If the Cadurcis family were now not absolutely forgotten at Cherbury, they were at least only occasionally remembered. These last three years so completely harmonised with the life of Venetia before their arrival, that, taking a general view of her existence, their residence at the abbey figured only as an episode in her career; active indeed and stirring, and one that had left some impressions not easily discarded; but, on the whole, mellowed4 by the magic of time, Venetia looked back to her youthful friendship as an event that was only an exception in her lot, and she viewed herself as a being born and bred up in a seclusion5 which she was never to quit, with no aspirations6 beyond the little world in which she moved, and where she was to die in peace, as she had lived in purity.
One Sunday, the conversation after dinner fell upon Lord Cadurcis. Doctor Masham had recently met a young Etonian, and had made some inquiries7 about their friend of old days. The information he had obtained was not very satisfactory. It seemed that Cadurcis was a more popular boy with his companions than his tutors; he had been rather unruly, and had only escaped expulsion by the influence of his guardian8, who was not only a great noble, but a powerful minister.
This conversation recalled old times. They talked over the arrival of Mrs. Cadurcis at the abbey, her strange character, her untimely end. Lady Annabel expressed her conviction of the natural excellence9 of Plantagenet’s disposition10, and her regret of the many disadvantages under which he laboured; it gratified Venetia to listen to his praise.
‘He has quite forgotten us, mamma,’ said Venetia.
‘My love, he was very young when he quitted us,’ replied Lady Annabel; ‘and you must remember the influence of a change of life at so tender an age. He lives now in a busy world.’
‘I wish that he had not forgotten to write to us sometimes,’ said Venetia.
‘Writing a letter is a great achievement for a schoolboy,’ said the Doctor; ‘it is a duty which even grown-up persons too often forget to fulfil, and, when postponed11, it is generally deferred12 for ever. However, I agree with Lady Annabel, Cadurcis was a fine fellow, and had he been properly brought up, I cannot help thinking, might have turned out something.’
‘Poor Plantagenet!’ said Venetia, ‘how I pity him. His was a terrible lot, to lose both his parents! Whatever were the errors of Mrs. Cadurcis, she was his mother, and, in spite of every mortification13, he clung to her. Ah! I shall never forget when Pauncefort met him coming out of her room the night before the burial, when he said, with streaming eyes, “I only had one friend in the world, and now she is gone.” I could not love Mrs. Cadurcis, and yet, when I heard of these words, I cried as much as he.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said the Doctor, filling his glass.
‘If there be any person in the world whom I pity,’ said Venetia, ”tis an orphan14. Oh! what should I be without mamma? And Plantagenet, poor Plantagenet! he has no mother, no father.’ Venetia added, with a faltering15 voice: ‘I can sympathise with him in some degree; I, I, I know, I feel the misfortune, the misery16;’ her face became crimson17, yet she could not restrain the irresistible18 words, ‘the misery of never having known a father,’ she added.
There was a dead pause, a most solemn silence. In vain Venetia struggled to look calm and unconcerned; every instant she felt the blood mantling19 in her cheek with a more lively and spreading agitation20. She dared not look up; it was not possible to utter a word to turn the conversation. She felt utterly21 confounded and absolutely mute. At length, Lady Annabel spoke22. Her tone was severe and choking, very different to her usual silvery voice.
‘I am sorry that my daughter should feel so keenly the want of a parent’s love,’ said her ladyship.
What would not Venetia have given for the power or speech! but it seemed to have deserted23 her for ever. There she sat mute and motionless, with her eyes fixed24 on the table, and with a burning cheek, as if she were conscious of having committed some act of shame, as if she had been detected in some base and degrading deed. Yet, what had she done? A daughter had delicately alluded25 to her grief at the loss of a parent, and expressed her keen sense of the deprivation26.
It was an autumnal afternoon: Doctor Masham looked at the sky, and, after a long pause, made an observation about the weather, and then requested permission to order his horses, as the evening came on apace, and he had some distance to ride. Lady Annabel rose; the Doctor, with a countenance27 unusually serious, offered her his arm; and Venetia followed them like a criminal. In a few minutes the horses appeared; Lady Annabel bid adieu to her friend in her usual kind tone, and with her usual sweet smile; and then, without noticing Venetia, instantly retired28 to her own chamber29.
And this was her mother; her mother who never before quitted her for an instant without some sign and symbol of affection, some playful word of love, a winning smile, a passing embrace, that seemed to acknowledge that the pang30 of even momentary31 separation could only be alleviated32 by this graceful33 homage34 to the heart. What had she done? Venetia was about to follow Lady Annabel, but she checked herself. Agony at having offended her mother, and, for the first time, was blended with a strange curiosity as to the cause, and some hesitating indignation at her treatment. Venetia remained anxiously awaiting the return of Lady Annabel; but her ladyship did not reappear. Every instant, the astonishment35 and the grief of Venetia increased. It was the first domestic difference that had occurred between them. It shocked her much. She thought of Plantagenet and Mrs. Cadurcis. There was a mortifying36 resemblance, however slight, between the respective situations of the two families. Venetia, too, had quarrelled with her mother; that mother who, for fourteen years, had only looked upon her with fondness and joy; who had been ever kind, without being ever weak, and had rendered her child happy by making her good; that mother whose beneficent wisdom had transformed duty into delight; that superior, yet gentle being, so indulgent yet so just, so gifted yet so condescending37, who dedicated38 all her knowledge, and time, and care, and intellect to her daughter.
Venetia threw herself upon a couch and wept. They were the first tears of unmixed pain that she had ever shed. It was said by the household of Venetia when a child, that she had never cried; not a single tear had ever sullied that sunny face. Surrounded by scenes of innocence39, and images of happiness and content, Venetia smiled on a world that smiled on her, the radiant heroine of a golden age. She had, indeed, wept over the sorrows and the departure of Cadurcis; but those were soft showers of sympathy and affection sent from a warm heart, like drops from a summer sky. But now this grief was agony: her brow throbbed40, her hand was clenched41, her heart beat with tumultuous palpitation; the streaming torrent42 came scalding down her cheek like fire rather than tears, and instead of assuaging43 her emotion, seemed, on the contrary, to increase its fierce and fervid44 power.
The sun had set, the red autumnal twilight45 had died away, the shadows of night were brooding over the halls of Cherbury. The moan of the rising wind might be distinctly heard, and ever and anon the branches of neighbouring trees swung with a sudden yet melancholy46 sound against the windows of the apartment, of which the curtains had remained undrawn. Venetia looked up; the room would have been in perfect darkness but for a glimmer47 which just indicated the site of the expiring fire, and an uncertain light, or rather modified darkness, that seemed the sky. Alone and desolate48! Alone and desolate and unhappy! Alone and desolate and unhappy, and for the first time! Was it a sigh, or a groan49, that issued from the stifling50 heart of Venetia Herbert? That child of innocence, that bright emanation of love and beauty, that airy creature of grace and gentleness, who had never said an unkind word or done an unkind thing in her whole career, but had glanced and glided through existence, scattering51 happiness and joy, and receiving the pleasure which she herself imparted, how overwhelming was her first struggle with that dark stranger, Sorrow!
Some one entered the room; it was Mistress Pauncefort. She held a taper52 in her hand, and came tripping gingerly in, with a new cap streaming with ribands, and scarcely, as it were, condescending to execute the mission with which she was intrusted, which was no greater than fetching her lady’s reticule. She glanced at the table, but it was not there; she turned up her nose at a chair or two, which she even condescended53 to propel a little with a saucy54 foot, as if the reticule might be hid under the hanging drapery, and then, unable to find the object of her search, Mistress Pauncefort settled herself before the glass, elevating the taper above her head, that she might observe what indeed she had been examining the whole day, the effect of her new cap. With a complacent55 simper, Mistress Pauncefort then turned from pleasure to business, and, approaching the couch, gave a faint shriek56, half genuine, half affected57, as she recognised the recumbent form of her young mistress. ‘Well to be sure,’ exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, ‘was the like ever seen! Miss Venetia, as I live! La! Miss Venetia, what can be the matter? I declare I am all of a palpitation.’
Venetia, affecting composure, said she was rather unwell; that she had a headache, and, rising, murmured that she would go to bed. ‘A headache!’ exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, ‘I hope no worse, for there is my lady, and she is as out of sorts as possible. She has a headache too; and when I shut the door just now, I am sure as quiet as a lamb, she told me not to make so much noise when I left the room. “Noise!” says I; “why really, my lady, I don’t pretend to be a spirit; but if it comes to noise —” “Never answer me, Pauncefort,” says my lady. “No, my lady,” says I, “I never do, and, I am sure, when I have a headache myself, I don’t like to be answered.” But, to be sure, if you have a headache, and my lady has a headache too, I only hope we have not got the epidemy. I vow58, Miss Venetia, that your eyes are as red as if you had been running against the wind. Well, to be sure, if you have not been crying! I must go and tell my lady immediately.’
‘Light me to my room,’ said Venetia; ‘I will not disturb my mother, as she is unwell.’
Venetia rose, and Mistress Pauncefort followed her to her chamber, and lit her candles. Venetia desired her not to remain; and when she had quitted the chamber, Venetia threw herself in her chair and sighed.
To sleep, it was impossible; it seemed to Venetia that she could never rest again. She wept no more, but her distress59 was very great. She felt it impossible to exist through the night without being reconciled to her mother; but she refrained from going to her room, from the fear of again meeting her troublesome attendant. She resolved, therefore, to wait until she heard Mistress Pauncefort retire for the night, and she listened with restless anxiety for the sign of her departure in the sound of her footsteps along the vestibule on which the doors of Lady Annabel’s and her daughter’s apartments opened.
An hour elapsed, and at length the sound was heard. Convinced that Pauncefort had now quitted her mother for the night, Venetia ventured forth60, and stopping before the door of her mother’s room, she knocked gently. There was no reply, and in a few minutes Venetia knocked again, and rather louder. Still no answer. ‘Mamma,’ said Venetia, in a faltering tone, but no sound replied. Venetia then tried the door, and found it fastened. Then she gave up the effort in despair, and retreating to her own chamber, she threw herself on her bed, and wept bitterly.
Some time elapsed before she looked up again; the candles were flaring61 in their sockets62. It was a wild windy night; Venetia rose, and withdrew the curtain of her window. The black clouds were scudding63 along the sky, revealing, in their occasional but transient rifts64, some glimpses of the moon, that seemed unusually bright, or of a star that trembled with supernatural brilliancy. She stood a while gazing on the outward scene that harmonised with her own internal agitation: her grief was like the storm, her love like the light of that bright moon and star. There came over her a desire to see her mother, which she felt irresistible; she was resolved that no difficulty, no impediment, should prevent her instantly from throwing herself on her bosom65. It seemed to her that her brain would burn, that this awful night could never end without such an interview. She opened her door, went forth again into the vestibule, and approached with a nervous but desperate step her mother’s chamber. To her astonishment the door was ajar, but there was a light within. With trembling step and downcast eyes, Venetia entered the chamber, scarcely daring to advance, or to look up.
‘Mother,’ she said, but no one answered; she heard the tick of the clock; it was the only sound. ‘Mother,’ she repeated, and she dared to look up, but the bed was empty. There was no mother. Lady Annabel was not in the room. Following an irresistible impulse, Venetia knelt by the side of her mother’s bed and prayed. She addressed, in audible and agitated66 tones, that Almighty67 and Beneficent Being of whom she was so faithful and pure a follower68. With sanctified simplicity69, she communicated to her Creator and her Saviour70 all her distress, all her sorrow, all the agony of her perplexed71 and wounded spirit. If she had sinned, she prayed for forgiveness, and declared in solitude72, to One whom she could not deceive, how unintentional was the trespass73; if she were only misapprehended, she supplicated74 for comfort and consolation75, for support under the heaviest visitation she had yet experienced, the displeasure of that earthly parent whom she revered76 only second to her heavenly Father.
‘For thou art my Father,’ said Venetia, ‘I have no other father but thee, O God! Forgive me, then, my heavenly parent, if in my wilfulness77, if in my thoughtless and sinful blindness, I have sighed for a father on earth, as well as in heaven! Great have thy mercies been to me, O God! in a mother’s love. Turn, then, again to me the heart of that mother whom I have offended! Let her look upon her child as before; let her continue to me a double parent, and let me pay to her the duty and the devotion that might otherwise have been divided!’
‘Amen!’ said a sweet and solemn voice; and Venetia was clasped in her mother’s arms.
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1
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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2
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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3
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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4
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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7
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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11
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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12
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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13
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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14
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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15
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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16
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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18
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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19
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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21
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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22
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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23
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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24
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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25
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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27
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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28
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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29
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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34
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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36
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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37
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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38
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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40
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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41
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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43
assuaging
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| v.减轻( assuage的现在分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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44
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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45
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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46
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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47
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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48
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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49
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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50
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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51
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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52
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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53
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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54
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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55
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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56
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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57
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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58
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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59
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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60
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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61
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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62
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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63
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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64
rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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65
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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66
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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67
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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68
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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70
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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71
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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72
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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73
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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74
supplicated
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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76
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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