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
throbbed, her hand was clenched, her heart beat with tumultuous
palpitation; the streaming torrent came scalding down her cheek like
fire rather than tears, and instead of assuaging her emotion, seemed,
on the contrary, to increase its fierce and fervid power.
The sun had set, the red autumnal twilight 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 melancholy 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 glimmer which just indicated the site of the
expiring fire, and an uncertain light, or rather modified darkness,
that seemed the sky. Alone and desolate! Alone and desolate and
unhappy! Alone and desolate and unhappy, and for the first time! Was
it a sigh, or a groan, that issued from the stifling 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, scattering 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.
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