Venetia had her secret now; and often
as she looked up at the windows of the uninhabited portion of the
building, she remembered with concealed, but not less keen exultation,
that she had penetrated their mystery. She could muse for hours over
all that chamber had revealed to her, and indulge in a thousand
visions, of which her father was the centre. She was his 'own
Venetia.' Thus he had hailed her at her birth, and thus he might yet
again acknowledge her. If she could only ascertain where he existed!
What if she could, and she were to communicate with him? He must love
her. Her heart assured her he must love her. She could not believe,
if they were to meet, that his breast could resist the silent appeal
which the sight merely of his only child would suffice to make. Oh!
why had her parents parted? What could have been his fault? He was so
young! But a few, few years older than herself, when her mother must
have seen him for the last time. Yes! for the last time beheld that
beautiful form, and that countenance that seemed breathing only with
genius and love. He might have been imprudent, rash, violent; but
she would not credit for an instant that a stain could attach to the
honour or the spirit of Marmion Herbert.
The summer wore away.
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