r 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. Ven