Of all his treasured loves the long-expected heir!

He could scarcely have embraced her ere the great Being, to whom he had offered his prayer, summoned him to his presence!  Of that father she had not the slightest recollection; she had ascertained that she had reached Cherbury a child, even in arms, and she knew that her father had never lived under the roof.  What an awful bereavement!  Was it wonderful that her mother was inconsolable?  Was it wonderful that she could not endure even his name to be mentioned in her presence; that not the slightest allusion to his existence could be tolerated by a wife who had been united to such a peerless being, only to behold him torn away from her embraces?  Oh! could he, indeed, be dead?  That inspired countenance that seemed immortal, had it in a moment been dimmed? and all the symmetry of that matchless form, had it indeed been long mouldering in the dust?  Why should she doubt it?  Ah! why, indeed?  How could she doubt it?  Why, ever and anon, amid the tumult of her excited mind, came there an unearthly whisper to her ear, mocking her with the belief that he still lived?  But he was dead; he must be dead; and why did she live?  Could she survive what she had seen and learnt this day?  Did she wish to survive it?  But her mother, her mother with all her sealed-up sorrows, had survived him.  Why?  For her sake; for her child; for ‘his own Venetia!’ His own!

She clenched her feverish hand, her temples beat with violent palpitations, her brow was burning hot.  Time flew on, and every minute Venetia was more sensible of the impossibility of rising to welcome her mother.  That mother at length returned; Venetia could not again mistake the wheels of the returning carriage.  Some minutes passed, and there was a knock at her door.  With a choking voice Venetia bade them enter.  It was Pauncefort.

‘Well, Miss,’ she exclaimed, ’if you ayn’t here, after all!  I told my lady, “My lady,” says I, “I am sure Miss Venetia must be in the park, for I saw her go out myself, and I have never seen her come home.”  And, after all, you are here.  My lady has come home, you know, Miss, and has been inquiring for you several times.’

‘Tell mamma that I am not very well,’ said Venetia, in a low voice, ‘and that I have been obliged to lie down.’

‘Not well, Miss,’ exclaimed Pauncefort; ’and what can be the matter with you?  I am afraid you have walked too much; overdone it, I dare say; or, mayhap, you have caught cold; it is an easterly wind:  for I was saying to John this morning, “John,” says I, “if Miss Venetia will walk about with only a handkerchief tied round her head, why, what can be expected?"’

’I have only a headache, a very bad headache, Pauncefort; I wish to be quiet,’ said Venetia.