The
change too in their mutual lots was also, to a degree, not free from
that sympathy that had ever bound them together. A train of strange
accidents had brought Venetia from her spell-bound seclusion, placed
her suddenly in the most brilliant circle of civilisation, and classed
her among not the least admired of its favoured members. And whom had
she come to meet? Whom did she find in this new and splendid life the
most courted and considered of its community, crowned as it were with
garlands, and perfumed with the incense of a thousand altars? Her own
Plantagenet. It was passing strange.
The morrow brought the verses from Cadurcis. They greatly affected
her. The picture of their childhood, and of the singular sympathy of
their mutual situations, and the description of her father, called
forth her tears; she murmured, however, at the allusion to her other
parent. It was not just, it could not be true. These verses were not,
of course, shown to Lady Annabel. Would they have been shown, even if
they had not contained the allusion? The question is not perplexing.
Venetia had her secret, and a far deeper one than the mere reception
of a poem; all confidence between her and her mother had expired. Love
had stept in, and, before his magic touch, the discipline of a life
expired in an instant.
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