Venetia observed her promise to Doctor Masham with strictness. She

never alluded to her father, and his name never escaped her mother's

lips. Whether Doctor Masham apprised Lady Annabel of the conversation

that had taken place between himself and her daughter, it is not in

our power to mention. The visit to Marringhurst was not a short one.

It was a relief both to Lady Annabel and Venetia, after all that had

occurred, to enjoy the constant society of their friend; and this

change of life, though apparently so slight, proved highly beneficial

to Venetia. She daily recovered her health, and a degree of mental

composure which she had not for some time enjoyed. On the whole she

was greatly satisfied with the discoveries which she had made. She had

ascertained the name and the existence of her father: his very form

and appearance were now no longer matter for conjecture; and in a

degree she had even communicated with him. Time, she still believed,

would develope even further wonders. She clung to an irresistible

conviction that she should yet see him; that he might even again

be united to her mother. She indulged in dreams as to his present

pursuits and position; she repeated to herself his verses, and

remembered his genius with pride and consolation.

They returned to Cherbury, they resumed the accustomed tenour of their

lives, as if nothing had occurred to disturb it. The fondness between

the mother and her daughter was unbroken and undiminished. They shared

again the same studies and the same amusements. Lady Annabel perhaps

indulged the conviction that Venetia had imbibed the belief that her

father was no more, and yet in truth that father was the sole idea on

which her child ever brooded. Venetia had her secret now; and often

as she looked up at the windows of the uninhabited portion of the

building, she remembered with concealed, but not less keen exultation,

that she had penetrated their mystery. She could muse for hours over

all that chamber had revealed to her, and indulge in a thousand

visions, of which her father was the centre. She was his 'own

Venetia.' Thus he had hailed her at her birth, and thus he might yet

again acknowledge her. If she could only ascertain where he existed!

What if she could, and she were to communicate with him? He must love

her. Her heart assured her he must love her. She could not believe,

if they were to meet, that his breast could resist the silent appeal

which the sight merely of his only child would suffice to make. Oh!

why had her parents parted? What could have been his fault? He was so

young! But a few, few years older than herself, when her mother must

have seen him for the last time. Yes! for the last time beheld that

beautiful form, and that countenance that seemed breathing only with

genius and love. He might have been imprudent, rash, violent; but

she would not credit for an instant that a stain could attach to the

honour or the spirit of Marmion Herbert.

The summer wore away. One morning, as Lady Annabel and Venetia were

sitting together, Mistress Pauncefort bustled into the room with

a countenance radiant with smiles and wonderment. Her ostensible

business was to place upon the table a vase of flowers, but it was

evident that her presence was occasioned by affairs of far greater

urgency. The vase was safely deposited; Mistress Pauncefort gave the

last touch to the arrangement of the flowers; she lingered about Lady

Annabel. At length she said, 'I suppose you have heard the news, my

lady?'

'Indeed, Pauncefort, I have not,' replied Lady Annabel. 'What news?'

'My lord is coming to the abbey.'

'Indeed!'

'Oh! yes, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort; 'I am not at all

surprised your ladyship should be so astonished. Never to write, too!

Well, I must say he might have given us a line. But he is coming, I am

certain sure of that, my lady. My lord's gentleman has been down these

two days; and all his dogs and guns too, my lady. And the keeper is

ordered to be quite ready, my lady, for the first. I wonder if there

is going to be a party. I should not be at all surprised.'

'Plantagenet returned!' said Lady Annabel. 'Well, I shall be very glad

to see him again.'

'So shall I, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort; 'but I dare say we

shall hardly know him again, he must be so grown. Trimmer has been

over to the abbey, my lady, and saw my lord's valet. Quite the fine

gentleman, Trimmer says. I was thinking of walking over myself this

afternoon, to see poor Mrs. Quin, my lady; I dare say we might be

of use, and neighbours should be handy, as they say. She is a very

respectable woman, poor Mrs. Quin, and I am sure for my part, if your

ladyship has no objection, I should be very glad to be of service to

her.'

'I have of course no objection, Pauncefort, to your being of service

to the housekeeper, but has she required your assistance?'

'Why no, my lady, but poor Mrs. Quin would hardly like to ask for

anything, my lady; but I am sure we might be of very great use, for

my lord's gentleman seems very dissatisfied at his reception, Trimmer

says. He has his hot breakfast every morning, my lady, and poor Mrs.

Quin says--'

'Well, Pauncefort, that will do,' said Lady Annabel, and the

functionary disappeared.

'We have almost forgotten Plantagenet, Venetia,' added Lady Annabel,

addressing herself to her daughter.

'He has forgotten us, I think, mamma,' said Venetia.

END OF BOOK II

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

Five years had elapsed since Lord Cadurcis had quitted the seat of his

fathers, nor did the fair inhabitants of Cherbury hear of his return

without emotion. Although the intercourse between them during this

interval had from the first been too slightly maintained, and of late

years had entirely died off, his return was, nevertheless, an event

which recalled old times and revived old associations. His visit to

the hall was looked forward to with interest. He did not long keep his

former friends in suspense; for although he was not uninfluenced by

some degree of embarrassment from the consciousness of neglect on his

side, rendered more keen now that he again found himself in the scene

endeared by the remembrance of their kindness, he was, nevertheless,

both too well bred and too warm-hearted to procrastinate the

performance of a duty which the regulations of society and natural

impulse alike assured him was indispensable. On the very morning,

therefore, after his arrival, having sauntered awhile over the old

abbey and strolled over the park, mused over his mother's tomb with

emotion, not the less deep because there was no outward and visible

sign of its influence, he ordered his horses, and directed his way

through the accustomed woods to Cherbury.

Five years had not passed away without their effects at least upon the

exterior being of Cadurcis. Although still a youth, his appearance

was manly. A thoughtful air had become habitual to a countenance

melancholy even in his childhood. Nor was its early promise of beauty

unfulfilled; although its expression was peculiar, and less pleasing

than impressive. His long dark locks shaded a pale and lofty brow that

well became a cast of features delicately moulded, yet reserved and

haughty, and perhaps even somewhat scornful. His figure had set into a

form of remarkable slightness and elegance, and distinguished for

its symmetry. Altogether his general mien was calculated to attract

attention and to excite interest.

His vacations while at Eton had been spent by Lord Cadurcis in the

family of his noble guardian, one of the king's ministers. Here he had

been gradually initiated in the habits and manners of luxurious and

refined society. Since he had quitted Eton he had passed a season,

previous to his impending residence at Cambridge, in the same sphere.

The opportunities thus offered had not been lost upon a disposition

which, with all its native reserve, was singularly susceptible.

Cadurcis had quickly imbibed the tone and adopted the usages of

the circle in which he moved. Naturally impatient of control, he

endeavoured by his precocious manhood to secure the respect and

independence which would scarcely have been paid or permitted to his

years. From an early period he never permitted himself to be treated

as a boy; and his guardian, a man whose whole soul was concentred in

the world, humoured a bent which he approved and from which he augured

the most complete success. Attracted by the promising talents and the

premature character of his ward, he had spared more time to assist the

development of his mind and the formation of his manners than might

have been expected from a minister of state. His hopes, indeed, rested

with confidence on his youthful relative, and he looked forward with

no common emotion to the moment when he should have the honour of

introducing to public life one calculated to confer so much credit

on his tutor, and shed so much lustre on his party. The reader will,

therefore, not be surprised if at this then unrivalled period of

political excitement, when the existence of our colonial empire was

at stake, Cadurcis, with his impetuous feelings, had imbibed to

their fullest extent all the plans, prejudices, and passions of his

political connections. He was, indeed, what the circumstances of the

times and his extreme youth might well excuse, if not justify, a most

violent partisan. Bold, sanguine, resolute, and intolerant, it was

difficult to persuade him that any opinions could be just which were

opposed to those of the circle in which he lived; and out of that

pale, it must be owned, he was as little inclined to recognise the

existence of ability as of truth.

As Lord Cadurcis slowly directed his way through the woods and park of

Cherbury, past years recurred to him like a faint yet pleasing dream.

Among these meads and bowers had glided away the only happy years of

his boyhood, the only period of his early life to which he could look

back without disgust. He recalled the secret exultation with which, in

company with his poor mother, he had first repaired to Cadurcis, about

to take possession of what, to his inexperienced imagination, then

appeared a vast and noble inheritance, and for the first time in his

life to occupy a position not unworthy of his rank. For how many

domestic mortifications did the first sight of that old abbey

compensate! How often, in pacing its venerable galleries and solemn

cloisters, and musing over the memory of an ancient and illustrious

ancestry, had he forgotten those bitter passages of daily existence,

so humbling to his vanity and so harassing to his heart! Ho had beheld

that morn, after an integral of many years, the tomb of his mother.

That simple and solitary monument had revived and impressed upon him a

conviction that too easily escaped in the various life and busy scenes

in which he had since moved, the conviction of his worldly desolation

and utter loneliness. He had no parents, no relations; now that he was

for a moment free from the artificial life in which he had of late

mingled, he felt that he had no friends. The image of his mother came

back to him, softened by the magical tint of years; after all she was

his mother, and a deep sharer in all his joys and woes. Transported to

the old haunts of his innocent and warm-hearted childhood. He sighed

for a finer and a sweeter sympathy than was ever yielded by the roof

which he had lately quitted; a habitation, but not a home. He conjured

up the picture of his guardian, existing in a whirl of official bustle

and social excitement. A dreamy reminiscence of finer impulses stole

over the heart of Cadurcis. The dazzling pageant of metropolitan

splendour faded away before the bright scene of nature that surrounded

him. He felt the freshness of the fragrant breeze; he gazed with

admiration on the still and ancient woods, and his pure and lively

blood bubbled beneath the influence of the golden sunbeams. Before him

rose the halls of Cherbury, that roof where he had been so happy, that

roof to which he had appeared so ungrateful. The memory of a thousand

acts of kindness, of a thousand soft and soothing traits of affection,

recurred to him with a freshness which startled as much as it pleased

him. Not to him only, but to his mother, that mother whose loss he had

lived to deplore, had the inmates of Cherbury been ministering angels

of peace and joy. Oh! that indeed had been a home; there indeed had

been days of happiness; there indeed he had found sympathy, and

solace, and succour! And now he was returning to them a stranger, to

fulfil one of the formal duties of society in paying them his cold

respects; an attention which he could scarcely have avoided offering

had he been to them the merest acquaintance, instead of having found

within those walls a home not merely in words, but friendship the most

delicate and love the most pure, a second parent, and the only being

whom he had ever styled sister!

The sight of Cadurcis became dim with emotion as the associations of

old scenes and his impending interview with Venetia brought back

the past with a power which he had rarely experienced in the

playing-fields of Eton, or the saloons of London. Five years! It was

an awful chasm in their acquaintance.

He despaired of reviving the kindness which had been broken by such a

dreary interval, and broken on his side so wilfully; and yet he

began to feel that unless met with that kindness he should be very

miserable. Sooth to say, he was not a little embarrassed, and scarcely

knew which contingency he most desired, to meet, or to escape from

her. He almost repented his return to Cadurcis, and yet to see Venetia

again he felt must be exquisite pleasure. Influenced by these feelings

he arrived at the hall steps, and so, dismounting and giving his horse

to his groom, Cadurcis, with a palpitating heart and faltering hand,

formally rang the bell of that hall which in old days he entered at

all seasons without ceremony.

Never perhaps did a man feel more nervous; he grew pale, paler even

than usual, and his whole frame trembled as the approaching footstep

of the servant assured him the door was about to open. He longed now

that the family might not be at home, that he might at least gain

four-and-twenty hours to prepare himself. But the family were at home

and he was obliged to enter. He stopped for a moment in the hall under

the pretence of examining the old familiar scene, but it was merely to

collect himself, for his sight was clouded; spoke to the old servant,

to reassure himself by the sound of his own voice, but the husky words

seemed to stick in his throat; ascended the staircase with tottering

steps, and leant against the banister as he heard his name announced.

The effort, however, must be made; it was too late to recede; and Lord

Cadurcis, entering the terrace-room, extended his hand to Lady Annabel

Herbert. She was not in the least changed, but looked as beautiful and

serene as usual. Her salutation, though far from deficient in warmth,

was a little more dignified than that which Plantagenet remembered;

but still her presence reassured him, and while he pressed her hand

with earnestness he contrived to murmur forth with pleasing emotion,

his delight at again meeting her. Strange to say, in the absorbing

agitation of the moment, all thought of Venetia had vanished; and

it was when he had turned and beheld a maiden of the most exquisite

beauty that his vision had ever lighted on, who had just risen from

her seat and was at the moment saluting him, that he entirely lost his

presence of mind; he turned scarlet, was quite silent, made an awkward

bow, and then stood perfectly fixed.

'My daughter,' said Lady Annabel, slightly pointing to Venetia; 'will

not you be seated?'

Cadurcis fell into a chair in absolute confusion. The rare and

surpassing beauty of Venetia, his own stupidity, his admiration of

her, his contempt for himself, the sight of the old chamber, the

recollection of the past, the minutest incidents of which seemed all

suddenly to crowd upon his memory, the painful consciousness of the

revolution which had occurred in his position in the family, proved by

his first being obliged to be introduced to Venetia, and then

being addressed so formally by his title by her mother; all these

impressions united overcame him; he could not speak, he sat silent and

confounded; and had it not been for the imperturbable self-composure

and delicate and amiable consideration of Lady Annabel, it would

have been impossible for him to have remained in a room where he

experienced agonising embarrassment.

Under cover, however, of a discharge of discreet inquiries as to when

he arrived, how long he meant to stay, whether he found Cadurcis

altered, and similar interrogations which required no extraordinary

exertion of his lordship's intellect to answer, but to which he

nevertheless contrived to give inconsistent and contradictory

responses, Cadurcis in time recovered himself sufficiently to maintain

a fair though not very brilliant conversation, and even ventured

occasionally to address an observation to Venetia, who was seated at

her work perfectly composed, but who replied to all his remarks with

the same sweet voice and artless simplicity which had characterised

her childhood, though time and thought had, by their blended

influence, perhaps somewhat deprived her of that wild grace and

sparkling gaiety for which she was once so eminent.

These great disenchanters of humanity, if indeed they had stolen away

some of the fascinating qualities of infancy, had amply recompensed

Venetia Herbert for the loss by the additional and commanding charms

which they had conferred on her. From a beautiful child she had

expanded into a most beautiful woman. She had now entirely recovered

from her illness, of which the only visible effect was the addition

that it had made to her stature, already slightly above the middle

height, but of exquisite symmetry. Like her mother, she did not wear

powder, then usual in society; but her auburn hair, of the finest

texture, descended in long and luxuriant tresses far over her

shoulders, braided with ribands, perfectly exposing her pellucid brow,

here and there tinted with an undulating vein, for she had retained,

if possible with increased lustre, the dazzling complexion of her

infancy. If the rose upon the cheek were less vivid than of yore, the

dimples were certainly more developed; the clear grey eye was shadowed

by long dark lashes, and every smile and movement of those ruby lips

revealed teeth exquisitely small and regular, and fresh and brilliant

as pearls just plucked by a diver.

Conversation proceeded and improved. Cadurcis became more easy and

more fluent. His memory, which seemed suddenly to have returned to him

with unusual vigour, wonderfully served him. There was scarcely an

individual of whom he did not contrive to inquire, from Dr. Masham to

Mistress Pauncefort; he was resolved to show that if he had neglected,

he had at least not forgotten them. Nor did he exhibit the slightest

indication of terminating his visit; so that Lady Annabel, aware that

he was alone at the abbey and that he could have no engagement in the

neighbourhood, could not refrain from inviting him to remain and dine

with them. The invitation was accepted without hesitation. In due

course of time Cadurcis attended the ladies in their walk; it was a

delightful stroll in the park, though he felt some slight emotion when

he found himself addressing Venetia by the title of 'Miss Herbert.'

When he had exhausted all the topics of local interest, he had a great

deal to say about himself in answer to the inquiries of Lady Annabel.

He spoke with so much feeling and simplicity of his first days at

Eton, and the misery he experienced on first quitting Cherbury, that

his details could not fail of being agreeable to those whose natural

self-esteem they so agreeably mattered. Then he dwelt upon his casual

acquaintance with London society, and Lady Annabel was gratified to

observe, from many incidental observations, that his principles were

in every respect of the right tone; and that he had zealously enlisted

himself in the ranks of that national party who opposed themselves

to the disorganising opinions then afloat. He spoke of his impending

residence at the university with the affectionate anticipations which

might have been expected from a devoted child of the ancient and

orthodox institutions of his country, and seemed perfectly impressed

with the responsible duties for which he was destined, as an

hereditary legislator of England. On the whole, his carriage and

conversation afforded a delightful evidence of a pure, and earnest,

and frank, and gifted mind, that had acquired at an early age much of

the mature and fixed character of manhood, without losing anything

of that boyish sincerity and simplicity too often the penalty of

experience.

The dinner passed in pleasant conversation, and if they were no longer

familiar, they were at least cordial. Cadurcis spoke of Dr. Masham

with affectionate respect, and mentioned his intention of visiting

Marringhurst on the following day. He ventured to hope that Lady

Annabel and Miss Herbert might accompany him, and it was arranged that

his wish should be gratified. The evening drew on apace, and Lady

Annabel was greatly pleased when Lord Cadurcis expressed his wish to

remain for their evening prayers. He was indeed sincerely religious;

and as he knelt in the old chapel that had been the hallowed scene

of his boyish devotions, he offered his ardent thanksgivings to his

Creator who had mercifully kept his soul pure and true, and allowed

him, after so long an estrangement from the sweet spot of his

childhood, once more to mingle his supplications with his kind and

virtuous friends.

Influenced by the solemn sounds still lingering in his ear, Cadurcis

bade them farewell for the night, with an earnestness of manner and

depth of feeling which he would scarcely have ventured to exhibit at

their first meeting. 'Good night, dear Lady Annabel,' he said, as he

pressed her hand; 'you know not how happy, how grateful I feel, to be

once more at Cherbury. Good night, Venetia!'

That last word lingered on his lips; it was uttered in a tone at once

mournful and sweet, and her hand was unconsciously retained for a

moment in his; but for a moment; and yet in that brief instant a

thousand thoughts seemed to course through his brain.

Before Venetia retired to rest she remained for a few minutes in her

mother's room. 'What do you think of him, mamma?' she said; 'is he not

very changed?'

'He is, my love,' replied Lady Annabel; 'what I sometimes thought he

might, what I always hoped he would, be.'

'He really seemed happy to meet us again, and yet how strange that for

years he should never have communicated with us.'

'Not so very strange, my love! He was but a child when we parted, and

he has felt embarrassment in resuming connections which for a long

interval had been inevitably severed. Remember what a change his life

had to endure; few, after such an interval, would have returned with

feelings so kind and so pure!'

'He was always a favourite of yours, mamma!'

'I always fancied that I observed in him the seeds of great virtues

and great talents; but I was not so sanguine that they would have

flourished as they appear to have done.'

In the meantime the subject of their observations strolled home

on foot, for he had dismissed his horses, to the abbey. It was a

brilliant night, and the white beams of the moon fell full upon the

old monastic pile, of which massy portions were in dark shade while

the light gracefully rested on the projecting ornaments of the

building, and played, as it were, with the fretted and fantastic

pinnacles. Behind were the savage hills, softened by the hour; and on

the right extended the still and luminous lake. Cadurcis rested for

a moment and gazed upon the fair, yet solemn scene. The dreams of

ambition that occasionally distracted him were dead. The surrounding

scene harmonised with the thoughts of purity, repose, and beauty that

filled his soul. Why should he ever leave this spot, sacred to him by

the finest emotions of his nature? Why should he not at once quit

that world which he had just entered, while he could quit it without

remorse? If ever there existed a being who was his own master, who

might mould his destiny at his will, it seemed to be Cadurcis. His

lone yet independent situation, his impetuous yet firm volition, alike

qualified him to achieve the career most grateful to his disposition.

Let him, then, achieve it here; here let him find that solitude he had

ever loved, softened by that affection for which he had ever sighed,

and which here only he had ever found. It seemed to him that there

was only one being in the world whom he had ever loved, and that was

Venetia Herbert: it seemed to him that there was only one thing in

this world worth living for, and that was the enjoyment of her sweet

heart. The pure-minded, the rare, the gracious creature! Why should

she ever quit these immaculate bowers wherein she had been so

mystically and delicately bred? Why should she ever quit the fond

roof of Cherbury, but to shed grace and love amid the cloisters of

Cadurcis? Her life hitherto had been an enchanted tale; why should

the spell ever break? Why should she enter that world where care,

disappointment, mortification, misery, must await her? He for a season

had left the magic circle of her life, and perhaps it was well. He was

a man, and so he should know all. But he had returned, thank Heaven!

he had returned, and never again would he quit her. Fool that he had

been ever to have neglected her! And for a reason that ought to have

made him doubly her friend, her solace, her protector. Oh! to think of

the sneers or the taunts of the world calling for a moment the colour

from that bright cheek, or dusking for an instant the radiance of that

brilliant eye! His heart ached at the thought of her unhappiness, and

he longed to press her to it, and cherish her like some innocent dove

that had flown from the terrors of a pursuing hawk.

CHAPTER II.

'Well, Pauncefort,' said Lord Cadurcis, smiling, as he renewed his

acquaintance with his old friend, 'I hope you have not forgotten my

last words, and have taken care of your young lady.'

'Oh! dear, my lord,' said Mistress Pauncefort, blushing and simpering.

'Well to be sure, how your lordship has surprised us all! I thought we

were never going to see you again!'

'You know I told you I should return; and now I mean never to leave

you again.'

'Never is a long word, my lord,' said Mistress Pauncefort, looking

very archly.

'Ah! but I mean to settle, regularly to settle here,' said Lord

Cadurcis.

'Marry and settle, my lord,' said Mistress Pauncefort, still more

arch.

'And why not?' inquired Lord Cadurcis, laughing.

'That is just what I said last night,' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort,

eagerly. 'And why not? for I said, says I, his lordship must marry

sooner or later, and the sooner the better, say I: and to be sure he

is very young, but what of that? for, says I, no one can say he does

not look quite a man. And really, my lord, saving your presence, you

are grown indeed.'

'Pish!' said Lord Cadurcis, turning away and laughing, 'I have left

off growing, Pauncefort, and all those sort of things.'

'You have not forgotten our last visit to Marringhurst?' said Lord

Cadurcis to Venetia, as the comfortable mansion of the worthy Doctor

appeared in sight.

'I have forgotten nothing,' replied Venetia with a faint smile; 'I do

not know what it is to forget. My life has been so uneventful that

every past incident, however slight, is as fresh in my memory as if it

occurred yesterday.'

'Then you remember the strawberries and cream?' said Lord Cadurcis.

'And other circumstances less agreeable,' he fancied Venetia observed,

but her voice was low.

'Do you know, Lady Annabel,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'that I was very

nearly riding my pony to-day? I wish to bring back old times with the

utmost possible completeness; I wish for a moment to believe that I

have never quitted Cherbury.'

'Let us think only of the present now,' said Lady Annabel in a

cheerful voice, 'for it is very agreeable. I see the good Doctor; he

has discovered us.'

'I wonder whom he fancies Lord Cadurcis to be?' said Venetia.

'Have you no occasional cavalier for whom at a distance I may be

mistaken?' inquired his lordship in a tone of affected carelessness,

though in truth it was an inquiry that he made not without anxiety.

'Everything remains here exactly as you left it,' replied Lady

Annabel, with some quickness, yet in a lively tone.

'Happy Cherbury!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis. 'May it indeed never

change!'

They rode briskly on; the Doctor was standing at his gate. He saluted

Lady Annabel and Venetia with his accustomed cordiality, and then

stared at their companion as if waiting for an introduction.

'You forget an old friend, my dear Doctor,' said Cadurcis.

'Lord Cadurcis!' exclaimed Dr. Masham. His lordship had by this time

dismounted and eagerly extended his hand to his old tutor.

Having quitted their horses they all entered the house, nor was there

naturally any want of conversation. Cadurcis had much information to

give and many questions to answer. He was in the highest spirits

and the most amiable mood; gay, amusing, and overflowing with

kind-heartedness. The Doctor seldom required any inspiration, to be

joyous, and Lady Annabel was unusually animated. Venetia alone, though

cheerful, was calmer than pleased Cadurcis. Time, he sorrowfully

observed, had occasioned a greater change in her manner than he could

have expected. Youthful as she still was, indeed but on the threshold

of womanhood, and exempted, as it seemed she had been, from anything

to disturb the clearness of her mind, that enchanting play of fancy

which had once characterised her, and which he recalled with a sigh,

appeared in a great degree to have deserted her. He watched her

countenance with emotion, and, supremely beautiful as it undeniably

was, there was a cast of thoughtfulness or suffering impressed upon

the features which rendered him mournful he knew not why, and caused

him to feel as if a cloud had stolen unexpectedly over the sun and

made him shiver.

But there was no time or opportunity for sad reflections; he had to

renew his acquaintance with all the sights and curiosities of the

rectory, to sing to the canaries, and visit the gold fish, admire the

stuffed fox, and wonder that in the space of five years the voracious

otter had not yet contrived to devour its prey. Then they refreshed

themselves after their ride with a stroll in the Doctor's garden;

Cadurcis persisted in attaching himself to Venetia, as in old days,

and nothing would prevent him from leading her to the grotto. Lady

Annabel walked behind, leaning on the Doctor's arm, narrating, with no

fear of being heard, all the history of their friend's return.

'I never was so surprised in my life,' said the Doctor; 'he is vastly

improved; he is quite a man; his carriage is very finished.'

'And his principles,' said Lady Annabel. 'You have no idea, my dear

Doctor, how right his opinions seem to be on every subject. He has

been brought up in a good school; he does his guardian great credit.

He is quite loyal and orthodox in all his opinions; ready to risk his

life for our blessed constitution in Church and State. He requested,

as a favour, that he might remain at our prayers last night. It is

delightful for me to see him turn out so well!'

In the meantime Cadurcis and Venetia entered the grotto.

'The dear Doctor!' said Cadurcis: 'five years have brought no visible

change even to him; perhaps he may be a degree less agile, but I will

not believe it. And Lady Annabel; it seems to me your mother is more

youthful and beautiful than ever. There is a spell in our air,'

continued his lordship, with a laughing eye; 'for if we have changed,

Venetia, ours is, at least, an alteration that bears no sign of decay.

We are advancing, but they have not declined; we are all enchanted.'

'I feel changed,' said Venetia gravely.

'I left you a child and I find you a woman,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'a

change which who can regret?'

'I would I were a child again,' said Venetia.

'We were happy,' said Lord Cadurcis, in a thoughtful tone; and then in

an inquiring voice he added, 'and so we are now?'

Venetia shook her head.

'Can you be unhappy?'

'To be unhappy would be wicked,' said Venetia; 'but my mind has lost

its spring.'

'Ah! say not so, Venetia, or you will make even me gloomy. I am happy,

positively happy. There must not be a cloud upon your brow.'

'You are joyous,' said Venetia, 'because you are excited. It is the

novelty of return that animates you. It will wear off; you will grow

weary, and when you go to the university you will think yourself happy

again.'

'I do not intend to go to the university,' said Cadurcis.

'I understood from you that you were going there immediately.'

'My plans are changed,' said Cadurcis; 'I do not intend ever to leave

home again.'

'When you go to Cambridge,' said Dr. Masham, who just then reached

them, 'I shall trouble you with a letter to an old friend of mine

whose acquaintance you may find valuable.'

Venetia smiled; Cadurcis bowed, expressed his thanks, and muttered

something about talking over the subject with the Doctor.

After this the conversation became general, and at length they all

returned to the house to partake of the Doctor's hospitality, who

promised to dine at the hall on the morrow. The ride home was

agreeable and animated, but the conversation on the part of the ladies

was principally maintained by Lady Annabel, who seemed every moment

more delighted with the society of Lord Cadurcis, and to sympathise

every instant more completely with his frank exposition of his

opinions on all subjects. When they returned to Cherbury, Cadurcis

remained with them as a matter of course. An invitation was neither

expected nor given. Not an allusion was made to the sports of the

field, to enjoy which was the original purpose of his visit to the

abbey; and he spoke of to-morrow as of a period which, as usual, was

to be spent entirely in their society. He remained with them, as on

the previous night, to the latest possible moment. Although reserved

in society, no one could be more fluent with those with whom he was

perfectly unembarrassed. He was indeed exceedingly entertaining, and

Lady Annabel relaxed into conversation beyond her custom. As for

Venetia, she did not speak often, but she listened with interest, and

was evidently amused. When Cadurcis bade them good-night Lady Annabel

begged him to breakfast with them; while Venetia, serene, though kind,

neither seconded the invitation, nor seemed interested one way or the

other in its result.

CHAPTER III.

Except returning to sleep at the abbey, Lord Cadurcis was now as much

an habitual inmate of Cherbury Hall as in the days of his childhood.

He was there almost with the lark, and never quitted its roof until

its inmates were about to retire for the night. His guns and dogs,

which had been sent down from London with so much pomp of preparation,

were unused and unnoticed; and he passed his days in reading

Richardson's novels, which he had brought with him from town, to the

ladies, and then in riding with them about the country, for he loved

to visit all his old haunts, and trace even the very green sward

where he first met the gipsies, and fancied that he had achieved his

emancipation from all the coming cares and annoyances of the world.

In this pleasant life several weeks had glided away: Cadurcis had

entirely resumed his old footing in the family, nor did he attempt to

conceal the homage he was paying to the charms of Venetia. She indeed

seemed utterly unconscious that such projects had entered, or indeed

could enter, the brain of her old playfellow, with whom, now that

she was habituated to his presence, and revived by his inspiriting

society, she had resumed all her old familiar intimacy, addressing him

by his Christian name, as if he had never ceased to be her brother.

But Lady Annabel was not so blind as her daughter, and had indeed her

vision been as clouded, her faithful minister, Mistress Pauncefort,

would have taken care quickly to couch it; for a very short time had

elapsed before that vigilant gentlewoman, resolved to convince her

mistress that nothing could escape her sleepless scrutiny, and that it

was equally in vain for her mistress to hope to possess any secrets

without her participation, seized a convenient opportunity before she

bid her lady good night, just to inquire 'when it might be expected to

take place?' and in reply to the very evident astonishment which Lady

Annabel testified at this question, and the expression of her extreme

displeasure at any conversation on a circumstance for which there

was not the slightest foundation, Mistress Pauncefort, after duly

flouncing about with every possible symbol of pettish agitation and

mortified curiosity, her cheek pale with hesitating impertinence, and

her nose quivering with inquisitiveness, condescended to admit with a

sceptical sneer, that, of course, no doubt her ladyship knew more of

such a subject than she could; it was not her place to know anything

of such business; for her part she said nothing; it was not her

place, but if it were, she certainly must say that she could not help

believing that my lord was looking remarkably sweet on Miss Venetia,

and what was more, everybody in the house thought the same, though for

her part, whenever they mentioned the circumstance to her, she said

nothing, or bid them hold their tongues, for what was it to them; it

was not their business, and they could know nothing; and that nothing

would displease her ladyship more than chattering on such subjects,

and many's the match as good as finished, that's gone off by no worse

means than the chitter-chatter of those who should hold their tongues.

Therefore she should say no more; but if her ladyship wished her to

contradict it, why she could, and the sooner, perhaps, the better.

Lady Annabel observed to her that she wished no such thing, but

she desired that Pauncefort would make no more observations on the

subject, either to her or to any one else. And then Pauncefort bade

her ladyship good night in a huff, catching up her candle with a

rather impertinent jerk, and gently slamming the door, as if she had

meant to close it quietly, only it had escaped out of her fingers.

Whatever might be the tone, whether of surprise or displeasure, which

Lady Annabel thought fit to assume to her attendant on her noticing

Lord Cadurcis' attentions to her daughter, there is no doubt that

his conduct had early and long engaged her ladyship's remark, her

consideration, and her approval. Without meditating indeed an

immediate union between Cadurcis and Venetia, Lady Annabel pleased

herself with the prospect of her daughter's eventual marriage with one

whom she had known so early and so intimately; who was by nature of a

gentle, sincere, and affectionate disposition, and in whom education

had carefully instilled the most sound and laudable principles and

opinions; one apparently with simple tastes, moderate desires, fair

talents, a mind intelligent, if not brilliant, and passions which at

the worst had been rather ill-regulated than violent; attached also

to Venetia from her childhood, and always visibly affected by her

influence. All these moral considerations seemed to offer a fair

security for happiness; and the material ones were neither less

promising, nor altogether disregarded by the mother. It was an union

which would join broad lands and fair estates; which would place on

the brow of her daughter one of the most ancient coronets in England;

and, which indeed was the chief of these considerations, would,

without exposing Venetia to that contaminating contact with the

world from which Lady Annabel recoiled, establish her, without this

initiatory and sorrowful experience, in a position superior to which

even the blood of the Herberts, though it might flow in so fair and

gifted a form as that of Venetia, need not aspire.

Lord Cadurcis had not returned to Cherbury a week before this scheme

entered into the head of Lady Annabel. She had always liked him; had

always given him credit for good qualities; had always believed that

his early defects were the consequence of his mother's injudicious

treatment; and that at heart he was an amiable, generous, and

trustworthy being, one who might be depended on, with a naturally good

judgment, and substantial and sufficient talents, which only required

cultivation. When she met him again after so long an interval, and

found her early prognostics so fairly, so completely fulfilled, and

watched his conduct and conversation, exhibiting alike a well-informed

mind, an obliging temper, and, what Lady Annabel valued even above all

gifts and blessings, a profound conviction of the truth of all her own

opinions, moral, political, and religious, she was quite charmed; she

was moved to unusual animation; she grew excited in his praise; his

presence delighted her; she entertained for him the warmest affection,

and reposed in him unbounded confidence. All her hopes became

concentred in the wish of seeing him her son-in-law; and she detected

with lively satisfaction the immediate impression which Venetia had

made upon his heart; for indeed it should not be forgotten, that

although Lady Annabel was still young, and although her frame and

temperament were alike promising of a long life, it was natural, when

she reflected upon the otherwise lone condition of her daughter, that

she should tremble at the thought of quitting this world without

leaving her child a protector. To Doctor Masham, from whom Lady

Annabel had no secrets, she confided in time these happy but covert

hopes, and he was not less anxious than herself for their fulfilment.

Since the return of Cadurcis the Doctor contrived to be a more

frequent visitor at the hall than usual, and he lost no opportunity of

silently advancing the object of his friend.

As for Cadurcis himself, it was impossible for him not quickly to

discover that no obstacle to his heart's dearest wish would arise on

the part of the parent. The demeanour of the daughter somewhat more

perplexed him. Venetia indeed had entirely fallen into her old habits

of intimacy and frankness with Plantagenet; she was as affectionate

and as unembarrassed as in former days, and almost as gay; for his

presence and companionship had in a great degree insensibly removed

that stillness and gravity which had gradually influenced her mind and

conduct. But in that conduct there was, and he observed it with some

degree of mortification, a total absence of the consciousness of being

the object of the passionate admiration of another. She treated Lord

Cadurcis as a brother she much loved, who had returned to his home

after a long absence. She liked to listen to his conversation, to hear

of his adventures, to consult over his plans. His arrival called

a smile to her face, and his departure for the night was always

alleviated by some allusion to their meeting on the morrow. But many

an ardent gaze on the part of Cadurcis, and many a phrase of emotion,

passed unnoticed and unappreciated. His gallantry was entirely

thrown away, or, if observed, only occasioned a pretty stare at the

unnecessary trouble he gave himself, or the strange ceremony which

she supposed an acquaintance with society had taught him. Cadurcis

attributed this reception of his veiled and delicate overtures to

her ignorance of the world; and though he sighed for as passionate

a return to his strong feelings as the sentiments which animated

himself, he was on the whole not displeased, but rather interested, by

these indications of a pure and unsophisticated spirit.

CHAPTER IV.

Cadurcis had proposed, and Lady Annabel had seconded the proposition

with eager satisfaction, that they should seek some day at the abbey

whatever hospitality it might offer; Dr. Masham was to be of the

party, which was, indeed, one of those fanciful expeditions where the

same companions, though they meet at all times without restraint

and with every convenience of life, seek increased amusement in the

novelty of a slight change of habits. With the aid of the neighbouring

town of Southport, Cadurcis had made preparations for his friends not

entirely unworthy of them, though he affected to the last all the

air of a conductor of a wild expedition of discovery, and laughingly

impressed upon them the necessity of steeling their minds and bodies

to the experience and endurance of the roughest treatment and the most

severe hardships.

The morning of this eventful day broke as beautifully as the preceding

ones. Autumn had seldom been more gorgeous than this year. Although he

was to play the host, Cadurcis would not deprive himself of his usual

visit to the hall; and he appeared there at an early hour to accompany

his guests, who were to ride over to the abbey, to husband all their

energies for their long rambles through the demesne.

Cadurcis was in high spirits, and Lady Annabel scarcely less

joyous. Venetia smiled with her usual sweetness and serenity. They

congratulated each other on the charming season; and Mistress

Pauncefort received a formal invitation to join the party and go

a-nutting with one of her fellow-servants and his lordship's valet.

The good Doctor was rather late, but he arrived at last on his stout

steed, in his accustomed cheerful mood. Here was a party of pleasure

which all agreed must be pleasant; no strangers to amuse, or to be

amusing, but formed merely of four human beings who spent every day of

their lives in each other's society, between whom there was the most

complete sympathy and the most cordial good-will.

By noon they were all mounted on their steeds, and though the air was

warmed by a meridian sun shining in a clear sky, there was a gentle

breeze abroad, sweet and grateful; and moreover they soon entered the

wood and enjoyed the shelter of its verdant shade. The abbey looked

most picturesque when they first burst upon it; the nearer and wooded

hills, which formed its immediate background, just tinted by the

golden pencil of autumn, while the meads of the valley were still

emerald green; and the stream, now lost, now winding, glittered

here and there in the sun, and gave a life and sprightliness to the

landscape which exceeded even the effect of the more distant and

expansive lake.

They were received at the abbey by Mistress Pauncefort, who had

preceded them, and who welcomed them with a complacent smile. Cadurcis

hastened to assist Lady Annabel to dismount, and was a little confused

but very pleased when she assured him she needed no assistance but

requested him to take care of Venetia. He was just in time to receive

her in his arms, where she found herself without the slightest

embarrassment. The coolness of the cloisters was grateful after their

ride, and they lingered and looked upon the old fountain, and felt the

freshness of its fall with satisfaction which all alike expressed.

Lady Annabel and Venetia then retired for a while to free themselves

from their riding habits, and Cadurcis affectionately taking the arm

of Dr. Masham led him a few paces, and then almost involuntarily

exclaimed, 'My dear Doctor, I think I am the happiest fellow that ever

lived!'

'That I trust you may always be, my dear boy,' said Dr. Masham; 'but

what has called forth this particular exclamation?'

'To feel that I am once more at Cadurcis; to feel that I am here once

more with you all; to feel that I never shall leave you again.'

'Not again?'

'Never!' said Cadurcis. 'The experience of these last few weeks, which

yet have seemed an age in my existence, has made me resolve never to

quit a society where I am persuaded I may obtain a degree of happiness

which what is called the world can never afford me.'

'What will your guardian say?'

'What care I?'

'A dutiful ward!'

'Poh! the relations between us were formed only to secure my welfare.

It is secured; it will be secured by my own resolution.'

'And what is that?' inquired Dr. Masham.

'To marry Venetia, if she will accept me.'

'And that you do not doubt.'

'We doubt everything when everything is at stake,' replied Lord

Cadurcis. 'I know that her consent would ensure my happiness; and when

I reflect, I cannot help being equally persuaded that it would secure

hers. Her mother, I think, would not be adverse to our union. And you,

my dear sir, what do you think?'

'I think,' said Dr. Masham, 'that whoever marries Venetia will marry

the most beautiful and the most gifted of God's creatures; I hope you

may marry her; I wish you to marry her; I believe you will marry her,

but not yet; you are too young, Lord Cadurcis.'

'Oh, no! my dear Doctor, not too young to marry Venetia. Remember I

have known her all my life, at least so long as I have been able to

form an opinion. How few are the men, my dear Doctor, who are so

fortunate as to unite themselves with women whom they have known, as I

have known Venetia, for more than seven long years!'

'During five of which you have never seen or heard of her.'

'Mine was the fault! And yet I cannot help thinking, as it may

probably turn out, as you yourself believe it will turn out, that

it is as well that we have been separated for this interval. It has

afforded me opportunities for observation which I should never have

enjoyed at Cadurcis; and although my lot either way could not have

altered the nature of things, I might have been discontented, I might

have sighed for a world which now I do not value. It is true I have

not seen Venetia for five years, but I find her the same, or changed

only by nature, and fulfilling all the rich promise which her

childhood intimated. No, my dear Doctor, I respect your opinion more

than that of any man living; but nobody, nothing, can persuade me that

I am not as intimately acquainted with Venetia's character, with all

her rare virtues, as if we had never separated.'

'I do not doubt it,' said the Doctor; 'high as you may pitch your

estimate you cannot overvalue her.'

'Then why should we not marry?'

'Because, my dear friend, although you may be perfectly acquainted

with Venetia, you cannot be perfectly acquainted with yourself.'

'How so?' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis in a tone of surprise, perhaps a

little indignant.

'Because it is impossible. No young man of eighteen ever possessed

such precious knowledge. I esteem and admire you; I give you every

credit for a good heart and a sound head; but it is impossible, at

your time of life, that your character can be formed; and, until it

be, you may marry Venetia and yet be a very miserable man.'

'It is formed,' said his lordship firmly; 'there is not a subject

important to a human being on which my opinions are not settled.'

'You may live to change them all,' said the Doctor, 'and that very

speedily.'

'Impossible!' said Lord Cadurcis. 'My dear Doctor, I cannot understand

you; you say that you hope, that you wish, even that you believe that

I shall marry Venetia; and yet you permit me to infer that our union

will only make us miserable. What do you wish me to do?'

'Go to college for a term or two.'

'Without Venetia! I should die.'

'Well, if you be in a dying state you can return.'

'You joke, my dear Doctor.'

'My dear boy, I am perfectly serious.'

'But she may marry somebody else?'

'I am your only rival,' said the Doctor, with a smile; 'and though

even friends can scarcely be trusted under such circumstances, I

promise you not to betray you.'

'Your advice is not very pleasant,' said his lordship.

'Good advice seldom is,' said the Doctor.

'My dear Doctor, I have made up my mind to marry her, and marry her at

once. I know her well, you admit that yourself. I do not believe that

there ever was a woman like her, that there ever will be a woman like

her. Nature has marked her out from other women, and her education

has not been less peculiar. Her mystic breeding pleases me. It

is something to marry a wife so fair, so pure, so refined, so

accomplished, who is, nevertheless, perfectly ignorant of the world.

I have dreamt of such things; I have paced these old cloisters when a

boy and when I was miserable at home, and I have had visions, and

this was one. I have sighed to live alone with a fair spirit for my

minister. Venetia has descended from heaven for me, and for me alone.

I am resolved I will pluck this flower with the dew upon its leaves.'

'I did not know I was reasoning with a poet,' said the Doctor, with a

smile. 'Had I been conscious of it, I would not have been so rash.'

'I have not a grain of poetry in my composition,' said his lordship;

'I never could write a verse; I was notorious at Eton for begging all

their old manuscripts from boys when they left school, to crib from;

but I have a heart, and I can feel. I love Venetia, I have always

loved her, and, if possible, I will marry her, and marry her at once.'

CHAPTER V.

The reappearance of the ladies at the end of the cloister terminated

this conversation, the result of which was rather to confirm Lord

Cadurcis in his resolution of instantly urging his suit, than the

reverse. He ran forward to greet his friends with a smile, and took

his place by the side of Venetia, whom, a little to her surprise, he

congratulated in glowing phrase on her charming costume. Indeed she

looked very captivating, with a pastoral hat, then much in fashion,

and a dress as simple and as sylvan, both showing to admirable

advantage her long descending hair, and her agile and springy figure.

Cadurcis proposed that they should ramble over the abbey, he talked of

projected alterations, as if he really had the power immediately to

effect them, and was desirous of obtaining their opinions before any

change was made. So they ascended the staircase which many years

before Venetia had mounted for the first time with her mother, and

entered that series of small and ill-furnished rooms in which Mrs.

Cadurcis had principally resided, and which had undergone no change.

The old pictures were examined; these, all agreed, never must move;

and the new furniture, it was settled, must be in character with the

building. Lady Annabel entered into all the details with an interest

and animation which rather amused Dr. Masham. Venetia listened and

suggested, and responded to the frequent appeals of Cadurcis to her

judgment with an unconscious equanimity not less diverting.

'Now here we really can do something,' said his lordship as they

entered the saloon, or rather refectory; 'here I think we may effect

wonders. The tapestry must always remain. Is it not magnificent,

Venetia? But what hangings shall we have? We must keep the old chairs,

I think. Do you approve of the old chairs, Venetia? And what shall we

cover them with? Shall it be damask? What do you think, Venetia? Do

you like damask? And what colour shall it be? Shall it be crimson?

Shall it be crimson damask, Lady Annabel? Do you think Venetia would

like crimson damask? Now, Venetia, do give us the benefit of your

opinion.'

Then they entered the old gallery; here was to be a great

transformation. Marvels were to be effected in the old gallery,

and many and multiplied were the appeals to the taste and fancy of

Venetia.

'I think,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'I shall leave the gallery to be

arranged when I am settled. The rooms and the saloon shall be done at

once, I shall give orders for them to begin instantly. Whom do you

recommend, Lady Annabel? Do you think there is any person at Southport

who could manage to do it, superintended by our taste? Venetia, what

do you think?'

Venetia was standing at the window, rather apart from her companions,

looking at the old garden. Lord Cadurcis joined her. 'Ah! it has been

sadly neglected since my poor mother's time. We could not do much in

those days, but still she loved this garden. I must depend upon you

entirely to arrange my garden, Venetia. This spot is sacred to you.

You have not forgotten our labours here, have you, Venetia? Ah! those

were happy days, and these shall be more happy still. This is your

garden; it shall always be called Venetia's garden.'

'I would have taken care of it when you were away, but--'

'But what?' inquired Lord Cadurcis anxiously.

'We hardly felt authorised,' replied Venetia calmly. 'We came at first

when you left Cadurcis, but at last it did not seem that our presence

was very acceptable.'

'The brutes!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis.

'No, no; good simple people, they were unused to orders from strange

masters, and they were perplexed. Besides, we had no right to

interfere.'

'No right to interfere! Venetia, my little fellow-labourer, no

right to interfere! Why all is yours! Fancy your having no right to

interfere at Cadurcis!'

Then they proceeded to the park and wandered to the margin of the

lake. There was not a spot, not an object, which did not recall

some adventure or incident of childhood. Every moment Lord Cadurcis

exclaimed, 'Venetia! do you remember this?' 'Venetia! have you

forgotten that?' and every time Venetia smiled, and proved how

faithful was her memory by adding some little unmentioned trait to the

lively reminiscences of her companion.

'Well, after all,' said Lord Cadurcis with a sigh, 'my poor mother was

a strange woman, and, God bless her! used sometimes to worry me out

of my senses! but still she always loved you. No one can deny that.

Cherbury was a magic name with her. She loved Lady Annabel, and she

loved you, Venetia. It ran in the blood, you see. She would be happy,

quite happy, if she saw us all here together, and if she knew--'

'Plantagenet,' said Lady Annabel, 'you must build a lodge at this

end of the park. I cannot conceive anything more effective than an

entrance from the Southport road in this quarter.'

'Certainly, Lady Annabel, certainly we must build a lodge. Do not you

think so, Venetia?'

'Indeed I think it would be a great improvement,' replied Venetia;

'but you must take care to have a lodge in character with the abbey.'

'You shall make a drawing for it,' said Lord Cadurcis; 'it shall be

built directly, and it shall be called Venetia Lodge.'

The hours flew away, loitering in the park, roaming in the woods. They

met Mistress Pauncefort and her friends loaded with plunder, and they

offered to Venetia a trophy of their success; but when Venetia, merely

to please their kind hearts, accepted their tribute with cordiality,

and declared there was nothing she liked better, Lord Cadurcis would

not be satisfied unless he immediately commenced nutting, and each

moment he bore to Venetia the produce of his sport, till in time she

could scarcely sustain the rich and increasing burden. At length they

bent their steps towards home, sufficiently wearied to look forward

with welcome to rest and their repast, yet not fatigued, and

exhilarated by the atmosphere, for the sun was now in its decline,

though in this favoured season there were yet hours enough remaining

of enchanting light.

In the refectory they found, to the surprise of all but their host, a

banquet. It was just one of those occasions when nothing is

expected and everything is welcome and surprising; when, from the

unpremeditated air generally assumed, all preparation startles and

pleases; when even ladies are not ashamed to eat, and formality

appears quite banished. Game of all kinds, teal from the lake,

and piles of beautiful fruit, made the table alike tempting and

picturesque. Then there were stray bottles of rare wine disinterred

from venerable cellars; and, more inspiriting even than the choice

wine, a host under the influence of every emotion, and swayed by every

circumstance that can make a man happy and delightful. Oh! they were

very gay, and it seemed difficult to believe that care or sorrow,

or the dominion of dark or ungracious passions, could ever disturb

sympathies so complete and countenances so radiant.

At the urgent request of Cadurcis, Venetia sang to them; and while she

sang, the expression of her countenance and voice harmonising with the

arch hilarity of the subject, Plantagenet for a moment believed that

he beheld the little Venetia of his youth, that sunny child so full

of mirth and grace, the very recollection of whose lively and bright

existence might enliven the gloomiest hour and lighten the heaviest

heart.

Enchanted by all that surrounded him, full of hope, and joy, and

plans of future felicity, emboldened by the kindness of the daughter,

Cadurcis now ventured to urge a request to Lady Annabel, and the

request was granted, for all seemed to feel that it was a day on which

nothing was to be refused to their friend. Happy Cadurcis! The child

had a holiday, and it fancied itself a man enjoying a triumph. In

compliance, therefore, with his wish, it was settled that they should

all walk back to the hall; even Dr. Masham declared he was competent

to the exertion, but perhaps was half entrapped into the declaration

by the promise of a bed at Cherbury. This consent enchanted Cadurcis,

who looked forward with exquisite pleasure to the evening walk with

Venetia.

CHAPTER VI.

Although the sun had not set, it had sunk behind the hills leading

to Cherbury when our friends quitted the abbey. Cadurcis, without

hesitation, offered his arm to Venetia, and whether from a secret

sympathy with his wishes, or merely from some fortunate accident, Lady

Annabel and Dr. Masham strolled on before without busying themselves

too earnestly with their companions.

'And how do you think our expedition to Cadurcis has turned out?'

inquired the young lord, of Venetia, 'Has it been successful?'

'It has been one of the most agreeable days I ever passed,' was the

reply.

'Then it has been successful,' rejoined his lordship; 'for my only

wish was to amuse you.'

'I think we have all been equally amused,' said Venetia. 'I never knew

mamma in such good spirits. I think ever since you returned she has

been unusually light-hearted.'

'And you: has my return lightened only her heart, Venetia?'

'Indeed it has contributed to the happiness of every one.'

'And yet, when I first returned, I heard you utter a complaint; the

first that to my knowledge ever escaped your lips.'

'Ah! we cannot be always equally gay.'

'Once you were, dear Venetia.'

'I was a child then.'

'And I, I too was a child; yet I am happy, at least now that I am with

you.'

'Well, we are both happy now.'

'Oh! say that again, say that again, Venetia; for indeed you made me

miserable when you told me that you had changed. I cannot bear that

you, Venetia, should ever change.'

'It is the course of nature, Plantagenet; we all change, everything

changes. This day that was so bright is changing fast.'

'The stars are as beautiful as the sun, Venetia.'

'And what do you infer?'

'That Venetia, a woman, is as beautiful as Venetia, a little girl; and

should be as happy.'

'Is beauty happiness, Plantagenet?'

'It makes others happy, Venetia; and when we make others happy we

should be happy ourselves.'

'Few depend upon my influence, and I trust all of them are happy.'

'No one depends upon your influence more than I do.'

'Well, then, be happy always.'

'Would that I might! Ah, Venetia! can I ever forget old days? You were

the solace of my dark childhood; you were the charm that first taught

me existence was enjoyment. Before I came to Cherbury I never was

happy, and since that hour--Ah, Venetia! dear, dearest Venetia! who is

like to you?'

'Dear Plantagenet, you were always too kind to me. Would we were

children once more!'

'Nay, my own Venetia! you tell me everything changes, and we must not

murmur at the course of nature. I would not have our childhood back

again, even with all its joys, for there are others yet in store for

us, not less pure, not less beautiful. We loved each other then,

Venetia, and we love each other now.'

'My feelings towards you have never changed, Plantagenet; I heard

of you always with interest, and I met you again with heartfelt

pleasure.'

'Oh, that morning! Have you forgotten that morning? Do you know, you

will smile very much, but I really believe that I expected to see my

Venetia still a little girl, the very same who greeted me when I first

arrived with my mother and behaved so naughtily! And when I saw you,

and found what you had become, and what I ought always to have known

you must become, I was so confused I entirely lost my presence of

mind. You must have thought me very awkward, very stupid?'

'Indeed, I was rather gratified by observing that you could not meet

us again without emotion. I thought it told well for your heart, which

I always believed to be most kind, at least, I am sure, to us.'

'Kind! oh, Venetia! that word but ill describes what my heart ever

was, what it now is, to you. Venetia! dearest, sweetest Venetia!

can you doubt for a moment my feelings towards your home, and what

influence must principally impel them? Am I so dull, or you so blind,

Venetia? Can I not express, can you not discover how much, how

ardently, how fondly, how devotedly, I, I, I love you?'

'I am sure we always loved each other, Plantagenet.'

'Yes! but not with this love; not as I love you now!'

Venetia stared.

'I thought we could not love each other more than we did,

Plantagenet,' at length she said. 'Do you remember the jewel that you

gave me? I always wore it until you seemed to forget us, and then I

thought it looked so foolish! You remember what is inscribed on it:

'TO VENETIA, FROM HER AFFECTIONATE BROTHER, PLANTAGENET.' And as a

brother I always loved you; had I indeed been your sister I could not

have loved you more warmly and more truly.'

'I am not your brother, Venetia; I wish not to be loved as a brother:

and yet I must be loved by you, or I shall die.'

'What then do you wish?' inquired Venetia, with great simplicity.

'I wish you to marry me,' replied Lord Cadurcis.

'Marry!' exclaimed Venetia, with a face of wonder. 'Marry! Marry you!

Marry you, Plantagenet!'

'Ay! is that so wonderful? I love you, and if you love me, why should

we not marry?'

Venetia was silent and looked upon the ground, not from agitation,

for she was quite calm, but in thought; and then she said, 'I never

thought of marriage in my life, Plantagenet; I have no intention, no

wish to marry; I mean to live always with mamma.'

'And you shall always live with mamma, but that need not prevent you

from marrying me,' he replied. 'Do not we all live together now? What

will it signify if you dwell at Cadurcis and Lady Annabel at Cherbury?

Is it not one home? But at any rate, this point shall not be an

obstacle; for if it please you we will all live at Cherbury.'

'You say that we are happy now, Plantagenet; oh! let us remain as we

are.'

'My own sweet girl, my sister, if you please, any title, so it be one

of fondness, your sweet simplicity charms me; but, believe me, it

cannot be as you wish; we cannot remain as we are unless we marry.'

'Why not?'

'Because I shall be wretched and must live elsewhere, if indeed I can

live at all.'

'Oh, Plantagenet! indeed I thought you were my brother; when I found

you after so long a separation as kind as in old days, and kinder

still, I was so glad; I was so sure you loved me; I thought I had the

kindest brother in the world. Let us not talk of any other love. It

will, indeed it will, make mamma so miserable!'

'I am greatly mistaken,' replied Lord Cadurcis, who saw no obstacles

to his hopes in their conversation hitherto, 'if, on the contrary, our

union would not prove far from disagreeable to your mother, Venetia; I

will say our mother, for indeed to me she has been one.'

'Plantagenet,' said Venetia, in a very earnest tone, 'I love you

very much; but, if you love me, press me on this subject no more at

present. You have surprised, indeed you have bewildered me. There are

thoughts, there are feelings, there are considerations, that must be

respected, that must influence me. Nay! do not look so sorrowful,

Plantagenet. Let us be happy now. To-morrow, only to-morrow, and

to-morrow we are sure to meet, we will speak further of all this; but

now, now, for a moment let us forget it, if we can forget anything so

strange. Nay! you shall smile!'

He did. Who could resist that mild and winning glance! And indeed Lord

Cadurcis was scarcely disappointed, and not at all mortified at his

reception, or, as he esteemed it, the progress of his suit. The

conduct of Venetia he attributed entirely to her unsophisticated

nature and the timidity of a virgin soul. It made him prize even more

dearly the treasure that he believed awaited him. Silent, then, though

for a time they both struggled to speak on different subjects, silent,

and almost content, Cadurcis proceeded, with the arm of Venetia locked

in his and ever and anon unconsciously pressing it to his heart. The

rosy twilight had faded away, the stars were stealing forth, and the

moon again glittered. With a soul softer than the tinted shades of eve

and glowing like the heavens, Cadurcis joined his companions as they

entered the gardens of Cherbury. When they had arrived at home it

seemed that exhaustion had suddenly succeeded all the excitement

of the day. The Doctor, who was wearied, retired immediately. Lady

Annabel pressed Cadurcis to remain and take tea, or, at least to ride

home; but his lordship, protesting that he was not in the slightest

degree fatigued, and anticipating their speedy union on the morrow,

bade her good night, and pressing with fondness the hand of Venetia,

retraced his steps to the now solitary abbey.

CHAPTER VII.

Cadurcis returned to the abbey, but not to slumber. That love of

loneliness which had haunted him from his boyhood, and which ever

asserted its sway when under the influence of his passions, came over

him now with irresistible power. A day of enjoyment had terminated,

and it left him melancholy. Hour after hour he paced the moon-lit

cloisters of his abbey, where not a sound disturbed him, save the

monotonous fall of the fountain, that seems by some inexplicable

association always to blend with and never to disturb our feelings;

gay when we are joyful, and sad amid our sorrow.

Yet was he sorrowful! He was gloomy, and fell into a reverie about

himself, a subject to him ever perplexing and distressing. His

conversation of the morning with Doctor Masham recurred to him. What

did the Doctor mean by his character not being formed, and that

he might yet live to change all his opinions? Character! what was

character? It must be will; and his will was violent and firm. Young

as he was, he had early habituated himself to reflection, and the

result of his musings had been a desire to live away from the world

with those he loved. The world, as other men viewed it, had no charms

for him. Its pursuits and passions seemed to him on the whole paltry

and faint. He could sympathise with great deeds, but not with bustling

life. That which was common did not please him. He loved things that

were rare and strange; and the spell that bound him so strongly to

Venetia Herbert was her unusual life, and the singular circumstances

of her destiny that were not unknown to him. True he was young;

but, lord of himself, youth was associated with none of those

mortifications which make the juvenile pant for manhood. Cadurcis

valued his youth and treasured it. He could not conceive love, and the

romantic life that love should lead, without the circumambient charm

of youth adding fresh lustre to all that was bright and fair, and a

keener relish to every combination of enjoyment. The moonbeam fell

upon his mother's monument, a tablet on the cloister wall that

recorded the birth and death of KATHERINE CADURCIS. His thoughts flew

to his ancestry. They had conquered in France and Palestine, and left

a memorable name to the annalist of his country. Those days were past,

and yet Cadurcis felt within him the desire, perhaps the power, of

emulating them; but what remained? What career was open in this

mechanical age to the chivalric genius of his race? Was he misplaced

then in life? The applause of nations, there was something grand and

exciting in such a possession. To be the marvel of mankind what would

he not hazard? Dreams, dreams! If his ancestors were valiant and

celebrated it remained for him to rival, to excel them, at least in

one respect. Their coronet had never rested on a brow fairer than

the one for which he destined it. Venetia then, independently of his

passionate love, was the only apparent object worth his pursuit, the

only thing in this world that had realised his dreams, dreams sacred

to his own musing soul, that even she had never shared or guessed. And

she, she was to be his. He could not doubt it: but to-morrow would

decide; to-morrow would seal his triumph.

His sleep was short and restless; he had almost out-watched the stars,

and yet he rose with the early morn. His first thought was of Venetia;

he was impatient for the interview, the interview she promised and

even proposed. The fresh air was grateful to him; he bounded along to

Cherbury, and brushed the dew in his progress from the tall grass and

shrubs. In sight of the hall, he for a moment paused. He was before

his accustomed hour; and yet he was always too soon. Not to-day,

though, not to-day; suddenly he rushes forward and springs down the

green vista, for Venetia is on the terrace, and alone!

Always kind, this morning she greeted him with unusual affection.

Never had she seemed to him so exquisitely beautiful. Perhaps her

countenance to-day was more pale than wont. There seemed a softness in

her eyes usually so brilliant and even dazzling; the accents of her

salutation were suppressed and tender.

'I thought you would be here early,' she remarked, 'and therefore I

rose to meet you.'

Was he to infer from this artless confession that his image had

haunted her in her dreams, or only that she would not delay the

conversation on which his happiness depended? He could scarcely doubt

which version to adopt when she took his arm and led him from the

terrace to walk where they could not be disturbed.

'Dear Plantagenet,' she said, 'for indeed you are very dear to me; I

told you last night that I would speak to you to-day on your wishes,

that are so kind to me and so much intended for my happiness. I do not

love suspense; but indeed last night I was too much surprised, too

much overcome by what occurred, that exhausted as I naturally was by

all our pleasure, I could not tell you what I wished; indeed I could

not, dear Plantagenet.'

'My own Venetia!'

'So I hope you will always deem me; for I should be very unhappy if

you did not love me, Plantagenet, more unhappy than I have even been

these last two years; and I have been very unhappy, very unhappy

indeed, Plantagenet.'

'Unhappy, Venetia! my Venetia unhappy?'

'Listen! I will not weep. I can control my feelings. I have learnt to

do this; it is very sad, and very different to what my life once was;

but I can do it.'

'You amaze me!'

Venetia sighed, and then resumed, but in a tone mournful and low, and

yet to a degree firm.

'You have been away five years, Plantagenet.'

'But you have pardoned that.'

'I never blamed you; I had nothing to pardon. It was well for you to

be away; and I rejoice your absence has been so profitable to you.'

'But it was wicked to have been so silent.'

'Oh! no, no, no! Such ideas never entered into my head, nor even

mamma's. You were very young; you did as all would, as all must do.

Harbour not such thoughts. Enough, you have returned and love us yet.'

'Love! adore!'

'Five years are a long space of time, Plantagenet. Events will happen

in five years, even at Cherbury. I told you I was changed.'

'Yes!' said Lord Cadurcis, in a voice of some anxiety, with a

scrutinising eye.

'You left me a happy child; you find me a woman, and a miserable one.'

'Good God, Venetia! this suspense is awful. Be brief, I pray you. Has

any one--'

Venetia looked at him with an air of perplexity. She could not

comprehend the idea that impelled his interruption.

'Go on,' Lord Cadurcis added, after a short pause; 'I am indeed all

anxiety.'

'You remember that Christmas which you passed at the hall and walking

at night in the gallery, and--'

'Well! Your mother, I shall never forget it.'

'You found her weeping when you were once at Marringhurst. You told me

of it.'

'Ay, ay!'

'There is a wing of our house shut up. We often talked of it.'

'Often, Venetia; it was a mystery.'

'I have penetrated it,' replied Venetia in a solemn tone; 'and never

have I known what happiness is since.'

'Yes, yes!' said Lord Cadurcis, very pale, and in a whisper.

'Plantagenet, I have a father.'

Lord Cadurcis started, and for an instant his arm quitted Venetia's.

At length he said in a gloomy voice, 'I know it.'

'Know it!' exclaimed Venetia with astonishment. 'Who could have told

you the secret?'

'It is no secret,' replied Cadurcis; 'would that it were!'

'Would that it were! How strange you speak, how strange you look,

Plantagenet! If it be no secret that I have a father, why this

concealment then? I know that I am not the child of shame!' she added,

after a moment's pause, with an air of pride. A tear stole down the

cheek of Cadurcis.

'Plantagenet! dear, good Plantagenet! my brother! my own brother! see,

I kneel to you; Venetia kneels to you! your own Venetia! Venetia that

you love! Oh! if you knew the load that is on my spirit bearing me

down to a grave which I would almost welcome, you would speak to me;

you would tell me all. I have sighed for this; I have longed for this;

I have prayed for this. To meet some one who would speak to me of my

father; who had heard of him, who knew him; has been for years the

only thought of my being, the only object for which I existed. And

now, here comes Plantagenet, my brother! my own brother! and he knows

all, and he will tell me; yes, that he will; he will tell his Venetia

all, all!'

'Is there not your mother?' said Lord Cadurcis, in a broken tone.

'Forbidden, utterly forbidden. If I speak, they tell me her heart will

break; and therefore mine is breaking.'

'Have you no friend?'

'Are not you my friend?'

'Doctor Masham?'

'I have applied to him; he tells me that he lives, and then he shakes

his head.'

'You never saw your father; think not of him.'

'Not think of him!' exclaimed Venetia, with extraordinary energy. 'Of

what else? For what do I live but to think of him? What object have I

in life but to see him? I have seen him, once.'

'Ah!'

'I know his form by heart, and yet it was but a shade. Oh, what a

shade! what a glorious, what an immortal shade! If gods were upon

earth they would be like my father!'

'His deeds, at least, are not godlike,' observed Lord Cadurcis dryly,

and with some bitterness.

'I deny it!' said Venetia, her eyes sparkling with fire, her form

dilated with enthusiasm, and involuntarily withdrawing her arm from

her companion. Lord Cadurcis looked exceedingly astonished.

'You deny it!' he exclaimed. 'And what should you know about it?'

'Nature whispers to me that nothing but what is grand and noble could

be breathed by those lips, or fulfilled by that form.'

'I am glad you have not read his works,' said Lord Cadurcis, with

increased bitterness. 'As for his conduct, your mother is a living

evidence of his honour, his generosity, and his virtue.'

'My mother!' said Venetia, in a softened voice; 'and yet he loved my

mother!'

'She was his victim, as a thousand others may have been.'

'She is his wife!' replied Venetia, with some anxiety.

'Yes, a deserted wife; is that preferable to being a cherished

mistress? More honourable, but scarcely less humiliating.'

'She must have misunderstood him,' said Venetia. 'I have perused the

secret vows of his passion. I have read his praises of her beauty.

I have pored over the music of his emotions when he first became a

father; yes, he has gazed on me, even though but for a moment, with

love! Over me he has breathed forth the hallowed blessing of a parent!

That transcendent form has pressed his lips to mine, and held me with

fondness to his heart! And shall I credit aught to his dishonour? Is

there a being in existence who can persuade me he is heartless or

abandoned? No! I love him! I adore him! I am devoted to him with all

the energies of my being! I live only on the memory that he lives,

and, were he to die, I should pray to my God that I might join him

without delay in a world where it cannot be justice to separate a

child from a father.'

And this was Venetia! the fair, the serene Venetia! the young, the

inexperienced Venetia! pausing, as it were, on the parting threshold

of girlhood, whom, but a few hours since, he had fancied could

scarcely have proved a passion; who appeared to him barely to

comprehend the meaning of his advances; for whose calmness or whose

coldness he had consoled himself by the flattering conviction of her

unknowing innocence. Before him stood a beautiful and inspired Moenad,

her eye flashing supernatural fire, her form elevated above her

accustomed stature, defiance on her swelling brow, and passion on her

quivering lip!

Gentle and sensitive as Cadurcis ever appeared to those he loved,

there was in his soul a deep and unfathomed well of passions that had

been never stirred, and a bitter and mocking spirit in his brain, of

which he was himself unconscious. He had repaired this hopeful morn to

Cherbury to receive, as he believed, the plighted faith of a simple

and affectionate, perhaps grateful, girl. That her unsophisticated and

untutored spirit might not receive the advances of his heart with an

equal and corresponding ardour, he was prepared. It pleased him

that he should watch the gradual development of this bud of sweet

affections, waiting, with proud anxiety, her fragrant and her

full-blown love. But now it appeared that her coldness or her

indifference might be ascribed to any other cause than the one to

which he had attributed it, the innocence of an inexperienced mind.

This girl was no stranger to powerful passions; she could love, and

love with fervency, with devotion, with enthusiasm. This child of joy

was a woman of deep and thoughtful sorrows, brooding in solitude over

high resolves and passionate aspirations. Why were not the emotions

of such a tumultuous soul excited by himself? To him she was calm and

imperturbable; she called him brother, she treated him as a child. But

a picture, a fantastic shade, could raise in her a tempestuous swell

of sentiment that transformed her whole mind, and changed the colour

of all her hopes and thoughts. Deeply prejudiced against her father,

Cadurcis now hated him, and with a fell and ferocious earnestness that

few bosoms but his could prove. Pale with rage, he ground his teeth

and watched her with a glance of sarcastic aversion.

'You led me here to listen to a communication which interested me,' he

at length said. 'Have I heard it?'

His altered tone, the air of haughtiness which he assumed, were

not lost upon Venetia. She endeavoured to collect herself, but she

hesitated to reply.

'I repeat my inquiry,' said Cadurcis. 'Have you brought me here only

to inform me that you have a father, and that you adore him, or his

picture?'

'I led you here,' replied Venetia, in a subdued tone, and looking on

the ground, 'to thank you for your love, and to confess to you that I

love another.'

'Love another!' exclaimed Cadurcis, in a tone of derision. Simpleton!

The best thing your mother can do is to lock you up in the chamber

with the picture that has produced such marvellous effects.'

'I am no simpleton, Plantagenet,' rejoined Venetia, quietly, 'but one

who is acting as she thinks right; and not only as her mind, but as

her heart prompts her.'

They had stopped in the earlier part of this conversation on a little

plot of turf surrounded by shrubs; Cadurcis walked up and down this

area with angry steps, occasionally glancing at Venetia with a look of

mortification and displeasure.

'I tell you, Venetia,' he at length said, 'that you are a little fool.

What do you mean by saying that you cannot marry me because you love

another? Is not that other, by your own account, your father? Love him

as much as you like. Is that to prevent you from loving your husband

also?'

'Plantagenet, you are rude, and unnecessarily so,' said Venetia. 'I

repeat to you again, and for the last time, that all my heart is my

father's. It would be wicked in me to marry you, because I cannot love

you as a husband should be loved. I can never love you as I love my

father. However, it is useless to talk upon this subject. I have not

even the power of marrying you if I wished, for I have dedicated

myself to my father in the name of God; and I have offered a vow, to

be registered in heaven, that thenceforth I would exist only for the

purpose of being restored to his heart.'

'I congratulate you on your parent, Miss Herbert.'

'I feel that I ought to be proud of him, though, alas I can only feel

it. But, whatever your opinion may be of my father, I beg you to

remember that you are speaking to his child.'

'I shall state my opinion respecting your father, madam, with the most

perfect unreserve, wherever and whenever I choose; quite convinced

that, however you esteem that opinion, it will not be widely different

from the real sentiments of the only parent whom you ought to respect,

and whom you are bound to obey.'

'And I can tell you, sir, that whatever your opinion is on any subject

it will never influence mine. If, indeed, I were the mistress of my

own destiny, which I am not, it would have been equally out of my

power to have acted as you have so singularly proposed. I do not wish

to marry, and marry I never will; but were it in my power, or in

accordance with my wish, to unite my fate for ever with another's, it

should at least be with one to whom I could look up with reverence,

and even with admiration. He should be at least a man, and a great

man; one with whose name the world rung; perhaps, like my father, a

genius and a poet.'

'A genius and a poet!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, in a fury, stamping

with passion; 'are these fit terms to use when speaking of the most

abandoned profligate of his age? A man whose name is synonymous with

infamy, and which no one dares to breathe in civilised life; whose

very blood is pollution, as you will some day feel; who has violated

every tie, and derided every principle, by which society is

maintained; whose life is a living illustration of his own shameless

doctrines; who is, at the same time, a traitor to his king and an

apostate from his God!'

Curiosity, overpowering even indignation, had permitted Venetia to

listen even to this tirade. Pale as her companion, but with a glance

of withering scorn, she exclaimed, 'Passionate and ill-mannered boy!

words cannot express the disgust and the contempt with which you

inspire me.' She spoke and she disappeared. Cadurcis was neither able

nor desirous to arrest her flight. He remained rooted to the ground,

muttering to himself the word 'boy!' Suddenly raising his arm and

looking up to the sky, he exclaimed, 'The illusion is vanished!

Farewell, Cherbury! farewell, Cadurcis! a wider theatre awaits me! I

have been too long the slave of soft affections! I root them out of my

heart for ever!' and, fitting the action to the phrase, it seemed that

he hurled upon the earth all the tender emotions of his soul. 'Woman!

henceforth you shall be my sport! I have now no feeling but for

myself. When she spoke I might have been a boy; I am a boy no longer.

What I shall do I know not; but this I know, the world shall ring with

my name; I will be a man, and a great man!'

CHAPTER VIII.

The agitation of Venetia on her return was not unnoticed by her

mother; but Lady Annabel ascribed it to a far different cause than the

real one. She was rather surprised when the breakfast passed, and Lord

Cadurcis did not appear; somewhat perplexed when her daughter seized

the earliest opportunity of retiring to her own chamber; but, with

that self-restraint of which she was so complete a mistress, Lady

Annabel uttered no remark.

Once more alone, Venetia could only repeat to herself the wild words

that had burst from Plantagenet's lips in reference to her father.

What could they mean? His morals might be misrepresented, his opinions

might be misunderstood; stupidity might not comprehend his doctrines,

malignity might torture them; the purest sages have been accused

of immorality, the most pious philosophers have been denounced as

blasphemous: but, 'a traitor to his king,' that was a tangible, an

intelligible proposition, one with which all might grapple, which

could be easily disproved if false, scarcely propounded were it

not true. 'False to his God!' How false? Where? When? What mystery

involved her life? Unhappy girl! in vain she struggled with the

overwhelming burden of her sorrows. Now she regretted that she had

quarrelled with Cadurcis; it was evident that he knew everything and

would have told her all. And then she blamed him for his harsh and

unfeeling demeanour, and his total want of sympathy with her cruel and

perplexing situation. She had intended, she had struggled to be so

kind to him; she thought she had such a plain tale to tell that he

would have listened to it in considerate silence, and bowed to her

necessary and inevitable decision without a murmur. Amid all these

harassing emotions her mind tossed about like a ship without a rudder,

until, in her despair, she almost resolved to confess everything to

her mother, and to request her to soothe and enlighten her agitated

and confounded mind. But what hope was there of solace or information

from such a quarter? Lady Annabel's was not a mind to be diverted from

her purpose. Whatever might have been the conduct of her husband, it

was evident that Lady Annabel had traced out a course from which she

had resolved not to depart. She remembered the earnest and repeated

advice of Dr. Masham, that virtuous and intelligent man who never

advised anything but for their benefit. How solemnly had he enjoined

upon her never to speak to her mother upon the subject, unless she

wished to produce misery and distress! And what could her mother tell

her? Her father lived, he had abandoned her, he was looked upon as a

criminal, and shunned by the society whose laws and prejudices he had

alike outraged. Why should she revive, amid the comparative happiness

and serenity in which her mother now lived, the bitter recollection of

the almost intolerable misfortune of her existence? No! Venetia was

resolved to be a solitary victim. In spite of her passionate and

romantic devotion to her father she loved her mother with perfect

affection, the mother who had dedicated her life to her child, and at

least hoped she had spared her any share in their common unhappiness.

And this father, whoso image haunted her dreams, whose unknown voice

seemed sometimes to float to her quick ear upon the wind, could he be

that abandoned being that Cadurcis had described, and that all around

her, and all the circumstances of her life, would seem to indicate?

Alas! it might be truth; alas! it seemed like truth: and for one so

lost, so utterly irredeemable, was she to murmur against that pure

and benevolent parent who had cherished her with such devotion, and

snatched her perhaps from disgrace, dishonour, and despair!

And Cadurcis, would he return? With all his violence, the kind

Cadurcis! Never did she need a brother more than now; and now he was

absent, and she had parted with him in anger, deep, almost deadly:

she, too, who had never before uttered a harsh word to a human being,

who had been involved in only one quarrel in her life, and that almost

unconsciously, and which had nearly broken her heart. She wept,

bitterly she wept, this poor Venetia!

By one of those mental efforts which her strange lot often forced her

to practise, Venetia at length composed herself, and returned to the

room where she believed she would meet her mother, and hoped she

should see Cadurcis. He was not there: but Lady Annabel was seated as

calm and busied as usual; the Doctor had departed. Even his presence

would have proved a relief, however slight, to Venetia, who dreaded at

this moment to be alone with her mother. She had no cause, however,

for alarm; Lord Cadurcis never appeared, and was absent even from

dinner; the day died away, and still he was wanting; and at length

Venetia bade her usual good night to Lady Annabel, and received

her usual blessing and embrace without his name having been even

mentioned.

Venetia passed a disturbed night, haunted by painful dreams, in which

her father and Cadurcis were both mixed up, and with images of pain,

confusion, disgrace, and misery; but the morrow, at least, did not

prolong her suspense, for just as she had joined her mother at

breakfast, Mistress Pauncefort, who had been despatched on some

domestic mission by her mistress, entered with a face of wonder,

and began as usual: 'Only think, my lady; well to be sure, who have

thought it? I am quite confident, for my own part, I was quite taken

aback when I heard it; and I could not have believed my ears, if John

had not told me himself, and he had it from his lordship's own man.'

'Well, Pauncefort, what have you to say?' inquired Lady Annabel, very

calmly.

'And never to send no note, my lady; at least I have not seen one come

up. That makes it so very strange.'

'Makes what, Pauncefort?'

'Why, my lady, doesn't your la'ship know his lordship left the abbey

yesterday, and never said nothing to nobody; rode off without a word,

by your leave or with your leave? To be sure he always was the oddest

young gentleman as ever I met with; and, as I said to John: John, says

I, I hope his lordship has not gone to join the gipsies again.'

Venetia looked into a teacup, and then touched an egg, and then

twirled a spoon; but Lady Annabel seemed quite imperturbable, and only

observed, 'Probably his guardian is ill, and he has been suddenly

summoned to town. I wish you would bring my knitting-needles,

Pauncefort.'

The autumn passed, and Lord Cadurcis never returned to the abbey,

and never wrote to any of his late companions. Lady Annabel never

mentioned his name; and although she seemed to have no other object in

life but the pleasure and happiness of her child, this strange mother

never once consulted Venetia on the probable occasion of his sudden

departure, and his strange conduct.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

Party feeling, perhaps, never ran higher in England than during the

period immediately subsequent to the expulsion of the Coalition

Ministry. After the indefatigable faction of the American war, and the

flagrant union with Lord North, the Whig party, and especially Charles

Fox, then in the full vigour of his bold and ready mind, were stung to

the quick that all their remorseless efforts to obtain and preserve

the government of the country should terminate in the preferment and

apparent permanent power of a mere boy.

Next to Charles Fox, perhaps the most eminent and influential member

of the Whig party was Lady Monteagle. The daughter of one of the

oldest and most powerful peers in the kingdom, possessing lively

talents and many fascinating accomplishments, the mistress of a great

establishment, very beautiful, and, although she had been married

some years, still young, the celebrated wife of Lord Monteagle found

herself the centre of a circle alike powerful, brilliant, and refined.

She was the Muse of the Whig party, at whose shrine every man of wit

and fashion was proud to offer his flattering incense; and her house

became not merely the favourite scene of their social pleasures, but

the sacred, temple of their political rites; here many a manoeuvre was

planned, and many a scheme suggested; many a convert enrolled, and

many a votary initiated.

Reclining on a couch in a boudoir, which she was assured was the exact

facsimile of that of Marie Antoinette, Lady Monteagle, with an eye

sparkling with excitement and a cheek flushed with emotion, appeared

deeply interested in a volume, from which she raised her hand as her

husband entered the room.

'Gertrude, my love,' said his lordship, 'I have asked the new bishop

to dine with us to-day.'

'My dear Henry,' replied her ladyship, 'what could induce you to do

anything so strange?'

'I suppose I have made a mistake, as usual,' said his lordship,

shrugging his shoulders, with a smile.

'My dear Henry, you know you may ask whomever you like to your house.

I never find fault with what you do. But what could induce you to ask

a Tory bishop to meet a dozen of our own people?'

'I thought I had done wrong directly I had asked him,' rejoined his

lordship; 'and yet he would not have come if I had not made such a

point of it. I think I will put him off.'

'No, my love, that would be wrong; you cannot do that.'

'I cannot think how it came into my head. The fact is, I lost my

presence of mind. You know he was my tutor at Christchurch, when poor

dear Herbert and I were such friends, and very kind he was to us both;

and so, the moment I saw him, I walked across the House, introduced

myself, and asked him to dinner.'

'Well, never mind,' said Lady Monteagle, smiling. 'It is rather

ridiculous: but I hope nothing will be said to offend him.'

'Oh! do not be alarmed about that: he is quite a man of the world,

and, although he has his opinions, not at all a partisan. I assure you

poor dear Herbert loved him to the last, and to this very moment has

the greatest respect and affection for him.'

'How very strange that not only your tutor, but Herbert's, should be a

bishop,' remarked the lady, smiling.

'It is very strange,' said his lordship, 'and it only shows that it is

quite useless in this world to lay plans, or reckon on anything. You

know how it happened?'

'Not I, indeed; I have never given a thought to the business; I only

remember being very vexed that that stupid old Bangerford should not

have died when we were in office, and then, at any rate, we should

have got another vote.'

'Well, you know,' said his lordship, 'dear old Masham, that is his

name, was at Weymouth this year; with whom do you think, of all people

in the world?'

'How should I know? Why should I think about it, Henry?'

'Why, with Herbert's wife.'

'What, that horrid woman?'

'Yes, Lady Annabel.'

'And where was his daughter? Was she there?'

'Of course. She has grown up, and a most beautiful creature they say

she is; exactly like her father.'

'Ah! I shall always regret I never saw him,' said her ladyship.

'Well, the daughter is in bad health; and so, after keeping her shut

up all her life, the mother was obliged to take her to Weymouth; and

Masham, who has a living in their neighbourhood, which, by-the-bye,

Herbert gave him, and is their chaplain and counsellor, and friend of

the family, and all that sort of thing, though I really believe he has

always acted for the best, he was with them. Well, the King took the

greatest fancy to these Herberts; and the Queen, too, quite singled

them out; and, in short, they were always with the royal family. It

ended by his Majesty making Masham his chaplain; and now he has made

him a bishop.'

'Very droll indeed,' said her ladyship; 'and the drollest thing of all

is, that he is now coming to dine here.'

'Have you seen Cadurcis to-day?' said Lord Monteagle.

'Of course,' said her ladyship.

'He dines here?'

'To be sure. I am reading his new poem; it will not be published till

to-morrow.'

'Is it good?'

'Good! What crude questions you do always ask, Henry!' exclaimed Lady

Monteagle. 'Good! Of course it is good. It is something better than

good.'

'But I mean is it as good as his other things? Will it make as much

noise as his last thing?'

'Thing! Now, Henry, you know very well that if there be anything I

dislike in the world, it is calling a poem a thing.'

'Well, my dear, you know I am no judge of poetry. But if you are

pleased, I am quite content. There is a knock. Some of your friends.

I am off. I say, Gertrude, be kind to old Masham, that is a dear

creature!'

Her ladyship extended her hand, to which his lordship pressed his

lips, and just effected his escape as the servant announced a visitor,

in the person of Mr. Horace Pole.

'Oh! my dear Mr. Pole, I am quite exhausted,' said her ladyship; 'I am

reading Cadurcis' new poem; it will not he published till to-morrow,

and it really has destroyed my nerves. I have got people to dinner

to-day, and I am sure I shall not be able to encounter them.'

'Something outrageous, I suppose,' said Mr. Pole, with a sneer. 'I

wish Cadurcis would study Pope.'

'Study Pope! My dear Mr. Pole, you have no imagination.'

'No, I have not, thank Heaven!' drawled out Mr. Pole.

'Well, do not let us have a quarrel about Cadurcis,' said Lady

Monteagle. 'All you men are jealous of him.'

'And some of you women, I think, too,' said Mr. Pole.

Lady Monteagle faintly smiled.

'Poor Cadurcis!' she exclaimed; 'he has a very hard life of it. He

complains bitterly that so many women are in love with him. But then

he is such an interesting creature, what can he expect?'

'Interesting!' exclaimed Mr. Pole. 'Now I hold he is the most

conceited, affected fellow that I ever met,' he continued with unusual

energy.

'Ah! you men do not understand him,' said Lady Monteagle, shaking her

head. 'You cannot,' she added, with a look of pity.

'I cannot, certainly,' said Mr. Pole, 'or his writings either. For my

part I think the town has gone mad.'

'Well, you must confess,' said her ladyship, with a glance of triumph,

'that it was very lucky for us that I made him a Whig.'

'I cannot agree with you at all on that head,' said Mr. Pole. 'We

certainly are not very popular at this moment, and I feel convinced

that a connection with a person who attracts so much notice as

Cadurcis unfortunately does, and whose opinions on morals and religion

must be so offensive to the vast majority of the English public, must

ultimately prove anything but advantageous to our party.'