There was a tone of decision even in the slightest observations of Lady Annabel, which, however sweet might be the voice in which they were uttered, scarcely encouraged their propriety to be canvassed.  Now Venetia was far from desirous of being separated from her mother this morning.  It was not a vain and idle curiosity, prompted by the receipt of the letter and its consequent effects, both in the emotion of her mother and the visit which it had rendered necessary, that swayed her breast.  The native dignity of a well-disciplined mind exempted Venetia from such feminine weakness.  But some consideration might be due to the quick sympathy of an affectionate spirit that had witnessed, with corresponding feeling, the disturbance of the being to whom she was devoted.  Why this occasional and painful mystery that ever and anon clouded the heaven of their love, and flung a frigid shadow over the path of a sunshiny life?  Why was not Venetia to share the sorrow or the care of her only friend, as well as participate in her joy and her content?  There were other claims, too, to this confidence, besides those of the heart.  Lady Annabel was not merely her only friend; she was her parent, her only parent, almost, for aught she had ever heard or learnt, her only relative.  For her mother’s family, though she was aware of their existence by the freedom with which Lady Annabel ever mentioned them, and though Venetia was conscious that an occasional correspondence was maintained between them and Cherbury, occupied no station in Venetia’s heart, scarcely in her memory.  That noble family were nullities to her; far distant, apparently estranged from her hearth, except in form she had never seen them; they were associated in her recollection with none of the sweet ties of kindred.  Her grandfather was dead without her ever having received his blessing; his successor, her uncle, was an ambassador, long absent from his country; her only aunt married to a soldier, and established at a foreign station.  Venetia envied Dr. Masham the confidence which was extended to him; it seemed to her, even leaving out of sight the intimate feelings that subsisted between her and her mother, that the claims of blood to this confidence were at least as strong as those of friendship.  But Venetia stifled these emotions; she parted from her mother with a kind, yet somewhat mournful expression.  Lady Annabel might have read a slight sentiment of affectionate reproach in the demeanour of her daughter when she bade her farewell.  Whatever might be the consciousness of the mother, she was successful in concealing her impression.  Very kind, but calm and inscrutable, Lady Annabel, having given directions for postponing the dinner-hour, embraced her child and entered the chariot.

Venetia, from the terrace, watched her mother’s progress through the park.  After gazing for some minutes, a tear stole down her cheek.  She started, as if surprised at her own emotion.  And now the carriage was out of sight, and Venetia would have recurred to some of those resources which were ever at hand for the employment or amusement of her secluded life.  But the favourite volume ceased to interest this morning, and almost fell from her hand.  She tried her spinet, but her ear seemed to have lost its music; she looked at her easel, but the cunning had fled from her touch.