CHAPTER X.
When Venetia had so far recovered that, leaning on her mother's arm,she could resume her walks upon the terrace, Doctor Masham persuadedhis friends, as a slight and not unpleasant change of scene, to payhim a visit at Marringhurst. Since the chamber scene, indeed, LadyAnnabel's tie to Cherbury was much weakened. There were certainfeelings of pain, and fear, and mortification, now associated withthat place which she could not bear to dwell upon, and which greatlybalanced those sentiments of refuge and repose, of peace and love,with which the old hall, in her mind, was heretofore connected.Venetia ever adopted the slightest intimations of a wish on the partof her mother, and so she readily agreed to fall into the arrangement.
It was rather a long and rough journey to Marringhurst, for they wereobliged to use the old chariot; but Venetia forgot her fatigues inthe cordial welcome of their host, whose sparkling countenance wellexpressed the extreme gratification their arrival occasioned him.All that the tenderest solicitude could devise for the agreeableaccommodation of the invalid had been zealously concerted; and theconstant influence of Dr. Masham's cheerful mind was as beneficial toLady Annabel as to her daughter. The season was gay, the place waspleasant; and although they were only a few miles from home, in ahouse with which they were familiar, and their companion one whom theyhad known intimately all their lives, and of late almost daily seen;yet such is the magic of a change in our habits, however slight, andof the usual theatre of their custom, that this visit to Marringhurstassumed quite the air of an adventure, and seemed at first almostinvested with the charm and novelty of travel.
The surrounding country, which, though verdant, was flat, was welladapted to the limited exertions and still feeble footsteps of aninvalid, and Venetia began to study botany with the Doctor, who indeedwas not very profound in his attainments in this respect, but knewquite enough to amuse his scholar. By degrees also, as her strengthdaily increased, they extended their walks; and at length she evenmounted her pony, and was fast recovering her elasticity both of bodyand mind. There were also many pleasant books with which she wasunacquainted; a cabinet of classic coins, prints, and pictures. Shebecame, too, interested in the Doctor's rural pursuits; would watchhim with his angle, and already meditated a revolution in his garden.So time, on the whole, flew cheerfully on, certainly withoutany weariness; and the day seldom passed that they did not allcongratulate themselves on the pleasant and profitable change.
In the meantime Venetia, when alone, still recurred to that idea thatwas now so firmly rooted in her mind, that it was quite out of thepower of any social discipline to divert her attention from it. Shewas often the sole companion of the Doctor, and she had long resolvedto seize a favourable opportunity to appeal to him on the subject ofher father. It so happened that she was walking alone with him onemorning in the neighbourhood of Marringhurst, having gone to visit theremains of a Roman encampment in the immediate vicinity. When they hadarrived at the spot, and the Doctor had delivered his usual lecture onthe locality, they sat down together on a mound, that Venetia mightrest herself.
'Were you ever in Italy, Doctor Masham?' said Venetia.
'I never was out of my native country,' said the Doctor. 'I once,indeed, was about making the grand tour with a pupil of mine atOxford, but circumstances interfered which changed his plans, and so Iremain a regular John Bull.'
'Was my father at Oxford?' said Venetia, quietly.
'He was,' replied the Doctor, looking confused.
'I should like to see Oxford much,' said Venetia.
'It is a most interesting seat of learning,' said the Doctor, quitedelighted to change the subject. 'Whether we consider its antiquity,its learning, the influence it has exercised upon the history of thecountry, its magnificent endowments, its splendid buildings, its greatcolleges, libraries, and museums, or that it is one of the principalhead-quarters of all the hope of England, our youth, it is not toomuch to affirm that there is scarcely a spot on the face of the globeof equal interest and importance.'
'It is not for its colleges, or libraries, or museums, or all itssplendid buildings,' observed Venetia, 'that I should wish to see it.I wish to see it because my father was once there. I should like tosee a place where I was quite certain my father had been.'
'Still harping of her father,' thought the Doctor to himself, andgrowing uneasy; yet, from his very anxiety to turn the subject, quiteincapable of saying an appropriate word.
'Do you remember my father at Oxford, Doctor Masham?' said Venetia.
'Yes! no, yes!' said the Doctor, rather colouring; 'that he must havebeen there in my time, I rather think.'
'But you do not recollect him?' said Venetia, pressing question.
'Why,' rejoined the Doctor, a little more collected, 'when youremember that there are between two and three thousand young men atthe university, you must not consider it very surprising that I mightnot recollect your father.'
'No,' said Venetia, 'perhaps not: and yet I cannot help thinking thathe must always have been a person who, if once seen, would not easilyhave been forgotten.'
'Here is an Erica vagans,' said the Doctor, picking a flower; 'itis rather uncommon about here;' and handing it at the same time toVenetia.
'My father must have been very young when he died?' said Venetia,scarcely looking at the flower.
'Yes, your father was very young,' he replied.
'Where did he die?'
'I cannot answer that question.'
'Where was he buried?'
'You know, my dear young lady, that the subject is too tender for anyone to converse with your poor mother upon it. It is not in my powerto give you the information you desire. Be satisfied, my dear MissHerbert, that a gracious Providence has spared to you one parent, andone so inestimable.'
'I trust I know how to appreciate so great a blessing,' repliedVenetia; 'but I should be sorry if the natural interest which allchildren must take in those who have given them birth, should belooked upon as idle and unjustifiable curiosity.'
'My dear young lady, you misapprehend me.'
'No, Doctor Masham, indeed I do not,' replied Venetia, with firmness.'I can easily conceive that the mention of my father may for variousreasons be insupportable to my mother; it is enough for me that I amconvinced such is the case: my lips are sealed to her for ever uponthe subject; but I cannot recognise the necessity of this constraintto others. For a long time I was kept in ignorance whether I hada father or not. I have discovered, no matter how, who he was. Ibelieve, pardon me, my dearest friend, I cannot help believing, thatyou were acquainted, or, at least, that you know something of him; andI entreat you! yes,' repeated Venetia with great emphasis, layingher hand upon his arm, and looking with earnestness in his face, 'Ientreat you, by all your kind feelings to my mother and myself, by allthat friendship we so prize, by the urgent solicitation of a daughterwho is influenced in her curiosity by no light or unworthy feeling;yes! by all the claims of a child to information which ought not to bewithheld from her, tell me, tell me all, tell me something! Speak, Dr.Masham, do speak!'
'My dear young lady,' said the Doctor, with a glistening eye, 'it isbetter that we should both be silent.'
'No, indeed,' replied Venetia, 'it is not better; it is not well thatwe should be silent. Candour is a great virtue. There is a charm, ahealthy charm, in frankness. Why this mystery? Why these secrets? Havethey worked good? Have they benefited us? O! my friend, I would notsay so to my mother, I would not be tempted by any sufferings to painfor an instant her pure and affectionate heart; but indeed, DoctorMasham, indeed, indeed, what I tell you is true, all my late illness,my present state, all, all are attributable but to one cause, thismystery about my father!'
'What can I tell you?' said the unhappy Masham.
'Tell me only one fact. I ask no more. Yes! I promise you, solemnly Ipromise you, I will ask no more. Tell me, does he live?'
'He does!' said the Doctor. Venetia sank upon his shoulder.
'My dear young lady, my darling young lady!' said th
e Doctor; 'she hasfainted. What can I do?' The unfortunate Doctor placed Venetia in areclining posture, and hurried to a brook that was nigh, and broughtwater in his hand to sprinkle on her. She revived; she made a struggleto restore herself.
'It is nothing,' she said, 'I am resolved to be well. I am well. I ammyself again. He lives; my father lives! I was confident of it! I willask no more. I am true to my word. O! Doctor Masham, you have alwaysbeen my kind friend, but you have never yet conferred on me a favourlike the one you have just bestowed.'
'But it is well,' said the Doctor, 'as you know so much, that youshould know more.'
'Yes! yes!'
'As we walk along,' he continued, 'we will converse, or at anothertime; there is no lack of opportunity.'
'No, now, now!' eagerly exclaimed Venetia, 'I am quite well. It wasnot pain or illness that overcame me. Now let us walk, now let us talkof these things. He lives?'
'I have little to add,' said Dr. Masham, after a moment's thought;'but this, however painful, it is necessary for you to know, that yourfather is unworthy of your mother, utterly; they are separated; theynever can be reunited.'
'Never?' said Venetia.
'Never,' replied Dr. Masham; 'and I now warn you; if, indeed, as Icannot doubt, you love your mother; if her peace of mind and happinessare, as I hesitate not to believe, the principal objects of your life,upon this subject with her be for ever silent. Seek to penetrate nomysteries, spare all allusions, banish, if possible, the idea of yourfather from your memory. Enough, you know he lives. We know no more.Your mother labours to forget him; her only consolation for sorrowssuch as few women ever experienced, is her child, yourself, your love.Now be no niggard with it. Cling to this unrivalled parent, who hasdedicated her life to you. Soothe her sufferings, endeavour to makeher share your happiness; but, of this be certain, that if youraise up the name and memory of your father between your mother andyourself, her life will be the forfeit!'
'His name shall never pass my lips,' said Venetia; 'solemnly I vow it.That his image shall be banished from my heart is too much to ask, andmore than it is in my power to grant. But I am my mother's child. Iwill exist only for her; and if my love can console her, she shallnever be without solace. I thank you, Doctor, for all your kindness.We will never talk again upon the subject; yet, believe me, you haveacted wisely, you have done good.'
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