It was, however, at length perfect,
and gradually formed as she sat in an invalid chair, apparently
listless, not yet venturing on any occupation, or occasionally amused
for a moment by her mother reading to her. But when her mind had thus
resumed its natural tone, and in time its accustomed vigour, the past
demanded all her solicitude. At length the mystery of her birth was
revealed to her. She was the daughter of Marmion Herbert; and who was
Marmion Herbert? The portrait rose before her. How distinct was the
form, how definite the countenance! No common personage was Marmion
Herbert, even had he not won his wife, and celebrated his daughter in
such witching strains. Genius was stamped on his lofty brow, and spoke
in his brilliant eye; nobility was in all his form. This chivalric
poet was her father. She had read, she had dreamed of such beings, she
had never seen them. If she quitted the solitude in which she lived,
would she see men like her father? No other could ever satisfy her
imagination; all beneath that standard would rank but as imperfect
creations in her fancy. And this father, he was dead. No doubt.
Ah! was there indeed no doubt? Eager as was her curiosity on this
all-absorbing subject, Venetia could never summon courage to speak
upon it to her mother.
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