This conversation recalled old times. They talked over the arrival of
Mrs. Cadurcis at the abbey, her strange character, her untimely end.
Lady Annabel expressed her conviction of the natural excellence of
Plantagenet's disposition, and her regret of the many disadvantages
under which he laboured; it gratified Venetia to listen to his praise.
'He has quite forgotten us, mamma,' said Venetia.
'My love, he was very young when he quitted us,' replied Lady Annabel; 'and you must remember the influence of a change of life at so tender an age. He lives now in a busy world.'
'I wish that he had not forgotten to write to us sometimes,' said
Venetia.
'Writing a letter is a great achievement for a schoolboy,' said the Doctor; 'it is a duty which even grown-up persons too often forget to fulfil, and, when postponed, it is generally deferred for ever. However, I agree with Lady Annabel, Cadurcis was a fine fellow, and had he been properly brought up, I cannot help thinking, might have turned out something.'
'Poor Plantagenet!' said Venetia, 'how I pity him. His was a terrible lot, to lose both his parents! Whatever were the errors of Mrs. Cadurcis, she was his mother, and, in spite of every mortification, he clung to her. Ah! I shall never forget when Pauncefort met him coming out of her room the night before the burial, when he said, with streaming eyes, "I only had one friend in the world, and now she is gone." I could not love Mrs. Cadurcis, and yet, when I heard of these words, I cried as much as he.'
'Poor fellow!' said the Doctor, filling his glass.
'If there be any person in the world whom I pity,' said Venetia, ''tis an orphan. Oh! what should I be without mamma? And Plantagenet, poor Plantagenet! he has no mother, no father.' Venetia added, with a faltering voice: 'I can sympathise with him in some degree; I, I, I know, I feel the misfortune, the misery;' her face became crimson, yet she could not restrain the irresistible words, 'the misery of never having known a father,' she added.
There was a dead pause, a most solemn silence. In vain Venetia struggled to look calm and unconcerned; every instant she felt the blood mantling in her cheek with a more lively and spreading agitation. She dared not look up; it was not possible to utter a word to turn the conversation. She felt utterly confounded and absolutely mute. At length, Lady Annabel spoke. Her tone was severe and choking, very different to her usual silvery voice.
'I am sorry that my daughter should feel so keenly the want of a parent's love,' said her ladyship.