quick and profound feelings Venetia was thoughtful
and even shrewd, and when she was alone her very love for her
mother, and her gratitude for such an ineffable treasure as parental
affection, would force her mind to a subject which at intervals had
haunted her even from her earliest childhood. Why had she only one
parent? What mystery was this that enveloped that great tie? For
that there was a mystery Venetia felt as assured as that she was a
daughter. By a process which she could not analyse, her father had
become a forbidden subject. True, Lady Annabel had placed no formal
prohibition upon its mention; nor at her present age was Venetia one
who would be influenced in her conduct by the bygone and arbitrary
intimations of a menial; nevertheless, that the mention of her father
would afford pain to the being she loved best in the world, was a
conviction which had grown with her years and strengthened with her
strength. Pardonable, natural, even laudable as was the anxiety of the
daughter upon such a subject, an instinct with which she could not
struggle closed the lips of Venetia for ever upon this topic. His name
was never mentioned, his past existence was never alluded to. Who was
he? That he was of noble family and great position her name betokened,
and the state in which they lived. He must have died very early;
perhaps even before her mother gave her birth. A dreadful lot indeed;
and yet was the grief that even such a dispensation might occasion, so
keen, so overwhelming, that after fourteen long years his name might
not be permitted, even for an instant, to pass the lips of his
bereaved wife? Was his child to be deprived of the only solace for
his loss, the consolation of cherishing his memory? Strange, passing
strange indeed, and bitter! At Cherbury the family of Herbert were
honoured only from tradition. Until the arrival of Lady Annabel, as we
have before mentioned, they had not resided at the hall for more than
half a century. There were no old retainers there from whom Venetia
might glean, without suspicion, the information for which she panted.
Slight, too, as was Venetia's experience of society, there were times
when she could not resist the impression that her mother was not
happy; that there was some secret sorrow that weighed upon her
spirit, some grief that gnawed at her heart. Could it be still the
recollection of her lost sire? Could one so religious, so resigned,
so assured of meeting the lost one i