CHAPTER IV.
It was in the enjoyment of these exquisite feelings that a year,and more than another year, elapsed at our lone hall of Cherbury.Happiness and content seemed at least the blessed destiny of theHerberts. Venetia grew in years, and grace, and loveliness; each dayapparently more her mother's joy, and each day bound to that motherby, if possible, more ardent love. She had never again experiencedthose uneasy thoughts which at times had haunted her from her infancy;separated from her mother, indeed, scarcely for an hour together, shehad no time to muse. Her studies each day becoming more various andinteresting, and pursued with so gifted and charming a companion,entirely engrossed her; even the exercise that was her relaxation wasparticipated by Lady Annabel; and the mother and daughter, boundingtogether on their steeds, were fanned by the same breeze, andfreshened by the same graceful and healthy exertion.
One day the post, that seldom arrived at Cherbury, brought a letter toLady Annabel, the perusal of which evidently greatly agitated her.Her countenance changed as her eye glanced over the pages; her handtrembled as she held it. But she made no remark; and succeeded insubduing her emotion so quickly that Venetia, although she watchedher mother with anxiety, did not feel justified in interfering withinquiring sympathy. But while Lady Annabel resumed her usual calmdemeanour, she relapsed into unaccustomed silence, and, soon risingfrom the breakfast table, moved to the window, and continuedapparently gazing on the garden, with her face averted from Venetiafor some time. At length she turned to her, and said, 'I think,Venetia, of calling on the Doctor to-day; there is business on which Iwish to consult him, but I will not trouble you, dearest, to accompanyme. I must take the carriage, and it is a long and tiring drive.'
There was a tone of decision even in the slightest observations ofLady Annabel, which, however sweet might be the voice in which theywere uttered, scarcely encouraged their propriety to be canvassed. NowVenetia was far from desirous of being separated from her mother thismorning. It was not a vain and idle curiosity, prompted by the receiptof the letter and its consequent effects, both in the emotion of hermother and the visit which it had rendered necessary, that swayed herbreast. The native dignity of a well-disciplined mind exempted Venetiafrom such feminine weakness. But some consideration might be due tothe quick sympathy of an affectionate spirit that had witnessed, withcorresponding feeling, the disturbance of the being to whom she wasdevoted. Why this occasional and painful mystery that ever and anonclouded the heaven of their love, and flung a frigid shadow over thepath of a sunshiny life? Why was not Venetia to share the sorrow orthe care of her only friend, as well as participate in her joy and hercontent? There were other claims, too, to this confidence, besidesthose of the heart. Lady Annabel was not merely her only friend; shewas her parent, her only parent, almost, for aught she had ever heardor learnt, her only relative. For her mother's family, though she wasaware of their existence by the freedom with which Lady Annabel evermentioned them, and though Venetia was conscious that an occasionalcorrespondence was maintained between them and Cherbury, occupied nostation in Venetia's heart, scarcely in her memory. That noble familywere nullities to her; far distant, apparently estranged from herhearth, except in form she had never seen them; they were associatedin her recollection with none of the sweet ties of kindred. Hergrandfather was dead without her ever having received his blessing;his successor, her uncle, was an ambassador, long absent from hiscountry; her only aunt married to a soldier, and established at aforeign station. Venetia envied Dr. Masham the confidence which wasextended to him; it seemed to her, even leaving out of sight theintimate feelings that subsisted between her and her mother, that theclaims of blood to this confidence were at least as strong as those offriendship. But Venetia stifled these emotions; she parted from hermother with a kind, yet somewhat mournful expression. Lady Annabelmight have read a slight sentiment of affectionate reproach in thedemeanour of her daughter when she bade her farewell. Whatever mightbe the consciousness of the mother, she was successful in concealingher impression. Very kind, but calm and inscrutable, Lady Annabel,having given directions for postponing the dinner-hour, embraced herchild and entered the chariot.
Venetia, from the terrace, watched her mother's progress through thepark. After gazing for some minutes, a tear stole down her cheek. Shestarted, as if surprised at her own emotion. And now the carriagewas out of sight, and Venetia would have recurred to some of thoseresources which were ever at hand for the employment or amusement ofher secluded life. But the favourite volume ceased to interest thismorning, and almost fell from her hand. She tried her spinet, but herear seemed to have lost its music; she looked at her easel, but thecunning had fled from her touch.
Restless and disquieted, she knew not why, Venetia went forth againinto the garden. All nature smiled around her; the flitting birds werethrowing their soft shadows over the sunny lawns, and rustling amidthe blossoms of the variegated groves. The golden wreaths of thelaburnum and the silver knots of the chestnut streamed and glitteredaround; the bees were as busy as the birds, and the whole scene wassuffused and penetrated with brilliancy and odour. It still wasspring, and yet the gorgeous approach of summer, like the advancingprocession of some triumphant king, might almost be detected amid thelingering freshness of the year; a lively and yet magnificent period,blending, as it were, Attic grace with Roman splendour; a time whenhope and fruition for once meet, when existence is most full ofdelight, alike delicate and voluptuous, and when the human frame ismost sensible to the gaiety and grandeur of nature.
And why was not the spirit of the beautiful and innocent Venetia asbright as the surrounding scene? There are moods of mind that baffleanalysis, that arise from a mysterious sympathy we cannot penetrate.At this moment the idea of her father irresistibly recurred to theimagination of Venetia. She could not withstand the conviction thatthe receipt of the mysterious letter and her mother's agitation wereby some inexplicable connexion linked with that forbidden subject.Strange incidents of her life flitted across her memory: her motherweeping on the day they visited Marringhurst; the mysterious chambers;the nocturnal visit of Lady Annabel that Cadurcis had witnessed; herunexpected absence from her apartment when Venetia, in her despair,had visited her some months ago. What was the secret that envelopedher existence? Alone, which was unusual; dispirited, she knew notwhy; and brooding over thoughts which haunted her like evil spirits,Venetia at length yielded to a degree of nervous excitement whichamazed her. She looked up to the uninhabited wing of the mansion withan almost fierce desire to penetrate its mysteries. It seemed to herthat a strange voice came whispering on the breeze, urging her to thefulfilment of a mystical mission. With a vague, yet wild, purpose sheentered the house, and took her way to her mother's chamber. MistressPauncefort was there. Venetia endeavoured to assume her accustomedserenity. The waiting-woman bustled about, arranging the toilet-table,which had been for a moment discomposed, putting away a cap, foldingup a shawl, and indulging in a multitude of inane observations whichlittle harmonised with the high-strung tension of Venetia's mind.Mistress Pauncefort opened a casket with a spring lock, in which sheplaced some trinkets of her mistress. Venetia stood by her in silence;her eye, vacant and wandering, beheld the interior of the casket.There must have been something in it, the sight of which greatlyagitated her, for Venetia turned pale, and in a moment left thechamber and retired to her own room.
She locked her door, threw herself in a chair; almost gasping forbreath, she covered her face with her hands. It was some minutesbefore she recovered comparative composure; she rose and looked inthe mirror; her face was quite white, but her eyes glittering withexcitement. She walked up and down her room with a troubled step, anda scarlet flush alternately returned to and retired from her changingcheek. Then she leaned against a cabinet in thought. She was disturbedfrom her musings by the sound of Pauncefort's step along thevestibule, as she quitted her mother's chamber. In a few minutesVenetia herself stepped forth into the vestibule and listened. All wassilent. The golden morning had summoned the whole
household to itsenjoyment. Not a voice, not a domestic sound, broke the completestillness. Venetia again repaired to the apartment of Lady Annabel.Her step was light, but agitated; it seemed that she scarcely daredto breathe. She opened the door, rushed to the cabinet, pressed thespring lock, caught at something that it contained, and hurried againto her own chamber.
And what is this prize that the trembling Venetia holds almostconvulsively in her grasp, apparently without daring even to examineit? Is this the serene and light-hearted girl, whose face was likethe cloudless splendour of a sunny day? Why is she so pallid andperturbed? What strong impulse fills her frame? She clutches in herhand a key!
On that tempestuous night of passionate sorrow which succeeded thefirst misunderstanding between Venetia and her mother, when the voiceof Lady Annabel had suddenly blended with that of her kneelingchild, and had ratified with her devotional concurrence her wailingsupplications; even at the moment when Venetia, in a rapture of loveand duty, felt herself pressed to her mother's reconciled heart, ithad not escaped her that Lady Annabel held in her hand a key; andthough the feelings which that night had so forcibly developed, andwhich the subsequent conduct of Lady Annabel had so carefully andskilfully cherished, had impelled Venetia to banish and erase from herthought and memory all the associations which that spectacle, howeverslight, was calculated to awaken, still, in her present mood, theunexpected vision of the same instrument, identical she could notdoubt, had triumphed in an instant over all the long discipline ofher mind and conduct, in an instant had baffled and dispersed herself-control, and been hailed as the providential means by which shemight at length penetrate that mystery which she now felt no longersupportable.
The clock of the belfry of Cherbury at this moment struck, and Venetiainstantly sprang from her seat. It reminded her of the preciousnessof the present morning. Her mother was indeed absent, but her motherwould return. Before that event a great fulfilment was to occur.Venetia, still grasping the key, as if it were the talisman of herexistence, looked up to Heaven as if she required for her allottedtask an immediate and special protection; her lips seemed to move, andthen she again quitted her apartment. As she passed through an orielin her way towards the gallery, she observed Pauncefort in the avenueof the park, moving in the direction of the keeper's lodge. Thisemboldened her. With a hurried step she advanced along the gallery,and at length stood before the long-sealed door that had so oftenexcited her strange curiosity. Once she looked around; but no one wasnear, not a sound was heard. With a faltering hand she touched thelock; but her powers deserted her: for a minute she believed that thekey, after all, would not solve the mystery. And yet the difficultyarose only from her own agitation. She rallied her courage; once moreshe made the trial; the key fitted with completeness, and thelock opened with ease, and Venetia found herself in a small andscantily-furnished ante-chamber. Closing the door with noiseless care,Venetia stood trembling in the mysterious chamber, where apparentlythere was nothing to excite wonder. The chamber into which theante-room opened was still closed, and it was some minutes before theadventurous daughter of Lady Annabel could summon courage for theenterprise which awaited her.
The door yielded without an effort. Venetia stepped into a spaciousand lofty chamber. For a moment she paused almost upon the threshold,and looked around her with a vague and misty vision. Anon shedistinguished something of the character of the apartment. In therecess of a large oriel window that looked upon the park, and of whichthe blinds were nearly drawn, was an old-fashioned yet sumptuoustoilet-table of considerable size, arranged as if for use. Oppositethis window, in a corresponding recess, was what might be deemed abridal bed, its furniture being of white satin richly embroidered; thecurtains half closed; and suspended from the canopy was a wreath ofroses that had once emulated, or rather excelled, the lustrous purityof the hangings, but now were wan and withered. The centre of theinlaid and polished floor of the apartment was covered with a Tournaycarpet of brilliant yet tasteful decoration. An old cabinet offanciful workmanship, some chairs of ebony, and some girandoles ofsilver completed the furniture of the room, save that at its extremeend, exactly opposite to the door by which Venetia entered, coveredwith a curtain of green velvet, was what she concluded must be apicture.
An awful stillness pervaded the apartment: Venetia herself, witha face paler even than the hangings of the mysterious bed, stoodmotionless with suppressed breath, gazing on the distant curtain witha painful glance of agitated fascination. At length, summoning herenergies as if for the achievement of some terrible yet inevitableenterprise, she crossed the room, and averting her face, and closingher eyes in a paroxysm of nervous excitement, she stretched forth herarm, and with a rapid motion withdrew the curtain. The harsh sound ofthe brass rings drawn quickly over the rod, the only noise that hadyet met her ear in this mystical chamber, made her start and tremble.She looked up, she beheld, in a broad and massy frame, the full-lengthportrait of a man.
A man in the very spring of sunny youth, and of radiant beauty. Abovethe middle height, yet with a form that displayed exquisite grace, hewas habited in a green tunic that enveloped his figure to advantage,and became the scene in which he was placed: a park, with a castle inthe distance; while a groom at hand held a noble steed, that seemedimpatient for the chase. The countenance of its intended rider metfully the gaze of the spectator. It was a countenance of singularloveliness and power. The lips and the moulding of the chin resembledthe eager and impassioned tenderness of the shape of Antinous; butinstead of the effeminate sullenness of the eye, and the narrowsmoothness of the forehead, shone an expression of profound andpiercing thought. On each side of the clear and open brow descended,even to the shoulders, the clustering locks of golden hair; while theeyes, large and yet deep, beamed with a spiritual energy, and shonelike two wells of crystalline water that reflect the all-beholdingheavens.
Now when Venetia Herbert beheld this countenance a change came overher. It seemed that when her eyes met the eyes of the portrait, somemutual interchange of sympathy occurred between them. She freedherself in an instant from the apprehension and timidity that beforeoppressed her. Whatever might ensue, a vague conviction of havingachieved a great object pervaded, as it were, her being. Some greatend, vast though indefinite, had been fulfilled. Abstract andfearless, she gazed upon the dazzling visage with a prophetic heart.Her soul was in a tumult, oppressed with thick-coming fancies too bigfor words, panting for expression. There was a word which must bespoken: it trembled on her convulsive lip, and would not sound. Shelooked around her with an eye glittering with unnatural fire, as if tosupplicate some invisible and hovering spirit to her rescue, or thatsome floating and angelic chorus might warble the thrilling word whoseexpression seemed absolutely necessary to her existence. Her cheekis flushed, her eye wild and tremulous, the broad blue veins of herimmaculate brow quivering and distended; her waving hair falls backover her forehead, and rustles like a wood before the storm. She seemsa priestess in the convulsive throes of inspiration, and about tobreathe the oracle. The picture, as we have mentioned, was hung ina broad and massy frame. In the centre of its base was worked anescutcheon, and beneath the shield this inscription:
MARMION HERBERT, AET. XX.
Yet there needed not these letters to guide the agitated spirit ofVenetia, for, before her eye had reached them, the word was spoken;and falling on her knees before the portrait, the daughter of LadyAnnabel had exclaimed, 'My father!'