‘On his head, then, be the final desolation,’ said Lady Annabel; ’it is but a part of the lot that he has yielded me.’

‘I am silent,’ said Venetia, relaxing her grasp.  ’I see that your child is not permitted to enter into your considerations.’  She turned away.

‘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 of the 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 to your happiness; nay, more, to your life.  I recognise the mysterious influence which he has ever exercised over your existence.  I feel it impossible for me any longer to struggle against a power to which I bow.  Be happy, then, my daughter, and live.  Fly to your father, and be to him as matchless a child as you have been to me.’  She uttered these last words in a choking voice.

‘Is this, indeed, the dictate of your calm judgment, mother?’ said Venetia.

’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 single circumstance to which I can look back with content.  Well will it indeed be for me to die?’

‘The dream of my life,’ said Lady Annabel, in a tone of infinite distress, ’was that she, at least, should never know unhappiness.  It was indeed a dream.’

There was now a silence of several minutes.  Lady Annabel remained in exactly the same position, Venetia standing at a little distance from her, 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; it is 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 her mother, melted Venetia to the heart.  She advanced, and threw her arms round her mother’s neck, and buried her weeping face in Lady Annabel’s bosom.

‘Speak to me, my daughter,’ said Lady Annabel; ’counsel me, for my mind 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!’