speak. This
idea had once haunted her, and she had seldom found herself alone
without almost unconsciously musing over it. Notwithstanding the
unvarying kindness of Lady Annabel, she exercised over her child
a complete and unquestioned control. Venetia was brought up with
strictness, which was only not felt to be severe, because the system
was founded on the most entire affection, but, fervent as her love was
for her mother, it was equalled by her profound respect, which every
word and action of Lady Annabel tended to maintain.

In all the confidential effusions with Plantagenet, Venetia had never
dwelt upon this mysterious subject; indeed, in these conversations,
when they treated of their real and not ideal life, Venetia was a mere
recipient: all that she could communicate, Plantagenet could observe;
he it was who avenged himself at these moments for his habitual
silence before third persons; it was to Venetia that he poured forth
all his soul, and she was never weary of hearing his stories about
Morpeth, and all his sorrows, disgusts, and afflictions. There was
scarcely an individual in that little town with whom, from his lively
narratives, she was not familiar; and it was to her sympathising heart
that he confided all his future hopes and prospects, and confessed the
strong pride he experienced in being a Cadurcis, which from all others
was studiously concealed.

It had happened that the first Christmas Day after the settlement of
the Cadurcis family at the abbey occurred in the middle of the week;
and as the weather was severe, in order to prevent two journeys at
such an inclement season, Lady Annabel persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to pass
the whole week at the hall. This arrangement gave such pleasure to
Plantagenet that the walls of the abbey, as the old postchaise was
preparing for their journey, quite resounded with his merriment. In
vain his mother, harassed with all the mysteries of packing, indulged
in a thousand irritable expressions, which at any other time might
have produced a broil or even a fray; Cadurcis did nothing but laugh.
There was at the bottom of this boy's heart, with all his habitual
gravity and reserve, a fund of humour which would occasionally break
out, and which nothing could withstand. When he was alone with
Venetia, he would imitate the old maids of Morpeth, and all the
ceremonies of a provincial tea party, with so much life and genuine
fun, that Venetia was often obliged to stop in their