'Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, 'it has been one of the objects of my
life, that you should not share my sorrows.'
Venetia pressed her mother's hand, but made no other reply.
'I concealed from you for years,' continued Lady Annabel, 'a
circumstance in which, indeed, you were deeply interested, but the
knowledge of which could only bring you unhappiness. Yet it was
destined that my solicitude should eventually be baffled. I know that
it is not from my lips that you learn for the first time that you have
a father, a father living.'
'Mother, let me tell you all!' said Venetia, eagerly.
'I know all,' said Lady Annabel.
'But, mother, there is something that you do not know; and now I would
confess it.'
'There is nothing that you can confess with which I am not acquainted,
Venetia; and I feel assured, I have ever felt assured, that your only
reason for concealment was a desire to save me pain.'
'That, indeed, has ever been my only motive,' replied Venetia, 'for
having a secret from my mother.'
'In my absence from Cherbury you entered the chamber,' said Lady
Annabel, calmly. 'In the delirium of your fever I became acquainted
with a circumstance which so nearly proved fatal to you.'
Venetia's cheek turned scarlet.
'In that chamber you beheld the portrait of your father,' continued
Lady Annabel.
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