Restless and disquieted, she knew not why, Venetia went forth again into the garden.  All nature smiled around her; the flitting birds were throwing their soft shadows over the sunny lawns, and rustling amid the blossoms of the variegated groves.  The golden wreaths of the laburnum and the silver knots of the chestnut streamed and glittered around; the bees were as busy as the birds, and the whole scene was suffused and penetrated with brilliancy and odour.  It still was spring, and yet the gorgeous approach of summer, like the advancing procession of some triumphant king, might almost be detected amid the lingering freshness of the year; a lively and yet magnificent period, blending, as it were, Attic grace with Roman splendour; a time when hope and fruition for once meet, when existence is most full of delight, alike delicate and voluptuous, and when the human frame is most sensible to the gaiety and grandeur of nature.

And why was not the spirit of the beautiful and innocent Venetia as bright as the surrounding scene?  There are moods of mind that baffle analysis, that arise from a mysterious sympathy we cannot penetrate.  At this moment the idea of her father irresistibly recurred to the imagination of Venetia.  She could not withstand the conviction that the receipt of the mysterious letter and her mother’s agitation were by some inexplicable connexion linked with that forbidden subject.  Strange incidents of her life flitted across her memory:  her mother weeping on the day they visited Marringhurst; the mysterious chambers; the nocturnal visit of Lady Annabel that Cadurcis had witnessed; her unexpected absence from her apartment when Venetia, in her despair, had visited her some months ago.  What was the secret that enveloped her existence?  Alone, which was unusual; dispirited, she knew not why; and brooding over thoughts which haunted her like evil spirits, Venetia at length yielded to a degree of nervous excitement which amazed her.  She looked up to the uninhabited wing of the mansion with an almost fierce desire to penetrate its mysteries.  It seemed to her that a strange voice came whispering on the breeze, urging her to the fulfilment of a mystical mission.  With a vague, yet wild, purpose she entered the house, and took her way to her mother’s chamber.  Mistress Pauncefort was there.  Venetia endeavoured to assume her accustomed serenity.  The waiting-woman bustled about, arranging the toilet-table, which had been for a moment discomposed, putting away a cap, folding up a shawl, and indulging in a multitude of inane observations which little harmonised with the high-strung tension of Venetia’s mind.  Mistress Pauncefort opened a casket with a spring lock, in which she placed 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 greatly agitated her, for Venetia turned pale, and in a moment left the chamber and retired to her own room.