He called up her image in
the castle of his fathers, exercising in a domain worthy of such a
mistress, all those sweet offices of life which here, in this hired
roof in a strange land, and with his crippled means, he had yet found
solacing. He conjured before him a bud by the side of that beauteous
flower, sharing all her lustre and all her fragrance, his own Venetia!
What happiness might not have been his? And for what had he forfeited
it? A dream, with no dream-like beauty; a perturbed, and restless, and
agitated dream, from which he had now woke shattered and exhausted.
He had sacrificed his fortune, he had forfeited his country, he had
alienated his wife, and he had lost his child; the home of his heroic
ancestry, the ancient land whose fame and power they had created, the
beauteous and gifted woman who would have clung for ever to his bosom,
and her transcendant offspring worthy of all their loves! Profound
philosopher!
The clock of the convent struck the second hour after midnight.
Herbert started. And all this time where were Annabel and Venetia?
They still lived, they were in the same country, an hour ago they were
under the same roof, in the same chamber; their hands had joined,
their hearts had opened, for a moment he had dared to believe that all
that he cared for might be regained.
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