ough the room, hesitated
one moment in the ante-chamber; opened, as all was silent, the no
longer mysterious door, turned the noiseless lock, tripped lightly
along the vestibule; glided into her mother's empty apartment,
reposited the key that had opened so many wonders in the casket; and,
then, having hurried to her own chamber, threw herself on her bed in a
paroxysm of contending emotions, that left her no power of pondering
over the strange discovery that had already given a new colour to her
existence.

CHAPTER VI.

Her mother had not returned; it was a false alarm; but Venetia could
not quit her bed. There she remained, repeating to herself her
father's verses. Then one thought alone filled her being. Was he dead?
Was this fond father, who had breathed this fervent blessing over her
birth, and invoked on his own head all the woe and misfortunes of her
destiny, was he, indeed, no more? How swiftly must the arrow have sped
after he received the announcement that a child was given to him,

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 ascertained 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 bereavement! 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 allusion to his existence could be tolerated by
a wife who had been united to such a peerless being, only to behold
him torn away from her embraces? Oh! could he, indeed, be dead? That
inspired countenance that seemed immortal, had it in a moment been
dimmed? and all the symmetry of that matchless form, had it indeed
been long mouldering in the dust? Why should she doubt it? Ah! why,
indeed? How could she doubt it? Why, ever and anon, amid the tumult 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 clenched her feverish hand,