‘And so I would, my lady,’ said Mistress Pauncefort, when Lady Annabel communicated to her faithful attendant, at night, the news of the arrival of the Cadurcis family at the abbey, and her intention of paying Mrs. Cadurcis a visit; ‘and so I would, my lady,’ said Mistress Pauncefort, ‘and it would be but an act of Christian charity after all, as the Doctor says; for although it is not for me to complain when my betters are satisfied, and after all I am always content, if your ladyship be; still there is no denying the fact, that this is a terrible lonesome life after all. And I cannot help thinking your ladyship has not been looking so well of late, and a little society would do your ladyship good; and Miss Venetia too, after all, she wants a playfellow; I am certain sure that I was as tired of playing at ball with her this morning as if I had never sat down in my born days; and I dare say the little lord will play with her all day long.’

‘If I thought that this visit would lead to what is understood by the word society, my good Pauncefort, I certainly should refrain from paying it,’ said Lady Annabel, very quietly.

‘Oh! Lord, dear my lady, I was not for a moment dreaming of any such thing,’ replied Mistress Pauncefort; ‘society, I know as well as any one, means grand balls, Ranelagh, and the masquerades. I can’t abide the thought of them, I do assure your ladyship; all I meant was that a quiet dinner now and then with a few friends, a dance perhaps in the evening, or a hand of whist, or a game of romps at Christmas, when the abbey will of course be quite full, a —’

‘I believe there is as little chance of the abbey being full at Christmas, or any other time, as there is of Cherbury.’ said Lady Annabel. ‘Mrs. Cadurcis is a widow, with a very slender fortune. Her son will not enjoy his estate until he is of age, and its rental is small. I am led to believe that they will live quite as quietly as ourselves; and when I spoke of Christian charity, I was thinking only of kindness towards them, and not of amusement for ourselves.’

‘Well, my lady, your la’ship knows best,’ replied Mistress Pauncefort, evidently very disappointed; for she had indulged in momentary visions of noble visitors and noble valets; ‘I am always content, you know, when your la’ship is; but, I must say, I think it is very odd for a lord to be so poor. I never heard of such a thing. I think they will turn out richer than you have an idea, my lady. Your la’ship knows ’tis quite a saying, “As rich as a lord.”’

Lady Annabel smiled, but did not reply.

The next morning the fawn-coloured chariot, which had rarely been used since Lady Annabel’s arrival at Cherbury, and four black long-tailed coach-horses, that from absolute necessity had been degraded, in the interval, to the service of the cart and the plough, made their appearance, after much bustle and effort, before the hall-door. Although a morning’s stroll from Cherbury through the woods, Cadurcis was distant nearly ten miles by the road, and that road was in great part impassable, save in favourable seasons. This visit, therefore, was an expedition; and Lady Annabel, fearing the fatigue for a child, determined to leave Venetia at home, from whom she had actually never been separated one hour in her life. Venetia could not refrain from shedding a tear when her mother embraced and quitted her, and begged, as a last favour, that she might accompany her through the park to the avenue lodge. So Pauncefort and herself entered the chariot, that rocked like a ship, in spite of all the skill of the coachman and the postilion.

Venetia walked home with Mistress Pauncefort, but Lady Annabel’s little daughter was not in her usual lively spirits; many a butterfly glanced around without attracting her pursuit, and the deer trooped by without eliciting a single observation. At length she said, in a thoughtful tone, ‘Mistress Pauncefort, I should have liked to have gone and seen the little boy.’

‘You shall go and see him another day, Miss,’ replied her attendant.

‘Mistress Pauncefort,’ said Venetia, ‘are you a widow?’

Mistress Pauncefort almost started; had the inquiry been made by a man, she would almost have supposed he was going to be very rude. She was indeed much surprised.

‘And pray, Miss Venetia, what could put it in your head to ask such an odd question?’ exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort. ‘A widow! Miss Venetia; I have never yet changed my name, and I shall not in a hurry, that I can tell you.’

‘Do widows change their names?’ said Venetia.

‘All women change their names when they marry,’ responded Mistress Pauncefort.

‘Is mamma married?’ inquired Venetia.

‘La! Miss Venetia. Well, to be sure, you do ask the strangest questions. Married! to be sure she is married,’ said Mistress Pauncefort, exceedingly flustered.

‘And whom is she married to?’ pursued the unwearied Venetia.

‘Your papa, to be sure,’ said Mistress Pauncefort, blushing up to her eyes, and looking very confused; ‘that is to say, Miss Venetia, you are never to ask questions about such subjects. Have not I often told you it is not pretty?’

‘Why is it not pretty?’ said Venetia.

‘Because it is not proper,’ said Mistress Pauncefort; ‘because your mamma does not like you to ask such questions, and she will be very angry with me for answering them, I can tell you that.’

‘I tell you what, Mistress Pauncefort,’ said Venetia, ‘I think mamma is a widow.’

‘And what then, Miss Venetia? There is no shame in that.’

‘Shame!’ exclaimed Venetia. ‘What is shame?’

‘Look, there is a pretty butterfly!’ exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort. ‘Did you ever see such a pretty butterfly, Miss?’

‘I do not care about butterflies today, Mistress Pauncefort; I like to talk about widows.’

‘Was there ever such a child!’ exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, with a wondering glance.

‘I must have had a papa,’ said Venetia; ‘all the ladies I read about had papas, and married husbands. Then whom did my mamma marry?’

‘Lord! Miss Venetia, you know very well your mamma always tells you that all those books you read are a pack of stories,’ observed Mistress Pauncefort, with an air of triumphant art.

‘There never were such persons, perhaps,’ said Venetia, ‘but it is not true that there never were such things as papas and husbands, for all people have papas; you must have had a papa, Mistress Pauncefort?’

‘To be sure I had,’ said Mistress Pauncefort, bridling up.

‘And a mamma too?’ said Venetia.

‘As honest a woman as ever lived,’ said Mistress Pauncefort.

‘Then if I have no papa, mamma must be a wife that has lost her husband, and that, mamma told me at dinner yesterday, was a widow.’

‘Was the like ever seen!’ exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort. ‘And what then, Miss Venetia?’

‘It seems to me so odd that only two people should live here, and both be widows,’ said Venetia, ‘and both have a little child; the only difference is, that one is a little boy, and I am a little girl.’

‘When ladies lose their husbands, they do not like to have their names mentioned,’ said Mistress Pauncefort; ‘and so you must never talk of your papa to my lady, and that is the truth.’

‘I will not now,’ said Venetia.

When they returned home, Mistress Pauncefort brought her work, and seated herself on the terrace, that she might not lose sight of her charge. Venetia played about for some little time; she made a castle behind a tree, and fancied she was a knight, and then a lady, and conjured up an ogre in the neighbouring shrubbery; but these daydreams did not amuse her as much as usual. She went and fetched her book, but even ‘The Seven Champions’ could not interest her. Her eye was fixed upon the page, and apparently she was absorbed in her pursuit, but her mind wandered, and the page was never turned. She indulged in an unconscious reverie; her fancy was with her mother on her visit; the old abbey rose up before her: she painted the scene without an effort: the court, with the fountain; the grand room, with the tapestry hangings; that desolate garden, with the fallen statues; and that long, gloomy gallery. And in all these scenes appeared that little boy, who, somehow or other, seemed wonderfully blended with her imaginings. It was a very long day this; Venetia dined along with Mistress Pauncefort; the time hung very heavy; at length she fell asleep in Mistress Pauncefort’s lap. A sound roused her: the carriage had returned; she ran to greet her mother, but there was no news; Mrs. Cadurcis had been absent; she had gone to a distant town to buy some furniture; and, after all, Lady Annabel had not seen the little boy.