CHAPTER I.
Life is not dated merely by years. Events are sometimes the bestcalendars. There are epochs in our existence which cannot beascertained by a formal appeal to the registry. The arrival of theCadurcis family at their old abbey, their consequent intimacy atCherbury, the death of the mother, and the departure of the son: thesewere events which had been crowded into a space of less than twoyears; but those two years were not only the most eventful in the lifeof Venetia Herbert, but in their influence upon the development of hermind, and the formation of her character, far exceeded the effects ofall her previous existence.
Venetia once more found herself with no companion but her mother,but in vain she attempted to recall the feelings she had beforeexperienced under such circumstances, and to revert to the resourcesshe had before commanded. No longer could she wander in imaginarykingdoms, or transform the limited world of her experience into aboundless region of enchanted amusement. Her play-pleasure hours werefled for ever. She sighed for her faithful and sympathising companion.The empire of fancy yielded without a struggle to the conquering swayof memory.
For the first few weeks Venetia was restless and dispirited, and whenshe was alone she often wept. A mysterious instinct prompted her,however, not to exhibit such emotion before her mother. Yet she lovedto hear Lady Annabel talk of Plantagenet, and a visit to the abbey wasever her favourite walk. Sometimes, too, a letter arrived from LordCadurcis, and this was great joy; but such communications were rare.Nothing is more difficult than for a junior boy at a public school tomaintain a correspondence; yet his letters were most affectionate,and always dwelt upon the prospect of his return. The period for thishoped-for return at length arrived, but it brought no Plantagenet.His guardian wished that the holidays should be spent under his roof.Still at intervals Cadurcis wrote to Cherbury, to which, as time flewon, it seemed destined he never was to return. Vacation followedvacation, alike passed with his guardian, either in London, or ata country seat still more remote from Cherbury, until at length itbecame so much a matter of course that his guardian's house shouldbe esteemed his home, that Plantagenet ceased to allude even to theprospect of return. In time his letters became rarer and rarer, until,at length, they altogether ceased. Meanwhile Venetia had overcome theoriginal pang of separation; if not as gay as in old days, she wasserene and very studious; delighting less in her flowers and birds,but much more in her books, and pursuing her studies with anearnestness and assiduity which her mother was rather fain to checkthan to encourage. Venetia Herbert, indeed, promised to become a mostaccomplished woman. She had a fine ear for music, a ready tongue forlanguages; already she emulated her mother's skill in the arts; whilethe library of Cherbury afforded welcome and inexhaustible resourcesto a girl whose genius deserved the richest and most sedulouscultivation, and whose peculiar situation, independent of her studiouspredisposition, rendered reading a pastime to her rather than atask. Lady Annabel watched the progress of her daughter with livelyinterest, and spared no efforts to assist the formation of herprinciples and her taste. That deep religious feeling which was thecharacteristic of the mother had been carefully and early cherishedin the heart of the child, and in time the unrivalled writings of thegreat divines of our Church became a principal portion of her reading.Order, method, severe study, strict religious exercise, with noamusement or relaxation but of the most simple and natural character,and with a complete seclusion from society, altogether formed asystem, which, acting upon a singularly susceptible and gifted nature,secured the promise in Venetia Herbert, at fourteen years of age, ofan extraordinary woman; a system, however, against which her livelyand somewhat restless mind might probably have rebelled, had notthat system been so thoroughly imbued with all the melting spell ofmaternal affection. It was the inspiration of this sacred love thathovered like a guardian angel over the life of Venetia. It roused herfrom her morning slumbers with an embrace, it sanctified her eveningpillow with a blessing; it anticipated the difficulty of the student'spage, and guided the faltering hand of the hesitating artist; itrefreshed her memory, it modulated her voice; it accompanied her inthe cottage, and knelt by her at the altar. Marvellous and beautifulis a mother's love. And when Venetia, with her strong feelings andenthusiastic spirit, would look around and mark that a graceful formand a bright eye were for ever watching over her wants and wishes,instructing with sweetness, and soft even with advice, her whole soulrose to her mother, all thoughts and feelings were concentrated inthat sole existence, and she desired no happier destiny than to passthrough life living in the light of her mother's smiles, and clingingwith passionate trust to that beneficent and guardian form.
But with all her quick and profound feelings Venetia was thoughtfuland even shrewd, and when she was alone her very love for hermother, and her gratitude for such an ineffable treasure as parentalaffection, would force her mind to a subject which at intervals hadhaunted her even from her earliest childhood. Why had she only oneparent? What mystery was this that enveloped that great tie? Forthat there was a mystery Venetia felt as assured as that she was adaughter. By a process which she could not analyse, her father hadbecome a forbidden subject. True, Lady Annabel had placed no formalprohibition upon its mention; nor at her present age was Venetia onewho would be influenced in her conduct by the bygone and arbitraryintimations of a menial; nevertheless, that the mention of her fatherwould afford pain to the being she loved best in the world, was aconviction which had grown with her years and strengthened with herstrength. Pardonable, natural, even laudable as was the anxiety of thedaughter upon such a subject, an instinct with which she could notstruggle closed the lips of Venetia for ever upon this topic. His namewas never mentioned, his past existence was never alluded to. Who washe? That he was of noble family and great position her name betokened,and the state in which they lived. He must have died very early;perhaps even before her mother gave her birth. A dreadful lot indeed;and yet was the grief that even such a dispensation might occasion, sokeen, so overwhelming, that after fourteen long years his name mightnot be permitted, even for an instant, to pass the lips of hisbereaved wife? Was his child to be deprived of the only solace forhis loss, the consolation of cherishing his memory? Strange, passingstrange indeed, and bitter! At Cherbury the family of Herbert werehonoured only from tradition. Until the arrival of Lady Annabel, as wehave before mentioned, they had not resided at the hall for more thanhalf a century. There were no old retainers there from whom Venetiamight glean, without suspicion, the information for which she panted.Slight, too, as was Venetia's experience of society, there were timeswhen she could not resist the impression that her mother was nothappy; that there was some secret sorrow that weighed upon herspirit, some grief that gnawed at her heart. Could it be still therecollection of her lost sire? Could one so religious, so resigned,so assured of meeting the lost one in a better world, brood with arepining soul over the will of her Creator? Such conduct was entirelyat variance with all the tenets of Lady Annabel. It was not thus sheconsoled the bereaved, that she comforted the widow, and solaced theorphan. Venetia, too, observed everything and forgot nothing. Not anincident of her earliest childhood that was not as fresh in her memoryas if it had occurred yesterday. Her memory was naturally keen; livingin solitude, with nothing to distract it, its impressions never fadedaway. She had never forgotten her mother's tears the day that she andPlantagenet had visited Marringhurst. Somehow or other Dr. Mashamseemed connected with this sorrow. Whenever Lady Annabel was mostdispirited it was after an interview with that gentleman; yet thepresence of the Doctor always gave her pleasure, and he was the mostkind-hearted and cheerful of men. Perhaps, after all, it was only herillusion; perhaps, after all, it was the memory of her father to whichher mother was devoted, and which occasionally overcame her; perhapsshe ventured to speak of him to Dr. Masham, though not to herdaughter, and this might account for that occasional agitation whichVenetia had observed at his visits. And yet, and yet, and yet; in vainshe reasoned. There is a strange sympathy which whispers convictionsthat no evid
ence can authorise, and no arguments dispel. VenetiaHerbert, particularly as she grew older, could not refrain at timesfrom yielding to the irresistible belief that her existence wasenveloped in some mystery. Mystery too often presupposes the idea ofguilt. Guilt! Who was guilty? Venetia shuddered at the current of herown thoughts. She started from the garden seat in which she had falleninto this dangerous and painful reverie; flew to her mother, whoreceived her with smiles; and buried her face in the bosom of LadyAnnabel.
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