Venetia. By the author of 'Vivian Grey' and 'Henrietta Temple'

Front matter

VENETIA. BT B. DISEAELI. " Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child !" " The child of love, though horn in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion." a |leb) flHiitiott. LONDON : DAVID BRYOE, 48, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1853. LOXDO.V : PEI5TED BY WOODFALL AXD KINDER, AIS'QEL C0UJUV-S5IKKKR STHSEI. TO LOED LYNDHUEST. In happier hours, when I first mentioned to you the idea of this Work, it was my mtention, wMle mscribing it with your name, to have entered into some details as to the principles wMch had guided me m its composition, and the feeUngs with which I had attempted to shadow forth, though as " in a glass darMy," two of the most renowned and refined spirits that have adorned these our latter days. But now, I wiU oMy express a hope that the time may come when m these pages you may find some relaxation from the cares, and some distraction from the sorrows, of existence, and that you wUl then receive this dedication as a record of my respect and my affection. May, 1837. A.

ADVERTISEMENT.

. This Work was first published in the year 1837. VENETIA.

Chapter I

Some ten years before the revolt of our American colomes, there was situate in one of our midland counties, on the borders of an extensive forest, an ancient hall that belonged to the Herberts, but which, though ever well preserved, had not untU that period been visited by any member of the famUy, smce the exUe of the Stuarts. It was an edifice of considerable size, buUt of grey stone, much covered with ivy, and placed upon the last gentle elevation of a long ridge of MUs, M the centre of a crescent of woods, that far overtopped its clusters of tall chimneys and turreted gables. Although the prmcipal chambers were on the first story, you could nevertheless step forth from their windows on a broad terrace, whence you descended into the gardens by a double flight of stone steps, exactly in the middle of its length.

These gardens were of some extent, and fiUed with evergreen shrubberies of remarkable overgrowth, wlnle occasionaUy turfy vistas, cut M the distant woods, came sloping down to the south, as if they opened to receive the sunbeam that greeted the genial aspect of the mansion. The ground-floor was prmcipaUy occupied by the haU itself, wMch was of great dimensions, hung round with many a famUy portrait and rural picture, furmshed with long oaken seats covered with scarlet cusMons, and ornamented with a parti-coloured floor of alternate diamonds of black and white marble. From the centre of the roof of the mansion, wMch was always covered with pigeons, rose the clock-tower of the chapel, surmounted by a vane ; and before ■the mansion itself was a large plot of grass, with a fountam m the centre, surrounded by a hedge of honeysuckle.

TMs plot of grass was separated from an extensive park, that opened in front of the hall, by taU iron gates, on each of the pUlars of wMch was a Uon rampant supporting the escutcheon of VENETIA. the family. The deer wandered in this enclosed and weU-wooded demesne, and about a nrne from the mansion, in a direct line with the iron gates, was an old-fasMoned lodge, which marked the Umit of the park, and from wMch you emerged mto a fine avenue of Umes boimded on both sides by fields. At the termmation of this avenue was a strong but simple gate, and a woodman's cottage ; and then spread before you a vast landscape of open, wild lands, wMch seemed on one side mterminable, wMle on the other the eye rested on the dark heights of the neighbouring forest. This picturesque and very secluded abode was the residence of Lady Annabel Herbert and her daughter, the young and beautiful Venetia, a chUd, at the time when our Mstory commences, of very tender age.

It was nearly seven years smce Lady Annabel and her mfant daughter had sought the retired shades of Cherbury, wMch they had never smce qmtted. They Uved alone and for each other ; the mother educated her chUd, and the chUd Mterested her mother by her affectionate disposition, the development of a nund of no ordinary promise, and a sort of captivatmg grace and eharm mg playfuMess of temper, wMch were extremely deUghtful. Lady Annabel was stiU young and very lovely. That she was wealthy her establishment clearly denoted, and she was a daughter of one of the haughtiest houses M the Mngdom. It was strange then that, with aU the brUUant accidents of birth, and beauty, and fortune, she shoidd still, as it were m the mormng of her life, have with drawn to tMs secluded mansion, M a county where she was personaUy unknown, distant from the metropolis, estranged from aU her own relatives and connexions, and without the resource of even a smgle neighbour, for the offly place of importance M her vicmity was unmhabited.

The general impression of the vUlagers was that Lady Annabel was a widow ; and yet there were some speculators who would sMewdly remark, that her ladysMp had never worn weeds, although her husband coMd not have been long dead when she first arrived at Cherbury. On the whole, however, these good people were not very inquisitive ; and it was fortunate for them; for there was Uttle chance and sUght means of gratify- Mg their curiosity. The whole of the establishment had been formed at Cherbury, with the exception of her ladysMp's waiting woman, Mistress Pauncefort, and she was by far too guest a personage to condescend to reply to any question wMch was not made to her by Lady Annabel herself. The beauty of the young Venetia was not the hereditary gift of her beautiM mother. It was not from Lady Annabel that Venetia Herbert had derived those serapMc locks that feU over her shoulders and down her neck M golden streams, nor that clear grey eye, even whose chUdish glance might perplex the gaze of man- VENETIA. 3 hood, nor that little aquiline nose, that gave a haughty expression to a countenance that had never yet dreamed of pride, nor that radiant complexion, that dazzled with its brilliancy, like some winged minister of Raffael or Corregio.

The peasants that passed the lady and her daughter in their walks, and who blessed her as they passed, for all her grace and goodness, often marveUed why so fair a mother and so fair a child should be so dissimilar, that one indeed might be compared to a starry night, and the other to a sunny day.

Chapter II

It was a bright and soft spring morning : the dewy vistas of Cherbury sparkled in the sun, the cooing of the pigeons sounded around, the peacocks strutted about the terrace and spread their tails with infinite enjoyment and conscious pride, and Lady Annabel came forth with her little daughter, to breathe the renovating odours of the season. The air was scented with the violet, tufts of daffodUs were scattered aU about, and though the snowdrop had vanished, and the primroses were fast disappearing, their wffd and shaggy leaves still looked picturesque and glad. " Mamma," said the Uttle Venetia, " is this spring ?" " This is spring, my cluld," replied Lady Annabel, " beautiful spring ! The year is youngand happy, like my little girl." " If Venetia be like the spring, mamma is like the summer !

" replied the child ; and the mother smiled. " And is not the summer yoimg and happy ? " resumed Venetia. " It is not quite so young as the spring," said Lady Annabel, looking down with fondness on her Uttle compamon, " and, I fear, not quite so happy." " But it is as beautiful," said Venetia. " It is not beauty that makes us happy," said Lady Annabel " to be happy, my love, we must be good." " Am I good? " said Venetia. " Very good," said Lady Annabel. " I am very happy," said Venetia ; " I wonder whether, if I be always good, I shall always be happy ? " " You cannot be happy without being good, my love ; but happiness depends upon the wiU of God. If you be good he wUl guard over you." " What can make me unhappy, mamma? " inquired Venetia. " An evil conscience, my love." " Conscience ! " said Venetia ; " what is conscience ?

" " You are not yet quite old enough to understand," said Lady 1 — VENETIA. Annabel, " but some day I will teach you. Mamma is now going to take a long walk, and Venetia shall walk with her." So sayin-, the Lady Annabel summoned Mistress Pauncefort, a gentlewoman of not more cUscreet years than might have been expected in the attendant of so young a mistress; but one weU qualified for her office, very zealous and devoted, somewhat conse quential, full of energy and decision, capable of directing, fond of giving advice, and habituated to command. The Lady Annabel, leadmg her daughter, and accompamed by her faithful blood hound, Marmion, ascended one of those sloping vistas that we have noticed, Mistress Pauncefort foUowmg them about a pace behind, and after her a groom, at a very respectM distance, leadmg Miss Herbert's donkey.

They soon entered a winding path through the wood wMch was the background of their dweUhig. Lady Annabel was sUent, and lost in her reflections; Venetia plucked the beautiful wild hyacmths that then abounded m the wood in such profusion, that their beds spread Uke patches of blue enamel, and gave them to Mistress Pauncefort, who, as the collection increased, handed them over to the groom ; who, in turn, deposited them m the wicker seat pre pared for Ms young mistress. The bright sun bursting through the tender foUage of the year, the clear and gemal air, the smging of the birds, and the vrild and joyous exclamations of Venetia, as she gathered her flowers, made it a cheeriul party, notwithstandmg the sUence of its mistress. When they emerged from the wood, they found themselves on the brow of the MU, a smaU down, over wMch Venetia ran, exMting m the healthy breeze which, at tMs exposed height, was strong and fresh.

As they advanced to the opposite decUvity to that wMch they had ascended, a wide and pecuUar landscape opened before them. The extreme distance was formed by an undulatmg ridge of lofty and savage hills ; nearer than these were gentler ele vations, partially wooded ; and at their base was a rich vaUey, its green meads fed by a clear and rapid stream, wMch gUttered m the sun as it coursed on, losing itself at length m a wUd and sedgy lake that formed the furthest Unfit of a widely spreadmg park. In the centre of tMs park, and not very remote from the banks of the rivMet, was an ancient gothic buUding, that had once been an abbey of great repute and wealth, and had not much suffered M its ex ternal character, by having served for nearly two centuries and a half as the principal dweMng of an old baroMal family Descending the downy hiU, that here and there was studded with fine old trees, enrichmg by thenpresence the view from the abbey, Lady Annabel and her party entered the meads, and, skirtmg the lake, approached the venerable waUs without crossing the stream.

VENETIA. It was difficult to conceive a scene more silent and more deso late. There was no sign of life, and not a sound save the occa sional cawing of a rook. Advancing towards the abbey, they passed a pile of buildings that, in the summer, might be screened from sight by the foUage of a group of elms, too scanty at present to veU their desolation. Wide gaps m the roof proved that the vast and dreary stables were no longer used ; there were empty grana ries, whose doors had fallen from their Mnges ; the gate of the court-yard was prostrate on the ground ; and the sUent clock that once adorned the cupola over the noble entrance arch, had long lost its mdex. Even the litter of the yard appeared dusty and grey with age. You felt sure no human foot could have disturbed it for years. At the back of these buUdmgs were nailed the tropMes of the game-keeper: hundreds of wild cats, dried to blackness, stretched thendownward heads and legs from the mouldering waU ; hawks, magpies, and jays hung in tattered remnants ; but all grey, and even green, with age ; and the heads of birds in plenteous rows, naUed beak upward, and so dried and shrivelled by the suns and winds and frosts of many seasons, that their distmetive charac ters were lost.

" Do you know, my good Pauncefort," said Lady Annabel, " that I have an odd fancy to-day to force an entrance into the old abbey. It is strange, fond as I am of this walk, that we have never yet en tered it. Do you recoUect our last vam efforts ? ShaU we be more fortunate this time, tMnk you? " Mistress Pauncefort smded and smirked, and, advancing to the old gloomy porch, gave a very determined ring at the bell. Its sound might be heard echoing through the old cloisters, but a con siderable time elapsed without any other effect being produced. Perhaps Lady Annabel would have now given up the attempt, but the Uttle Venetia expressed so much regret at the disappointment, that her mother directed the groom to reconnoitre in the neighbourhood, and see if it were possible to discover any person con nected with the mansion.

" I doubt our luck, my lady," said Mistress Pauncefort, " for they do say that the abbey is qmte uninhabited." " 'Tis a pity," said Lady Annabel, " for, with aU its desolation, there is somethmg about this spot which ever greatly interests me." " Mamma, why does no one live here ? " said Venetia. " The master of the abbey lives abroad, my child." " Why does he, mamma ? " « Never ask questions, Miss Venetia," said Mistress Pauncefort, in a hushed and solemn tone ; " it is not pretty." Lady Annabel had moved away. The groom returned, and said he had met a very old man, VENETIA. pickmg water-cresses, and he was the only person who lived m the abbey, except Ms wife, and she was bed-ridden. The old man had promised to admit them when he had completed Ms task, but not before, and the groom feared it woMd be some time before he arrived.

" Come, Pauncefort, rest 3'ourself on this bench," said Lady Annabel, seating herself m the porch ; " and Venetia, my cMld, come hither to me." " Mamma," said Venetia, " what is the name of the gentleman to whom this abbey belongs ? " " Lord Cadurcis, love." " I shoMd like to know why Lord Cadurcis Uves abroad, " said Venetia, musmgly. " There are many reasons why persons may choose to qmt then native country, and dwell in another, my love," said Lady Annabel, very qmetly ; " some change the climate for their health." " Did Lord Cadurcis, mamma ? " asked Venetia. "I do not know Lord Cadurcis, dear, or anytMng of him, except that he is a very old man, and has no faiMly." At this moment there was a sound of bars and bolts withdrawn, and the falling of a chain, and at length the massy door slowly opened, and the old man appeared and beckoned to them to enter.

" 'Tis eight years, come Martinmas, since I opened this door," said the old man, " and it sticks a bit. You must walk about by yourselves, for I have no breath, and my mistress is bed-ridden. There, straight down the cloister, you can't miss your way ; there is not much to see." The interior of the abbey formed a quadrangle, surrounded by the cloisters, and in thia inner court was a curious fountam, carved with exquisite skill by some gotMc artist m one of those capricious moods of sportive invention, that produced those grotesque medleys for which the feudal sculptor was celebrated. Not a sound was heard except the faU of the fountam and the Ught echoes that its voice called up. The staircase led Lady Annabel and her party through several small rooms, scantUy garnished with very ancient furniture, in some of which were portraits of the famUy, until they at length entered a noble saloon, once the refectory of the abbey, and not deficient m splendour, though sadly soiled and worm-eaten.

It was hung with tapestry representing the Cartoons of Raffael, and their stiU vivid colours contrasted with the faded hangings and the (Ungy damask of the chairs and sofas. A mass of CromweUian armour was huddled together in a corner of a long monkish gallery, with a standard, encrusted with dust, and a couple of old drums, one VENETIA. 7 broken. From one of the windows they had a good view of the old walled garden, which did not tempt them to enter it; it was a wilderness, the walks no longer distinguishable from the rank vegetation of the once cultivated lawns ; the terraces choked up with the unchecked shrubberies; and here and there a leaden statue, a goddess or a satyr, prostrate, and covered with moss and Uchen. " It makes me melancholy," said Lady Annabel; " let us return." " Mamma," said Venetia, " are there any ghosts in this abbey ?

" " You may weU ask me, love," replied Lady Annabel ; " it seems a spell-bound place. But, Venetia, I have often told you there are no such thhigs as ghosts." " Is it naughty to believe m ghosts, mamma, for I cannot help beUeving m them ? " " When you are older, and have more knowledge, you wfll not believe, in them, Venetia," replied Lady Annabel. Our friends left Cadurcis abbey. Venetia mounted her donkey, her mother walked by her side ; the sun was beginmng to decUne when they agam reached Cherbury, and the air was brisk. Lady Annabel was glad to find herself by her fireside M her Uttle terrace room, and Venetia, fetchmg her book, read to her mother until thendinner hour. CHAPTER HI. Two serene and mnocent years had glided away at Cherbury since tMs morning ramble to Cadurcis abbey, and Venetia had grown in loveliness, in goodness, and intelligence.

Her Uvely and somewhat precocious mind had become greatly developed ; and, though she was only nine years of age, it scarcely needed the affection of a mother to find in her an interesting and engagmg companion. Although feminine education was Uttle regarded m those days, that of Lady Annabel had been an exception to the general practice of society. She had been brought up with the consciousness of other objects of female attainment and aeeoni pUshment than embroider}', " the complete art of makmg pastry," and reading " The Whole Duty of Man." She had profited, when a chUd, by the guidance of her brother's tutor, who had bestowed no unfrMtful pains upon no ordinary capacity. She was a good lmguist, a fine musician, was well read m our elder poets and their ItaUan origmals, was no unskilful artist, and had acquired some knowledge of botany when wandering, as a girl, in her native woods.

Smce her retirement to Cherbury, reading had been her cMef resource. The haU contamed a Ubrary whose shelves, mdeed, VENETIA, were more fuU than choice ; but, amid foUos of theological contro versy and civil law, there might be found the first editions of most of the celebrated writers of the reign of Anne, wMch the contem porary proprietor of Cherbury, a man of wit and fashion m his day, had duly coUected hi his yearly visits to the metropolis, and finaUy deposited m the famUy book-room. The education of her daughter was not oMy the principal duty of Lady Annabel, but her chief deUght. To cultivate the nascent inteMgence of a cMld, M those days, was not the mere piece of scientific mechanism that the admirable labours of so many mge- Mous writers have smce permitted it comparatively to become.

In those days there was no Mrs. Barbauld, no Madame de GenUs, no Miss Edgeworth; no " Evenings at Home," no " Children's Friend," no " Parent's Assistant." Venetia loved her book ; mdeed, she was never happier than when reading ; but she soon recoUed from the gUt and LUliputian volumes of the good Mr. Newbury, and her mind required some more substantial excitement than " Tom Thumb," or even "Goody Two-Shoes." "The Seven Cham pions " was a great resource and a great favourite ; but it reqmred aU the vigilance of a mother to eradicate the false impressions wMch such studies were conthiuaUy malting on so tender a student; and to disenchant, by rational discussion, the fascmated imagination of her chUd. Lady Annabel endeavoured to find some substitute m the essays of Addison and Steele; but they required more knowledge of the every-day world for their enjoyment than an infant, bred M such seclusion, coMd at present afford ; and at last Venetia lost herself in the wUdering pages of CleUa and the Arcadia, wMch she pored over with a rapt and ecstatic sphit, that would not comprehend the warning scepticism of her parent.

Let us picture to ourselves the high-bred Lady Annabel m the terrace-room of her ancient hall, worMng at her tapestry, and, seated at her feet, her Uttle daughter Venetia, readmgaloud the Arcadia ! The peacocks have jumped up on the window-sill, to look at their friends, who love to feed them, and by their pecking have aroused the bloodhound croucMng at Lady Annabel's feet. And Venetia looks up from her foUo with a flushed and smiUng face to catch the sympathy of her mother, who rewards her daugh ter's study with a Mss. All ! there are no such mothers and no such daughters now ! Thus it wiU be seen that the Use and studies of Venetia tended rather dangerously, in spite of aU the care of her mother, to the development of her imagination, in case mdeed she possessed that terrible and fatal gift.

She passed her days in unbroken soUtude, or broken only by affections wMch softened her heart, and in a scene wMch itself might weU promote any predisposition of the VENETIA. mind; beautiful and picturesque objects surrounded her on all sides ; she wandered, as it were, in an enchanted wUderness, and watched the deer reposing under the green shadow of stately trees; the old haU itself was calculated to excite mysterious curiosity ; one wing was uninhabited and shut up ; each mormng and evening she repaired with her mother and the household through long gaUeries to the chapel, where she knelt to her devotions, illumined by a window blazoned with the arms of that illustrious famUy of which she was a member, and of which she knew nothmg. She had an mdefinite and pamful consciousness that she had been early checked in the natural inquiries which occur to every child ; she had msen sibly been framed to speak only of what she saw ; and when she listened, at night, to the long ivy rustling about the windows, and the wild owls hooting about the mansion, with their pming, melancholy voices, she might have been excused for beUering in those spirits, which her mother warned her to discredit ; or she forgot these mournful hnpressions in dreams, caught from her romantic volumes, of bright knights and beautiful damsels.

Only one event of importance had occurred at Cherbury during these two years, if indeed that be not too strong a phrase to use m reference to an occurrence which occasioned so slight and passmg an mterest. Lord Cadurcis had died. He had left his considerable property to Ms natural chUdren, but the abbey had descended with the title to a very distant relative. The circle at Cherbury had heard, and that was all, that the new lord was a minor, a Uttle boy, indeed very little older than Venetia herself ; but this mformation produced no impression. The abbey was stUl deserted and desolate as ever.

Chapter IV

' Evert Sunday afternoon, the rector of a neighbouring though still somewhat distant parish, of which the rich Uving was m the gift of the Herberts, came to perform divine service at Cherbury. It was a subject of deep regret to Lady Annabel that herself and her family were debarred from the advantage of more frequent and convenient spiritual consolation ; but, at this time, the parochial discipUne of the Church of England was not so strict as it fortunately is at present. Cherbury, though a vicarage, possessed neither parish church, nor a residence for the clergyman ; nor was there mdeed a viUage. The peasants on the estate, or labourers as they are now styled, a term whose introduction mto our rural world is much to be lamented, lived in the respective farm-houses on the lands which they cultivated.

These were scattered about at con- VENETIA, siderable distances, and many of their inmates found it more con venient to attend the church of the contiguous parish than to re pair to the haU chapel, where the household and the dwellers in the few cottages scattered about the park and woods always assembled. The Lady Annabel, whose lot it had been m life to find her best consolation m religion, and who was influenced by not only a smcere but even a severe piety, had no other alternative, therefore, but engaging a chapiam ; but this, after much consideration, she had resolved not to do. She was indeed her own chaplain, herself performing each day such parts of our mormng and evenmg ser vice whose celebration becomes a laic, and reacting portions from the writings of those eminent divines who, from the Restoration to the conclusion of the last reign, have so emhiently distMguished the communion of our national Church.

Each Sunday, after the performance of divine service, the Rev. Dr. Masham dmed with the iamUy, and he was the oMy guest at Cherbury Venetia ever remembered seeing. The Doctor was a regular orthodox divine of the eighteenth century ; with a large caMiflower wig, shovel-hat, and huge knee-buckles, barely covered by his top-boots ; learned, jovial, humorous, and somewhat courtly ; truly pious, but not enthusiastic ; not forgetful of Ms tithes, but generous and charitable when they were once paid ; never negleet mg the sick, yet occasionaUy foUowmg a fox ; a fine scholar, an active magistrate, and a good shot ; dreaduig the pope, and hating the presbyterians. The Doctor was attached to the Herbert famUy not merely because they had given him a good Uving. He had a great rever ence for an old English race, and tinned up his nose at the Wal poUan loanmongers.

Lady Annabel, too, so beautiful, so digmfied, so amiable, and Mghly bred, and, above aU, so pious, had won his regard. He was not a little proud, too, that he was the only person in the county who had the honour of her acquaintance, and yet was disinterested enough to regret that she led so secluded a life, and often lamented that nothmg woMd induce her to show her ele gant person on a race-course, or to attend an assize baU, an assembly which was then becommg much the fashion. The little Venetia was a charming child, and the Mud-hearted Doctor, thou°*h a bachelor, loved chUdren ; " O ! matre pMcMa, filia pulclirior," was the Rev. Dr. Masham's apposite and favourite quotation after Ms weekly visit to Cherbury. Divine service was concluded ; the Doctor had preached a capital sermon ; for he had been one of the shining lights of his uni versity untU his rich but isolating preferment had apparently VENETIA. ] 1 closed the great career which it was once supposed awaited him.

The accustomed walk on the terrace was completed, and dinner was announced. This meal was always celebrated at Cherbury, where new fashions stole down with a lingering pace, in the great hall itself. An ample table was placed in the centre on a mat of rushes, sheltered by a large screen covered with huge maps of the shire and the neighbouring counties. The Lady Annabel and her good pastor seated themselves at each end of the table, while Venetia, mounted on a high chair, was w-aited on by Mistress Pauncefort, who never condescended by any chance attention to notice the presence of any other individual but her little charge, on whose chair she just leaned with an air of condescending devotion. The butler stood behind his lady, and two other servants watched the Doctor ; rural bodies all, but deeked on this day in gorgeous livery coats of blue and silver, which had been made originally for men of very differ ent size and bearing.

Simple as was the usual diet at Cherbury the cook was permitted on Sunday full play to her art, which, in the eighteenth century, indulged in the production of dishes more numerous and substantial than our refined tastes could at present tolerate. The Doctor appreciated a good dinner, and his countenance glistened with approbation as lie surveyed the ample tureen of potage royal, with a boned duck swimming in its centre. Before him still scowled in death the grim countenance of a huge roast pike, flanked on one side by a leg of mutton a-la-daube, and on the other by the tempting delicacies of bombarded veal. To these suc ceeded that masterpiece of tile culinary art, a grand battalia pie, in which the bodies of chickens, pigeons, and rabbits were embalmed in spices, cocks' combs, and savory balls, and well bedewed with one of those rich sauces of claret, anchovy, and sweet herbs, in which our great-grandfathers delighted, and which was technically termed a Lear.