to the wife whom he had
injured, and the child whom he had scarcely seen; but relapsing, alike
from the force of habit and inclination, into those previous and
confirmed feelings, under whose influence, she was herself a witness,
his life had been so serene, and even so laudable. She was confirmed
in these opinions by the circumstance of their never having heard
since from him. Placed in his situation, if indeed an irresistible
influence were not controlling him, would he have hesitated for a
moment to have prevented even their departure, or to have pursued
them; to have sought at any rate some means of communicating with
them? He was plainly reconciled to his present position, and felt that
under these circumstances silence on his part was alike kindest and
most discreet. Venetia had ceased, therefore, to question the justice
or the expediency, or even the abstract propriety, of her mother's
conduct. She viewed their condition now as the result of stern
necessity. She pitied her mother, and for herself she had no hope.

There was then much meaning in that little monosyllable with which
Venetia concluded her reply to her mother. She had no hope 'now.' Lady
Annabel, however, ascribed it to a very different meaning; she only
believed that her daughter was of opinion that nothing would induce
her now to listen to the overtures of her father. Prepared for any
sacrifice of self, Lady Annabel replied, 'But there is hope, Venetia;
when your life is in question, there is nothing that should not be
done.'

'Nothing can be done,' said Venetia, who, of course, could not dream
of what was passing in her mother's mind.

Lady Annabel rose from her seat and walked to the window; apparently
her eye watched only the passing gondolas, but indeed she saw them
not; she saw only her child stretched perhaps on the couch of death.

'We quitted, perhaps, Rovigo too hastily,' said Lady Annabel, in a
choking voice, and with a face of scarlet. It was a terrible struggle,
but the words were uttered.

'No, mother,' said Venetia, to Lady Annabel's inexpressible surprise,
'we did right to go.'

'Even my child, even Venetia, with all her devotion to him, feels the
absolute necessity of my conduct,' thought Lady Annabel. Her pride
returned; she felt the impossibility of making an overture to Herbert;
she looked upon their daughter as the last victim of his fatal career.

CHAPTER IX.

How beautiful is night in Venice! Then music and t