Cadurcis ground his teeth; a dark look came over him which, when

once it rose on his brow, was with difficulty dispelled; and for the

remainder of the dinner he continued silent and gloomy.

He was, however, not unobserved by Venetia. She had watched his

evident attempts to conciliate her mother with lively interest; she

had witnessed their failure with sincere sorrow. In spite of that

stormy interview, the results of which, in his hasty departure, and

the severance of their acquaintance, she had often regretted, she had

always retained for him the greatest affection. During these three

years he had still, in her inmost heart, remained her own Plantagenet,

her adopted brother, whom she loved, and in whose welfare her feelings

were deeply involved. The mysterious circumstances of her birth, and

the discoveries to which they had led, had filled her mind with a

fanciful picture of human nature, over which she had long brooded. A

great poet had become her ideal of a man. Sometimes she had sighed,

when musing over her father and Plantagenet on the solitary seashore

at Weymouth, that Cadurcis, instead of being the merely amiable, and

somewhat narrow-minded being that she supposed, had not been invested

with those brilliant and commanding qualities which she felt could

alone master her esteem. Often had she, in those abstracted hours,

played with her imagination in combining the genius of her father with

the soft heart of that friend to whom she was so deeply attached. She

had wished, in her reveries, that Cadurcis might have been a great

man; that he might have existed in an atmosphere of glory amid the

plaudits and admiration of his race; and that then he might have

turned from all that fame, so dear to them both, to the heart which

could alone sympathise with the native simplicity of his childhood.

The ladies withdrew. The Bishop and another of the guests joined them

after a short interval. The rest remained below, and drank their wine

with the freedom not unusual in those days, Lord Cadurcis among them,

although it was not his habit. But he was not convivial, though he

never passed the bottle untouched. He was in one of those dark humours

of which there was a latent spring in his nature, but which in old

days had been kept in check by his simple life, his inexperienced

mind, and the general kindness that greeted him, and which nothing but

the caprice and perversity of his mother could occasionally develope.

But since the great revolution in his position, since circumstances

had made him alike acquainted with his nature, and had brought all

society to acknowledge its superiority; since he had gained and felt

his irresistible power, and had found all the world, and all the

glory of it, at his feet, these moods had become more frequent. The

slightest reaction in the self-complacency that was almost unceasingly

stimulated by the applause of applauded men and the love of the

loveliest women, instantly took the shape and found refuge in the

immediate form of the darkest spleen, generally, indeed, brooding in

silence, and, if speaking, expressing itself only in sarcasm. Cadurcis

was indeed, as we have already described him, the spoiled child of

society; a froward and petted darling, not always to be conciliated by

kindness, but furious when neglected or controlled. He was habituated

to triumph; it had been his lot to come, to see, and to conquer; even

the procrastination of certain success was intolerable to him; his

energetic volition could not endure a check. To Lady Annabel Herbert,

indeed, he was not exactly what he was to others; there was a spell

in old associations from which he unconsciously could not emancipate

himself, and from which it was his opinion he honoured her in not

desiring to be free. He had his reasons for wishing to regain his old,

his natural influence, over her heart; he did not doubt for an instant

that, if Cadurcis sued, success must follow the condescending effort.

He had sued, and he had been met with coldness, almost with disdain.

He had addressed her in those terms of tenderness which experience

had led him to believe were irresistible, yet to which he seldom had

recourse, for hitherto he had not been under the degrading necessity

of courting. He had dwelt with fondness on the insignificant past,

because it was connected with her; he had regretted, or affected

even to despise, the glorious present, because it seemed, for some

indefinite cause, to have estranged him from her hearth. Yes! he had

humbled himself before her; he had thrown with disdain at her feet all

that dazzling fame and expanding glory which seemed his peculiar and

increasing privilege. He had delicately conveyed to her that even

these would be sacrificed, not only without a sigh, but with cheerful

delight, to find himself once more living, as of old, in the limited

world of her social affections. Three years ago he had been rejected

by the daughter, because he was an undistinguished youth. Now the

mother recoiled from his fame. And who was this woman? The same cold,

stern heart that had alienated the gifted Herbert; the same narrow,

rigid mind that had repudiated ties that every other woman in the

world would have gloried to cherish and acknowledge. And with her he

had passed his prejudiced youth, and fancied, like an idiot, that he

had found sympathy! Yes, so long as he was a slave, a mechanical,

submissive slave, bowing his mind to all the traditionary bigotry

which she adored, never daring to form an opinion for himself,

worshipping her idol, custom, and labouring by habitual hypocrisy to

perpetuate the delusions of all around her!

In the meantime, while Lord Cadurcis was chewing the cud of these

bitter feelings, we will take the opportunity of explaining the

immediate cause of Lady Annabel's frigid reception of his friendly

advances. All that she had heard of Cadurcis, all the information she

had within these few days so rapidly acquired of his character and

conduct, were indeed not calculated to dispose her to witness the

renewal of their intimacy with feelings of remarkable satisfaction.

But this morning she had read his poem, the poem that all London was

talking of, and she had read it with horror. She looked upon Cadurcis

as a lost man. With her, indeed, since her marriage, an imaginative

mind had become an object of terror; but there were some peculiarities

in the tone of Cadurcis' genius, which magnified to excess her general

apprehension on this head. She traced, in every line, the evidences

of a raging vanity, which she was convinced must prompt its owner

to sacrifice, on all occasions, every feeling of duty to its

gratification. Amid all the fervour of rebellious passions, and the

violence of a wayward mind, a sentiment of profound egotism appeared

to her impressed on every page she perused. Great as might have been

the original errors of Herbert, awful as in her estimation were the

crimes to which they had led him, they might in the first instance be

traced rather to a perverted view of society than of himself. But self

was the idol of Cadurcis; self distorted into a phantom that seemed

to Lady Annabel pregnant not only with terrible crimes, but with the

basest and most humiliating vices. The certain degradation which in

the instance of her husband had been the consequence of a bad system,

would, in her opinion, in the case of Cadurcis, be the result of a

bad nature; and when she called to mind that there had once been a

probability that this individual might have become the husband of her

Venetia, her child whom it had been the sole purpose of her life to

save from the misery of which she herself had been the victim; that

she had even dwelt on the idea with complacency, encouraged its

progress, regretted its abrupt termination, but consoled herself by

the flattering hope that time, with even more favourable auspices,

would mature it into fulfilment; she trembled, and turned pale.

It was to the Bishop that, after dinner, Lady Annabel expressed some

of the feelings which the reappearance of Cadurcis had occasioned her.

'I see nothing but misery for his future,' she exclaimed; 'I tremble

for him when he addresses me. In spite of the glittering surface on

which he now floats, I foresee only a career of violence, degradation,

and remorse.'

'He is a problem difficult to solve,' replied Masham; 'but there are

elements not only in his character, but his career, so different from

those of the person of whom we were speaking, that I am not inclined

at once to admit, that the result must necessarily be the same.'

'I see none,' replied Lady Annabel; 'at least none of sufficient

influence to work any material change.'

'What think you of his success?' replied Masham. 'Cadurcis is

evidently proud of it. With all his affected scorn of the world, he

is the slave of society. He may pique the feelings of mankind, but I

doubt whether he will outrage them.'

'He is on such a dizzy eminence,' replied Lady Annabel, 'that I do not

believe he is capable of calculating so finely. He does not believe, I

am sure, in the possibility of resistance. His vanity will tempt him

onwards.'

'Not to persecution,' said Masham. 'Now, my opinion of Cadurcis is,

that his egotism, or selfism, or whatever you may style it, will

ultimately preserve him from any very fatal, from any irrecoverable

excesses. He is of the world, worldly. All his works, all his conduct,

tend only to astonish mankind. He is not prompted by any visionary

ideas of ameliorating his species. The instinct of self-preservation

will serve him as ballast.'

'We shall see,' said Lady Annabel; 'for myself, whatever may be his

end, I feel assured that great and disgraceful vicissitudes are in

store for him.'

'It is strange after what, in comparison with such extraordinary

changes, must be esteemed so brief an interval,' observed Masham, with

a smile, 'to witness such a revolution in his position. I often think

to myself, can this indeed be our little Plantagenet?'

'It is awful!' said Lady Annabel; 'much more than strange. For myself,

when I recall certain indications of his feelings when he was last at

Cadurcis, and think for a moment of the results to which they might

have led, I shiver; I assure you, my dear lord, I tremble from head to

foot. And I encouraged him! I smiled with fondness on his feelings! I

thought I was securing the peaceful happiness of my child! What can we

trust to in this world! It is too dreadful to dwell upon! It must have

been an interposition of Providence that Venetia escaped.'

'Dear little Venetia,' exclaimed the good Bishop; 'for I believe I

shall call her little Venetia to the day of my death. How well she

looks to-night! Her aunt is, I think, very fond of her! See!'

'Yes, it pleases me,' said Lady Annabel; but I do wish my sister was

not such an admirer of Lord Cadurcis' poems. You cannot conceive how

uneasy it makes me. I am quite annoyed that he was asked here to-day.

Why ask him?'

'Oh! there is no harm,' said Masham; 'you must forget the past. By all

accounts, Cadurcis is not a marrying man. Indeed, as I understood,

marriage with him is at present quite out of the question. And as for

Venetia, she rejected him before, and she will, if necessary, reject

him again. He has been a brother to her, and after that he can be no

more. Girls never fall in love with those with whom they are bred up.'

'I hope, I believe there is no occasion for apprehension,' replied

Lady Annabel; 'indeed, it has scarcely entered my head. The very

charms he once admired in Venetia can have no sway over him, as

I should think, now. I should believe him as little capable of

appreciating Venetia now, as he was when last at Cherbury, of

anticipating the change in his own character.'

'You mean opinions, my dear lady, for characters never change. Believe

me, Cadurcis is radically the same as in old days. Circumstances have

only developed his latent predisposition.'

'Not changed, my dear lord! what, that innocent, sweet-tempered,

docile child--'

'Hush! here he comes.'

The Earl and his guests entered the room; a circle was formed round

Lady Annabel; some evening visitors arrived; there was singing. It had

not been the intention of Lord Cadurcis to return to the drawing-room

after his rebuff by Lady Annabel; he had meditated making his peace at

Monteagle House; but when the moment of his projected departure had

arrived, he could not resist the temptation of again seeing Venetia.

He entered the room last, and some moments after his companions. Lady

Annabel, who watched the general entrance, concluded he had gone, and

her attention was now fully engaged. Lord Cadurcis remained at the

end of the room alone, apparently abstracted, and looking far from

amiable; but his eye, in reality, was watching Venetia. Suddenly her

aunt approached her, and invited the lady who was conversing with Miss

Herbert to sing; Lord Cadurcis immediately advanced, and took her

seat. Venetia was surprised that for the first time in her life

with Plantagenet she felt embarrassed. She had met his look when he

approached her, and had welcomed, or, at least, intended to welcome

him with a smile, but she was at a loss for words; she was haunted

with the recollection of her mother's behaviour to him at dinner, and

she looked down on the ground, far from being at ease.

'Venetia!' said Lord Cadurcis.

She started.

'We are alone,' he said; 'let me call you Venetia when we are alone.'

She did not, she could not reply; she felt confused; the blood rose to

her cheek.

'How changed is everything!' continued Cadurcis. 'To think the day

should ever arrive when I should have to beg your permission to call

you Venetia!'

She looked up; she met his glance. It was mournful; nay, his eyes were

suffused with tears. She saw at her side the gentle and melancholy

Plantagenet of her childhood.

'I cannot speak; I am agitated at meeting you,' she said with her

native frankness. 'It is so long since we have been alone; and, as you

say, all is so changed.'

'But are you changed, Venetia?' he said in a voice of emotion; 'for

all other change is nothing.'

'I meet you with pleasure,' she replied; 'I hear of your fame with

pride. You cannot suppose that it is possible I should cease to be

interested in your welfare.'

'Your mother does not meet me with pleasure; she hears of nothing

that has occurred to me with pride; your mother has ceased to take an

interest in my welfare; and why should you be unchanged?'

'You mistake my mother.'

'No, no,' replied Cadurcis, shaking his head, 'I have read her inmost

soul to-day. Your mother hates me; me, whom she once styled her son.

She was a mother once to me, and you were my sister. If I have lost

her heart, why have I not lost yours?'

'My heart, if you care for it, is unchanged,' said Venetia.

'O Venetia, whatever you may think, I never wanted the solace of a

sister's love more than I do at this moment.'

'I pledged my affection to you when we were children,' replied

Venetia; 'you have done nothing to forfeit it, and it is yours still.'

'When we were children,' said Cadurcis, musingly; 'when we were

innocent; when we were happy. You, at least, are innocent still; are

you happy, Venetia?'

'Life has brought sorrows even to me, Plantagenet.'

The blood deserted his heart when she called him Plantagenet; he

breathed with difficulty.

'When I last returned to Cherbury,' he said, 'you told me you were

changed, Venetia; you revealed to me on another occasion the secret

cause of your affliction. I was a boy then, a foolish ignorant boy.

Instead of sympathising with your heartfelt anxiety, my silly vanity

was offended by feelings I should have shared, and soothed, and

honoured. Ah, Venetia! well had it been for one of us that I had

conducted myself more kindly, more wisely.'

'Nay, Plantagenet, believe me, I remember that interview only to

regret it. The recollection of it has always occasioned me great

grief. We were both to blame; but we were both children then. We must

pardon each other's faults.'

'You will hear, that is, if you care to listen, Venetia, much of my

conduct and opinions,' continued Lord Cadurcis, 'that may induce you

to believe me headstrong and capricious. Perhaps I am less of both in

all things than the world imagines. But of this be certain, that my

feelings towards you have never changed, whatever you may permit them

to be; and if some of my boyish judgments have, as was but natural,

undergone some transformation, be you, my sweet friend, in some degree

consoled for the inconsistency, since I have at length learned duly to

appreciate one of whom we then alike knew little, but whom a natural

inspiration taught you, at least, justly to appreciate: I need not say

I mean the illustrious father of your being.'

Venetia could not restrain her tears; she endeavoured to conceal her

agitated countenance behind the fan with which she was fortunately

provided.

'To me a forbidden subject,' said Venetia, 'at least with them I could

alone converse upon it, but one that my mind never deserts.'

'O Venetia!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis with a sigh, 'would we were both

with him!'

'A wild thought,' she murmured, 'and one I must not dwell upon.'

'We shall meet, I hope,' said Lord Cadurcis; 'we must meet, meet

often. I called upon your mother to-day, fruitlessly. You must attempt

to conciliate her. Why should we be parted? We, at least, are friends,

and more than friends. I cannot exist unless we meet, and meet with

the frankness of old days.'

'I think you mistake mamma; I think you may, indeed. Remember how

lately she has met you, and after how long an interval! A little time,

and she will resume her former feelings, and believe that you have

never forfeited yours. Besides, we have friends, mutual friends. My

aunt admires you, and here I naturally must be a great deal. And the

Bishop, he still loves you; that I am sure he does: and your cousin,

mamma likes your cousin. I am sure if you can manage only to be

patient, if you will only attempt to conciliate a little, all will be

as before. Remember, too, how changed your position is,' Venetia added

with a smile; 'you allow me to forget you are a great man, but mamma

is naturally restrained by all this wonderful revolution. When she

finds that you really are the Lord Cadurcis whom she knew such a very

little boy, the Lord Cadurcis who, without her aid, would never have

been able even to write his fine poems, oh! she must love you again.

How can she help it?'

Cadurcis smiled. 'We shall see,' he said. 'In the meantime do not you

desert me, Venetia.'

'That is impossible,' she replied; 'the happiest of my days have been

passed with you. You remember the inscription on the jewel? I shall

keep to my vows.'

'That was a very good inscription so far as it went,' said Cadurcis;

and then, as if a little alarmed at his temerity, he changed the

subject.

'Do you know,' said Venetia, after a pause, 'I am treating you all

this time as a poet, merely in deference to public opinion. Not a line

have I been permitted to read; but I am resolved to rebel, and you

must arrange it all.'

'Ah!' said the enraptured Cadurcis; 'this is fame!'

At this moment the Countess approached them, and told Venetia that

her mother wished to speak to her. Lady Annabel had discovered the

tête-à-tête, and resolved instantly to terminate it. Lord Cadurcis,

however, who was quick as lightning, read all that was necessary in

Venetia's look. Instead of instantly retiring, he remained some little

time longer, talked to the Countess, who was perfectly enchanted with

him, even sauntered up to the singers, and complimented them, and did

not make his bow until he had convinced at least the mistress of the

mansion, if not her sister-in-law, that it was not Venetia Herbert who

was his principal attraction in this agreeable society.

CHAPTER XI.

The moment he had quitted Venetia, Lord Cadurcis returned home. He

could not endure the usual routine of gaiety after her society; and

his coachman, often waiting until five o'clock in the morning at

Monteagle House, could scarcely assure himself of his good fortune

in this exception to his accustomed trial of patience. The vis-à-vis

stopped, and Lord Cadurcis bounded out with a light step and a lighter

heart. His table was covered with letters. The first one that caught

his eye was a missive from Lady Monteagle. Cadurcis seized it like a

wild animal darting on its prey, tore it in half without opening it,

and, grasping the poker, crammed it with great energy into the fire.

This exploit being achieved, Cadurcis began walking up and down the

room; and indeed he paced it for nearly a couple of hours in a deep

reverie, and evidently under a considerable degree of excitement, for

his gestures were violent, and his voice often audible. At length,

about an hour after midnight, he rang for his valet, tore off his

cravat, and hurled it to one corner of the apartment, called for his

robe de chambre, soda water, and more lights, seated himself, and

began pouring forth, faster almost than his pen could trace the words,

the poem that he had been meditating ever since he had quitted the

roof where he had met Venetia. She had expressed a wish to read his

poems; he had resolved instantly to compose one for her solitary

perusal Thus he relieved his heart:

I.

Within a cloistered pile, whose Gothic towers

Rose by the margin of a sedgy lake,

Embosomed in a valley of green bowers,

And girt by many a grove and ferny brake

Loved by the antlered deer, a tender youth

Whom Time to childhood's gentle sway of love

Still spared; yet innocent as is the dove,

Nor mounded yet by Care's relentless tooth;

Stood musing, of that fair antique domain

The orphan lord! And yet, no childish thought

With wayward purpose holds its transient reign

In his young mind, with deeper feelings fraught;

Then mystery all to him, and yet a dream,

That Time has touched with its revealing beam.

II.

There came a maiden to that lonely boy,

And like to him as is the morn to night;

Her sunny face a very type of joy,

And with her soul's unclouded lustre bright.

Still scantier summers had her brow illumed

Than that on which she threw a witching smile,

Unconscious of the spell that could beguile

His being of the burthen it was doomed

By his ancestral blood to bear: a spirit,

Rife with desponding thoughts and fancies drear,

A moody soul that men sometimes inherit,

And worse than all the woes the world may bear.

But when he met that maiden's dazzling eye,

He bade each gloomy image baffled fly.

III.

Amid the shady woods and sunny lawns

The maiden and the youth now wander, gay

As the bright birds, and happy as the fawns,

Their sportive rivals, that around them play;

Their light hands linked in love, the golden hours

Unconscious fly, while thus they graceful roam,

And careless ever till the voice of home

Recalled them from their sunshine find their flowers;

For then they parted: to his lonely pile

The orphan-chief, for though his woe to lull,

The maiden called him brother, her fond smile

Gladdened another hearth, while his was dull

Yet as they parted, she reproved his sadness,

And for his sake she gaily whispered gladness.

IV.

She was the daughter of a noble race,

That beauteous girl, and yet she owed her name

To one who needs no herald's skill to trace

His blazoned lineage, for his lofty fame

Lives in the mouth of men, and distant climes

Re-echo his wide glory; where the brave

Are honoured, where 'tis noble deemed to save

A prostrate nation, and for future times

Work with a high devotion, that no taunt,

Or ribald lie, or zealot's eager curse,

Or the short-sighted world's neglect can daunt,

That name is worshipped! His immortal verse

Blends with his god-like deeds, a double spell

To bind the coming age he loved too well!

V.

For, from his ancient home, a scatterling,

They drove him forth, unconscious of their prize,

And branded as a vile unhallowed thing,

The man who struggled only to be wise.

And even his hearth rebelled, the duteous wife,

Whose bosom well might soothe in that dark hour,

Swelled with her gentle force the world's harsh power,

And aimed her dart at his devoted life.

That struck; the rest his mighty soul might scorn,

But when his household gods averted stood,

'Twas the last pang that cannot well be borne

When tortured e'en to torpor: his heart's blood

Flowed to the unseen blow: then forth he went,

And gloried in his ruthless banishment.

VI.

A new-born pledge of love within his home,

His alien home, the exiled father left;

And when, like Cain, he wandered forth to roam,

A Cain without his solace, all bereft,

Stole down his pallid cheek the scalding tear,

To think a stranger to his tender love

His child must grow, untroubled where might rove

His restless life, or taught perchance to fear

Her father's name, and bred in sullen hate,

Shrink from his image. Thus the gentle maid,

Who with her smiles had soothed an orphan's fate,

Had felt an orphan's pang; yet undismayed,

Though taught to deem her sire the child of shame,

She clung with instinct to that reverent name!

VII.

Time flew; the boy became a man; no more

His shadow falls upon his cloistered hall,

But to a stirring world he learn'd to pour

The passion of his being, skilled to call

From the deep caverns of his musing thought

Shadows to which they bowed, and on their mind

To stamp the image of his own; the wind,

Though all unseen, with force or odour fraught,

Can sway mankind, and thus a poet's voice,

Now touched with sweetness, now inflamed with rage,

Though breath, can make us grieve and then rejoice:

Such is the spell of his creative page,

That blends with all our moods; and thoughts can yield

That all have felt, and yet till then were sealed.

VIII.

The lute is sounding in a chamber bright

With a high festival; on every side,

Soft in the gleamy blaze of mellowed light,

Fair women smile, and dancers graceful glide;

And words still sweeter than a serenade

Are breathed with guarded voice and speaking eyes,

By joyous hearts in spite of all their sighs;

But byegone fantasies that ne'er can fade

Retain the pensive spirit of the youth;

Reclined against a column he surveys

His laughing compeers with a glance, in sooth,

Careless of all their mirth: for other days

Enchain him with their vision, the bright hours

Passed with the maiden in their sunny bowers.

IX.

Why turns his brow so pale, why starts to life

That languid eye? What form before unseen,

With all the spells of hallowed memory rife,

Now rises on his vision? As the Queen

Of Beauty from her bed of sparkling foam

Sprang to the azure light, and felt the air,

Soft as her cheek, the wavy dancers bear

To his rapt sight a mien that calls his home,

His cloistered home, before him, with his dreams

Prophetic strangely blending. The bright muse

Of his dark childhood still divinely beams

Upon his being; glowing with the hues

That painters love, when raptured pencils soar

To trace a form that nations may adore!

X.

One word alone, within her thrilling ear,

Breathed with hushed voice the brother of her heart,

And that for aye is hidden. With a tear

Smiling she strove to conquer, see her start,

The bright blood rising to her quivering cheek,

And meet the glance she hastened once to greet,

When not a thought had he, save in her sweet

And solacing society; to seek

Her smiles his only life! Ah! happy prime

Of cloudless purity, no stormy fame

His unknown sprite then stirred, a golden time

Worth all the restless splendour of a name;

And one soft accent from those gentle lips

Might all the plaudits of a world eclipse.

XI.

My tale is done; and if some deem it strange

My fancy thus should droop, deign then to learn

My tale is truth: imagination's range

Its bounds exact may touch not: to discern

Far stranger things than poets ever feign,

In life's perplexing annals, is the fate

Of those who act, and musing, penetrate

The mystery of Fortune: to whose reign

The haughtiest brow must bend; 'twas passing strange

The youth of these fond children; strange the flush

Of his high fortunes and his spirit's change;

Strange was the maiden's tear, the maiden's blush;

Strange were his musing thoughts and trembling heart,

'Tis strange they met, and stranger if they part!

CHAPTER XII.

When Lady Monteagle discovered, which she did a very few hours after

the mortifying event, where Lord Cadurcis had dined the day on which

he had promised to be her guest, she was very indignant, but her

vanity was more offended than her self-complacency. She was annoyed

that Cadurcis should have compromised his exalted reputation by so

publicly dangling in the train of the new beauty: still more that he

should have signified in so marked a manner the impression which the

fair stranger had made upon him, by instantly accepting an invitation

to a house so totally unconnected with his circle, and where, had it

not been to meet this Miss Herbert, it would of course never have

entered his head to be a visitor. But, on the whole, Lady Monteagle

was rather irritated than jealous; and far from suspecting that there

was the slightest chance of her losing her influence, such as it might

be, over Lord Cadurcis, all that she felt was, that less lustre must

redound to her from its possession and exercise, if it were obvious

to the world that his attentions could be so easily attracted and

commanded.

When Lord Cadurcis, therefore, having dispatched his poem to Venetia,

paid his usual visit on the next day to Monteagle House, he was

received rather with sneers than reproaches, as Lady Monteagle, with

no superficial knowledge of society or his lordship's character,

was clearly of opinion that this new fancy of her admirer was to be

treated rather with ridicule than indignation; and, in short, as she

had discovered that Cadurcis was far from being insensible to mockery,

that it was clearly a fit occasion, to use a phrase then very much in

vogue, for _quizzing_.

'How d'ye do?' said her ladyship, with an arch smile, 'I really could

not expect to see you!'

Cadurcis looked a little confused; he detested scenes, and now he

dreaded one.

'You seem quite distrait,' continued Lady Monteagle, after a moment's

pause, which his lordship ought to have broken. 'But no wonder, if the

world be right.'

'The world cannot be wrong,' said Cadurcis sarcastically.

'Had you a pleasant party yesterday?'

'Very.'

'Lady ---- must have been quite charmed to have you at last,' said Lady

Monteagle. 'I suppose she exhibited you to all her friends, as if you

were one of the savages that went to Court the other day.'

'She was courteous.'

'Oh! I can fancy her flutter! For my part, if there be one character

in the world more odious than another, I think it is a fussy woman.

Lady ----, with Lord Cadurcis dining with her, and the new beauty for a

niece, must have been in a most delectable state of bustle.'

'I thought she was rather quiet,' said her companion with provoking

indifference. 'She seemed to me an agreeable person.'

'I suppose you mean Miss Herbert?' said Lady Monteagle.

'Oh! these are moderate expressions to use in reference to a person

like Miss Herbert.'

'You know what they said of you two at Ranelagh?' said her ladyship.

'No,' said Lord Cadurcis, somewhat changing colour, and speaking

through his teeth; 'something devilish pleasant, I dare say.'

'They call you Sedition and Treason,' said Lady Monteagle.

'Then we are well suited,' said Lord Cadurcis.

'She certainly is a beautiful creature,' said her ladyship.

'I think so,' said Lord Cadurcis.

'Rather too tall, I think.'

'Do you?'

'Beautiful complexion certainly; wants delicacy, I think.'

'Do you?'

'Fine eyes! Grey, I believe. Cannot say I admire grey eyes. Certain

sign of bad temper, I believe, grey eyes?'

'Are they?'

'I did not observe her hand. I dare say a little coarse. Fair people

who are tall generally fail in the hand and arm. What sort of a hand

and arm has she?'

'I did not observe anything coarse about Miss Herbert.'

'Ah! you admire her. And you have cause. No one can deny she is a fine

girl, and every one must regret, that with her decidedly provincial

air and want of style altogether, which might naturally be expected,

considering the rustic way I understand she has been brought up (an

old house in the country, with a methodistical mother), that she

should have fallen into such hands as her aunt. Lady ---- is enough to

spoil any girl's fortune in London.'

'I thought that the ---- were people of high consideration,' said Lord

Cadurcis.

'Consideration!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle. 'If you mean that they are

people of rank, and good blood, and good property, they are certainly

people of consideration; but they are Goths, Vandals, Huns, Calmucks,

Canadian savages! They have no fashion, no style, no ton, no influence

in the world. It is impossible that a greater misfortune could have

befallen your beauty than having such an aunt. Why, no man who has the

slightest regard for his reputation would be seen in her company. She

is a regular quiz, and you cannot imagine how everybody was laughing

at you the other night.'

'I am very much obliged to them,' said Lord Cadurcis.

'And, upon my honour,' continued Lady Monteagle, 'speaking merely as

your friend, and not being the least jealous (Cadurcis do not suppose

that), not a twinge has crossed my mind on that score; but still I

must tell you that it was most ridiculous for a man like you, to

whom everybody looks up, and from whom the slightest attention is

an honour, to go and fasten yourself the whole night upon a rustic

simpleton, something between a wax doll and a dairymaid, whom every

fool in London was staring at; the very reason why you should not have

appeared to have been even aware of her existence.'

'We have all our moments of weakness, Gertrude,' said Lord Cadurcis,

charmed that the lady was so thoroughly unaware and unsuspicious of

his long and intimate connection with the Herberts. 'I suppose it was

my cursed vanity. I saw, as you say, every fool staring at her, and

so I determined to show that in an instant I could engross her

attention.'

'Of course, I know it was only that; but you should not have gone

and dined there, Cadurcis,' added the lady, very seriously, 'That

compromised you; but, by cutting them in future in the most marked

manner, you may get over it.'

'You really think I may?' inquired Lord Cadurcis, with some anxiety.

'Oh! I have no doubt of it,' said Lady Monteagle.

'What it is to have a friend like you, Gertrude,' said Cadurcis, 'a

friend who is neither a Goth, nor a Vandal, nor a Hun, nor a Calmuck,

nor a Canadian savage; but a woman of fashion, style, ton, influence

in the world! It is impossible that a greater piece of good fortune

could have befallen me than having you for a friend.'

'Ah, méchant! you may mock,' said the lady, triumphantly, for she was

quite satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken; 'but I am

glad for your sake that you take such a sensible view of the case.'

Notwithstanding, however, this sensible view of the case, after

lounging an hour at Monteagle House, Lord Cadurcis' carriage stopped

at the door of Venetia's Gothic aunt. He was not so fortunate as

to meet his heroine; but, nevertheless, he did not esteem his time

entirely thrown away, and consoled himself for the disappointment

by confirming the favourable impression he had already made in this

establishment, and cultivating an intimacy which he was assured must

contribute many opportunities of finding himself in the society

of Venetia. From this day, indeed, he was a frequent guest at her

uncle's, and generally contrived also to meet her several times in

the week at some great assembly; but here, both from the occasional

presence of Lady Monteagle, although party spirit deterred her from

attending many circles where Cadurcis was now an habitual visitant,

and from the crowd of admirers who surrounded the Herberts, he rarely

found an opportunity for any private conversation with Venetia.

His friend the Bishop also, notwithstanding the prejudices of Lady

Annabel, received him always with cordiality, and he met the Herberts

more than once at his mansion. At the opera and in the park also he

hovered about them, in spite of the sarcasms or reproaches of Lady

Monteagle; for the reader is not to suppose that that lady continued

to take the same self-complacent view of Lord Cadurcis' acquaintance

with the Herberts which she originally adopted, and at first flattered

herself was the just one. His admiration of Miss Herbert had become

the topic of general conversation; it could no longer be concealed or

disguised. But Lady Monteagle was convinced that Cadurcis was not a

marrying man, and persuaded herself that this was a fancy which must

evaporate. Moreover, Monteagle House still continued his spot of most

constant resort; for his opportunities of being with Venetia were,

with all his exertions, limited, and he had no other resource which

pleased him so much as the conversation and circle of the bright

goddess of his party. After some fiery scenes therefore with the

divinity, which only led to his prolonged absence, for the profound

and fervent genius of Cadurcis revolted from the base sentiment and

mock emotions of society, the lady reconciled herself to her lot,

still believing herself the most envied woman in London, and often

ashamed of being jealous of a country girl.

The general result of the fortnight which elapsed since Cadurcis

renewed his acquaintance with his Cherbury friends was, that he had

become convinced of his inability of propitiating Lady Annabel, was

devotedly attached to Venetia, though he had seldom an opportunity

of intimating feelings, which the cordial manner in which she ever

conducted herself to him gave him no reason to conclude desperate; at

the same time that he had contrived that a day should seldom elapse,

which did not under some circumstances, however unfavourable, bring

them together, while her intimate friends and the circles in which she

passed most of her life always witnessed his presence with favour.

CHAPTER XIII.

We must, however, endeavour to be more intimately acquainted with

the heart and mind of Venetia in her present situation, so strongly

contrasting with the serene simplicity of her former life, than the

limited and constrained opportunities of conversing with the companion

of his childhood enjoyed by Lord Cadurcis could possibly enable him to

become. Let us recur to her on the night when she returned home, after

having met with Plantagenet at her uncle's, and having pursued a

conversation with him, so unexpected, so strange, and so affecting!

She had been silent in the carriage, and retired to her room

immediately. She retired to ponder. The voice of Cadurcis lingered in

her ear; his tearful eye still caught her vision. She leant her head

upon her hand, and sighed! Why did she sigh? What at this instant was

her uppermost thought? Her mother's dislike of Cadurcis. 'Your mother

hates me.' These had been his words; these were the words she repeated

to herself, and on whose fearful sounds she dwelt. 'Your mother hates

me.' If by some means she had learnt a month ago at Weymouth, that her

mother hated Cadurcis, that his general conduct had been such as to

excite Lady Annabel's odium, Venetia might have for a moment

been shocked that her old companion in whom she had once been so

interested, had by his irregular behaviour incurred the dislike of her

mother, by whom he had once been so loved. But it would have been a

transient emotion. She might have mused over past feelings and past

hopes in a solitary ramble on the seashore; she might even have shed

a tear over the misfortunes or infelicity of one who had once been

to her a brother; but, perhaps, nay probably, on the morrow the

remembrance of Plantagenet would scarcely have occurred to her.

Long years had elapsed since their ancient fondness; a considerable

interval since even his name had met her ear. She had heard nothing

of him that could for a moment arrest her notice or command her

attention.

But now the irresistible impression that her mother disliked this very

individual filled, her with intolerable grief. What occasioned this

change in her feelings, this extraordinary difference in her emotions?

There was, apparently, but one cause. She had met Cadurcis. Could then

a glance, could even the tender intonations of that unrivalled voice,

and the dark passion of that speaking eye, work in an instant such

marvels? Could they revive the past so vividly, that Plantagenet in

a moment resumed his ancient place in her affections? No, it was not

that: it was less the tenderness of the past that made Venetia mourn

her mother's sternness to Cadurcis, than the feelings of the future.

For now she felt that her mother's heart was not more changed towards

this personage than was her own.

It seemed to Venetia that even before they met, from the very moment

that his name had so strangely caught her eye in the volume on the

first evening she had visited her relations, that her spirit suddenly

turned to him. She had never heard that name mentioned since without

a fluttering of the heart which she could not repress, and an emotion

she could ill conceal. She loved to hear others talk of him, and yet

scarcely dared speak of him herself. She recalled her emotion

at unexpectedly seeing his portrait when with her aunt, and her

mortification when her mother deprived her of the poem which she

sighed to read. Day after day something seemed to have occurred to fix

her brooding thoughts with fonder earnestness on his image. At length

they met. Her emotion when she first recognised him at Ranelagh and

felt him approaching her, was one of those tumults of the heart that

form almost a crisis in our sensations. With what difficulty had

she maintained herself! Doubtful whether he would even formally

acknowledge her presence, her vision as if by fascination had

nevertheless met his, and grew dizzy as he passed. In the interval

that had elapsed between his first passing and then joining her, what

a chaos was her mind! What a wild blending of all the scenes and

incidents of her life! What random answers had she made to those with

whom she had been before conversing with ease and animation! And then,

when she unexpectedly found Cadurcis at her side, and listened to the

sound of that familiar voice, familiar and yet changed, expressing

so much tenderness in its tones, and in its words such deference and

delicate respect, existence felt to her that moment affluent with a

blissful excitement of which she had never dreamed!

Her life was a reverie until they met again, in which she only mused

over his fame, and the strange relations of their careers. She had

watched the conduct of her mother to him at dinner with poignant

sorrow; she scarcely believed that she should have an opportunity

of expressing to him her sympathy. And then what had followed?

A conversation, every word of which had touched her heart; a

conversation that would have entirely controlled her feelings even if

he had not already subjected them. The tone in which he so suddenly

had pronounced 'Venetia,' was the sweetest music to which she had ever

listened. His allusion to her father had drawn tears, which could not

be restrained even in a crowded saloon. Now she wept plenteously.

It was so generous, so noble, so kind, so affectionate! Dear, dear

Cadurcis, is it wonderful that you should be loved?

Then falling into a reverie of sweet and unbroken stillness, with her

eyes fixed in abstraction on the fire, Venetia reviewed her life from

the moment she had known Plantagenet. Not an incident that had ever

occurred to them that did not rise obedient to her magical bidding.

She loved to dwell upon the time when she was the consolation of his

sorrows, and when Cherbury was to him a pleasant refuge! Oh! she felt

sure her mother must remember those fond days, and love him as she

once did! She pictured to herself the little Plantagenet of her

childhood, so serious and so pensive when alone or with others, yet

with her at times so gay and wild, and sarcastic; forebodings all of

that deep and brilliant spirit, which had since stirred up the heart

of a great nation, and dazzled the fancy of an admiring world. The

change too in their mutual lots was also, to a degree, not free from

that sympathy that had ever bound them together. A train of strange

accidents had brought Venetia from her spell-bound seclusion, placed

her suddenly in the most brilliant circle of civilisation, and classed

her among not the least admired of its favoured members. And whom had

she come to meet? Whom did she find in this new and splendid life the

most courted and considered of its community, crowned as it were with

garlands, and perfumed with the incense of a thousand altars? Her own

Plantagenet. It was passing strange.

The morrow brought the verses from Cadurcis. They greatly affected

her. The picture of their childhood, and of the singular sympathy of

their mutual situations, and the description of her father, called

forth her tears; she murmured, however, at the allusion to her other

parent. It was not just, it could not be true. These verses were not,

of course, shown to Lady Annabel. Would they have been shown, even if

they had not contained the allusion? The question is not perplexing.

Venetia had her secret, and a far deeper one than the mere reception

of a poem; all confidence between her and her mother had expired. Love

had stept in, and, before his magic touch, the discipline of a life

expired in an instant.

From all this an idea may be formed of the mood in which, during the

fortnight before alluded to, Venetia was in the habit of meeting Lord

Cadurcis. During this period not the slightest conversation respecting

him had occurred between her mother and herself. Lady Annabel never

mentioned him, and her brow clouded when his name, as was often the

case, was introduced. At the end of this fortnight, it happened that

her aunt and mother were out together in the carriage, and had left

her in the course of the morning at her uncle's house. During this

interval, Lord Cadurcis called, and having ascertained, through a

garrulous servant, that though his mistress was out, Miss Herbert was

in the drawing-room, he immediately took the opportunity of being

introduced. Venetia was not a little surprised at his appearance, and,

conscious of her mother's feelings upon the subject, for a moment

a little agitated, yet, it must be confessed, as much pleased. She

seized this occasion of speaking to him about his verses, for hitherto

she had only been able to acknowledge the receipt of them by a

word. While she expressed without affectation the emotions they had

occasioned her, she complained of his injustice to her mother: this

was the cause of an interesting conversation of which her father

was the subject, and for which she had long sighed. With what deep,

unbroken attention she listened to her companion's enthusiastic

delineation of his character and career! What multiplied questions did

she not ask him, and how eagerly, how amply, how affectionately he

satisfied her just and natural curiosity! Hours flew away while they

indulged in this rare communion.

'Oh, that I could see him!' sighed Venetia.

'You will,' replied Plantagenet; 'your destiny requires it. You will

see him as surely as you beheld that portrait that it was the labour

of a life to prevent you beholding.'

Venetia shook her head; 'And yet,' she added musingly, 'my mother

loves him.'

'Her life proves it,' said Cadurcis bitterly.

'I think it does,' replied Venetia, sincerely.

'I pretend not to understand her heart,' he answered; 'it is an enigma

that I cannot solve. I ought not to believe that she is without one;

but, at any rate, her pride is deeper than her love.'

'They were ill suited,' said Venetia, mournfully; 'and yet it is one

of my dreams that they may yet meet.'

'Ah, Venetia!' he exclaimed, in a voice of great softness, 'they had

not known each other from their childhood, like us. They met, and they

parted, alike in haste.'

Venetia made no reply; her eyes were fixed in abstraction on a

handscreen, which she was unconscious that she held.

'Tell me,' said Cadurcis, drawing his chair close to hers; 'tell me,

Venetia, if--'

At this moment a thundering knock at the door announced the return of

the Countess and her sister-in-law. Cadurcis rose from his seat, but

his chair, which still remained close to that on which Venetia was

sitting, did not escape the quick glance of her mortified mother. The

Countess welcomed Cadurcis with extreme cordiality; Lady Annabel only

returned his very courteous bow.

'Stop and dine with us, my dear lord,' said the Countess. 'We are only

ourselves, and Lady Annabel and Venetia.'

'I thank you, Clara,' said Lady Annabel, 'but we cannot stop to-day.'

'Oh!' exclaimed her sister. 'It will be such a disappointment to

Philip. Indeed you must stay,' she added, in a coaxing tone; 'we shall

be such an agreeable little party, with Lord Cadurcis.'

'I cannot indeed, my dear Clara,' replied Lady Annabel; 'not to-day,

indeed not to-day. Come Venetia!'

CHAPTER XIV.

Lady Annabel was particularly kind to Venetia on their return to their

hotel, otherwise her daughter might have fancied that she had offended

her, for she was silent. Venetia did not doubt that the presence of

Lord Cadurcis was the reason that her mother would not remain and

dine at her uncle's. This conviction grieved Venetia, but she did not

repine; she indulged the fond hope that time would remove the strong

prejudice which Lady Annabel now so singularly entertained against one

in whose welfare she was originally so deeply interested. During their

simple and short repast Venetia was occupied in a reverie, in

which, it must be owned, Cadurcis greatly figured, and answered the

occasional though kind remarks of her mother with an absent air.

After dinner, Lady Annabel drew her chair towards the fire, for,

although May, the weather was chill, and said, 'A quiet evening at

home, Venetia, will be a relief after all this gaiety.' Venetia

assented to her mother's observation, and nearly a quarter of an hour

elapsed without another word being spoken. Venetia had taken up a

book, and Lady Annabel was apparently lost in her reflections. At

length she said, somewhat abruptly, 'It is more than three years, I

think, since Lord Cadurcis left Cherbury?'

'Yes; it is more than three years,' replied Venetia.

'He quitted us suddenly.'

'Very suddenly,' agreed Venetia.

'I never asked you whether you knew the cause, Venetia,' continued her

mother, 'but I always concluded that you did. I suppose I was not in

error?'

This was not a very agreeable inquiry. Venetia did not reply to

it with her previous readiness and indifference. That indeed was

impossible; but, with her accustomed frankness, after a moment's

hesitation, she answered, 'Lord Cadurcis never specifically stated the

cause to me, mamma; indeed I was myself surprised at his departure,

but some conversation had occurred between us on the very morning he

quitted Cadurcis, which, on reflection, I could not doubt occasioned

that departure.'

'Lord Cadurcis preferred his suit to you, Venetia, and you rejected

him?' said Lady Annabel.

'It is as you believe,' replied Venetia, not a little agitated.

'You did wisely, my child, and I was weak ever to have regretted your

conduct.'

'Why should you think so, dearest mamma?'

'Whatever may have been the cause that impelled your conduct then,'

said Lady Annabel, 'I shall ever esteem your decision as a signal

interposition of Providence in your favour. Except his extreme youth,

there was apparently no reason which should not have induced you to

adopt a different decision. I tremble when I think what might have

been the consequences.'

'Tremble, dearest mother?'

'Tremble, Venetia. My only thought in this life is the happiness of my

child. It was in peril.

'Nay, I trust not that, mamma: you are prejudiced against Plantagenet.

It makes me very unhappy, and him also.'

'He is again your suitor?' said Lady Annabel, with a scrutinising

glance.

'Indeed he is not.'

'He will be,' said Lady Annabel. 'Prepare yourself. Tell me, then, are

your feelings the same towards him as when he last quitted us?'

'Feelings, mamma!' said Venetia, echoing her mother's words; for

indeed the question was one very difficult to answer; 'I ever loved

Plantagenet; I love him still.'

'But do you love him now as then? Then you looked upon him as a

brother. He has no soul now for sisterly affections. I beseech you

tell me, my child, me, your mother, your friend, your best, your only

friend, tell me, have you for a moment repented that you ever refused

to extend to him any other affection?'

'I have not thought of the subject, mamma; I have not wished to think

of the subject; I have had no occasion to think of it. Lord Cadurcis

is not my suitor now.'

'Venetia!' said Lady Annabel, 'I cannot doubt you love me.'

'Dearest mother!' exclaimed Venetia, in a tone of mingled fondness and

reproach, and she rose from her seat and embraced Lady Annabel.

'My happiness is an object to you, Venetia?' continued Lady Annabel.

'Mother, mother,' said Venetia, in a deprecatory tone. 'Do not ask

such cruel questions? Whom should I love but you, the best, the

dearest mother that ever existed? And what object can I have in life

that for a moment can be placed in competition with your happiness?'

'Then, Venetia, I tell you,' said Lady Annabel, in a solemn yet

excited voice, 'that that happiness is gone for ever, nay, my very

life will be the forfeit, if I ever live to see you the bride of Lord

Cadurcis.'

'I have no thought of being the bride of any one,' said Venetia. 'I am

happy with you. I wish never to leave you.'

'My child, the fulfilment of such a wish is not in the nature of

things,' replied Lady Annabel. 'The day will come when we must part;

I am prepared for the event; nay, I look forward to it not only with

resignation, but delight, when I think it may increase your happiness;

but were that step to destroy it, oh! then, then I could live no more.

I can endure my own sorrows, I can struggle with my own bitter lot,

I have some sources of consolation which enable me to endure my own

misery without repining; but yours, yours, Venetia, I could not bear.

No! if once I were to behold you lingering in life as your mother,

with blighted hopes and with a heart broken, if hearts can break, I

should not survive the spectacle; I know myself, Venetia, I could not

survive it.'

'But why anticipate such misery? Why indulge in such gloomy

forebodings? Am I not happy now? Do you not love me?'

Venetia had drawn her chair close to that of her mother; she sat by

her side and held her hand.

'Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, after a pause of some minutes, and in a

low voice, 'I must speak to you on a subject on which we have never

conversed. I must speak to you;' and here Lady Annabel's voice dropped

lower and lower, but still its tones were distinct, although

she expressed herself with evident effort: 'I must speak to you

about--your father.'

Venetia uttered a faint cry, she clenched her mother's hand with a

convulsive grasp, and sank upon her bosom. She struggled to maintain

herself, but the first sound of that name from her mother's lips, and

all the long-suppressed emotions that it conjured up, overpowered her.

The blood seemed to desert her heart; still she did not faint; she

clung to Lady Annabel, pallid and shivering.

Her mother tenderly embraced her, she whispered to her words of great

affection, she attempted to comfort and console her. Venetia murmured,

'This is very foolish of me, mother; but speak, oh! speak of what I

have so long desired to hear.'

'Not now, Venetia.'

'Now, mother! yes, now! I am quite composed. I could not bear the

postponement of what you were about to say. I could not sleep, dear

mother, if you did not speak to me. It was only for a moment I was

overcome. See! I am quite composed.' And indeed she spoke in a calm

and steady voice, but her pale and suffering countenance expressed the

painful struggle which it cost her to command herself.

'Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, 'it has been one of the objects of my

life, that you should not share my sorrows.'

Venetia pressed her mother's hand, but made no other reply.

'I concealed from you for years,' continued Lady Annabel, 'a

circumstance in which, indeed, you were deeply interested, but the

knowledge of which could only bring you unhappiness. Yet it was

destined that my solicitude should eventually be baffled. I know that

it is not from my lips that you learn for the first time that you have

a father, a father living.'

'Mother, let me tell you all!' said Venetia, eagerly.

'I know all,' said Lady Annabel.

'But, mother, there is something that you do not know; and now I would

confess it.'

'There is nothing that you can confess with which I am not acquainted,

Venetia; and I feel assured, I have ever felt assured, that your only

reason for concealment was a desire to save me pain.'

'That, indeed, has ever been my only motive,' replied Venetia, 'for

having a secret from my mother.'

'In my absence from Cherbury you entered the chamber,' said Lady

Annabel, calmly. 'In the delirium of your fever I became acquainted

with a circumstance which so nearly proved fatal to you.'

Venetia's cheek turned scarlet.

'In that chamber you beheld the portrait of your father,' continued

Lady Annabel. 'From our friend you learnt that father was still

living. That is all?' said Lady Annabel, inquiringly.

'No, not all, dear mother; not all. Lord Cadurcis reproached me at

Cherbury with, with, with having such a father,' she added, in a

hesitating voice. 'It was then I learnt his misfortunes, mother; his

misery.'

'I thought that misfortunes, that misery, were the lot of your other

parent,' replied Lady Annabel, somewhat coldly.

'Not with my love,' said Venetia, eagerly; 'not with my love, mother.

You have forgotten your misery in my love. Say so, say so, dearest

mother.' And Venetia threw herself on her knees before Lady Annabel,

and looked up with earnestness in her face.

The expression of that countenance had been for a moment stern, but

it relaxed into fondness, as Lady Annabel gently bowed her head, and

pressed her lips to her daughter's forehead. 'Ah, Venetia!' she said,

'all depends upon you. I can endure, nay, I can forget the past, if my

child be faithful to me. There are no misfortunes, there is no misery,

if the being to whom I have consecrated the devotion of my life will

only be dutiful, will only be guided by my advice, will only profit by

my sad experience.'

'Mother, I repeat I have no thought but for you,' said Venetia. 'My

own dearest mother, if my duty, if my devotion can content you, you

shall be happy. But wherein have I failed?'

'In nothing, love. Your life has hitherto been one unbroken course of

affectionate obedience.'

'And ever shall be,' said Venetia. 'But you were speaking, mother, you

were speaking of, of my, my father!'

'Of him!' said Lady Annabel, thoughtfully. 'You have seen his

picture?'

Venetia kissed her mother's hand.

'Was he less beautiful than Cadurcis? Was he less gifted?' exclaimed

Lady Annabel, with animation. 'He could whisper in tones as sweet, and

pour out his vows as fervently. Yet what am I? O my child!' continued

Lady Annabel, 'beware of such beings! They bear within them a spirit

on which all the devotion of our sex is lavished in vain. A year, no!

not a year, not one short year! and all my hopes were blighted! O

Venetia! if your future should be like my bitter past! and it might

have been, and I might have contributed to the fulfilment! can you

wonder that I should look upon Cadurcis with aversion?'

'But, mother, dearest mother, we have known Plantagenet from his

childhood. You ever loved him; you ever gave him credit for a heart,

most tender and affectionate.'

'He has no heart.'

'Mother!'

'He cannot have a heart. Spirits like him are heartless. It is another

impulse that sways their existence. It is imagination; it is vanity;

it is self, disguised with glittering qualities that dazzle our weak

senses, but selfishness, the most entire, the most concentrated. We

knew him as a child: ah! what can women know? We are born to love, and

to be deceived. We saw him young, helpless, abandoned; he moved our

pity. We knew not his nature; then he was ignorant of it himself. But

the young tiger, though cradled at our hearths and fed on milk, will

in good time retire to its jungle and prey on blood. You cannot change

its nature; and the very hand that fostered it will be its first

victim.'

'How often have we parted!' said Venetia, in a deprecating tone; 'how

long have we been separated! and yet we find him ever the same; he

ever loves us. Yes! dear mother, he loves you now, the same as in old

days. If you had seen him, as I have seen him, weep when he recalled

your promise to be a parent to him, and then contrasted with such

sweet hopes your present reserve, oh! you would believe he had a

heart, you would, indeed!'

'Weep!' exclaimed Lady Annabel, bitterly, 'ay! they can weep.

Sensibility is a luxury which they love to indulge. Their very

susceptibility is our bane. They can weep; they can play upon our

feelings; and our emotion, so easily excited, is an homage to their

own power, in which they glory.

'Look at Cadurcis,' she suddenly resumed; 'bred with so much care;

the soundest principles instilled into him with such sedulousness;

imbibing them apparently with so much intelligence, ardour, and

sincerity, with all that fervour, indeed, with which men of his

temperament for the moment pursue every object; but a few years back,

pious, dutiful, and moral, viewing perhaps with intolerance too

youthful all that differed from the opinions and the conduct he had

been educated to admire and follow. And what is he now? The most

lawless of the wild; casting to the winds every salutary principle of

restraint and social discipline, and glorying only in the abandoned

energy of self. Three years ago, you yourself confessed to me, he

reproached you with your father's conduct; now he emulates it. There

is a career which such men must run, and from which no influence can

divert them; it is in their blood. To-day Cadurcis may vow to you

eternal devotion; but, if the world speak truth, Venetia, a month ago

he was equally enamoured of another, and one, too, who cannot be his.

But grant that his sentiments towards you are for the moment sincere;

his imagination broods upon your idea, it transfigures it with a halo

which exists only to his vision. Yield to him; become his bride; and

you will have the mortification of finding that, before six mouths

have elapsed, his restless spirit is already occupied with objects

which may excite your mortification, your disgust, even your horror!'

'Ah, mother! it is not with Plantagenet as with my father; Plantagenet

could not forget Cherbury, he could not forget our childhood,' said

Venetia.

'On the contrary, while you lived together these recollections would

be wearisome, common-place to him; when you had separated, indeed,

mellowed by distance, and the comparative vagueness with which your

absence would invest them, they would become the objects of his muse,

and he would insult you by making the public the confidant of all your

most delicate domestic feelings.'

Lady Annabel rose from her seat, and walked up and down the room,

speaking with an excitement very unusual with her. 'To have all

the soft secrets of your life revealed to the coarse wonder of the

gloating multitude; to find yourself the object of the world's

curiosity, still worse, their pity, their sympathy; to have the sacred

conduct of your hearth canvassed in every circle, and be the grand

subject of the pros and cons of every paltry journal, ah, Venetia! you

know not, you cannot understand, it is impossible you can comprehend,

the bitterness of such a lot.'

'My beloved mother!' said Venetia, with streaming eyes, 'you cannot

have a feeling that I do not share.'

'Venetia, you know not what I had to endure!' exclaimed Lady Annabel,

in a tone of extreme bitterness. 'There is no degree of wretchedness

that you can conceive equal to what has been the life of your mother.

And what has sustained me; what, throughout all my tumultuous

troubles, has been the star on which I have ever gazed? My child! And

am I to lose her now, after all my sufferings, all my hopes that she

at least might be spared my miserable doom? Am I to witness her also a

victim?' Lady Annabel clasped her hands in passionate grief.

'Mother! mother!' exclaimed Venetia, in agony, 'spare yourself, spare

me!'

'Venetia, you know how I have doted upon you; you know how I have

watched and tended you from your infancy. Have I had a thought, a

wish, a hope, a plan? has there been the slightest action of my life,

of which you have not been the object? All mothers feel, but none ever

felt like me; you were my solitary joy.'

Venetia leant her face upon the table at which she was sitting and

sobbed aloud.

'My love was baffled,' Lady Annabel continued. 'I fled, for both our

sakes, from the world in which my family were honoured; I sacrificed

without a sigh, in the very prime of my youth, every pursuit which

interests woman; but I had my child, I had my child!'

'And you have her still!' exclaimed the miserable Venetia. 'Mother,

you have her still!'

'I have schooled my mind,' continued Lady Annabel, still pacing the

room with agitated steps; 'I have disciplined my emotions; I have felt

at my heart the constant the undying pang, and yet I have smiled, that

you might be happy. But I can struggle against my fate no longer. No

longer can I suffer my unparalleled, yes, my unjust doom. What have I

done to merit these afflictions? Now, then, let me struggle no more;

let me die!'

Venetia tried to rise; her limbs refused their office; she tottered;

she fell again into her seat with an hysteric cry.

'Alas! alas!' exclaimed Lady Annabel, 'to a mother, a child is

everything; but to a child, a parent is only a link in the chain of

her existence. It was weakness, it was folly, it was madness to stake

everything on a resource which must fail me. I feel it now, but I feel

it too late.'

Venetia held forth her arms; she could not speak; she was stifled with

her emotion.

'But was it wonderful that I was so weak?' continued her mother, as it

were communing only with herself. 'What child was like mine? Oh! the

joy, the bliss, the hours of rapture that I have passed, in gazing

upon my treasure, and dreaming of all her beauty and her rare

qualities! I was so happy! I was so proud! Ah, Venetia! you know not

how I have loved you!'

Venetia sprang from her seat; she rushed forward with convulsive

energy; she clung to her mother, threw her arms round her neck, and

buried her passionate woe in Lady Annabel's bosom.

Lady Annabel stood for some minutes supporting her speechless and

agitated child; then, as her sobs became fainter, and the tumult of

her grief gradually died away, she bore her to the sofa, and seated

herself by her side, holding Venetia's hand in her own, and ever and

anon soothing her with soft embraces, and still softer words.

At length, in a faint voice, Venetia said, 'Mother, what can I do to

restore the past? How can we be to each other as we were, for this I

cannot bear?'

'Love me, my Venetia, as I love you; be faithful to your mother; do

not disregard her counsel; profit by her errors.'

'I will in all things obey you,' said Venetia, in a low voice; 'there

is no sacrifice I am not prepared to make for your happiness.'

'Let us not talk of sacrifices, my darling child; it is not a

sacrifice that I require. I wish only to prevent your everlasting

misery.'

'What, then, shall I do?'

'Make me only one promise; whatever pledge you give, I feel assured

that no influence, Venetia, will ever induce you to forfeit it.'

'Name it, mother.'

'Promise me never to marry Lord Cadurcis,' said Lady Annabel, in a

whisper, but a whisper of which not a word was lost by the person to

whom it was addressed.

'I promise never to marry, but with your approbation,' said Venetia,

in a solemn voice, and uttering the words with great distinctness.

The countenance of Lady Annabel instantly brightened; she embraced her

child with extreme fondness, and breathed the softest and the sweetest

expressions of gratitude and love.

CHAPTER XV.

When Lady Monteagle discovered that of which her good-natured friends

took care she should not long remain ignorant, that Venetia Herbert

had been the companion of Lord Cadurcis' childhood, and that the most

intimate relations had once subsisted between the two families,

she became the prey of violent jealousy; and the bitterness of her

feelings was not a little increased, when she felt that she had not

only been abandoned, but duped; and that the new beauty, out of his

fancy for whom she had flattered herself she had so triumphantly

rallied him, was an old friend, whom he always admired. She seized the

first occasion, after this discovery, of relieving her feelings, by

a scene so violent, that Cadurcis had never again entered Monteagle

House; and then repenting of this mortifying result, which she had

herself precipitated, she overwhelmed him with letters, which, next

to scenes, were the very things which Lord Cadurcis most heartily

abhorred. These, now indignant, now passionate, now loading him with

reproaches, now appealing to his love, and now to his pity, daily

arrived at his residence, and were greeted at first only with short

and sarcastic replies, and finally by silence. Then the lady solicited

a final interview, and Lord Cadurcis having made an appointment to

quiet her, went out of town the day before to Richmond, to a villa

belonging to Venetia's uncle, and where, among other guests, he was of

course to meet Lady Annabel and her daughter.

The party was a most agreeable one, and assumed an additional interest

with Cadurcis, who had resolved to seize this favourable opportunity

to bring his aspirations to Venetia to a crisis. The day after the

last conversation with her, which we have noticed, he had indeed

boldly called upon the Herberts at their hotel for that purpose, but

without success, as they were again absent from home. He had been

since almost daily in the society of Venetia; but London, to a lover

who is not smiled upon by the domestic circle of his mistress, is a

very unfavourable spot for confidential conversations. A villa life,

with its easy, unembarrassed habits, its gardens and lounging walks,

to say nothing of the increased opportunities resulting from being

together at all hours, and living under the same roof, was more

promising; and here he flattered himself he might defy even the Argus

eye and ceaseless vigilance of his intended mother-in-law, his enemy,

whom he could not propitiate, and whom he now fairly hated.

His cousin George, too, was a guest, and his cousin George was the

confidant of his love. Upon this kind relation devolved the duty, far

from a disagreeable one, of amusing the mother; and as Lady Annabel,

though she relaxed not a jot of the grim courtesy which she ever

extended to Lord Cadurcis, was no longer seriously uneasy as to his

influence after the promise she had exacted from her daughter, it

would seem that these circumstances combined to prevent Lord Cadurcis

from being disappointed at least in the first object which he wished

to obtain, an opportunity.

And yet several days elapsed before this offered itself, passed by

Cadurcis, however, very pleasantly in the presence of the being he

loved, and very judiciously too, for no one could possibly be more

amiable and ingratiating than our friend. Every one present, except

Lady Annabel, appeared to entertain for him as much affection as

admiration: those who had only met him in throngs were quite surprised

how their superficial observation and the delusive reports of the

world had misled them. As for his hostess, whom it had ever been his

study to please, he had long won her heart; and, as she could not

be blind to his projects and pretensions, she heartily wished him

success, assisted him with all her efforts, and desired nothing more

sincerely than that her niece should achieve such a conquest, and she

obtain so distinguished a nephew.

Notwithstanding her promise to her mother, Venetia felt justified in

making no alteration in her conduct to one whom she still sincerely

loved; and, under the immediate influence of his fascination, it was

often, when she was alone, that she mourned with a sorrowing heart

over the opinion which her mother entertained of him. Could it indeed

be possible that Plantagenet, the same Plantagenet she had known so

early and so long, to her invariably so tender and so devoted, could

entail on her, by their union, such unspeakable and inevitable misery?

Whatever might be the view adopted by her mother of her conduct,

Venetia felt every hour more keenly that it was a sacrifice, and the

greatest; and she still indulged in a vague yet delicious dream,

that Lady Annabel might ultimately withdraw the harsh and perhaps

heart-breaking interdict she had so rigidly decreed.

'Cadurcis,' said his cousin to him one morning, 'we are all going

to Hampton Court. Now is your time; Lady Annabel, the Vernons, and

myself, will fill one carriage; I have arranged that. Look out, and

something may be done. Speak to the Countess.'

Accordingly Lord Cadurcis hastened to make a suggestion to a friend

always flattered by his notice. 'My dear friend,' he said in his

softest tone, 'let you and Venetia and myself manage to be together;

it will be so delightful; we shall quite enjoy ourselves.'

The Countess did not require this animating compliment to effect the

object which Cadurcis did not express. She had gradually fallen

into the unacknowledged conspiracy against her sister-in-law, whose

prejudice against her friend she had long discovered, and had now

ceased to combat. Two carriages, and one filled as George had

arranged, accordingly drove gaily away; and Venetia, and her aunt, and

Lord Cadurcis were to follow them on horseback. They rode with delight

through the splendid avenues of Bushey, and Cadurcis was never in a

lighter or happier mood.

The month of May was in its decline, and the cloudless sky and the

balmy air such as suited so agreeable a season. The London season was

approaching its close; for the royal birthday was, at the period of

our history, generally the signal of preparation for country quarters.

The carriages arrived long before the riding party, for they had

walked their steeds, and they found a messenger who requested them to

join their friends in the apartments which they were visiting.

'For my part,' said Cadurcis, 'I love the sun that rarely shines in

this land. I feel no inclination to lose the golden hours in these

gloomy rooms. What say you, ladies fair, to a stroll in the gardens?

It will be doubly charming after our ride.'

His companions cheerfully assented, and they walked away,

congratulating themselves on their escape from the wearisome amusement

of palace-hunting, straining their eyes to see pictures hung at a

gigantic height, and solemnly wandering through formal apartments full

of state beds and massy cabinets and modern armour.

Taking their way along the terrace, they struck at length into a less

formal path. At length the Countess seated herself on a bench. 'I must

rest,' she said, 'but you, young people, may roam about; only do not

lose me.'

'Come, Venetia!' said Lord Cadurcis.

Venetia was hesitating; she did not like to leave her aunt alone, but

the Countess encouraged her, 'If you will not go, you will only make

me continue walking,' she said. And so Venetia proceeded, and for the

first time since her visit was alone with Plantagenet.

'I quite love your aunt,' said Lord Cadurcis.

'It is difficult indeed not to love her,' said Venetia.

'Ah, Venetia! I wish your mother was like your aunt,' he continued.

It was an observation which was not heard without some emotion by his

companion, though it was imperceptible. 'Venetia,' said Cadurcis,

'when I recollect old days, how strange it seems that we now never

should be alone, but by some mere accident, like this, for instance.'

'It is no use thinking of old days,' said Venetia.

'No use! said Cadurcis. 'I do not like to hear you say that, Venetia.

Those are some of the least agreeable words that were ever uttered

by that mouth. I cling to old days; they are my only joy and my only

hope.'

'They are gone,' said Venetia.

'But may they not return?' said Cadurcis.

'Never,' said Venetia, mournfully.

They had walked on to a marble fountain of gigantic proportions and

elaborate workmanship, an assemblage of divinities and genii, all

spouting water in fantastic attitudes.

'Old days,' said Plantagenet, 'are like the old fountain at Cadurcis,

dearer to me than all this modern splendour.'

'The old fountain at Cadurcis,' said Venetia, musingly, and gazing on

the water with an abstracted air, 'I loved it well!'

'Venetia,' said her companion, in a tone of extreme tenderness, yet

not untouched with melancholy, 'dear Venetia, let us return, and

return together, to that old fountain and those old days!'

Venetia shook her head. 'Ah, Plantagenet!' she exclaimed in a mournful

voice, 'we must not speak of these things.'

'Why not, Venetia?' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. 'Why should we

be estranged from each other? I love you; I love only you; never

have I loved another. And you, have you forgotten all our youthful

affection? You cannot, Venetia. Our childhood can never be a blank.'

'I told you, when first we met, my heart was unchanged,' said Venetia.

'Remember the vows I made to you when last at Cherbury,' said

Cadurcis. 'Years have flown on, Venetia; but they find me urging the

same. At any rate, now I know myself; at any rate, I am not now an

obscure boy; yet what is manhood, and what is fame, without the charm

of my infancy and my youth! Yes, Venetia! you must, you will he mine?'

'Plantagenet,' she replied, in a solemn tone, 'yours I never can be.'

'You do not, then, love me?' said Cadurcis reproachfully, and in a

voice of great feeling.

'It is impossible for you to be loved more than I love you,' said

Venetia.

'My own Venetia!' said Cadurcis; 'Venetia that I dote on! what does

this mean? Why, then, will you not be mine?'

'I cannot; there is an obstacle, an insuperable obstacle.'

'Tell it me,' said Cadurcis eagerly; 'I will overcome it.'

'I have promised never to marry without the approbation of my mother;

her approbation you never can obtain.'

Cadurcis' countenance fell; this was an obstacle which he felt that

even he could not overcome.

'I told you your mother hated me, Venetia.' And then, as she did not

reply, he continued, 'You confess it, I see you confess it. Once you

flattered me I was mistaken; but now, now you confess it.'

'Hatred is a word which I cannot understand,' replied Venetia. 'My

mother has reasons for disapproving my union with you; not founded on

the circumstances of your life, and therefore removable (for I know

what the world says, Plantagenet, of you), but I have confidence in

your love, and that is nothing; but founded on your character, on your

nature; they may be unjust, but they are insuperable, and I must yield

to them.'

'You have another parent, Venetia,' said Cadurcis, in a tone of almost

irresistible softness, 'the best and greatest of men! Once you told me

that his sanction was necessary to your marriage. I will obtain it.

O Venetia! be mine, and we will join him; join that ill-fated and

illustrious being who loves you with a passion second only to mine;

him who has addressed you in language which rests on every lip, and

has thrilled many a heart that you even can never know. My adored

Venetia! picture to yourself, for one moment, a life with him; resting

on my bosom, consecrated by his paternal love! Let us quit this mean

and miserable existence, which we now pursue, which never could have

suited us; let us shun for ever this dull and degrading life, that is

not life, if life be what I deem it; let us fly to those beautiful

solitudes where he communes with an inspiring nature; let us, let us

be happy!'

He uttered these last words in a tone of melting tenderness; he leant

forward his head, and his gaze caught hers, which was fixed upon the

water. Her hand was pressed suddenly in his; his eye glittered, his

lip seemed still speaking; he awaited his doom.

The countenance of Venetia was quite pale, but it was disturbed. You

might see, as it were, the shadowy progress of thought, and mark the

tumultuous passage of conflicting passions. Her mind, for a moment,

was indeed a chaos. There was a terrible conflict between love and

duty. At length a tear, one solitary tear, burst from her burning

eye-ball, and stole slowly down her cheek; it relieved her pain. She

pressed Cadurcis hand, and speaking in a hollow voice, and with a look

vague and painful, she said, 'I am a victim, but I am resolved. I

never will desert her who devoted herself to me.'

Cadurcis quitted her hand rather abruptly, and began walking up and

down on the turf that surrounded the fountain.

'Devoted herself to you!' he exclaimed with a fiendish laugh, and

speaking, as was his custom, between his teeth. 'Commend me to such

devotion. Not content with depriving you of a father, now forsooth

she must bereave you of a lover too! And this is a mother, a devoted

mother! The cold-blooded, sullen, selfish, inexorable tyrant!'

'Plantagenet!' exclaimed Venetia with great animation.

'Nay, I will speak. Victim, indeed! You have ever been her slave. She

a devoted mother! Ay! as devoted as a mother as she was dutiful as a

wife! She has no heart; she never had a feeling. And she cajoles you

with her love, her devotion, the stern hypocrite!'

'I must leave you,' said Venetia; 'I cannot bear this.'

'Oh! the truth, the truth is precious,' said Cadurcis, taking her

hand, and preventing her from moving. 'Your mother, your devoted

mother, has driven one man of genius from her bosom, and his country.

Yet there is another. Deny me what I ask, and to-morrow's sun shall

light me to another land; to this I will never return; I will blend

my tears with your father's, and I will publish to Europe the double

infamy of your mother. I swear it solemnly. Still I stand here,

Venetia; prepared, if you will but smile upon me, to be her son, her

dutiful son. Nay! her slave like you. She shall not murmur. I will be

dutiful; she shall be devoted; we will all be happy,' he added in a

softer tone. 'Now, now, Venetia, my happiness is on the stake, now,

now.'

'I have spoken,' said Venetia. 'My heart may break, but my purpose

shall not falter.'

'Then my curse upon your mother's head?' said Cadurcis, with terrible

vehemency. 'May heaven rain all its plagues upon her, the Hecate!'

'I will listen no more,' exclaimed Venetia indignantly, and she moved

away. She had proceeded some little distance when she paused and

looked back; Cadurcis was still at the fountain, but he did not

observe her. She remembered his sudden departure from Cherbury; she

did not doubt that, in the present instance, he would leave them as

abruptly, and that he would keep his word so solemnly given. Her heart

was nearly breaking, but she could not bear the idea of parting in

bitterness with the being whom, perhaps, she loved best in the world.

She stopt, she called his name in a voice low indeed, but in that

silent spot it reached him. He joined her immediately, but with a slow

step. When he had reached her, he said, without any animation and in a

frigid tone, 'I believe you called me?'

Venetia burst into tears. 'I cannot bear to part in anger,

Plantagenet. I wished to say farewell in kindness. I shall always pray

for your happiness. God bless you, Plantagenet!'

Lord Cadurcis made no reply, though for a moment he seemed about to

speak; he bowed, and, as Venetia approached her aunt, he turned his

steps in a different direction.

CHAPTER XVI.

Venetia stopped for a moment to collect herself before she joined

her aunt, but it was impossible to conceal her agitation from the

Countess. They had not, however, been long together before they

observed their friends in the distance, who had now quitted the

palace. Venetia made the utmost efforts to compose herself, and not

unsuccessful ones. She was sufficiently calm on their arrival, to

listen, if not to converse. The Countess, with all the tact of a

woman, covered her niece's confusion by her animated description of

their agreeable ride, and their still more pleasant promenade; and in

a few minutes the whole party were walking back to their carriages.

When they had arrived at the inn, they found Lord Cadurcis, to

whose temporary absence the Countess had alluded with some casual

observation which she flattered herself was very satisfactory.

Cadurcis appeared rather sullen, and the Countess, with feminine

quickness, suddenly discovered that both herself and her niece were

extremely fatigued, and that they had better return in the carriages.

There was one vacant place, and some of the gentlemen must ride

outside. Lord Cadurcis, however, said that he should return as he

came, and the grooms might lead back the ladies' horses; and so in a

few minutes the carriages had driven off.

Our solitary equestrian, however, was no sooner mounted than he put

his horse to its speed, and never drew in his rein until he reached

Hyde Park Corner. The rapid motion accorded with his tumultuous mood.

He was soon at home, gave his horse to a servant, for he had left

his groom behind, rushed into his library, tore up a letter of Lady

Monteagle's with a demoniac glance, and rang his bell with such force

that it broke. His valet, not unused to such ebullitions, immediately

appeared.

'Has anything happened, Spalding?' said his lordship.

'Nothing particular, my lord. Her ladyship sent every day, and called

herself twice, but I told her your lordship was in Yorkshire.'

'That was right; I saw a letter from her. When did it come?'

'It has been here several days, my lord.'

'Mind, I am at home to nobody; I am not in town.'

The valet bowed and disappeared. Cadurcis threw himself into an easy

chair, stretched his legs, sighed, and then swore; then suddenly

starting up, he seized a mass of letters that were lying on the table,

and hurled them to the other end of the apartment, dashed several

books to the ground, kicked down several chairs that were in his way,

and began pacing the room with his usual troubled step; and so he

continued until the shades of twilight entered his apartment. Then he

pulled down the other bell-rope, and Mr. Spalding again appeared.

'Order posthorses for to-morrow,' said his lordship.

'Where to, my lord?'

'I don't know; order the horses.'

Mr. Spalding again bowed and disappeared.

In a few minutes he heard a great stamping and confusion in his

master's apartment, and presently the door opened and his master's

voice was heard calling him repeatedly in a very irritable tone.

'Why are there no bells in this cursed room?' inquired Lord Cadurcis.

'The ropes are broken, my lord.'

'Why are they broken?'

'I can't say, my lord,'

'I cannot leave this house for a day but I find everything in

confusion. Bring me some Burgundy.'

'Yes, my lord. There is a young lad, my lord, called a few minutes

back, and asked for your lordship. He says he has something very

particular to say to your lordship. I told him your lordship was out

of town. He said your lordship would wish very much to see him, and

that he had come from the Abbey.'

'The Abbey!' said Cadurcis, in a tone of curiosity. 'Why did you not

show him in?'

'Your lordship said you were not at home to anybody.'

'Idiot! Is this anybody? Of course I would have seen him. What the

devil do I keep you for, sir? You seem to me to have lost your head.'

Mr. Spalding retired.

'The Abbey! that is droll,' said Cadurcis. 'I owe some duties to the

poor Abbey. I should not like to quit England, and leave anybody in

trouble at the Abbey. I wish I had seen the lad. Some son of a tenant

who has written to me, and I have never opened his letters. I am

sorry.'

In a few minutes Mr. Spalding again entered the room. 'The young lad

has called again, my lord. He says he thinks your lordship has come to

town, and he wishes to see your lordship very much.'

'Bring lights and show him up. Show him up first.'

Accordingly, a country lad was ushered into the room, although it was

so dusky that Cadurcis could only observe his figure standing at the

door.

'Well, my good fellow,' said Cadurcis; 'what do you want? Are you in

any trouble?'

The boy hesitated.

'Speak out, my good fellow; do not be alarmed. If I can serve you, or

any one at the Abbey, I will do it.'

Here Mr. Spalding entered with the lights. The lad held a cotton

handkerchief to his face; he appeared to be weeping; all that was

seen of his head were his locks of red hair. He seemed a country lad,

dressed in a long green coat with silver buttons, and he twirled in

his disengaged hand a peasant's white hat.

'That will do, Spalding,' said Lord Cadurcis. 'Leave the room. Now,

my good fellow, my time is precious; but speak out, and do not be

afraid.'

'Cadurcis!' said the lad in a sweet and trembling voice.

'Gertrude, by G--d!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, starting. 'What infernal

masquerade is this?'

'Is it a greater disguise than I have to bear every hour of my life?'

exclaimed Lady Monteagle, advancing. 'Have I not to bear a smiling

face with a breaking heart?'

'By Jove! a scene,' exclaimed Cadurcis in a piteous tone.

'A scene!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle, bursting into a flood of

indignant tears. 'Is this the way the expression of my feelings is

ever to be stigmatised? Barbarous man!'

Cadurcis stood with his back to the fireplace, with his lips

compressed, and his hands under his coat-tails. He was resolved that

nothing should induce him to utter a word. He looked the picture of

dogged indifference.

'I know where you have been,' continued Lady Monteagle. 'You have been

to Richmond; you have been with Miss Herbert. Yes! I know all. I am a

victim, but I will not be a dupe. Yorkshire indeed! Paltry coward!'

Cadurcis hummed an air.

'And this is Lord Cadurcis!' continued the lady. 'The sublime,

ethereal Lord Cadurcis, condescending to the last refuge of the

meanest, most commonplace mind, a vulgar, wretched lie! What could

have been expected from such a mind? You may delude the world, but I

know you. Yes, sir! I know you. And I will let everybody know you. I

will tear away the veil of charlatanism with which you have enveloped

yourself. The world shall at length discover the nature of the idol

they have worshipped. All your meanness, all your falsehood, all your

selfishness, all your baseness, shall be revealed. I may be spurned,

but at any rate I will be revenged!'

Lord Cadurcis yawned.

'Insulting, pitiful wretch!' continued the lady. 'And you think that

I wish to hear you speak! You think the sound of that deceitful voice

has any charm for me! You are mistaken, sir! I have listened to you

too long. It was not to remonstrate with you that I resolved to see

you. The tones of your voice can only excite my disgust. I am here to

speak myself; to express to you the contempt, the detestation, the

aversion, the scorn, the hatred, which I entertain for you!'

Lord Cadurcis whistled.

The lady paused; she had effected the professed purport of her visit;

she ought now to have retired, and Cadurcis would most willingly have

opened the door for her, and bowed her out of his apartment. But her

conduct did not exactly accord with her speech. She intimated no

intention of moving. Her courteous friend retained his position, and

adhered to his policy of silence. There was a dead pause, and then

Lady Monteagle, throwing herself into a chair, went into hysterics.

Lord Cadurcis, following her example, also seated himself, took up a

book, and began to read.

The hysterics became fainter and fainter; they experienced all those

gradations of convulsive noise with which Lord Cadurcis was so well

acquainted; at length they subsided into sobs and sighs. Finally,

there was again silence, now only disturbed by the sound of a page

turned by Lord Cadurcis.

Suddenly the lady sprang from her seat, and firmly grasping the arm of

Cadurcis, threw herself on her knees at his side.

'Cadurcis!' she exclaimed, in a tender tone, 'do you love me?'

'My dear Gertrude,' said Lord Cadurcis, coolly, but rather regretting

he had quitted his original and less assailable posture, 'you know I

like quiet women.'

'Cadurcis, forgive me!' murmured the lady. 'Pity me! Think only how

miserable I am!'

'Your misery is of your own making,' said Lord Cadurcis. 'What

occasion is there for any of these extraordinary proceedings? I have

told you a thousand times that I cannot endure scenes. Female society

is a relaxation to me; you convert it into torture. I like to sail

upon a summer sea; and you always will insist upon a white squall.'

'But you have deserted me!'

'I never desert any one,' replied Cadurcis calmly, raising her from

her supplicating attitude, and leading her to a seat. 'The last time

we met, you banished me your presence, and told me never to speak to

you again. Well, I obeyed your orders, as I always do.'

'But I did not mean what I said,' said Lady Monteagle.

'How should I know that?' said Lord Cadurcis.

'Your heart ought to have assured you,' said the lady.

'The tongue is a less deceptive organ than the heart,' replied her

companion.

'Cadurcis,' said the lady, looking at her strange disguise, 'what do

you advise me to do?'

'To go home; and if you like I will order my vis-à-vis for you

directly,' and he rose from his seat to give the order.

'Ah!' you are sighing to get rid of me!' said the lady, in a

reproachful, but still subdued tone.

'Why, the fact is, Gertrude, I prefer calling upon you, to your

calling upon me. When I am fitted for your society, I seek it; and,

when you are good-tempered, always with pleasure; when I am not in the

mood for it, I stay away. And when I am at home, I wish to see no one.

I have business now, and not very agreeable business. I am disturbed

by many causes, and you could not have taken a step which could have

given me greater annoyance than the strange one you have adopted this

evening.'

'I am sorry for it now,' said the lady, weeping. 'When shall I see you

again?'

'I will call upon you to-morrow, and pray receive me with smiles.'

'I ever will,' said the lady, weeping plenteously. 'It is all my

fault; you are ever too good. There is not in the world a kinder and

more gentle being than yourself. I shall never forgive myself for this

exposure.

'Would you like to take anything?' said Lord Cadurcis: 'I am sure you

must feel exhausted. You see I am drinking wine; it is my only dinner

to-day, but I dare say there is some salvolatile in the house; I dare

say, when my maids go into hysterics, they have it!'

'Ah, mocker!' said Lady Monteagle; 'but I can pardon everything, if

you will only let me see you.'

'Au revoir! then,' said his lordship; 'I am sure the carriage must be

ready. I hear it. Come, Mr. Gertrude, settle your wig; it is quite

awry. By Jove! we might as well go to the Pantheon, as you are ready

dressed. I have a domino.' And so saying, Lord Cadurcis handed the

lady to his carriage, and pressed her lightly by the hand, as he

reiterated his promise of calling at Monteagle House the next day.

CHAPTER XVII.

Lord Cadurcis, unhappy at home, and wearied of the commonplace

resources of society, had passed the night in every species of

dissipation; his principal companion being that same young nobleman in

whose company he had been when he first met Venetia at Ranelagh. The

morn was breaking when Cadurcis and his friend arrived at his door.

They had settled to welcome the dawn with a beaker of burnt Burgundy.

'Now, my dear Scrope,' said Cadurcis, 'now for quiet and philosophy.

The laughter of those infernal women, the rattle of those cursed dice,

and the oaths of those ruffians are still ringing in my ears. Let us

compose ourselves, and moralise.'

Accustomed to their master's habits, who generally turned night into

day, the household were all on the alert; a blazing fire greeted them,

and his lordship ordered instantly a devil and the burnt Burgundy.

'Sit you down here, my Scrope; that is the seat of honour, and you

shall have it. What is this, a letter? and marked "Urgent," and in a

man's hand. It must be read. Some good fellow nabbed by a bailiff,

or planted by his mistress. Signals of distress! We must assist our

friends.'

The flame of the fire fell upon Lord Cadurcis' face as he read the

letter; he was still standing, while his friend was stretched out in

his easy chair, and inwardly congratulating himself on his comfortable

prospects. The countenance of Cadurcis did not change, but he bit

his lip, and read the letter twice, and turned it over, but with a

careless air; and then he asked what o'clock it was. The servant

informed him, and left the room.