This happy summer was succeeded by a singularly wet autumn. Weeks of
continuous rain rendered it difficult even for the little Cadurcis,
who defied the elements, to be so constant as heretofore in his daily
visits to Cherbury. His mother, too, grew daily a greater invalid,
and, with increasing sufferings and infirmities, the natural
captiousness of her temper proportionally exhibited itself. She
insisted upon the companionship of her son, and that he should not
leave the house in such unseasonable weather. If he resisted, she fell
into one of her jealous rages, and taunted him with loving strangers
better than his own mother. Cadurcis, on the whole, behaved very well;
he thought of Lady Annabel's injunctions, and restrained his passion.
Yet he was not repaid for the sacrifice; his mother made no effort
to render their joint society agreeable, or even endurable. She was
rarely in an amiable mood, and generally either irritable or sullen.
If the weather held up a little, and he ventured to pay a visit to
Cherbury, he was sure to be welcomed back with a fit of passion;
either Mrs. Cadurcis was angered for being left alone, or had
fermented herself into fury by the certainty of his catching a fever.
If Plantagenet remained at the abbey, she was generally sullen; and,
as he himself was naturally silent under any circumstances, his mother
would indulge in that charming monologue, so conducive to domestic
serenity, termed 'talking at a person,' and was continually
insinuating that she supposed he found it very dull to pass his day
with her, and that she dared say that somebody could be lively enough
if he were somewhere else.
Cadurcis would turn pale, and bite his lip, and then leave the room;
and whole days would sometimes pass with barely a monosyllable being
exchanged between this parent and child. Cadurcis had found some
opportunities of pouring forth his griefs and mortification into the
ear of Venetia, and they had reached her mother; but Lady Annabel,
though she sympathised with this interesting boy, invariably
counselled duty. The morning studies were abandoned, but a quantity of
books were sent over from Cherbury for Plantagenet, and Lady Annabel
seized every opportunity of conciliating Mrs. Cadurcis' temper in
favour of her child, by the attention which she paid the mother. The
weather, however, prevented either herself or Venetia from visiting
the abbey; and, on the whole, the communications between the two
establishments and their inmates had become rare.
Though now a continual inmate of the abbey, Cadurcis was seldom the
companion of his mother. They met at their meals, and that was all. He
entered the room every day with an intention of conciliating; but the
mutual tempers of the mother and the son were so quick and sensitive,
that he always failed in his purpose, and could only avoid a storm
by dogged silence. This enraged Mrs. Cadurcis more even than his
impertinence; she had no conduct; she lost all command over herself,
and did not hesitate to address to her child terms of reproach and
abuse, which a vulgar mind could only conceive, and a coarse tongue
alone express. What a contrast to Cherbury, to the mild maternal
elegance and provident kindness of Lady Annabel, and the sweet tones
of Venetia's ever-sympathising voice. Cadurcis, though so young, was
gifted with an innate fastidiousness, that made him shrink from a rude
woman. His feelings were different in regard to men; he sympathised at
a very early age with the bold and the energetic; his favourites among
the peasantry were ever those who excelled in athletic sports; and,
though he never expressed the opinion, he did not look upon the
poacher with the evil eye of his class. But a coarse and violent woman
jarred even his young nerves; and this woman was his mother, his only
parent, almost his only relation; for he had no near relative except
a cousin whom he had never even seen, the penniless orphan of a
penniless brother of his father, and who had been sent to sea; so
that, after all, his mother was the only natural friend he had. This
poor little boy would fly from that mother with a sullen brow, or,
perhaps, even with a harsh and cutting repartee; and then he would
lock himself up in his room, and weep. But he allowed no witnesses of
this weakness. The lad was very proud. If any of the household passed
by as he quitted the saloon, and stared for a moment at his pale and
agitated face, he would coin a smile for the instant, and say even a
kind word, for he was very courteous to his inferiors, and all the
servants loved him, and then take refuge in his solitary woe.
Relieved by this indulgence of his mortified heart, Cadurcis looked
about him for resources. The rain was pouring in torrents, and the
plash of the troubled and swollen lake might be heard even at the
abbey. At night the rising gusts of wind, for the nights were always
clear and stormy, echoed down the cloisters with a wild moan to which
he loved to listen. In the morning he beheld with interest the savage
spoils of the tempest; mighty branches of trees strewn about,
and sometimes a vast trunk uprooted from its ancient settlement.
Irresistibly the conviction impressed itself upon his mind that, if
he were alone in this old abbey, with no mother to break that strange
fountain of fancies that seemed always to bubble up in his solitude,
he might be happy. He wanted no companions; he loved to be alone, to
listen to the winds, and gaze upon the trees and waters, and wander in
those dim cloisters and that gloomy gallery.
From the first hour of his arrival he had loved the venerable hall of
his fathers. Its appearance harmonised with all the associations of
his race. Power and pomp, ancestral fame, the legendary respect of
ages, all that was great, exciting, and heroic, all that was marked
out from the commonplace current of human events, hovered round him.
In the halls of Cadurcis he was the Cadurcis; though a child, he was
keenly sensible of his high race; his whole being sympathised with
their glory; he was capable of dying sooner than of disgracing them;
and then came the memory of his mother's sharp voice and harsh vulgar
words, and he shivered with disgust.
Forced into solitude, forced to feed upon his own mind, Cadurcis found
in that solitude each day a dearer charm, and in that mind a richer
treasure of interest and curiosity. He loved to wander about, dream of
the past, and conjure up a future as glorious. What was he to be? What
should be his career? Whither should he wend his course? Even at this
early age, dreams of far lands flitted over his mind; and schemes of
fantastic and adventurous life. But now he was a boy, a wretched boy,
controlled by a vulgar and narrow-minded woman! And this servitude
must last for years; yes! years must elapse before he was his own
master. Oh! if he could only pass them alone, without a human voice to
disturb his musings, a single form to distract his vision!
Under the influence of such feelings, even Cherbury figured to his
fancy in somewhat faded colours. There, indeed, he was loved and
cherished; there, indeed, no sound was ever heard, no sight ever seen,
that could annoy or mortify the high pitch of his unconscious ideal;
but still, even at Cherbury, he was a child. Under the influence
of daily intercourse, his tender heart had balanced, perhaps even
outweighed, his fiery imagination. That constant yet delicate
affection had softened all his soul: he had no time but to be grateful
and to love. He returned home only to muse over their sweet society,
and contrast their refined and gentle life with the harsh rude hearth
that awaited him. Whatever might be his reception at home, he was
thrown, back for solace on their memory, not upon his own heart; and
he felt the delightful conviction that to-morrow would renew the spell
whose enchantment had enabled him to endure the present vexation. But
now the magic of that intercourse had ceased; after a few days of
restlessness and repining, he discovered that he must find in his
desolation sterner sources of support than the memory of Venetia, and
the recollections of the domestic joys of Cherbury. It astonishing
with what rapidity the character of Cadurcis developed itself in
solitude; and strange was the contrast between the gentle child who,
a few weeks before, had looked forward with so much interest to
accompanying Venetia to a childish festival, and the stern and moody
being who paced the solitary cloisters of Cadurcis, and then would
withdraw to his lonely chamber and the amusement of a book. He was at
this time deeply interested in Purchas's Pilgrimage, one of the few
books of which the late lord had not despoiled him. Narratives of
travels and voyages always particularly pleased him; he had an idea
that he was laying up information which might be useful to him
hereafter; the Cherbury collection was rich in this class of volumes,
and Lady Annabel encouraged their perusal.
In this way many weeks elapsed at the abbey, during which the visits
of Plantagenet to Cherbury were very few. Sometimes, if the weather
cleared for an hour during the morning, he would mount his pony, and
gallop, without stopping, to the hall. The rapidity of the motion
excited his mind; he fancied himself, as he embraced Venetia, some
chieftain who had escaped for a moment from his castle to visit his
mistress; his imagination conjured up a war between the opposing
towers of Cadurcis and Cherbury; and when his mother fell into a
passion on his return, it passed with him only, according to its
length and spirit, as a brisk skirmish or a general engagement.