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 ascertained5 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 bereavement6! 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 allusion7 to his existence could be tolerated by a wife who had been united to such a peerless being, only to behold8 him torn away from her embraces? Oh! could he, indeed, be dead? That inspired countenance9 that seemed immortal10, had it in a moment been dimmed? and all the symmetry of that matchless form, had it indeed been long mouldering11 in the dust? Why should she doubt it? Ah! why, indeed? How could she doubt it? Why, ever and anon, amid the tumult12 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 clenched13 her feverish14 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; overdone15 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.
Pauncefort left the room accordingly, and straightway proceeded to Lady Annabel, when she communicated the information that Miss Venetia was in the house, after all, though she had never seen her return, and that she was lying down because she had a very bad headache. Lady Annabel, of course, did not lose a moment in visiting her darling. She entered the room softly, so softly that she was not heard; Venetia was lying on her bed, with her back to the door. Lady Annabel stood by her bedside for some moments unnoticed. At length Venetia heaved a deep sigh. Her mother then said in a soft voice, ‘Are you in pain, darling?’
‘Is that mamma?’ said Venetia, turning with quickness.
‘You are ill, dear,’ said Lady Annabel, taking her hand. ‘Your hand is hot; you are feverish. How long has my Venetia felt ill?’
Venetia could not answer; she did nothing but sigh. Her strange manner excited her mother’s wonder. Lady Annabel sat by the bedside, still holding her daughter’s hand in hers, watching her with a glance of great anxiety.
‘Answer me, my love,’ she repeated in a voice of tenderness. ‘What do you feel?’
‘My head, my head,’ murmured Venetia.
Her mother pressed her own hand to her daughter’s brow; it was very hot. ‘Does that pain you?’ inquired Lady Annabel; but Venetia did not reply; her look was wild and abstracted. Her mother gently withdrew her hand, and then summoned Pauncefort, with whom she communicated without permitting her to enter the room.
‘Miss Herbert is very ill,’ said Lady Annabel, pale, but in a firm tone. ‘I am alarmed about her. She appears to me to have fever; send instantly to Southport for Mr. Hawkins; and let the messenger use and urge all possible expedition. Be in attendance in the vestibule, Pauncefort; I shall not quit her room, but she must be kept perfectly16 quiet.’
Lady Annabel then drew her chair to the bedside of her daughter, and bathed her temples at intervals17 with rose-water; but none of these attentions apparently18 attracted the notice of the sufferer. She was, it would seem, utterly19 unconscious of all that was occurring. She now lay with her face turned towards her mother, but did not exchange even looks with her. She was restless, and occasionally she sighed deeply.
Once, by way of experiment, Lady Annabel again addressed her, but Venetia gave no answer. Then the mother concluded what, indeed, had before attracted her suspicion, that Venetia’s head was affected20. But then, what was this strange, this sudden attack, which appeared to have prostrated21 her daughter’s faculties22 in an instant? A few hours back, and Lady Annabel had parted from Venetia in all the glow of health and beauty. The season was most genial23; her exercise had doubtless been moderate; as for her general health, so complete was her constitution, and so calm the tenour of her life, that Venetia had scarcely experienced in her whole career a single hour of indisposition. It was an anxious period of suspense24 until the medical attendant arrived from Southport. Fortunately he was one in whom, from reputation, Lady Annabel was disposed to place great trust; and his matured years, his thoughtful manner, and acute inquiries25, confirmed her favourable26 opinion of him. All that Mr. Hawkins could say, however, was, that Miss Herbert had a great deal of fever, but the cause was concealed27, and the suddenness of the attack perplexed28 him. He administered one of the usual remedies; and after an hour had elapsed, and no favourable change occurring, he blooded her. He quitted Cherbury, with the promise of returning late in the evening, having several patients whom he was obliged to visit.
The night drew on; the chamber29 was now quite closed, but Lady Annabel never quitted it. She sat reading, removed from her daughter, that her presence might not disturb her, for Venetia seemed inclined to sleep. Suddenly Venetia spoke30; but she said only one word, ‘Father!’
Lady Annabel started; her book nearly fell from her hand; she grew very pale. Quite breathless, she listened, and again Venetia spoke, and again called upon her father. Now, with a great effort, Lady Annabel stole on tiptoe to the bedside of her daughter. Venetia was lying on her back, her eyes were closed, her lips still as it were quivering with the strange word they had dared to pronounce. Again her voice sounded; she chanted, in an unearthly voice, verses. The perspiration31 stood in large drops on the pallid32 forehead of the mother as she listened. Still Venetia proceeded; and Lady Annabel, throwing herself on her knees, held up her hands to Heaven in an agony of astonishment33, terror, and devotion.
Now there was again silence; but her mother remained apparently buried in prayer. Again Venetia spoke; again she repeated the mysterious stanzas34. With convulsive agony her mother listened to every fatal line that she unconsciously pronounced.
The secret was then discovered. Yes! Venetia must have penetrated35 the long-closed chamber; all the labours of years had in a moment been subverted36; Venetia had discovered her parent, and the effects of the discovery might, perhaps, be her death. Then it was that Lady Annabel, in the torture of her mind, poured forth37 her supplications that the life or the heart of her child might never be lost to her, ‘Grant, O merciful God!’ she exclaimed, ‘that this sole hope of my being may be spared to me. Grant, if she be spared, that she may never desert her mother! And for him, of whom she has heard this day for the first time, let him be to her as if he were no more! May she never learn that he lives! May she never comprehend the secret agony of her mother’s life! Save her, O God! save her from his fatal, his irresistible38 influence! May she remain pure and virtuous39 as she has yet lived! May she remain true to thee, and true to thy servant, who now bows before thee! Look down upon me at this moment with gracious mercy; turn to me my daughter’s heart; and, if it be my dark doom40 to be in this world a widow, though a wife, add not to this bitterness that I shall prove a mother without a child!’
At this moment the surgeon returned. It was absolutely necessary that Lady Annabel should compose herself. She exerted all that strength of character for which she was remarkable41. From this moment she resolved, if her life were the forfeit42, not to quit for an instant the bedside of Venetia until she was declared out of danger; and feeling conscious that if she once indulged her own feelings, she might herself soon be in a situation scarcely less hazardous43 than her daughter’s, she controlled herself with a mighty44 effort. Calm as a statue, she received the medical attendant, who took the hand of the unconscious Venetia with apprehension45 too visibly impressed upon his grave countenance. As he took her hand, Venetia opened her eyes, stared at her mother and her attendant, and then immediately closed them.
‘She has slept?’ inquired Lady Annabel.
‘No,’ said the surgeon, ‘no: this is not sleep; it is a feverish trance that brings her no refreshment46.’ He took out his watch, and marked her pulse with great attention; then he placed his hand on her brow, and shook his head. ‘These beautiful curls must come off,’ he said. Lady Annabel glided47 to the table, and instantly brought the scissors, as if the delay of an instant might be fatal. The surgeon cut off those long golden locks. Venetia raised her hand to her head, and said, in a low voice, ‘They are for my father.’ Lady Annabel leant upon the surgeon’s arm and shook.
Now he led the mother to the window, and spoke in a hushed tone.
‘Is it possible that there is anything on your daughter’s mind, Lady Annabel?’ he inquired.
The agitated48 mother looked at the inquirer, and then at her daughter; and then for a moment she raised her hand to her eyes; then she replied, in a low but firm voice, ‘Yes.’
‘Your ladyship must judge whether you wish me to be acquainted with it,’ said Mr. Hawkins, calmly.
‘My daughter has suddenly become acquainted, sir, with some family incidents of a painful nature, and the knowledge of which I have hitherto spared her. They are events long past, and their consequences are now beyond all control.’
‘She knows, then, the worst?’
‘Without her mind, I cannot answer that question,’ said Lady Annabel.
‘It is my duty to tell you that Miss Herbert is in imminent49 danger; she has every appearance of a fever of a malignant50 character. I cannot answer for her life.’
‘O God!’ exclaimed Lady Annabel.
‘Yet you must compose yourself, my dear lady. Her chance of recovery greatly depends upon the vigilance of her attendants. I shall bleed her again, and place leeches51 on her temples. There is inflammation on the brain. There are other remedies also not less powerful. We must not despair; we have no cause to despair until we find these fail. I shall not leave her again; and, for your satisfaction, not for my own, I shall call in additional advice, the aid of a physician.’
A messenger accordingly was instantly despatched for the physician, who resided at a town more distant than Southport; the very town, by-the-bye, where Morgana, the gipsy, was arrested. They contrived52, with the aid of Pauncefort, to undress Venetia, and place her in her bed, for hitherto they had refrained from this exertion53. At this moment the withered54 leaves of a white rose fell from Venetia’s dress. A sofa-bed was then made for Lady Annabel, of which, however, she did not avail herself. The whole night she sat by her daughter’s side, watching every movement of Venetia, refreshing55 her hot brow and parched56 lips, or arranging, at every opportunity, her disordered pillows. About an hour past midnight the surgeon retired57 to rest, for a few hours, in the apartment prepared for him, and Pauncefort, by the desire of her mistress, also withdrew: Lady Annabel was alone with her child, and with those agitated thoughts which the strange occurrences of the day were well calculated to excite.
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1
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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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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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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16
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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18
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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34
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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35
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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36
subverted
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| v.颠覆，破坏（政治制度、宗教信仰等）( subvert的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某人）道德败坏或不忠 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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38
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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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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41
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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42
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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43
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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45
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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46
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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47
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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48
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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49
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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50
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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51
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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52
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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53
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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54
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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55
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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56
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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57
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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