'Oh! my dear Mr. Pole,' said her ladyship, in a tone of affected

deprecation, 'think what a genius he is!'

'We have very different ideas of genius, Lady Monteagle, I suspect,'

said her visitor.

'You cannot deny,' replied her ladyship, rising from her recumbent

posture, with some animation, 'that he is a poet?'

'It is difficult to decide upon our contemporaries,' said Mr. Pole

dryly.

'Charles Fox thinks he is the greatest poet that ever existed,' said

her ladyship, as if she were determined to settle the question.

'Because he has written a lampoon on the royal family,' rejoined Mr.

Pole.

'You are a very provoking person,' said Lady Monteagle; 'but you do

not provoke me; do not flatter yourself you do.'

'That I feel to be an achievement alike beyond my power and my

ambition,' replied Mr. Pole, slightly bowing, but with a sneer.

'Well, read this,' said Lady Monteagle, 'and then decide upon the

merits of Cadurcis.'

Mr. Pole took the extended volume, but with no great willingness, and

turned over a page or two and read a passage here and there.

'Much the same as his last effusion, I think' he observed, as far as

I can judge from so cursory a review. Exaggerated passion, bombastic

language, egotism to excess, and, which perhaps is the only portion

that is genuine, mixed with common-place scepticism and impossible

morals, and a sort of vague, dreamy philosophy, which, if it mean

anything, means atheism, borrowed from his idol, Herbert, and which he

himself evidently does not comprehend.'

'Monster!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle, with a mock assumption of

indignation, 'and you are going to dine with him here to-day. You do

not deserve it.'

'It is a reward which is unfortunately too often obtained by me,'

replied Mr. Pole. 'One of the most annoying consequences of your

friend's popularity, Lady Monteagle, is that there is not a dinner

party where one can escape him. I met him yesterday at Fanshawe's. He

amused himself by eating only biscuits, and calling for soda water,

while we quaffed our Burgundy. How very original! What a thing it is

to be a great poet!'

'Perverse, provoking mortal!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle. 'And on what

should a poet live? On coarse food, like you coarse mortals? Cadurcis

is all spirit, and in my opinion his diet only makes him more

interesting.'

'I understand,' said Mr. Pole, 'that he cannot endure a woman to eat

at all. But you are all spirit, Lady Monteagle, and therefore of

course are not in the least inconvenienced. By-the-bye, do you mean to

give us any of those charming little suppers this season?'

'I shall not invite you,' replied her ladyship; 'none but admirers of

Lord Cadurcis enter this house.'

'Your menace effects my instant conversion,' replied Mr. Pole. 'I will

admire him as much as you desire, only do not insist upon my reading

his works.'

'I have not the slightest doubt you know them by heart,' rejoined her

ladyship.

Mr. Pole smiled, bowed, and disappeared; and Lady Monteagle sat down

to write a billet to Lord Cadurcis, to entreat him to be with her at

five o'clock, which was at least half an hour before the other guests

were expected. The Monteagles were considered to dine ridiculously

late.

CHAPTER II.

Marmion Herbert, sprung from one of the most illustrious families in

England, became at an early age the inheritor of a great estate, to

which, however, he did not succeed with the prejudices or opinions

usually imbibed or professed by the class to which he belonged. While

yet a boy, Marmion Herbert afforded many indications of possessing a

mind alike visionary and inquisitive, and both, although not in an

equal degree, sceptical and creative. Nature had gifted him with

precocious talents; and with a temperament essentially poetic, he

was nevertheless a great student. His early reading, originally by

accident and afterwards by an irresistible inclination, had fallen

among the works of the English freethinkers: with all their errors,

a profound and vigorous race, and much superior to the French

philosophers, who were after all only their pupils and their

imitators. While his juvenile studies, and in some degree the

predisposition of his mind, had thus prepared him to doubt and finally

to challenge the propriety of all that was established and received,

the poetical and stronger bias of his mind enabled him quickly to

supply the place of everything he would remove and destroy; and, far

from being the victim of those frigid and indifferent feelings

which must ever be the portion of the mere doubter, Herbert, on the

contrary, looked forward with ardent and sanguine enthusiasm to a

glorious and ameliorating future, which should amply compensate and

console a misguided and unhappy race for the miserable past and

the painful and dreary present. To those, therefore, who could not

sympathise with his views, it will be seen that Herbert, in attempting

to fulfil them, became not merely passively noxious from his example,

but actively mischievous from his exertions. A mere sceptic, he would

have been perhaps merely pitied; a sceptic with a peculiar faith of

his own, which he was resolved to promulgate, Herbert became odious. A

solitary votary of obnoxious opinions, Herbert would have been looked

upon only as a madman; but the moment he attempted to make proselytes

he rose into a conspirator against society.

Young, irresistibly prepossessing in his appearance, with great

eloquence, crude but considerable knowledge, an ardent imagination

and a subtle mind, and a generous and passionate soul, under any

circumstances he must have obtained and exercised influence, even if

his Creator had not also bestowed upon him a spirit of indomitable

courage; but these great gifts of nature being combined with accidents

of fortune scarcely less qualified to move mankind, high rank, vast

wealth, and a name of traditionary glory, it will not be esteemed

surprising that Marmion Herbert, at an early period, should have

attracted around him many enthusiastic disciples.

At Christchurch, whither he repaired at an unusually early age,

his tutor was Doctor Masham; and the profound respect and singular

affection with which that able, learned, and amiable man early

inspired his pupil, for a time controlled the spirit of Herbert; or

rather confined its workings to so limited a sphere that the results

were neither dangerous to society nor himself. Perfectly comprehending

and appreciating the genius of the youth entrusted to his charge,

deeply interested in his spiritual as well as worldly welfare, and

strongly impressed with the importance of enlisting his pupil's

energies in favour of that existing order, both moral and religious,

in the truth and indispensableness of which he was a sincere believer,

Doctor Masham omitted no opportunity of combating the heresies of the

young inquirer; and as the tutor, equally by talent, experience, and

learning, was a competent champion of the great cause to which he was

devoted, his zeal and ability for a time checked the development of

those opinions of which he witnessed the menacing influence over

Herbert with so much fear and anxiety. The college life of Marmion

Herbert, therefore, passed in ceaseless controversy with his tutor;

and as he possessed, among many other noble qualities, a high and

philosophic sense of justice, he did not consider himself authorised,

while a doubt remained on his own mind, actively to promulgate those

opinions, of the propriety and necessity of which he scarcely ever

ceased to be persuaded. To this cause it must be mainly attributed

that Herbert was not expelled the university; for had he pursued there

the course of which his cruder career at Eton had given promise, there

can be little doubt that some flagrant outrage of the opinions held

sacred in that great seat of orthodoxy would have quickly removed him

from the salutary sphere of their control.

Herbert quitted Oxford in his nineteenth year, yet inferior to

few that he left there, even among the most eminent, in classical

attainments, and with a mind naturally profound, practised in all the

arts of ratiocination. His general knowledge also was considerable,

and he was a proficient in those scientific pursuits which were then

rare. Notwithstanding his great fortune and position, his departure

from the university was not a signal with him for that abandonment to

the world, and that unbounded self-enjoyment naturally so tempting to

youth. On the contrary, Herbert shut himself up in his magnificent

castle, devoted to solitude and study. In his splendid library he

consulted the sages of antiquity, and conferred with them on the

nature of existence and of the social duties; while in his laboratory

or his dissecting-room he occasionally flattered himself he might

discover the great secret which had perplexed generations. The

consequence of a year passed in this severe discipline was

unfortunately a complete recurrence to those opinions that he had

early imbibed, and which now seemed fixed in his conviction beyond the

hope or chance of again faltering. In politics a violent republican,

and an advocate, certainly a disinterested one, of a complete equality

of property and conditions, utterly objecting to the very foundation

of our moral system, and especially a strenuous antagonist of

marriage, which he taught himself to esteem not only as an unnatural

tie, but as eminently unjust towards that softer sex, who had been

so long the victims of man; discarding as a mockery the received

revelation of the divine will; and, if no longer an atheist,

substituting merely for such an outrageous dogma a subtle and shadowy

Platonism; doctrines, however, which Herbert at least had acquired by

a profound study of the works of their great founder; the pupil of

Doctor Masham at length deemed himself qualified to enter that world

which he was resolved to regenerate; prepared for persecution, and

steeled even to martyrdom.

But while the doctrines of the philosopher had been forming, the

spirit of the poet had not been inactive. Loneliness, after all, the

best of Muses, had stimulated the creative faculty of his being.

Wandering amid his solitary woods and glades at all hours and seasons,

the wild and beautiful apparitions of nature had appealed to a

sympathetic soul. The stars and winds, the pensive sunset and the

sanguine break of morn, the sweet solemnity of night, the ancient

trees and the light and evanescent flowers, all signs and sights and

sounds of loveliness and power, fell on a ready eye and a responsive

ear. Gazing on the beautiful, he longed to create it. Then it was that

the two passions which seemed to share the being of Herbert appeared

simultaneously to assert their sway, and he resolved to call in his

Muse to the assistance of his Philosophy.

Herbert celebrated that fond world of his imagination, which he wished

to teach men to love. In stanzas glittering with refined images, and

resonant with subtle symphony, he called into creation that society of

immaculate purity and unbounded enjoyment which he believed was the

natural inheritance of unshackled man. In the hero he pictured a

philosopher, young and gifted as himself; in the heroine, his idea of

a perfect woman. Although all those peculiar doctrines of Herbert,

which, undisguised, must have excited so much odium, were more or

less developed and inculcated in this work; nevertheless they were

necessarily so veiled by the highly spiritual and metaphorical

language of the poet, that it required some previous acquaintance with

the system enforced, to be able to detect and recognise the esoteric

spirit of his Muse. The public read only the history of an ideal world

and of creatures of exquisite beauty, told in language that alike

dazzled their fancy and captivated their ear. They were lost in a

delicious maze of metaphor and music, and were proud to acknowledge

an addition to the glorious catalogue of their poets in a young and

interesting member of their aristocracy.

In the meanwhile Herbert entered that great world that had long

expected him, and hailed his advent with triumph. How long might have

elapsed before they were roused by the conduct of Herbert to the

error under which they were labouring as to his character, it is

not difficult to conjecture; but before he could commence those

philanthropic exertions which apparently absorbed him, he encountered

an individual who most unconsciously put his philosophy not merely to

the test, but partially even to the rout; and this was Lady Annabel

Sidney. Almost as new to the world as himself, and not less admired,

her unrivalled beauty, her unusual accomplishments, and her pure and

dignified mind, combined, it must be confessed, with the flattering

admiration of his genius, entirely captivated the philosophical

antagonist of marriage. It is not surprising that Marmion Herbert,

scarcely of age, and with a heart of extreme susceptibility, resolved,

after a struggle, to be the first exception to his system, and, as he

faintly flattered himself, the last victim of prejudice. He wooed and

won the Lady Annabel.

The marriage ceremony was performed by Doctor Masham, who had read his

pupil's poem, and had been a little frightened by its indications; but

this happy union had dissipated all his fears. He would not believe in

any other than a future career for him alike honourable and happy; and

he trusted that if any wild thoughts still lingered in Herbert's mind,

that they would clear off by the same literary process; so that

the utmost ill consequences of his immature opinions might be an

occasional line that the wise would have liked to blot, and yet which

the unlettered might scarcely be competent to comprehend. Mr. and Lady

Annabel Herbert departed after the ceremony to his castle, and Doctor

Masham to Marringhurst, a valuable living in another county, to which

his pupil had just presented him.

Some months after this memorable event, rumours reached the ear of the

good Doctor that all was not as satisfactory as he could desire in

that establishment, in the welfare of which he naturally took so

lively an interest. Herbert was in the habit of corresponding with the

rector of Marringhurst, and his first letters were full of details as

to his happy life and his perfect consent; but gradually these details

had been considerably abridged, and the correspondence assumed chiefly

a literary or philosophical character. Lady Annabel, however, was

always mentioned with regard, and an intimation had been duly given

to the Doctor that she was in a delicate and promising situation, and

that they were both alike anxious that he should christen their child.

It did not seem very surprising to the good Doctor, who was a man of

the world, that a husband, six months after marriage, should not

speak of the memorable event with all the fulness and fondness of

the honeymoon; and, being one of those happy tempers that always

anticipate the best, he dismissed from his mind, as vain gossip and

idle exaggerations, the ominous whispers that occasionally reached

him.

Immediately after the Christmas ensuing his marriage, the Herberts

returned to London, and the Doctor, who happened to be a short time

in the metropolis, paid them a visit. His observations were far from

unsatisfactory; it was certainly too evident that Marmion was no

longer enamoured of Lady Annabel, but he treated her apparently with

courtesy, and even cordiality. The presence of Dr. Masham tended,

perhaps, a little to revive old feelings, for he was as much a

favourite with the wife as with the husband; but, on the whole,

the Doctor quitted them with an easy heart, and sanguine that the

interesting and impending event would, in all probability, revive

affection on the part of Herbert, or at least afford Lady Annabel the

only substitute for a husband's heart.

In due time the Doctor heard from Herbert that his wife had gone

down into the country, but was sorry to observe that Herbert did not

accompany her. Even this disagreeable impression was removed by a

letter, shortly after received from Herbert, dated from the castle,

and written in high spirits, informing him that Annabel had made him

the happy father of the most beautiful little girl in the world.

During the ensuing three months Mr. Herbert, though he resumed his

residence in London, paid frequent visits to the castle, where Lady

Annabel remained; and his occasional correspondence, though couched

in a careless vein, still on the whole indicated a cheerful spirit;

though ever and anon were sarcastic observations as to the felicity of

the married state, which, he said, was an undoubted blessing, as it

kept a man out of all scrapes, though unfortunately under the penalty

of his total idleness and inutility in life. On the whole, however,

the reader may judge of the astonishment of Doctor Masham when, in

common with the world, very shortly after the receipt of this letter,

Mr. Herbert having previously proceeded to London, and awaiting, as

was said, the daily arrival of his wife and child, his former tutor

learned that Lady Annabel, accompanied only by Pauncefort and Venetia,

had sought her father's roof, declaring that circumstances had

occurred which rendered it quite impossible that she could live with

Mr. Herbert any longer, and entreating his succour and parental

protection.

Never was such a hubbub in the world! In vain Herbert claimed his

wife, and expressed his astonishment, declaring that he had parted

from her with the expression of perfect kind feeling on both sides.

No answer was given to his letter, and no explanation of any kind

conceded him. The world universally declared Lady Annabel an injured

woman, and trusted that she would eventually have the good sense and

kindness to gratify them by revealing the mystery; while Herbert,

on the contrary, was universally abused and shunned, avoided by his

acquaintances, and denounced as the most depraved of men.

In this extraordinary state of affairs Herbert acted in a manner

the best calculated to secure his happiness, and the very worst to

preserve his character. Having ostentatiously shown himself in every

public place, and courted notice and inquiry by every means in his

power, to prove that he was not anxious to conceal himself or avoid

any inquiry, he left the country, free at last to pursue that career

to which he had always aspired, and in which he had been checked by

a blunder, from the consequences of which he little expected that

he should so speedily and strangely emancipate himself. It was in a

beautiful villa on the lake of Geneva that he finally established

himself, and there for many years he employed himself in the

publication of a series of works which, whether they were poetry or

prose, imaginative or investigative, all tended to the same consistent

purpose, namely, the fearless and unqualified promulgation of those

opinions, on the adoption of which he sincerely believed the happiness

of mankind depended; and the opposite principles to which, in his own

case, had been productive of so much mortification and misery.

His works, which were published in England, were little read, and

universally decried. The critics were always hard at work, proving

that he was no poet, and demonstrating in the most logical manner

that he was quite incapable of reasoning on the commonest topic. In

addition to all this, his ignorance was self-evident; and though he

was very fond of quoting Greek, they doubted whether he was capable of

reading the original authors. The general impression of the English

public, after the lapse of some years, was, that Herbert was an

abandoned being, of profligate habits, opposed to all the institutions

of society that kept his infamy in check, and an avowed atheist; and

as scarcely any one but a sympathetic spirit ever read a line he

wrote, for indeed the very sight of his works was pollution, it is not

very wonderful that this opinion was so generally prevalent. A calm

inquirer might, perhaps, have suspected that abandoned profligacy is

not very compatible with severe study, and that an author is seldom

loose in his life, even if he be licentious in his writings. A calm

inquirer might, perhaps, have been of opinion that a solitary sage

may be the antagonist of a priesthood without absolutely denying the

existence of a God; but there never are calm inquirers. The world, on

every subject, however unequally, is divided into parties; and even in

the case of Herbert and his writings, those who admired his genius,

and the generosity of his soul, were not content without advocating,

principally out of pique to his adversaries, his extreme opinions on

every subject, moral, political, and religious.

Besides, it must be confessed, there was another circumstance which

was almost as fatal to Herbert's character in England as his loose and

heretical opinions. The travelling English, during their visits to

Geneva, found out that their countryman solaced or enlivened his

solitude by unhallowed ties. It is a habit to which very young men,

who are separated from or deserted by their wives, occasionally have

recourse. Wrong, no doubt, as most things are, but it is to be hoped

venial; at least in the case of any man who is not also an atheist.

This unfortunate mistress of Herbert was magnified into a seraglio;

the most extraordinary tales of the voluptuous life of one who

generally at his studies out-watched the stars, were rife in English

society; and

Hoary marquises and stripling dukes,

who were either protecting opera dancers, or, still worse, making

love to their neighbours' wives, either looked grave when the name of

Herbert was mentioned in female society, or affectedly confused, as if

they could a tale unfold, were they not convinced that the sense of

propriety among all present was infinitely superior to their sense of

curiosity.

The only person to whom Herbert communicated in England was Doctor

Masham. He wrote to him immediately on his establishment at Geneva, in

a calm yet sincere and serious tone, as if it were useless to dwell

too fully on the past. Yet he declared, although now that it was all

over he avowed his joy at the interposition of his destiny, and the

opportunity which he at length possessed of pursuing the career for

which he was adapted, that he had to his knowledge given his wife

no cause of offence which could authorise her conduct. As for his

daughter, he said he should not be so cruel as to tear her from

her mother's breast; though, if anything could induce him to such

behaviour, it would be the malignant and ungenerous menace of his

wife's relatives, that they would oppose his preferred claim to

the guardianship of his child, on the plea of his immoral life and

atheistical opinions. With reference to pecuniary arrangements, as

his chief seat was entailed on male heirs, he proposed that his wife

should take up her abode at Cherbury, an estate which had been settled

on her and her children at her marriage, and which, therefore, would

descend to Venetia. Finally, he expressed his satisfaction that the

neighbourhood of Marringhurst would permit his good and still faithful

friend to cultivate the society and guard over the welfare of his wife

and daughter.

During the first ten years of Herbert's exile, for such indeed it

might be considered, the Doctor maintained with him a rare yet regular

correspondence; but after that time a public event occurred, and

a revolution took place in Herbert's life which terminated all

communication between them; a termination occasioned, however, by such

a simultaneous conviction of its absolute necessity, that it was not

attended by any of those painful communications which are too often

the harrowing forerunners of a formal disruption of ancient ties.

This event was the revolt of the American colonies; and this

revolution in Herbert's career, his junction with the rebels against

his native country. Doubtless it was not without a struggle, perhaps

a pang, that Herbert resolved upon a line of conduct to which it

must assuredly have required the strongest throb of his cosmopolitan

sympathy, and his amplest definition of philanthropy to have impelled

him. But without any vindictive feelings towards England, for he ever

professed and exercised charity towards his enemies, attributing their

conduct entirely to their ignorance and prejudice, upon this step he

nevertheless felt it his duty to decide. There seemed in the opening

prospects of America, in a world still new, which had borrowed from

the old as it were only so much civilisation as was necessary to

create and to maintain order; there seemed in the circumstances of its

boundless territory, and the total absence of feudal institutions and

prejudices, so fair a field for the practical introduction of those

regenerating principles to which Herbert had devoted all the thought

and labour of his life, that he resolved, after long and perhaps

painful meditation, to sacrifice every feeling and future interest to

its fulfilment. All idea of ever returning to his native country, even

were it only to mix his ashes with the generations of his ancestors;

all hope of reconciliation with his wife, or of pressing to his

heart that daughter, often present to his tender fancy, and to whose

affections he had feelingly appealed in an outburst of passionate

poetry; all these chances, chances which, in spite of his philosophy,

had yet a lingering charm, must be discarded for ever. They were

discarded. Assigning his estate to his heir upon conditions, in order

to prevent its forfeiture, with such resources as he could command,

and which were considerable, Marmion Herbert arrived at Boston, where

his rank, his wealth, his distinguished name, his great talents, and

his undoubted zeal for the cause of liberty, procured him an eminent

and gratifying reception. He offered to raise a regiment for the

republic, and the offer was accepted, and he was enrolled among the

citizens. All this occurred about the time that the Cadurcis family

first settled at the abbey, and this narrative will probably throw

light upon several slight incidents which heretofore may have

attracted the perplexed attention of the reader: such as the newspaper

brought by Dr. Masham at the Christmas visit; the tears shed at a

subsequent period at Marringhurst, when he related to her the last

intelligence that had been received from America. For, indeed, it is

impossible to express the misery and mortification which this last

conduct of her husband occasioned Lady Annabel, brought up, as she had

been, with feelings of romantic loyalty and unswerving patriotism.

To be a traitor seemed the only blot that remained for his sullied

scutcheon, and she had never dreamed of that. An infidel, a

profligate, a deserter from his home, an apostate from his God! one

infamy alone remained, and now he had attained it; a traitor to his

king! Why, every peasant would despise him!

General Herbert, however, for such he speedily became, at the head of

his division, soon arrested the attention, and commanded the respect,

of Europe. To his exertions the successful result of the struggle

was, in a great measure, attributed; and he received the thanks of

Congress, of which he became a member. His military and political

reputation exercised a beneficial influence upon his literary fame.

His works were reprinted in America, and translated into French,

and published at Geneva and Basle, whence they were surreptitiously

introduced into France. The Whigs, who had become very factious, and

nearly revolutionary, during the American war, suddenly became proud

of their countryman, whom a new world hailed as a deliverer, and

Paris declared to be a great poet and an illustrious philosopher. His

writings became fashionable, especially among the young; numerous

editions of them appeared, and in time it was discovered that Herbert

was now not only openly read, and enthusiastically admired, but had

founded a school.

The struggle with America ceased about the time of Lord Cadurcis' last

visit to Cherbury, when, from his indignant lips, Venetia first learnt

the enormities of her father's career. Since that period some three

years had elapsed until we introduced our readers to the boudoir

of Lady Monteagle. During this period, among the Whigs and their

partisans the literary fame of Herbert had arisen and become

established. How they have passed in regard to Lady Annabel Herbert

and her daughter, on the one hand, and Lord Cadurcis himself on the

other, we will endeavour to ascertain in the following chapter.

CHAPTER III.

From the last departure of Lord Cadurcis from Cherbury, the health of

Venetia again declined. The truth is, she brooded in solitude over her

strange lot, until her nerves became relaxed by intense reverie and

suppressed feeling. The attention of a mother so wrapt up in her child

as Lady Annabel, was soon attracted to the increasing languor of

our heroine, whose eye each day seemed to grow less bright, and her

graceful form less lithe and active. No longer, fond of the sun and

breeze as a beautiful bird, was Venetia seen, as heretofore, glancing

in the garden, or bounding over the lawns; too often might she be

found reclining on the couch, in spite of all the temptations of the

spring; while her temper, once so singularly sweet that it seemed

there was not in the world a word that could ruffle it, and which

required so keenly and responded so quickly to sympathy, became

reserved, if not absolutely sullen, or at times even captious and

fretful.

This change in the appearance and demeanour of her daughter filled

Lady Annabel with anxiety and alarm. In vain she expressed to Venetia

her conviction of her indisposition; but Venetia, though her altered

habits confirmed the suspicion, and authorised the inquiry of her

parent, persisted ever in asserting that she had no ailment. Her old

medical attendant was, however, consulted, and, being perplexed with

the case, he recommended change of air. Lady Annabel then consulted

Dr. Masham, and he gave his opinion in favour of change of air for one

reason: and that was, that it would bring with it what he had long

considered Venetia to stand in need of, and that was change of life.

Dr. Masham was right; but then, to guide him in forming his judgment,

he had the advantage of some psychological knowledge of the case,

which, in a greet degree, was a sealed book to the poor puzzled

physician. We laugh very often at the errors of medical men; but if

we would only, when we consult them, have strength of mind enough to

extend to them something better than a half-confidence, we might be

cured the sooner. How often, when the unhappy disciple of Esculapius

is perplexing himself about the state of our bodies, we might throw

light upon his obscure labours by simply detailing to him the state of

our minds!

The result of these consultations in the Herbert family was a final

resolution, on the part of Lady Annabel, to quit Cherbury for a while.

As the sea air was especially recommended to Venetia, and as Lady

Annabel shrank with a morbid apprehension from society, to which

nothing could persuade her she was not an object either of odium or

impertinent curiosity, she finally resolved to visit Weymouth, then a

small and secluded watering-place, and whither she arrived and settled

herself, it not being even the season when its few customary visitors

were in the habit of gathering.

This residence at Weymouth quite repaid Lady Annabel for all the

trouble of her new settlement, and for the change in her life very

painful to her confirmed habits, which she experienced in leaving for

the first time for such a long series of years, her old hall; for the

rose returned to the cheek of her daughter, and the western breezes,

joined with the influence of the new objects that surrounded her, and

especially of that ocean, and its strange and inexhaustible variety,

on which she gazed for the first time, gradually, but surely,

completed the restoration of Venetia to health, and with it to much of

her old vivacity.

When Lady Annabel had resided about a year at Weymouth, in the society

of which she had invariably made the indisposition of Venetia a reason

for not entering, a great revolution suddenly occurred at this little

quiet watering-place, for it was fixed upon as the summer residence of

the English court. The celebrated name, the distinguished appearance,

and the secluded habits of Lady Annabel and her daughter, had rendered

them the objects of general interest. Occasionally they were met in a

seaside walk by some fellow-wanderer over the sands, or toiler over

the shingles; and romantic reports of the dignity of the mother and

the daughter's beauty were repeated by the fortunate observers to the

lounging circle of the public library or the baths.

The moment that Lady Annabel was assured that the royal family had

positively fixed upon Weymouth for their residence, and were even

daily expected, she resolved instantly to retire. Her stern sense of

duty assured her that it was neither delicate nor loyal to obtrude

before the presence of an outraged monarch the wife and daughter of a

traitor; her haughty, though wounded, spirit shrank from the revival

of her husband's history, which must be the consequence of such a

conjunction, and from the startling and painful remarks which might

reach the shrouded ear of her daughter. With her characteristic

decision, and with her usual stern volition, Lady Annabel quitted

Weymouth instantly, but she was in some degree consoled for the regret

and apprehensiveness which she felt at thus leaving a place that had

otherwise so happily fulfilled all her hopes and wishes, and that

seemed to agree so entirely with Venetia, by finding unexpectedly

a marine villa, some few miles further up the coast, which was

untenanted, and which offered to Lady Annabel all the accommodation

she could desire.

It so happened this summer that Dr. Masham paid the Herberts a visit,

and it was his habit occasionally to ride into Weymouth to read the

newspaper, or pass an hour in that easy lounging chat, which is,

perhaps, one of the principal diversions of a watering-place. A great

dignitary of the church, who was about the King, and to whom Dr.

Masham was known not merely by reputation, mentioned his presence to

his Majesty; and the King, who was fond of the society of eminent

divines, desired that Dr. Masham should be presented to him. Now, so

favourable was the impression that the rector of Marringhurst made

upon his sovereign, that from that moment the King was scarcely ever

content unless he was in attendance. His Majesty, who was happy in

asking questions, and much too acute to be baffled when he sought

information, finally elicited from the Doctor all that, in order to

please Lady Annabel, he long struggled to conceal; but when the King

found that the deserted wife and daughter of Herbert were really

living in the neighbourhood, and that they had quitted Weymouth on his

arrival, from a feeling of delicate loyalty, nothing would satisfy the

kind-hearted monarch but personally assuring them of the interest he

took in their welfare; and accordingly, the next day, without giving

Lady Annabel even the preparation of a notice, his Majesty and his

royal consort, attended only by a lord in waiting, called at the

marine villa, and fairly introduced themselves.

An acquaintance, occasioned by a sentiment of generous and

condescending sympathy, was established and strengthened into

intimacy, by the personal qualities of those thus delicately honoured.

The King and Queen were equally delighted with the wife and daughter

of the terrible rebel; and although, of course, not an allusion was

made to his existence, Lady Annabel felt not the less acutely the

cause to which she was indebted for a notice so gratifying, but

which she afterwards ensured by her own merits. How strange are the

accidents of life! Venetia Herbert, who had been bred up in unbroken

solitude, and whose converse had been confined to two or three beings,

suddenly found herself the guest of a king, and the visitor to a

court! She stepped at once from solitude into the most august circle

of society; yet, though she had enjoyed none of that initiatory

experience which is usually held so indispensable to the votaries

of fashion, her happy nature qualified her to play her part without

effort and with success. Serene and graceful, she mingled in the

strange and novel scene, as if it had been for ever her lot to dazzle

and to charm. Ere the royal family returned to London, they extracted

from Lady Annabel a compliance with their earnest wishes, that

she should fix her residence, during the ensuing season, in the

metropolis, and that she should herself present Venetia at St.

James's. The wishes of kings are commands; and Lady Annabel, who thus

unexpectedly perceived some of the most painful anticipations of her

solitude at once dissipated, and that her child, instead of being

subjected on her entrance into life to all the mortifications she had

imagined, would, on the contrary, find her first introduction under

auspices the most flattering and advantageous, bowed a dutiful assent

to the condescending injunctions.

Such were the memorable consequences of this visit to Weymouth! The

return of Lady Annabel to the world, and her intended residence in the

metropolis, while the good Masham preceded their arrival to receive a

mitre. Strange events, and yet not improbable!

In the meantime Lord Cadurcis had repaired to the university, where

his rank and his eccentric qualities quickly gathered round him a

choice circle of intimates, chiefly culled from his old schoolfellows.

Of these the great majority were his seniors, for whose society

the maturity of his mind qualified him. It so happened that these

companions were in general influenced by those liberal opinions which

had become in vogue during the American war, and from which Lord

Cadurcis had hitherto been preserved by the society in which he

had previously mingled in the house of his guardian. With the

characteristic caprice and impetuosity of youth, Cadurcis rapidly

and ardently imbibed all these doctrines, captivated alike by their

boldness and their novelty. Hitherto the child of prejudice, he

flattered himself that he was now the creature of reason, and,

determined to take nothing for granted, he soon learned to question

everything that was received. A friend introduced him to the writings

of Herbert, that very Herbert whom he had been taught to look upon

with so much terror and odium. Their perusal operated a complete

revolution of his mind; and, in little more than a year from his

flight from Cherbury, he had become an enthusiastic votary of the

great master, for his violent abuse of whom he had been banished from

those happy bowers. The courage, the boldness, the eloquence, the

imagination, the strange and romantic career of Herbert, carried the

spirit of Cadurcis captive. The sympathetic companions studied his

works and smiled with scorn at the prejudice of which their great

model had been the victim, and of which they had been so long the

dupes. As for Cadurcis, he resolved to emulate him, and he commenced

his noble rivalship by a systematic neglect of all the duties and

the studies of his college life. His irregular habits procured him

constant reprimands in which he gloried; he revenged himself on the

authorities by writing epigrams, and by keeping a bear, which he

declared should stand for a fellowship. At length, having wilfully

outraged the most important regulations, he was expelled; and he

made his expulsion the subject of a satire equally personal and

philosophic, and which obtained applause for the great talent which it

displayed, even from those who lamented its want of judgment and the

misconduct of its writer. Flushed with success, Cadurcis at length

found, to his astonishment, that Nature had intended him for a poet.

He repaired to London, where he was received with open arms by the

Whigs, whose party he immediately embraced, and where he published a

poem, in which he painted his own character as the hero, and of which,

in spite of all the exaggeration and extravagance of youth, the genius

was undeniable. Society sympathised with a young and a noble poet;

his poem was read by all parties with enthusiasm; Cadurcis became the

fashion. To use his own expression, 'One morning he awoke, and found

himself famous.' Young, singularly handsome, with every gift of nature

and fortune, and with an inordinate vanity that raged in his soul,

Cadurcis soon forgot the high philosophy that had for a moment

attracted him, and delivered himself up to the absorbing egotism which

had ever been latent in his passionate and ambitious mind. Gifted with

energies that few have ever equalled, and fooled to the bent by the

excited sympathies of society, he poured forth his creative and daring

spirit with a license that conquered all obstacles, from the very

audacity with which he assailed them. In a word, the young, the

reserved, and unknown Cadurcis, who, but three years back, was to have

lived in the domestic solitude for which he alone felt himself fitted,

filled every heart and glittered in every eye. The men envied, the

women loved, all admired him. His life was a perpetual triumph; a

brilliant and applauding stage, on which he ever played a dazzling and

heroic part. So sudden and so startling had been his apparition, so

vigorous and unceasing the efforts by which he had maintained his

first overwhelming impression, and not merely by his writings, but by

his unusual manners and eccentric life, that no one had yet found time

to draw his breath, to observe, to inquire, and to criticise. He had

risen, and still flamed, like a comet as wild as it was beautiful, and

strange is it was brilliant.

CHAPTER IV.

We must now return to the dinner party at Lord Monteagle's. When the

Bishop of ---- entered the room, he found nearly all the expected

guests assembled, and was immediately presented by his host to the

lady of the house, who received him with all that fascinating address

for which she was celebrated, expressing the extreme delight which she

felt at thus becoming formally acquainted with one whom her husband

had long taught her to admire and reverence. Utterly unconscious who

had just joined the circle, while Lord Monteagle was introducing his

newly-arrived guest to many present, and to all of whom he was unknown

except by reputation, Lord Cadurcis was standing apart, apparently

wrapt in his own thoughts; but the truth is, in spite of all the

excitement in which he lived, he had difficulty in overcoming the

natural reserve of his disposition.

'Watch Cadurcis,' said Mr. Horace Pole to a fine lady. 'Does not he

look sublime?'

'Show me him,' said the lady, eagerly. 'I have never seen him yet; I

am actually dying to know him. You know we have just come to town.'

'And have caught the raging epidemic, I see,' said Mr. Pole, with a

sneer. 'However, there is the marvellous young gentleman! "Alone in a

crowd," as he says in his last poem. Very interesting!'

'Wonderful creature!' exclaimed the dame.

'Charming!' said Mr. Pole. 'If you ask Lady Monteagle, she will

introduce him to you, and then, perhaps, you will be fortunate enough

to be handed to dinner by him.'

'Oh! how I should like it!'

'You must take care, however, not to eat; he cannot endure a woman who

eats.'

'I never do,' said the lady, simply; 'at least at dinner.'

'Ah! then you will quite suit him; I dare say he will write a sonnet

to you, and call you Thyrza.'

'I wish I could get him to write some lines in my book, said the lady;

'Charles Fox has written some; he was staying with us in the autumn,

and he has written an ode to my little dog.'

'How amiable!' said Mr. Pole; 'I dare say they are as good as his

elegy on Mrs. Crewe's cat. But you must not talk of cats and dogs to

Cadurcis. He is too exalted to commemorate any animal less sublime

than a tiger or a barb.'

'You forget his beautiful lines on his Newfoundland,' said the lady.

'Very complimentary to us all,' said Mr. Horace Pole. 'The interesting

misanthrope!'

'He looks unhappy.'

'Very,' said Mr. Pole. 'Evidently something on his conscience.'

'They do whisper very odd things,' said the lady, with great

curiosity. 'Do you think there is anything in them?'

'Oh! no doubt,' said Mr. Pole; 'look at him; you can detect crime in

every glance.'

'Dear me, how shocking! I think he must be the most interesting person

that ever lived. I should so like to know him! They say he is so very

odd.'

'Very,' said Mr. Pole. 'He must be a man of genius; he is so unlike

everybody; the very tie of his cravat proves it. And his hair, so

savage and dishevelled; none but a man of genius would not wear

powder. Watch him to-day, and you will observe that he will not

condescend to perform the slightest act like an ordinary mortal. I

met him at dinner yesterday at Fanshawe's, and he touched nothing but

biscuits and soda-water. Fanshawe, you know, is famous for his cook.

Complimentary and gratifying, was it not?'

'Dear me!' said the lady, 'I am delighted to see him; and yet I hope I

shall not sit by him at dinner. I am quite afraid of him.'

'He is really awful!' said Mr. Pole.

In the meantime the subject of these observations slowly withdrew to

the further end of the saloon, apart from every one, and threw himself

upon a couch with a somewhat discontented air. Lady Monteagle, whose

eye had never left him for a moment, although her attentions had been

necessarily commanded by her guests, and who dreaded the silent rages

in which Cadurcis constantly indulged, and which, when once assumed

for the day, were with difficulty dissipated, seized the first

opportunity to join and soothe him.

'Dear Cadurcis,' she said, 'why do you sit here? You know I am obliged

to speak to all these odious people, and it is very cruel of you.'

'You seemed to me to be extremely happy,' replied his lordship, in a

sarcastic tone.

'Now, Cadurcis, for Heaven's sake do not play with my feelings,'

exclaimed Lady Monteagle, in a deprecating tone. 'Pray be amiable. If

I think you are in one of your dark humours, it is quite impossible

for me to attend to these people; and you know it is the only point on

which Monteagle ever has an opinion; he insists upon my attending to

his guests.'

'If you prefer his guests to me, attend to them.'

'Now, Cadurcis! I ask you as a favour, a favour to me, only for

to-day. Be kind, be amiable, you can if you like; no person can be

more amiable; now, do!'

'I am amiable,' said his lordship; 'I am perfectly satisfied, if you

are. You made me dine here.'

'Now, Cadurcis!'

'Have I not dined here to satisfy you?'

'Yes! It was very kind.'

'But, really, that I should be wearied with all the common-places of

these creatures who come to eat your husband's cutlets, is too much,'

said his lordship. 'And you, Gertrude, what necessity can there be in

your troubling yourself to amuse people whom you meet every day of

your life, and who, from the vulgar perversity of society, value you

in exact proportion as you neglect them?'

'Yes, but to-day I must be attentive; for Henry, with his usual

thoughtlessness, has asked this new bishop to dine with us.'

'The Bishop of----?' inquired Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. 'Is he coming?'

'He has been in the room this quarter of an hour?'

'What, Masham! Doctor Masham!' continued Lord Cadurcis.

'Assuredly.'

Lord Cadurcis changed colour, and even sighed. He rose rather quickly,

and said, 'I must go and speak to him.'

So, quitting Lady Monteagle, he crossed the room, and with all the

simplicity of old days, which instantly returned on him, those

melancholy eyes sparkling with animation, and that languid form quick

with excitement, he caught the Doctor's glance, and shook his extended

hand with a heartiness which astonished the surrounding spectators,

accustomed to the elaborate listlessness of his usual manner.

'My dear Doctor! my dear Lord! I am glad to say,' said Cadurcis, 'this

is the greatest and the most unexpected pleasure I ever received. Of

all persons in the world, you are the one whom I was most anxious to

meet.'

The good Bishop appeared not less gratified with the rencounter than

Cadurcis himself; but, in the midst of their mutual congratulations,

dinner was announced and served; and, in due order, Lord Cadurcis

found himself attending that fine lady, whom Mr. Horace Pole had, in

jest, suggested should be the object of his services; while Mr. Pole

himself was seated opposite to him at table.

The lady, remembering all Mr. Pole's intimations, was really

much frightened; she at first could scarcely reply to the casual

observations of her neighbour, and quite resolved not to eat anything.

But his lively and voluble conversation, his perfectly unaffected

manner, and the nonchalance with which he helped himself to every dish

that was offered him, soon reassured her. Her voice became a little

firmer, her manner less embarrassed, and she even began meditating a

delicate assault upon a fricassee.

'Are you going to Ranelagh to-night?' inquired Lord Cadurcis; 'I think

I shall take a round. There is nothing like amusement; it is the only

thing worth living for; and I thank my destiny I am easily amused. We

must persuade Lady Monteagle to go with us. Let us make a party, and

return and sup. I like a supper; nothing in the world more charming

than a supper,

A lobster salad, and champagne and chat.

That is life, and delightful. Why, really, my dear madam, you eat

nothing. You will never be able to endure the fatigues of a Ranelagh

campaign on the sustenance of a pâté. Pole, my good fellow, will you

take a glass of wine? We had a pleasant party yesterday at Fanshawe's,

and apparently a capital dinner. I was sorry that I could not play my

part; but I have led rather a raking life lately. We must go and dine

with him again.'

Lord Cadurcis' neighbour and Mr. Pole exchanged looks; and the lady,

emboldened by the unexpected conduct of her cavalier and the exceeding

good friends which he seemed resolved to be with her and every

one else, began to flatter herself that she might yet obtain the

much-desired inscription in her volume. So, after making the usual

approaches, of having a great favour to request, which, however, she

could not flatter herself would be granted, and which she even was

afraid to mention; encouraged by the ready declaration of Lord

Cadurcis, that he should think it would be quite impossible for any

one to deny her anything, the lady ventured to state, that Mr. Fox had

written something in her book, and she should be the most honoured and

happiest lady in the land if--'

'Oh! I shall be most happy,' said Lord Cadurcis; 'I really esteem your

request quite an honour: you know I am only a literary amateur, and

cannot pretend to vie with your real authors. If you want them, you

must go to Mrs. Montagu. I would not write a line for her, and no the

blues have quite excommunicated me. Never mind; I leave them to Miss

Hannah More; but you, you are quite a different sort of person. What

shall I write?'

'I must leave the subject to you,' said his gratified friend.

'Well, then,' said his lordship, 'I dare say you have got a lapdog or

a broken fan; I don't think I could soar above them. I think that is

about my tether.'

This lady, though a great person, was not a beauty, and very little

of a wit, and not calculated in any respect to excite the jealousy of

Lady Monteagle. In the meantime that lady was quite delighted with the

unusual animation of Lord Cadurcis, who was much the most entertaining

member of the party. Every one present would circulate throughout

the world that it was only at the Monteagle's that Lord Cadurcis

condescended to be amusing. As the Bishop was seated on her right

hand, Lady Monteagle seized the opportunity of making inquiries as to

their acquaintance; but she only obtained from the good Masham that he

had once resided in his lordship's neighbourhood, and had known him as

a child, and was greatly attached to him. Her ladyship was anxious to

obtain some juvenile anecdotes of her hero; but the Bishop contrived

to be amusing without degenerating into gossip. She did not glean

much, except that all his early friends were more astonished at his

present career than the Bishop himself, who was about to add, that

he always had some misgivings, but, recollecting where he was, he

converted the word into a more gracious term. But if Lady Monteagle

were not so successful as she could wish in her inquiries, she

contrived still to speak on the, to her, ever-interesting subject, and

consoled herself by the communications which she poured into a guarded

yet not unwilling ear, respecting the present life and conduct of

the Bishop's former pupil. The worthy dignitary had been prepared by

public fame for much that was dazzling and eccentric; but it must be

confessed he was not a little astonished by a great deal to which he

listened. One thing, however, was clear that whatever might be the

demeanour of Cadurcis to the circle in which he now moved, time, and

the strange revolutions of his life, had not affected his carriage

to his old friend. It gratified the Bishop while he listened to Lady

Monteagle's details of the haughty, reserved, and melancholy demeanour

of Cadurcis, which impressed every one with an idea that some superior

being had, as a punishment, been obliged to visit their humble globe,

to recall the apparently heartfelt cordiality with which he had

resumed his old acquaintance with the former rector of Marringhurst.

And indeed, to speak truth, the amiable and unpretending behaviour of

Cadurcis this day was entirely attributable to the unexpected meeting

with this old friend. In the hurry of society he could scarcely dwell

upon the associations which it was calculated to call up; yet

more than once he found himself quite absent, dwelling on sweet

recollections of that Cherbury that he had so loved. And ever and anon

the tones of a familiar voice caught his ear, so that they almost made

him start: they were not the less striking, because, as Masham was

seated on the same side of the table as Cadurcis, his eye had not

become habituated to the Bishop's presence, which sometimes he almost

doubted.

He seized the first opportunity after dinner of engaging his old tutor

in conversation. He took him affectionately by the arm, and led him,

as if unintentionally, to a sofa apart from the rest of the company,

and seated himself by his side. Cadurcis was agitated, for he was

about to inquire of some whom he could not mention without emotion.

'Is it long since you have seen our friends?' said his lordship, 'if

indeed I may call them mine.'

'Lady Annabel Herbert?' said the Bishop.

Cadurcis bowed.

'I parted from her about two months back,' continued the Bishop.

'And Cherbury, dear Cherbury, is it unchanged?'

'They have not resided there for more than two years.'

'Indeed!'

'They have lived, of late, at Weymouth, for the benefit of the sea

air.'

'I hope neither Lady Annabel nor her daughter needs it?' said Lord

Cadurcis, in a tone of much feeling.

'Neither now, God be praised!' replied Masham; 'but Miss Herbert has

been a great invalid.'

There was a rather awkward silence. At length Lord Cadurcis said, 'We

meet rather unexpectedly, my dear sir.'

'Why, you have become a great man,' said the Bishop, with a smile;

'and one must expect to meet you.'

'Ah! my dear friend,' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, with a sigh, 'I would

willingly give a whole existence of a life like this for one year of

happiness at Cherbury.'

'Nay!' said the Bishop, with a look of good-natured mockery, 'this

melancholy is all very well in poetry; but I always half-suspected,

and I am quite sure now, that Cherbury was not particularly adapted to

you.'

'You mistake me,' said Cadurcis, mournfully shaking his head.

'Hitherto I have not been so very wrong in my judgment respecting

Lord Cadurcis, that I am inclined very easily to give up my opinion,'

replied the Bishop.

'I have often thought of the conversation to which you allude,'

replied Lord Cadurcis; 'nevertheless, there is one opinion I never

changed, one sentiment that still reigns paramount in my heart.'

'You think so,' said his companion; but, perhaps, were it more than a

sentiment, it would cease to flourish.'

'No,' said Lord Cadurcis firmly; 'the only circumstance in the world

of which I venture to feel certain is my love for Venetia.'

'It raged certainly during your last visit to Cherbury,' said the

Bishop, 'after an interval of five years; it has been revived slightly

to-day, after an interval of three more, by the sight of a mutual

acquaintance, who has reminded you of her. But what have been your

feelings in the meantime? Confess the truth, and admit you have very

rarely spared a thought to the person to whom you fancy yourself at

this moment so passionately devoted.'

'You do not do me justice,' said Lord Cadurcis; 'you are prejudiced

against me.'

'Nay! prejudice is not my humour, my good lord. I decide only from

what I myself observe; I give my opinion to you at this moment as

freely as I did when you last conversed with me at the abbey, and when

I a little displeased you by speaking what you will acknowledge has

since turned out to be the truth.'

'You mean, then, to say,' said his lordship, with some excitement,

'that you do not believe that I love Venetia?'

'I think you do, at this moment,' replied Masham; 'and I think,' he

continued, smiling, 'that you may probably continue very much in love

with her, even during the rest of the week.'

'You mock me!'

'Nay! I am sincerely serious.'

'What, then, do you mean?'

'I mean that your imagination, my lord, dwelling for the moment with

great power upon the idea of Venetia, becomes inflamed, and your whole

mind is filled with her image.'

'A metaphysical description of being in love,' said Lord Cadurcis,

rather dryly.

'Nay!' said Masham, 'I think the heart has something to do with that.'

'But the imagination acts upon the heart,' rejoined his companion.

'But it is in the nature of its influence not to endure. At this

moment, I repeat, your lordship may perhaps love Miss Herbert; you

may go home and muse over her memory, and even deplore in passionate

verses your misery in being separated from her; but, in the course of

a few days, she will be again forgotten.'

'But were she mine?' urged Lord Cadurcis, eagerly.

'Why, you would probably part from her in a year, as her father parted

from Lady Annabel.'

'Impossible! for my imagination could not conceive anything more

exquisite than she is.'

'Then it would conceive something less exquisite,' said the Bishop.

'It is a restless quality, and is ever creative, either of good or of

evil.'

'Ah! my dear Doctor, excuse me for again calling you Doctor, it is so

natural,' said Cadurcis, in a tone of affection.

'Call me what you will, my dear lord,' said the good Bishop, whose

heart was moved; 'I can never forget old days.'

'Believe me, then,' continued Cadurcis, 'that you misjudge me in

respect of Venetia. I feel assured that, had we married three years

ago, I should have been a much happier man.'

'Why, you have everything to make you happy,' said the Bishop; 'if you

are not happy, who should be? You are young, and you are famous: all

that is now wanted is to be wise.'

Lord Cadurcis shrugged his shoulders. I am tired of this life,' he

said; 'I am wearied of the same hollow bustle, and the same false

glitter day after day. Ah! my dear friend, when I remember the happy

hours when I used to roam through the woods of Cherbury with Venetia,

and ramble in that delicious park, both young, both innocent, lit by

the sunset and guided by the stars; and then remember that it has all

ended in this, and that this is success, glory, fame, or whatever be

the proper title to baptize the bubble, the burthen of existence is

too great for me.'

'Hush, hush!' said his friend, rising from the sofa; 'you will be

happy if you be wise.'

'But what is wisdom?' said Lord Cadurcis.

'One quality of it, in your situation, my lord, is to keep your head

as calm as you can. Now, I must bid you good night.'

The Bishop disappeared, and Lord Cadurcis was immediately surrounded

by several fine ladies, who were encouraged by the flattering bulletin

that his neighbour at dinner, who was among them, had given of his

lordship's temper. They were rather disappointed to find him sullen,

sarcastic, and even morose. As for going to Ranelagh, he declared

that, if he had the power of awarding the punishment of his bitterest

enemy, it would be to consign him for an hour to the barbarous

infliction of a promenade in that temple of ennui; and as for the

owner of the album, who, anxious about her verses, ventured to express

a hope that his lordship would call upon her, the contemptuous bard

gave her what he was in the habit of styling 'a look,' and quitted

the room, without deigning otherwise to acknowledge her hopes and her

courtesy.

CHAPTER V.

We must now return to our friends the Herberts, who, having quitted

Weymouth, without even revisiting Cherbury, are now on their journey

to the metropolis. It was not without considerable emotion that Lady

Annabel, after an absence of nearly nineteen years, contemplated her

return to the scene of some of the most extraordinary and painful

occurrences of her life. As for Venetia, who knew nothing of towns and

cities, save from the hasty observations she had made in travelling,

the idea of London, formed only from books and her imagination, was

invested with even awful attributes. Mistress Pauncefort alone

looked forward to their future residence simply with feelings of

self-congratulation at her return, after so long an interval, to the

theatre of former triumphs and pleasures, and where she conceived

herself so eminently qualified to shine and to enjoy.

The travellers entered town towards nightfall, by Hyde Park Corner,

and proceeded to an hotel in St. James's Street, where Lady Annabel's

man of business had engaged them apartments. London, with its pallid

parish lamps, scattered at long intervals, would have presented but a

gloomy appearance to the modern eye, habituated to all the splendour

of gas; but to Venetia it seemed difficult to conceive a scene of more

brilliant bustle; and she leant back in the carriage, distracted with

the lights and the confusion of the crowded streets. When they were

once safely lodged in their new residence, the tumult of unpacking the

carriages had subsided, and the ceaseless tongue of Pauncefort had

in some degree refrained from its wearying and worrying chatter,

a feeling of loneliness, after all this agitation and excitement,

simultaneously came over the feelings of both mother and daughter,

though they alike repressed its expression. Lady Annabel was lost

in many sad thoughts, and Venetia felt mournful, though she could

scarcely define the cause. Both were silent, and they soon sought

refuge from fatigue and melancholy in sleep.

The next morning, it being now April, was fortunately bright and

clear. It certainly was a happy fortune that the fair Venetia was not

greeted with a fog. She rose refreshed and cheerful, and joined her

mother, who was, however, not a little agitated by an impending visit,

of which Venetia had been long apprised. This was from Lady Annabel's

brother, the former ambassador, who had of late returned to his native

country. The brother and sister had been warmly attached in youth, but

the awful interval of time that had elapsed since they parted, filled

Venetia's mother with many sad and serious reflections. The Earl and

his family had been duly informed of Lady Annabel's visit to the

metropolis, and had hastened to offer her the hospitality of their

home; but the offer had been declined, with feelings, however, not a

little gratified by the earnestness with which it had been proffered.

Venetia was now, for the first time in her life, to see a relative.

The anticipated meeting excited in her mind rather curiosity than

sentiment. She could not share the agitation of her mother, and

yet she looked forward to the arrival of her uncle with extreme

inquisitiveness. She was not long kept in suspense. Their breakfast

was scarcely finished, when he was announced. Lady Annabel turned

rather pale; and Venetia, who felt herself as it were a stranger to

her blood, would have retired, had not her mother requested her to

remain; so she only withdrew to the back of the apartment.

Her uncle was ten years the senior of his sister, but not unlike her.

Tall, graceful, with those bland and sympathising manners that easily

win hearts, he entered the room with a smile of affection, yet with a

composure of deportment that expressed at the same time how sincerely

delighted he was at the meeting, and how considerately determined, at

the same time, not to indulge in a scene. He embraced his sister with

tenderness, assured her that she looked as young as ever, softly

chided her for not making his house her home, and hoped that they

should never part again; and he then turned to his niece. A fine

observer, one less interested in the scene than the only witnesses,

might have detected in the Earl, notwithstanding his experienced

breeding, no ordinary surprise and gratification at the sight of the

individual whose relationship he was now to claim for the first time.

'I must claim an uncle's privilege,' he said, in a tone of sweetness

and some emotion, as he pressed with his own the beautiful lips of

Venetia. 'I ought to be proud of my niece. Why, Annabel! if only for

the honour of our family, you should not have kept this jewel so long

enshrined in the casket of Cherbury.'

The Earl remained with them some hours, and his visit was really

prolonged by the unexpected pleasure which he found in the society of

his relations. He would not leave them until they promised to dine

with him that day, and mentioned that he had prevented his wife from

calling with him that morning, because he thought, after so long a

separation, it might be better to meet thus quietly. Then they parted

with affectionate cordiality on both sides; the Earl enchanted to find

delightful companions where he was half afraid he might only meet

tiresome relatives; Lady Annabel proud of her brother, and gratified

by his kindness; and Venetia anxious to ascertain whether all her

relations were as charming as her uncle.

CHAPTER VI.

When Lady Annabel and her daughter returned from their morning drive,

they found the visiting ticket of the Countess on the table, who had

also left a note, with which she had provided herself in case she was

not so fortunate as to meet her relations. The note was affectionate,

and expressed the great delight of the writer at again meeting her

dear sister, and forming an acquaintance with her charming niece.

'More relations!' said Venetia, with a somewhat droll expression of

countenance.

At this moment the Bishop of----, who had already called twice upon

them unsuccessfully, entered the room. The sight of this old and dear

friend gave great joy. He came to engage them to dine with him the

next day, having already ineffectually endeavoured to obtain them for

permanent guests. They sat chatting so long with him, that they were

obliged at last to bid him an abrupt adieu, and hasten and make their

toilettes for their dinner.

Their hostess received her relations with a warmth which her husband's

praises of her sister-in-law and niece had originally prompted, but

which their appearance and manners instantly confirmed. As all the

Earl's children were married, their party consisted to-day only of

themselves; but it was a happy and agreeable meeting, for every

one was desirous of being amiable. To be sure they had not many

recollections or associations in common, and no one recurred to the

past; but London, and the history of its fleeting hours, was an

inexhaustible source of amusing conversation; and the Countess seemed

resolved that Venetia should have a brilliant season; that she should

be much amused and much admired. Lady Annabel, however, put in a plea

for moderation, at least until Venetia was presented; but that the

Countess declared must be at the next drawing-room, which was early in

the ensuing week. Venetia listened to glittering narratives of balls

and routs, operas and theatres, breakfasts and masquerades, Ranelagh

and the Pantheon, with the same smiling composure as if she had been

accustomed to them all her life, instead of having been shut up in

a garden, with no livelier or brighter companions than birds and

flowers.

After dinner, as her aunt and uncle and Lady Annabel sat round the

fire, talking of her maternal grandfather, a subject which did not at

all interest her, Venetia stole from her chair to a table in a distant

part of the room, and turned over some books and music that were lying

upon it. Among these was a literary journal, which she touched almost

by accident, and which opened, with the name of Lord Cadurcis on the

top of its page. This, of course, instantly attracted her attention.

Her eye passed hastily over some sentences which greatly astonished

her, and, extending her arm for a chair without quitting the book,

she was soon deeply absorbed by the marvels which rapidly unfolded

themselves to her. The article in question was an elaborate criticism

as well of the career as the works of the noble poet; for, indeed, as

Venetia now learnt, they were inseparably blended. She gathered from

these pages a faint and hasty yet not altogether unfaithful conception

of the strange revolution that had occurred in the character,

pursuits, and position of her former companion. In that mighty

metropolis, whose wealth and luxury and power had that morning so

vividly impressed themselves upon her consciousness, and to the

history of whose pleasures and brilliant and fantastic dissipation she

had recently been listening with a lively and diverted ear, it seemed

that, by some rapid and magical vicissitude, her little Plantagenet,

the faithful and affectionate companion of her childhood, whose

sorrows she had so often soothed, and who in her pure and devoted love

had always found consolation and happiness, had become 'the observed

of all observers;' the most remarkable where all was striking, and

dazzling where all were brilliant!

His last visit to Cherbury, and its strange consequences, then

occurred to her; his passionate addresses, and their bitter parting.

Here was surely matter enough for a maiden's reverie, and into a

reverie Venetia certainly fell, from which she was roused by the voice

of her uncle, who could not conceive what book his charming niece

could find so interesting, and led her to feel what an ill compliment

she was paying to all present. Venetia hastily closed the volume, and

rose rather confused from her seat; her radiant smile was the

best apology to her uncle: and she compensated for her previous

inattention, by playing to him on the harpsichord. All the time,

however, the image of Cadurcis flitted across her vision, and she

was glad when her mother moved to retire, that she might enjoy the

opportunity of pondering in silence and unobserved over the strange

history that she had read.

London is a wonderful place! Four-and-twenty hours back, with a

feeling of loneliness and depression amounting to pain, Venetia had

fled to sleep as her only refuge; now only a day had passed, and

she had both seen and heard many things that had alike startled and

pleased her; had found powerful and charming friends; and laid her

head upon her pillow in a tumult of emotion that long banished slumber

from her beautiful eyes.

CHAPTER VII.

Venetia soon found that she must bid adieu for ever, in London, to her

old habits of solitude. She soon discovered that she was never to be

alone. Her aunt called upon them early in the morning, and said that

the whole day must be devoted to their court dresses; and in a few

minutes they were all whirled off to a celebrated milliner's. After

innumerable consultations and experiments, the dress of Venetia was

decided on; her aunt and Lady Annabel were both assured that it would

exceed in splendour and propriety any dress at the drawing-room.

Indeed, as the great artist added, with such a model to work from

it would reflect but little credit on the establishment, if any

approached Miss Herbert in the effect she must inevitably produce.

While her mother was undergoing some of those attentions to which

Venetia had recently submitted, and had retired for a few minutes into

an adjoining apartment, our little lady of Cherbury strolled about the

saloon in which she had been left, until her attention was attracted

by a portrait of a young man in an oriental dress, standing very

sublimely amid the ruins of some desert city; a palm tree in the

distance, and by his side a crouching camel, and some recumbent

followers slumbering amid the fallen columns.

'That is Lord Cadurcis, my love,' said her aunt, who at the moment

joined her, 'the famous poet. All the young ladies are in love with

him. I dare say you know his works by heart.'

'No, indeed, aunt,' said Venetia; 'I have never even read them; but I

should like very much.'

'Not read Lord Cadurcis' poems! Oh! we must go and get them directly

for you. Everybody reads them. You will be looked upon quite as a

little barbarian. We will stop the carriage at Stockdale's, and get

them for you.'

At this moment Lady Annabel rejoined them; and, having made all their

arrangements, they re-entered the carriage.

'Stop at Stockdale's,' said her ladyship to the servant; 'I must

get Cadurcis' last poem for Venetia. She will be quite back in her

learning, Annabel.'

'Cadurcis' last poem!' said Lady Annabel; 'do you mean Lord Cadurcis?

Is he a poet?'

'To he sure! Well, you are countrified not to know Lord Cadurcis!'

'I know him very well,' said Lady Annabel, gravely; 'but I did not

know he was a poet.'

The Countess laughed, the carriage stopped, the book was brought; Lady

Annabel looked uneasy, and tried to catch her daughter's countenance,

but, strange to say, for the first time in her life was quite

unsuccessful. The Countess took the book, and immediately gave it

Venetia. 'There, my dear,' said her aunt, 'there never was anything so

charming. I am so provoked that Cadurcis is a Whig.'

'A Whig!' said Lady Annabel; 'he was not a Whig when I knew him.'

'Oh! my dear, I am afraid he is worse than a Whig. He is almost a

rebel! But then he is such a genius! Everything is allowed, you know,

to a genius!' said the thoughtless sister-in-law.

Lady Annabel was silent; but the stillness of her emotion must not be

judged from the stillness of her tongue. Her astonishment at all she

had heard was only equalled by what we may justly term her horror. It

was impossible that she could have listened to any communication at

the same time so astounding, and to her so fearful.

'We knew Lord Cadurcis when he was very young, aunt,' said Venetia, in

a quiet tone. 'He lived near mamma, in the country.'

'Oh! my dear Annabel, if you see him in town bring him to me; he is

the most difficult person in the world to get to one's house, and I

would give anything if he would come and dine with me.'

The Countess at last set her relations down at their hotel. When Lady

Annabel was once more alone with her daughter, she said, 'Venetia,

dearest, give me that book your aunt lent you.'

Venetia immediately handed it to her, but her mother did not open it;

but saying, 'The Bishop dines at four, darling; I think it is time for

us to dress,' Lady Annabel left the room.

To say the truth, Venetia was less surprised than disappointed by this

conduct of her mother's; but she was not apt to murmur, and she tried

to dismiss the subject from her thoughts.

It was with unfeigned delight that the kind-hearted Masham welcomed

under his own roof his two best and dearest friends. He had asked

nobody to meet them; it was settled that they were to be quite alone,

and to talk of nothing but Cherbury and Marringhurst. When they were

seated at table, the Bishop, who had been detained at the House of

Lords, and been rather hurried to be in time to receive his guests,

turned to his servant and inquired whether any one had called.

'Yes, my lord, Lord Cadurcis,' was the reply.

'Our old companion,' said the Bishop to Lady Annabel, with a

smile. 'He has called upon me twice, and I have on both occasions

unfortunately been absent.'

Lady Annabel merely bowed an assent to the Bishop's remark. Venetia

longed to speak, but found it impossible. 'What is it that represses

me?' she asked herself. 'Is there to be another forbidden subject

insensibly to arise between us? I must struggle against this

indefinable despotism that seems to pervade my life.'

'Have you met Lord Cadurcis, sir?' at length asked Venetia.

'Once; we resumed our acquaintance at a dinner party one day; but I

shall soon see a great deal of him, for he has just taken his seat. He

is of age, you know.'

'I hope he has come to years of discretion in every sense,' said Lady

Annabel; 'but I fear not.'

'Oh, my dear lady!' said the Bishop, 'he has become a great man; he is

our star. I assure you there is nobody in London talked of but Lord

Cadurcis. He asked me a great deal after you and Cherbury. He will be

delighted to see you.'

'I cannot say,' replied Lady Annabel, 'that the desire of meeting is

at all mutual. From all I hear, our connections and opinions are very

different, and I dare say our habits likewise.'

'My aunt lent us his new poem to-day,' said Venetia, boldly.

'Have you read it?' asked the Bishop.

'I am no admirer of modern poetry,' said Lady Annabel, somewhat

tartly.

'Poetry of any kind is not much in my way,' said the Bishop, 'but if

you like to read his poems, I will lend them to you, for he gave me a

copy; esteemed a great honour, I assure you.'

'Thank you, my lord,' said Lady Annabel, 'both Venetia and myself

are much engaged now; and I do not wish her to read while she is in

London. When we return to Cherbury she will have abundance of time, if

desirable.'

Both Venetia and her worthy host felt that the present subject of

conversation was not agreeable to Lady Annabel, and it was changed.

They fell upon more gracious topics, and in spite of this somewhat

sullen commencement the meeting was quite as delightful as they

anticipated. Lady Annabel particularly exerted herself to please, and,

as was invariably the case under such circumstances with this lady,

she was eminently successful; she apparently endeavoured, by her

remarkable kindness to her daughter, to atone for any unpleasant

feeling which her previous manner might for an instant have

occasioned. Venetia watched her beautiful and affectionate parent,

as Lady Annabel now dwelt with delight upon the remembrance of their

happy home, and now recurred to the anxiety she naturally felt about

her daughter's approaching presentation, with feelings of love and

admiration, which made her accuse herself for the recent rebellion of

her heart. She thought only of her mother's sorrows, and her devotion

to her child; and, grateful for the unexpected course of circumstances

which seemed to be leading every member of their former little society

to honour and happiness, she resolved to persist in that career of

duty and devotion to her mother, from which it seemed to her she had

never deviated for a moment but to experience sorrow, misfortune, and

remorse. Never did Venetia receive her mother's accustomed embrace

and blessing with more responsive tenderness and gratitude than

this night. She banished Cadurcis and his poems from her thoughts,

confident that, so long as her mother approved neither of her

continuing his acquaintance, nor perusing his writings, it was well

that the one should be a forgotten tie, and the other a sealed book.

CHAPTER VIII.

Among the intimate acquaintances of Lady Annabel's brother was the

nobleman who had been a minister during the American war, and who

had also been the guardian of Lord Cadurcis, of whom, indeed, he was

likewise a distant relative. He had called with his wife on Lady

Annabel, after meeting her and her daughter at her brother's, and had

cultivated her acquaintance with great kindness and assiduity, so

that Lady Annabel had found it impossible to refuse his invitation to

dinner.

This dinner occurred a few days after the visit of the Herberts to the

Bishop, and that excellent personage, her own family, and some others

equally distinguished, but all of the ministerial party, were invited

to meet her. Lady Annabel found herself placed at table between a

pompous courtier, who, being a gourmand, was not very prompt to

disturb his enjoyment by conversation, and a young man whom she found

very agreeable, and who at first, indeed, attracted her attention by

his resemblance to some face with which she felt she was familiar,

and yet which she was not successful in recalling. His manners were

remarkably frank and ingenuous, yet soft and refined. Without having

any peculiar brilliancy of expression, he was apt and fluent, and his

whole demeanour characterised by a gentle modesty that was highly

engaging. Apparently he had travelled a great deal, for he more than

once alluded to his experience of foreign countries; but this was

afterwards explained by Lady Annabel discovering, from an observation

he let fall, that he was a sailor. A passing question from an opposite

guest also told her that he was a member of parliament. While she was

rather anxiously wishing to know who he might be, and congratulating

herself that one in whose favour she was so much prepossessed should

be on the right side, their host saluted him from the top of the

table, and said, 'Captain Cadurcis, a glass of wine.'

The countenance was now explained. It was indeed Lord Cadurcis whom he

resembled, though his eyes were dark blue, and his hair light brown.

This then was that cousin who had been sent to sea to make his

fortune, and whom Lady Annabel had a faint recollection of poor Mrs.

Cadurcis once mentioning. George Cadurcis had not exactly made his

fortune, but he had distinguished himself in his profession, and

especially in Rodney's victory, and had fought his way up to the

command of a frigate. The frigate had recently been paid off, and he

had called to pay his respects to his noble relative with the hope of

obtaining his interest for a new command. The guardian of his

cousin, mortified with the conduct of his hopeful ward, was not very

favourably impressed towards any one who bore the name of Cadurcis;

yet George, with no pretence, had a winning honest manner that made

friends; his lordship took a fancy to him, and, as he could not at the

moment obtain him a ship, he did the next best thing for him in his

power; a borough was vacant, and he put him into parliament.

'Do you know,' said Lady Annabel to her neighbour, 'I have been

fancying all dinner time that we had met before; but I find it is that

you only resemble one with whom I was once acquainted.'

'My cousin!' said the Captain; 'he will be very mortified when I go

home, if I tell him your ladyship speaks of his acquaintance as one

that is past.'

'It is some years since we met,' said Lady Annabel, in a more reserved

tone.

'Plantagenet can never forget what he owes to you,' said Captain

Cadurcis. 'How often has he spoken to me of you and Miss Herbert! It

was only the other night; yes! not a week ago; that he made me sit up

with him all night, while he was telling stories of Cherbury: you see

I am quite familiar with the spot,' he added, smiling.

'You are very intimate with your cousin, I see,' said Lady Annabel.

'I live a great deal with him,' said George Cadurcis. 'You know we had

never met or communicated; and it was not Plantagenet's fault, I am

sure; for of all the generous, amiable, lovable beings, Cadurcis is

the best I ever met with in this world. Ever since we knew each other

he has been a brother to me; and though our politics and opinions are

so opposed, and we naturally live in such a different circle, he would

have insisted even upon my having apartments in his house; nor is it

possible for me to give you the slightest idea of the delicate and

unceasing kindness I experience from him. If we had lived together all

our lives, it would be impossible to be more united.'

This eulogium rather softened Lady Annabel's heart; she even observed,

'I always thought Lord Cadurcis naturally well disposed; I always

hoped he would turn out well; but I was afraid, from what I heard, he

was much changed. He shows, however, his sense and good feeling in

selecting you for his friend; for you are his natural one,' she added,

after a momentary pause.

'And then you know,' he continued, 'it is so purely kind of him; for

of course I am not fit to be a companion for Cadurcis, and perhaps, as

far as that, no one is. Of course we have not a thought in common. I

know nothing but what I have picked up in a rough life; and he, you

know, is the cleverest person that ever lived, at least I think so.'

Lady Annabel smiled.

'Well, he is very young,' she observed, 'much your junior, Captain

Cadurcis; and I hope he will yet prove a faithful steward of the great

gifts that God has given him.'

'I would stake all I hold dear,' said the Captain, with great

animation, 'that Cadurcis turns out well. He has such a good heart.

Ah! Lady Annabel, if he be now and then a little irregular, only think

of the temptations that assail him. Only one-and-twenty, his own

master, and all London at his feet. It is too much for any one's head.

But say or think what the world may, I know him better than they do;

and I know there is not a finer creature in existence. I hope his old

friends will not desert him,' added Captain Cadurcis, with a smile

which, seemed to deprecate the severity of Lady Annabel; 'for in spite

of all his fame and prosperity, perhaps, after all, this is the time

when he most needs them.'

'Very possibly,' said her ladyship rather dryly.

While the mother was engaged in this conversation with her neighbour

respecting her former interesting acquaintance, such was the fame of

Lord Cadurcis then in the metropolis, that he also formed the topic of

conversation at another part of the table, to which the daughter was

an attentive listener. The tone in which he was spoken of, however,

was of a very different character. While no one disputed his genius,

his principles, temper, and habits of life were submitted to the

severest scrutiny; and it was with blended feelings of interest and

astonishment that Venetia listened to the detail of wild opinions,

capricious conduct, and extravagant and eccentric behaviour ascribed

to the companion of her childhood, who had now become the spoiled

child of society. A shrewd gentleman, who had taken an extremely

active part in this discussion, inquired of Venetia, next to whom he

was seated, whether she had read his lordship's last poem. He was

extremely surprised when Venetia answered in the negative; but he

seized the opportunity of giving her an elaborate criticism on the

poetical genius of Cadurcis. 'As for his style,' said the critic, 'no

one can deny that is his own, and he will last by his style; as for

his philosophy, and all these wild opinions of his, they will pass

away, because they are not genuine, they are not his own, they are

borrowed. He will outwrite them; depend upon it, he will. The fact is,

as a friend of mine observed the other day, Herbert's writings have

turned his head. Of course you could know nothing about them, but

there are wonderful things in them, I can tell you that.'

'I believe it most sincerely,' said Venetia.

The critic stared at his neighbour. 'Hush!' said he, 'his wife and

daughter are here. We must not talk of these things. You know Lady

Annabel Herbert? There she is; a very fine woman too. And that is his

daughter there, I believe, that dark girl with a turned-up nose. I

cannot say she warrants the poetical address to her:

My precious pearl the false and glittering world

Has ne'er polluted with, its garish light!

She does not look much like a pearl, does she? She should keep in

solitude, eh?'

The ladies rose and relieved Venetia from her embarrassment.

After dinner Lady Annabel introduced George Cadurcis to her daughter;

and, seated by them both, he contrived without effort, and without the

slightest consciousness of success, to confirm the pleasing impression

in his favour which he had already made, and, when they parted, it was

even with a mutual wish that they might meet again.

CHAPTER IX.

It was the night after the drawing-room. Lord Cadurcis was at Brookes'

dining at midnight, having risen since only a few hours. Being a

malcontent, he had ceased to attend the Court, where his original

reception had been most gracious, which he had returned by some

factious votes, and a caustic lampoon.

A party of young men entered, from the Court Ball, which in those days

always terminated at midnight, whence the guests generally proceeded

to Ranelagh; one or two of them seated themselves at the table at

which Cadurcis was sitting. They were full of a new beauty who had

been presented. Their violent and even extravagant encomiums excited

his curiosity. Such a creature had never been seen, she was peerless,

the most radiant of acknowledged charms had been dimmed before her.

Their Majesties had accorded to her the most marked reception. A

Prince of the blood had honoured her with his hand. Then they began to

expatiate with fresh enthusiasm on her unparalleled loveliness.

'O Cadurcis,' said a young noble, who was one of his extreme admirers,

'she is the only creature I ever beheld worthy of being one of your

heroines.'

'Whom are you talking about?' asked Cadurcis in a rather listless

tone.

'The new beauty, of course.'

'And who may she be?'

'Miss Herbert, to be sure. Who speaks or thinks of any one else?'

'What, Ve----, I mean Miss Herbert?' exclaimed Cadurcis, with no

little energy.

'Yes. Do you know her?'

'Do you mean to say--' and Cadurcis stopped and rose from the table,

and joined the party round the fire. 'What Miss Herbert is it?' he

added, after a short pause.

'Why _the_ Miss Herbert; Herbert's daughter, to be sure. She was

presented to-day by her mother.

'Lady Annabel?'

'The same.'

'Presented to-day!' said Cadurcis audibly, yet speaking as it were to

himself. 'Presented to-day! Presented! How strange!'

'So every one thinks; one of the strangest things that ever happened,'

remarked a bystander.

'And I did not even know they were in town,' continued Cadurcis, for,

from his irregular hours, he had not seen his cousin since the party

of yesterday. He began walking up and down the room, muttering,

'Masham, Weymouth, London, presented at Court, and I know nothing. How

life changes! Venetia at Court, my Venetia!' Then turning round and

addressing the young nobleman who had first spoken to him, he asked

'if the ball were over.'

'Yes; all the world are going to Ranelagh. Are you inclined to take a

round?'

'I have a strange fancy,' said Cadurcis, 'and if you will go with me,

I will take you in my vis-à-vis. It is here.'

This was an irresistible invitation, and in a few minutes the

companions were on their way; Cadurcis, apparently with no peculiar

interest in the subject, leading the conversation very artfully to

the presentation of Miss Herbert. His friend was heartily inclined to

gratify his curiosity. He gave him ample details of Miss Herbert's

person: even of her costume, and the sensation both produced; how she

was presented by her mother, who, after so long an estrangement from

the world, scarcely excited less impression, and the remarkable

cordiality with which both mother and daughter were greeted by the

sovereign and his royal consort.

The two young noblemen found Ranelagh crowded, but the presence of

Lord Cadurcis occasioned a sensation the moment he was recognised.

Everywhere the whisper went round, and many parties crowded near to

catch a glimpse of the hero of the day. 'Which is he? That fair,

tall young man? No, the other to be sure. Is it really he? How

distinguished! How melancholy! Quite the poet. Do you think he is

really so unhappy as he looks? I would sooner see him than the King

and Queen. He seems very young, but then he has seen so much of the

world! Fine eyes, beautiful hair! I wonder who is his friend? How

proud he must be! Who is that lady he bowed to? That is the Duke

of ---- speaking to him,' Such were the remarks that might be caught in

the vicinity of Lord Cadurcis as he took his round, gazed at by the

assembled crowd, of whom many knew him only by fame, for the charm of

Ranelagh was that it was rather a popular than a merely fashionable

assembly. Society at large blended with the Court, which maintained

and renewed its influence by being witnessed under the most graceful

auspices. The personal authority of the aristocracy has decreased with

the disappearance of Ranelagh and similar places of amusement, where

rank was not exclusive, and luxury by the gratification it occasioned

others seemed robbed of half its selfism.

In his second round, Lord Cadurcis recognised the approach of the

Herberts. They formed the portion of a large party. Lady Annabel was

leaning on her brother, whom Cadurcis knew by sight; Venetia was at

the side of her aunt, and several gentlemen were hovering about them;

among them, to his surprise, his cousin, George Cadurcis, in his

uniform, for he had been to Court and to the Court Ball. Venetia was

talking with animation. She was in her Court dress and in powder. Her

appearance was strange to him. He could scarcely recognise the

friend of his childhood; but without any doubt in all that assembly,

unrivalled in the whole world for beauty, grace, and splendour, she

was without a parallel; a cynosure on which all eyes were fixed.

So occupied were the ladies of the Herbert party by the conversation

of their numerous and brilliant attendants, that the approach of any

one else but Lord Cadurcis might have been unnoticed by them, but

a hundred tongues before he drew nigh had prepared Venetia for his

appearance. She was indeed most anxious to behold him, and though she

was aware that her heart fluttered not slightly as the moment was at

hand, she commanded her gaze, and her eyes met his, although she was

doubtful whether he might choose or care to recognise her. He bowed

almost to the ground; and when Venetia had raised her responsive head

he had passed by.

'Why, Cadurcis, you know Miss Herbert?' said his friend in a tone of

some astonishment.

'Well; but it is a long time since I have seen her.'

'Is she not beautiful?'

'I never doubted on that subject; I tell you, Scrope, we must contrive

to join her party. I wish we had some of our friends among them. Here

comes the Monteagle; aid me to escape her.'

The most fascinating smile failed in arresting the progress of

Cadurcis; fortunately, the lady was the centre of a brilliant band;

all that he had to do, therefore, was boldly to proceed.

'Do you think my cousin is altered since you knew him?' inquired

George Cadurcis of Venetia.

'I scarcely had time to observe him,' she replied.

'I wish you would let me bring him to you. He did not know until this

moment you were in town. I have not seen him since we met yesterday.'

'Oh, no,' said Venetia. 'Do not disturb him.'

In time, however, Lord Cadurcis was again in sight; and now without

any hesitation he stopped, and falling into the line by Miss Herbert,

he addressed her: 'I am proud of being remembered by Miss Herbert,' he

said.

'I am most happy to meet you,' replied Venetia, with unaffected

sincerity.

'And Lady Annabel, I have not been able to catch her eye: is she quite

well? I was ignorant that you were in London until I heard of your

triumph this night.'

The Countess whispered her niece, and Venetia accordingly presented

Lord Cadurcis to her aunt. This was a most gratifying circumstance to

him. He was anxious, by some means or other, to effect his entrance

into her circle; and he had an irresistible suspicion that Lady

Annabel no longer looked upon him with eyes of favour. So he resolved

to enlist the aunt as his friend. Few persons could be more winning

than Cadurcis, when he willed it; and every attempt to please from one

whom all emulated to gratify and honour, was sure to be successful.

The Countess, who, in spite of politics, was a secret votary of his,

was quite prepared to be enchanted. She congratulated herself

on forming, as she had long wished, an acquaintance with one so

celebrated. She longed to pass Lady Monteagle in triumph. Cadurcis

improved his opportunity to the utmost. It was impossible for any

one to be more engaging; lively, yet at the same time gentle, and

deferential with all his originality. He spoke, indeed, more to the

aunt than to Venetia, but when he addressed the latter, there was

a melting, almost a mournful tenderness in his tones, that alike

affected her heart and charmed her imagination. Nor could she be

insensible to the gratification she experienced as she witnessed,

every instant, the emotion his presence excited among the passers-by,

and of which Cadurcis himself seemed so properly and so utterly

unconscious. And this was Plantagenet!

Lord Cadurcis spoke of his cousin, who, on his joining the party, had

assisted the arrangement by moving to the other side; and he spoke of

him with a regard which pleased Venetia, though Cadurcis envied him

his good fortune in having the advantage of a prior acquaintance

with Miss Herbert in town; 'but then we are old acquaintances in the

country,' he added, half in a playful, half in a melancholy tone, 'are

we not?'

'It is a long time that we have known each other, and it is a long

time since we have met,' replied Venetia.

'A delicate reproach,' said Cadurcis; 'but perhaps rather my

misfortune than my fault. My thoughts have been often, I might say

ever, at Cherbury.'

'And the abbey; have you forgotten the abbey?'

'I have never been near it since a morning you perhaps remember,' said

his lordship in a low voice. 'Ah! Miss Herbert,' he continued, with

a sigh, 'I was young then; I have lived to change many opinions, and

some of which you then disapproved.'

The party stopped at a box just vacant, and in which the ladies seated

themselves while their carriages were inquired for. Lord Cadurcis,

with a rather faltering heart, went up to pay his respects to

Venetia's mother. Lady Annabel received him with a courtesy, that

however was scarcely cordial, but the Countess instantly presented

him to her husband with an unction which a little astonished her

sister-in-law. Then a whisper, but unobserved, passed between the Earl

and his lady, and in a minute Lord Cadurcis had been invited to dine

with them on the next day, and meet his old friends from the country.

Cadurcis was previously engaged, but hesitated not a moment in

accepting the invitation. The Monteagle party now passed by; the

lady looked a little surprised at the company in which she found her

favourite, and not a little mortified by his neglect. What business

had Cadurcis to be speaking to that Miss Herbert? Was it not enough

that the whole day not another name had scarcely crossed her ear, but

the night must even witness the conquest of Lord Cadurcis by the

new beauty? It was such bad ton, it was so unlike him, it was so

underbred, for a person of his position immediately to bow before the

new idol of the hour, and a Tory girl too! It was the last thing

she could have expected from him. She should, on the contrary,

have thought that the universal admiration which this Miss Herbert

commanded, would have been exactly the reason why a man like Cadurcis

would have seemed almost unconscious of her existence. She determined

to remonstrate with him; and she was sure of a speedy opportunity, for

he was to dine with her on the morrow.

CHAPTER X.

Notwithstanding Lady Annabel's reserved demeanour, Lord Cadurcis,

supported by the presence of his cousin, whom he had discovered to be

a favourite of that lady, ventured to call upon her the next day, but

she was out. They were to meet, however, at dinner, where Cadurcis

determined to omit no opportunity to propitiate her. The Countess had

a great deal of tact, and she contrived to make up a party to receive

him, in which there were several of his friends, among them his cousin

and the Bishop of----, and no strangers who were not, like herself,

his great admirers; but if she had known more, she need not have given

herself this trouble, for there was a charm among her guests of which

she was ignorant, and Cadurcis went determined to please and to be

pleased.

At dinner he was seated next to Lady Annabel, and it was impossible

for any person to be more deferential, soft, and insinuating. He spoke

of old days with emotion which he did not attempt to suppress; he

alluded to the present with infinite delicacy. But it was very

difficult to make way. Lady Annabel was courteous, but she was

reserved. His lively reminiscences elicited from her no corresponding

sentiment; and no art would induce her to dwell upon the present. If

she only would have condescended to compliment him, it would have

given him an opportunity of expressing his distaste of the life which

he now led, and a description of the only life which he wished to

lead; but Lady Annabel studiously avoided affording him any opening

of the kind. She treated him like a stranger. She impressed upon him

without effort that she would only consider him an acquaintance. How

Cadurcis, satiated with the incense of the whole world, sighed for one

single congratulation from Lady Annabel! Nothing could move her.

'I was so surprised to meet you last night,' at length he again

observed. 'I have made so many inquiries after you. Our dear friend

the Bishop was, I fear, almost wearied with my inquiries after

Cherbury. I know not how it was, I felt quite a pang when I heard that

you had left it, and that all these years, when I have been conjuring

up so many visions of what was passing under that dear roof, you were

at Weymouth.'

'Yes. We were at Weymouth some time.'

'But do not you long to see Cherbury again? I cannot tell you how

I pant for it. For my part, I have seen the world, and I have seen

enough of it. After all, the end of all our exertions is to be happy

at home; that is the end of everything; don't you think so?'

'A happy home is certainly a great blessing,' replied Lady Annabel;

'and a rare one.'

'But why should it be rare?' inquired Lord Cadurcis.

'It is our own fault,' said Lady Annabel; 'our vanity drives us from

our hearths.'

'But we soon return again, and calm and cooled. For my part, I have no

object in life but to settle down at the old abbey, and never to quit

again our woods. But I shall lead a dull life without my neighbours,'

he added, with a smile, and in a tone half-coaxing.

'I suppose you never see Lord ---- now?' said Lady Annabel, mentioning

his late guardian. There was, as Cadurcis fancied, some sarcasm in the

question, though not in the tone in which it was asked.

'No, I never see him,' his lordship answered firmly; 'we differ in our

opinions, and I differ from him with regret; but I differ from a sense

of duty, and therefore I have no alternative.'

'The claims of duty are of course paramount,' observed Lady Annabel.

'You know my cousin?' said Cadurcis, to turn the conversation.

'Yes, and I like him much; he appears to be a sensible, amiable

person, of excellent principles.'

'I am not bound to admire George's principles,' said Lord

Cadurcis, gaily; 'but I respect them, because I know that they are

conscientious. I love George; he is my only relation, and he is my

friend.'

'I trust he will always be your friend, for I think you will then, at

least, know one person on whom you can depend.'

'I believe it. The friendships of the world are wind.'

'I am surprised to hear you say so,' said Lady Annabel.

'Why, Lady Annabel?'

'You have so many friends.'

Lord Cadurcis smiled. 'I wish,' he said, after a little hesitation,

'if only for "Auld lang syne," I might include Lady Annabel Herbert

among them.'

'I do not think there is any basis for friendship between us, my

lord,' she said, very dryly.

'The past must ever be with me,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'and I should

have thought a sure and solid one.'

'Our opinions on all subjects are so adverse, that I must believe that

there could be no great sympathy in our feelings.'

'My feelings are beyond my control,' he replied; 'they are, and must

ever be, totally independent of my opinions.'

Lady Annabel did not reply. His lordship felt baffled, but he was

resolved to make one more effort.

'Do you know,' he said, 'I can scarcely believe myself in London

to-day? To be sitting next to you, to see Miss Herbert, to hear Dr.

Masham's voice. Oh! does it not recall Cherbury, or Marringhurst, or

that day at Cadurcis, when you were so good as to smile over my rough

repast? Ah! Lady Annabel, those days were happy! those were feelings

that can never die! All the glitter and hubbub of the world can never

make me forget them, can never make you, I hope, Lady Annabel, quite

recall them with an effort. We were friends then: let us be friends

now.'

'I am too old to cultivate new friendships,' said Lady Annabel; 'and

if we are to be friends, Lord Cadurcis, I am sorry to say that, after

the interval that has occurred since we last parted, we should have to

begin again.'

'It is a long time,' said Cadurcis, mournfully, 'a very long time, and

one, in spite of what the world may think, to which I cannot look back

with any self-congratulation. I wished three years ago never to leave

Cadurcis again. Indeed I did; and indeed it was not my fault that I

quitted it.'

'It was no one's fault, I hope. Whatever the cause may have been, I

have ever remained quite ignorant of it. I wished, and wish, to

remain ignorant of it. I, for one, have ever considered it the wise

dispensation of a merciful Providence.'