‘Not with my love,’ said Venetia, eagerly; ’not with my love, mother.  You have forgotten your misery in my love.  Say so, say so, dearest mother.’  And Venetia threw herself on her knees before Lady Annabel, and looked up with earnestness in her face.

The expression of that countenance had been for a moment stern, but it relaxed into fondness, as Lady Annabel gently bowed her head, and pressed her lips to her daughter’s forehead.  ‘Ah, Venetia!’ she said, ’all depends upon you.  I can endure, nay, I can forget the past, if my child be faithful to me.  There are no misfortunes, there is no misery, if the being to whom I have consecrated the devotion of my life will only be dutiful, will only be guided by my advice, will only profit by my sad experience.’

‘Mother, I repeat I have no thought but for you,’ said Venetia.  ’My own dearest mother, if my duty, if my devotion can content you, you shall be happy.  But wherein have I failed?’

’In nothing, love.  Your life has hitherto been one unbroken course of affectionate obedience.’

‘And ever shall be,’ said Venetia.  ’But you were speaking, mother, you were speaking of, of my, my father!’

‘Of him!’ said Lady Annabel, thoughtfully.  ’You have seen his picture?’

Venetia kissed her mother’s hand.

‘Was he less beautiful than Cadurcis?  Was he less gifted?’ exclaimed Lady Annabel, with animation.  ’He could whisper in tones as sweet, and pour out his vows as fervently.  Yet what am I?  O my child!’ continued Lady Annabel, ’beware of such beings!  They bear within them a spirit on which all the devotion of our sex is lavished in vain.  A year, no! not a year, not one short year! and all my hopes were blighted!  O Venetia! if your future should be like my bitter past! and it might have been, and I might have contributed to the fulfilment! can you wonder that I should look upon Cadurcis with aversion?’

’But, mother, dearest mother, we have known Plantagenet from his childhood.  You ever loved him; you ever gave him credit for a heart, most tender and affectionate.’

‘He has no heart.’

‘Mother!’

’He cannot have a heart.  Spirits like him are heartless.  It is another impulse that sways their existence.  It is imagination; it is vanity; it is self, disguised with glittering qualities that dazzle our weak senses, but selfishness, the most entire, the most concentrated.  We knew him as a child:  ah! what can women know?  We are born to love, and to be deceived.  We saw him young, helpless, abandoned; he moved our pity.  We knew not his nature; then he was ignorant of it himself.  But the young tiger, though cradled at our hearths and fed on milk, will in good time retire to its jungle and prey on blood.  You cannot change its nature; and the very hand that fostered it will be its first victim.’

‘How often have we parted!’ said Venetia, in a deprecating tone; ’how long have we been separated! and yet we find him ever the same; he ever loves us.  Yes! dear mother, he loves you now, the same as in old days.  If you had seen him, as I have seen him, weep when he recalled your promise to be a parent to him, and then contrasted with such sweet hopes your present reserve, oh! you would believe he had a heart, you would, indeed!’