. Yet now that she held the letter, shecould not command herself sufficiently to read it. Her breath desertedher; her hand lost its power; she could not even open the lines onwhich perhaps her life depended. Suddenly, with a rapid effort, sheglanced at the contents. The blood returned to her check; her eyebecame bright with excitement; she gasped for breath; she advanced toLady Annabel. 'Ah! mother,' she exclaimed, 'you will grant all that itdesires!'
Still gazing on the wave that laved the shore of the island with analmost inperceptible ripple, Lady Annabel continued silent.
'Mother,' said Venetia, 'my beloved mother, you hesitate.' Sheapproached Lady Annabel, and with one arm round her neck, she graspedwith the other her mother's hand. 'I implore you, by all thataffection which you lavish on me, yield to this supplication. Omother! dearest mother! it has been my hope that my life has been atleast a life of duty; I have laboured to yield to all your wishes.I have struggled to make their fulfilment the law of my being. Yes!mother, your memory will assure you, that when the sweetest emotionsof my heart wer
e the stake, you appealed to me to sacrifice them, andthey were dedicated to your will. Have I ever murmured? I have soughtonly to repay your love by obedience. Speak to me, dearest mother! Iimplore you speak to me! Tell me, can you ever repent relenting inthis instance? O mother! you will not hesitate; you will not indeed;you will bring joy and content to our long-harassed hearth! Tell meso; I beseech you tell me so! I wish, oh! how I wish, that you wouldcomply from the mere impulse of your own heart! But, grant that itis a sacrifice; grant that it may be unwise; that it may be vain; Isupplicate you to make it! I, your child, who never deserted you, whowill never desert you, pledging my faith to you in the face of heaven;for my sake, I supplicate you to make it. You do not hesitate; youcannot hesitate; mother, you cannot hesitate. Ah! you would not if youknew all; if you knew all the misery of my life, you would be glad;you would be cheerful; you would look upon this as an interposition ofProvidence in favour of your Venetia; you would, indeed, dear mother!'
'What evil fortune guided our steps to Italy?' said Lady Annabel in asolemn tone, and as if in soliloquy.
'No, no, mother; not evil fortune; fortune the best and brightest,'exclaimed her daughter, 'We came here to be happy, and happiness wehave at length gained. It is in our grasp; I feel it. It was notfortune, dear mother! it was fate, it was Providence, it was God. Youhave been faithful to Him, and He has brought back to you my father,chastened and repentant. God has turned his heart to all your virtues.Will you desert him? No, no, mother, you will not, you cannot; for hissake, for your own sake, and for your child's, you will not!'
'For twenty years I have acted from an imperious sense of duty,' saidLady Annabel, 'and for your sake, Venetia, as much as for my own.Shall the feelings of a moment--'
'O mother! dearest mother! say not these words. With me, at least,it has not been the feeling of a moment. It haunted my infancy; itharassed me while a girl; it has brought me in the prime of womanhoodto the brink of the grave. And with you, mother, has it been thefeeling of a moment? Ah! you ever loved him, when his name was neverbreathed by those lips. You loved him when you deemed he had forgottenyou; when you pictured him to yourself in all the pride of health andgenius, wanton and daring; and now, now that he comes to you penitent,perhaps dying, more like a remorseful spirit than a breathing being,and humbles himself before you, and appeals only to your mercy, ah! mymother, you cannot reject, you could not reject him, even if you werealone, even if you had no child!'
'My child! my child! all my hopes were in my child,' murmured LadyAnnabel.
'Is she not by your side?' said Venetia.
'You know not what you ask; you know not what you counsel,' said LadyAnnabel. 'It has been the prayer and effort of my life that you shouldnever know. There is a bitterness in the reconciliation which followslong estrangement, that yields a pang more acute even than the firstdisunion. Shall I be called upon to mourn over the wasted happiness oftwenty years? Why did he not hate us?'
'The pang is already felt, mother,' said Venetia. 'Reject my father,but you cannot resume the feelings of a month back. You have seenhim; you have listened to him. He is no longer the character whichjustified your conduct, and upheld you under the trial. His image hasentered your soul; your heart is softened. Bid him quit Venice withoutseeing you, and you will remain the most miserable of women.'
'On his head, then, be the final desolation,' said Lady Annabel; 'itis but a part of the lot that he has yielded me.'
'I am silent,' said Venetia, relaxing her grasp. 'I see that yourchild is not permitted to enter into your considerations.' She turnedaway.
'Venetia!' said her mother.
'Mother!' said Venetia, looking back, but not returning.
'Return one moment to me.'
Venetia slowly rejoined her. Lady Annabel spoke in a kind and gentle,though serious tone.
'Venetia,' she said, 'what I am about to speak is not the impulse ofthe moment, but has been long revolved in my mind; do not, therefore,misapprehend it. I express without passion what I believe to be truth.I am persuaded that the presence of your father is necessary toyour happiness; nay, more, to your life. I recognise the mysteriousinfluence which he has ever exercised over your existence. I feel itimpossible for me any longer to struggle against a power to which Ibow. Be happy, then, my daughter, and live. Fly to your father, and beto him as matchless a child as you have been to me.' She uttered theselast words in a choking voice.
'Is this, indeed, the dictate of your calm judgment, mother?' saidVenetia.
'I call God to witness, it has of late been more than once on my lips.The other night, when I spoke of Rovigo, I was about to express this.'
'Then, mother!' said Venetia, 'I find that I have been misunderstood.At least I thought my feelings towards yourself had been appreciated.They have not; and I can truly say, my life does not afford a singlecircumstance to which I can look back with content. Well will itindeed be for me to die?'
'The dream of my life,' said Lady Annabel, in a tone of infinitedistress, 'was that she, at least, should never know unhappiness. Itwas indeed a dream.'
There was now a silence of several minutes. Lady Annabel remained inexactly the same position, Venetia standing at a little distance fromher, looking resigned and sorrowful.
'Venetia,' at length said Lady Annabel, 'why are you silent?'
'Mother, I have no more to say. I pretend not to act in this life; itis my duty to follow you.'
'And your inclination?' inquired Lady Annabel.
'I have ceased to have a wish upon any subject,' said Venetia.
'Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, with a great effort, 'I am miserable.'
This unprecedented confession of suffering from the strong mind of hermother, melted Venetia to the heart. She advanced, and threw her armsround her mother's neck, and buried her weeping face in Lady Annabel'sbosom.
'Speak to me, my daughter,' said Lady Annabel; 'counsel me, for mymind trembles; anxiety has weakened it. Nay, I beseech you, speak.Speak, speak, Venetia. What shall I do?'
'Mother, I will never say anything again but that I love you!'
'I see the holy father in the distance. Let us walk to him, my child,and meet him.'
Accordingly Lady Annabel, now leaning on Venetia, approached the monk.About five minutes elapsed before they reached him, during which not aword was spoken.
'Holy father,' said Lady Annabel, in a tone of firmness that surprisedher daughter and made her tremble with anticipation, 'you know thewriter of this letter?'
'He is my friend of many years, lady,' replied the Armenian; 'I knewhim in America. I owe to him my life, and more than my life. Therebreathes not his equal among men.'
A tear started to the eye of Lady Annabel; she recalled the terms inwhich the household at Arqua had spoken of Herbert. 'He is in Venice?'she inquired.
'He is within these walls,' the monk replied.
Venetia, scarcely able to stand, felt her mother start. After amomentary pause, Lady Annabel said, 'Can I speak with him, and alone?'
Nothing but the most nervous apprehension of throwing any obstacle inthe way of the interview could have sustained Venetia. Quite pale,with her disengaged hand clenched, not a word escaped her lips. Shehung upon the answer of the monk.
'You can see him, and alone,' said the monk. 'He is now in thesacristy. Follow me.'
'Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, 'remain in this garden. I will accompanythis holy man. Stop! embrace me before I go, and,' she added, in awhisper, 'pray for me.'
It needed not the admonition of her mother to induce Venetia to seekrefuge in prayer, in this agony of her life. But for its salutary andstilling influence, it seemed to her that she must have forfeited allcontrol over her mind. The suspense was too terrible for human aid tosupport her. Seated by the sea-side, she covered her face with herhands, and invoked the Supreme assistance. More than an hour passedaway. Venetia looked up. Two beautiful birds, of strange form andspotless plumage, that perhaps had wandered from the Aegean, werehovering over her head, bright and gl
ancing in the sun. She acceptedtheir appearance as a good omen. At this moment she heard a voice,and, looking up, observed a monk in the distance, beckoning to her.She rose, and with a trembling step approached him. He retired, stillmotioning to her to follow him. She entered, by a low portal, a darkcloister; it led to an ante-chapel, through which, as she passed, herear caught the solemn chorus of the brethren. Her step faltered; hersight was clouded; she was as one walking in a dream. The monk openeda door, and, retiring, waved his hand, as for her to enter. There wasa spacious and lofty chamber, scantily furnished, some huge chests,and many sacred garments. At the extreme distance her mother wasreclined on a bench, her head supported by a large crimson cushion,and her father kneeling by her mother's side. With a soundless step,and not venturing even to breathe, Venetia approached them, and, sheknew not how, found herself embraced by both her parents.
END OF BOOK V.
BOOK VI.