He seated himself at her feet, examined and admired her work, and

talked of old times, but with such infinite discretion, that he did

not arouse a single painful association. Venetia was busied with her

father's poems, and smiled often at the manuscript notes of Cadurcis.

Lying, as usual, on the grass, and leaning his head on his left arm,

Herbert was listening to Captain Cadurcis, who was endeavouring to

give him a clear idea of the Bosphorus. Thus the morning wore away,

until the sun drove them into the villa.

'I will show you my library, Lord Cadurcis,' said Herbert.

Cadurcis followed him into a spacious apartment, where he found a

collection so considerable that he could not suppress his surprise.

'Italian spoils chiefly,' said Herbert; 'a friend of mine purchased

an old library at Bologna for me, and it turned out richer than I

imagined: the rest are old friends that have been with me, many of

them at least, at college. I brought them back with me from America,

for then they were my only friends.'

'Can you find Cabanis?' said Lord Cadurcis.

Herbert looked about. It is in this neighbourhood, I imagine,' he

said. Cadurcis endeavoured to assist him. 'What is this?' he said;

'Plato!'

'I should like to read Plato at Athens,' said Herbert. 'My ambition

now does not soar beyond such elegant fortune.'

'We are all under great obligations to Plato,' said Cadurcis. 'I

remember, when I was in London, I always professed myself his

disciple, and it is astonishing what results I experienced. Platonic

love was a great invention.'

Herbert smiled; but, as he saw Cadurcis knew nothing about the

subject, he made no reply.

'Plato says, or at least I think he says, that life is love,' said

Cadurcis. 'I have said it myself in a very grand way too; I believe I

cribbed it from you. But what does he mean? I am sure I meant nothing;

but I dare say you did.'

'I certainly had some meaning,' said Herbert, stopping in his search,

and smiling, 'but I do not know whether I expressed it. The principle

of every motion, that is of all life, is desire or love: at present;

I am in love with the lost volume of Cabanis, and, if it were not

for the desire of obtaining it, I should not now be affording any

testimony of my vitality by looking after it.'

'That is very clear,' said Cadurcis, 'but I was thinking of love in

the vulgar sense, in the shape of a petticoat. Certainly, when I am in

love with a woman, I feel love is life; but, when I am out of love,

which often happens, and generally very soon, I still contrive to

live.'

'We exist,' said Herbert, 'because we sympathise. If we did not

sympathise with the air, we should die. But, if we only sympathised

with the air, we should be in the lowest order of brutes, baser than

the sloth. Mount from the sloth to the poet. It is sympathy that makes

you a poet. It is your desire that the airy children of your brain

should be born anew within another's, that makes you create;

therefore, a misanthropical poet is a contradiction in terms.'

'But when he writes a lampoon?' said Cadurcis.

'He desires that the majority, who are not lampooned, should share his

hate,' said Herbert.

'But Swift lampooned the species,' said Cadurcis. 'For my part, I

think life is hatred.'

'But Swift was not sincere, for he wrote the Drapier's Letters at the

same time. Besides, the very fact of your abusing mankind proves that

you do not hate them; it is clear that you are desirous of obtaining

their good opinion of your wit. You value them, you esteem them, you

love them. Their approbation causes you to act, and makes you happy.

As for sexual love,' said Herbert, 'of which you were speaking, its

quality and duration depend upon the degree of sympathy that subsists

between the two persons interested. Plato believed, and I believe with

him, in the existence of a spiritual antitype of the soul, so that

when we are born, there is something within us which, from the instant

we live and move, thirsts after its likeness. This propensity develops

itself with the development of our nature. The gratification of the

senses soon becomes a very small part of that profound and complicated

sentiment, which we call love. Love, on the contrary, is an universal

thirst for a communion, not merely of the senses, but of our whole

nature, intellectual, imaginative, and sensitive. He who finds his

antitype, enjoys a love perfect and enduring; time cannot change it,

distance cannot remove it; the sympathy is complete. He who loves an

object that approaches his antitype, is proportionately happy, the

sympathy is feeble or strong, as it may be. If men were properly

educated, and their faculties fully developed,' continued Herbert,

'the discovery of the antitype would be easy; and, when the day

arrives that it is a matter of course, the perfection of civilisation

will be attained.'

'I believe in Plato,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'and I think I have found my

antitype. His theory accounts for what I never could understand.'

CHAPTER VII.

In the course of the evening Lady Annabel requested Lord Cadurcis and

his cousin to take up their quarters at the villa. Independent of the

delight which such an invitation occasioned him, Cadurcis was doubly

gratified by its being given by her. It was indeed her unprompted

solicitation; for neither Herbert nor even Venetia, however much

they desired the arrangement, was anxious to appear eager for its

fulfilment. Desirous of pleasing her husband and her daughter; a

little penitent as to her previous treatment of Cadurcis, now that

time and strange events had combined to soften her feelings; and won

by his engaging demeanour towards herself, Lady Annabel had of mere

impulse resolved upon the act; and she was repaid by the general air

of gaiety and content which it diffused through the circle.

Few weeks indeed passed ere her ladyship taught herself even to

contemplate the possibility of an union between her daughter and

Lord Cadurcis. The change which had occurred in her own feelings and

position had in her estimation removed very considerable barriers to

such a result. It would not become her again to urge the peculiarity

of his temperament as an insuperable objection to the marriage; that

was out of the question, even if the conscience of Lady Annabel

herself, now that she was so happy, were perfectly free from any

participation in the causes which occasioned the original estrangement

between Herbert and herself. Desirous too, as all mothers are, that

her daughter should be suitably married, Lady Annabel could not shut

her eyes to the great improbability of such an event occurring, now

that Venetia had, as it were, resigned all connection with her native

country. As to her daughter marrying a foreigner, the very idea was

intolerable to her; and Venetia appeared therefore to have resumed

that singular and delicate position which she occupied at Cherbury in

earlier years, when Lady Annabel had esteemed her connection with Lord

Cadurcis so fortunate and auspicious. Moreover, while Lord Cadurcis,

in birth, rank, country, and consideration, offered in every view of

the ease so gratifying an alliance, he was perhaps the only Englishman

whose marriage into her family would not deprive her of the society of

her child. Cadurcis had a great distaste for England, which he seized

every opportunity to express. He continually declared that he would

never return there; and his habits of seclusion and study so entirely

accorded with those of her husband, that Lady Annabel did not doubt

they would continue to form only one family; a prospect so engaging to

her, that it would perhaps have alone removed the distrust which she

had so unfortunately cherished against the admirer of her daughter;

and although some of his reputed opinions occasioned her doubtless

considerable anxiety, he was nevertheless very young, and far from

emancipated from the beneficial influence of his early education. She

was sanguine that this sheep would yet return to the fold where once

he had been tended with so much solicitude. When too she called to

mind the chastened spirit of her husband, and could not refrain from

feeling that, had she not quitted him, he might at a much earlier

period have attained a mood so full of promise and to her so cheering,

she could not resist the persuasion that, under the influence of

Venetia, Cadurcis might speedily free himself from the dominion of

that arrogant genius to which, rather than to any serious conviction,

the result of a studious philosophy, she attributed his indifference

on the most important of subjects. On the whole, however, it was with

no common gratification that Lady Annabel observed the strong and

intimate friendship that arose between her husband and Cadurcis. They

were inseparable companions. Independently of the natural sympathy

between two highly imaginative minds, there were in the superior

experience, the noble character, the vast knowledge, and refined taste

of Herbert, charms of which Cadurcis was very susceptible Cadurcis had

not been a great reader himself, and he liked the company of one whose

mind was at once so richly cultured and so deeply meditative: thus he

obtained matter and spirit distilled through the alembic of another's

brain. Jealousy had never had a place in Herbert's temperament; now he

was insensible even to emulation. He spoke of Cadurcis as he thought,

with the highest admiration; as one without a rival, and in whose

power it was to obtain an imperishable fame. It was his liveliest

pleasure to assist the full development of such an intellect, and to

pour to him, with a lavish hand, all the treasures of his taste, his

learning, his fancy, and his meditation. His kind heart, his winning

manners, his subdued and perfect temper, and the remembrance of the

relation which he bore to Venetia, completed the spell which bound

Cadurcis to him with all the finest feelings of his nature. It was,

indeed, an intercourse peculiarly beneficial to Cadurcis, whose career

had hitherto tended rather to the development of the power, than the

refinement of his genius; and to whom an active communion with an

equal spirit of a more matured intelligence was an incident rather to

be desired than expected. Herbert and Cadurcis, therefore, spent their

mornings together, sometimes in the library, sometimes wandering in

the chestnut woods, sometimes sailing in the boat of the brig, for

they were both fond of the sea: in these excursions, George was in

general their companion. He had become a great favourite with Herbert,

as with everybody else. No one managed a boat so well, although

Cadurcis prided himself also on his skill in this respect; and George

was so frank and unaffected, and so used to his cousin's habits, that

his presence never embarrassed Herbert and Cadurcis, and they read or

conversed quite at their ease, as if there were no third person to

mar, by his want of sympathy, the full communion of their intellect.

The whole circle met at dinner, and never again parted until at a late

hour of night. This was a most agreeable life; Cadurcis himself, good

humoured because he was happy, doubly exerted himself to ingratiate

himself with Lady Annabel, and felt every day that he was advancing.

Venetia always smiled upon him, and praised him delightfully for his

delightful conduct.

In the evening, Herbert would read to them the manuscript poem of

Cadurcis, the fruits of his Attic residence and Grecian meditations.

The poet would sometimes affect a playful bashfulness on this head,

perhaps not altogether affected, and amuse Venetia, in a whisper, with

his running comments; or exclaim with an arch air, 'I say, Venetia,

what would Mrs. Montague and the Blues give for this, eh? I can fancy

Hannah More in decent ecstasies!'

CHAPTER VIII.

'It is an odd thing, my dear Herbert,' said Cadurcis to his friend, in

one of these voyages, 'that destiny should have given you and me the

same tutor.'

'Masham!' said Herbert, smiling. 'I tell you what is much more

singular, my dear Cadurcis; it is, that, notwithstanding being our

tutor, a mitre should have fallen upon his head.'

'I am heartily glad,' said Cadurcis. 'I like Masham very much; I

really have a sincere affection for him. Do you know, during my

infernal affair about those accursed Monteagles, when I went to the

House of Lords, and was cut even by my own party; think of that, the

polished ruffians! Masham was the only person who came forward and

shook hands with me, and in the most marked manner. A bishop, too! and

the other side! that was good, was it not? But he would not see his

old pupil snubbed; if he had waited ten minutes longer, he might have

had a chance of seeing him massacred. And then they complain of my

abusing England, my mother country; a step-dame, I take it.'

'Masham is in politics a Tory, in religion ultra-orthodox,' Herbert.

'He has nothing about him of the latitudinarian; and yet he is the

most amiable man with whom I am acquainted. Nature has given him a

kind and charitable heart, which even his opinions have not succeeded

in spoiling.'

'Perhaps that is exactly what he is saying of us two at this moment,'

said Cadurcis. 'After all, what is truth? It changes as you change

your clime or your country; it changes with the century. The truth of

a hundred years ago is not the truth of the present day, and yet it

may have been as genuine. Truth at Rome is not the truth of London,

and both of them differ from the truth of Constantinople. For my part,

I believe everything.'

'Well, that is practically prudent, if it be metaphysically possible,'

said Herbert. 'Do you know that I have always been of opinion, that

Pontius Pilate has been greatly misrepresented by Lord Bacon in the

quotation of his celebrated question. 'What is truth?' said jesting

Pilate, and would not wait for an answer. Let us be just to Pontius

Pilate, who has sins enough surely to answer for. There is no

authority for the jesting humour given by Lord Bacon. Pilate was

evidently of a merciful and clement disposition; probably an

Epicurean. His question referred to a declaration immediately

preceding it, that He who was before him came to bear witness to the

truth. Pilate inquired what truth?'

'Well, I always have a prejudice against Pontius Pilate,' said Lord

Cadurcis; 'and I think it is from seeing him, when I was a child,

on an old Dutch tile fireplace at Marringhurst, dressed like a

burgomaster. One cannot get over one's early impressions; but when you

picture him to me as an Epicurean, he assumes a new character. I fancy

him young, noble, elegant, and accomplished; crowned with a wreath and

waving a goblet, and enjoying his government vastly.'

'Before the introduction of Christianity,' said Herbert, 'the

philosophic schools answered to our present religious sects. You said

of a man that he was a Stoic or an Epicurean, as you say of a man now

that he is a Calvinist or a Wesleyan.'

'I should have liked to have known Epicurus,' said Cadurcis.

'I would sooner have known him and Plato than any of the ancients,'

said Herbert. 'I look upon Plato as the wisest and the profoundest of

men, and upon Epicurus as the most humane and gentle.'

'Now, how do you account for the great popularity of Aristotle in

modern ages?' said Cadurcis; 'and the comparative neglect of these, at

least his equals? Chance, I suppose, that settles everything.'

'By no means,' said Herbert. 'If you mean by chance an absence of

accountable cause, I do not believe such a quality as chance exists.

Every incident that happens, must be a link in a chain. In the present

case, the monks monopolised literature, such as it might be, and they

exercised their intellect only in discussing words. They, therefore,

adopted Aristotle and the Peripatetics. Plato interfered with their

heavenly knowledge, and Epicurus, who maintained the rights of man to

pleasure and happiness, would have afforded a dangerous and seducing

contrast to their dark and miserable code of morals.'

'I think, of the ancients,' said Cadurcis; 'Alcibiades and Alexander

the Great are my favourites. They were young, beautiful, and

conquerors; a great combination.'

'And among the moderns?' inquired Herbert.

'They don't touch my fancy,' said Cadurcis. 'Who are your heroes?'

'Oh! I have many; but I confess I should like to pass a day with

Milton, or Sir Philip Sidney.'

'Among mere literary men,' said Cadurcis; 'I should say Bayle.'

'And old Montaigne for me,' said Herbert.

'Well, I would fain visit him in his feudal chateau,' said Cadurcis.

'His is one of the books which give a spring to the mind. Of modern

times, the feudal ages of Italy most interest me. I think that was a

springtide of civilisation, all the fine arts nourished at the same

moment.'

'They ever will,' said Herbert. 'All the inventive arts maintain a

sympathetic connection between each other, for, after all, they are

only various expressions of one internal power, modified by different

circumstances either of the individual or of society. It was so in

the age of Pericles; I mean the interval which intervened between

the birth of that great man and the death of Aristotle; undoubtedly,

whether considered in itself, or with reference to the effects which

it produced upon the subsequent destinies of civilised man, the most

memorable in the history of the world.'

'And yet the age of Pericles has passed away,' said Lord Cadurcis

mournfully, 'and I have gazed upon the mouldering Parthenon. O

Herbert! you are a great thinker and muse deeply; solve me the

problem why so unparalleled a progress was made during that period

in literature and the arts, and why that progress, so rapid and so

sustained, so soon received a check and became retrograde?'

'It is a problem left to the wonder and conjecture of posterity,' said

Herbert. 'But its solution, perhaps, may principally be found in the

weakness of their political institutions. Nothing of the Athenians

remains except their genius; but they fulfilled their purpose. The

wrecks and fragments of their subtle and profound minds obscurely

suggest to us the grandeur and perfection of the whole. Their language

excels every other tongue of the Western world; their sculptures

baffle all subsequent artists; credible witnesses assure us that their

paintings were not inferior; and we are only accustomed to consider

the painters of Italy as those who have brought the art to its highest

perfection, because none of the ancient pictures have been preserved.

Yet of all their fine arts, it was music of which the Greeks were

themselves most proud. Its traditionary effects were far more powerful

than any which we experience from the compositions of our times. And

now for their poetry, Cadurcis. It is in poetry, and poetry alone,

that modern nations have maintained the majesty of genius. Do we equal

the Greeks? Do we even excel them?'

'Let us prove the equality first,' said Cadurcis. 'The Greeks excelled

in every species of poetry. In some we do not even attempt to rival

them. We have not a single modern ode, or a single modern pastoral. We

have no one to place by Pindar, or the exquisite Theocritus. As for

the epic, I confess myself a heretic as to Homer; I look upon the

Iliad as a remnant of national songs; the wise ones agree that the

Odyssey is the work of a later age. My instinct agrees with the result

of their researches. I credit their conclusion. The Paradise Lost is,

doubtless, a great production, but the subject is monkish. Dante is

national, but he has all the faults of a barbarous age. In general the

modern epic is framed upon the assumption that the Iliad is an orderly

composition. They are indebted for this fallacy to Virgil, who called

order out of chaos; but the Aeneid, all the same, appears to me an

insipid creation. And now for the drama. You will adduce Shakspeare?'

'There are passages in Dante,' said Herbert, 'not inferior, in my

opinion, to any existing literary composition, but, as a whole, I will

not make my stand on him; I am not so clear that, as a lyric poet,

Petrarch may not rival the Greeks. Shakspeare I esteem of ineffable

merit.'

'And who is Shakspeare?' said Cadurcis. 'We know of him as much as we

do of Homer. Did he write half the plays attributed to him? Did he

ever write a single whole play? I doubt it. He appears to me to have

been an inspired adapter for the theatres, which were then not as

good as barns. I take him to have been a botcher up of old plays.

His popularity is of modern date, and it may not last; it would have

surprised him marvellously. Heaven knows, at present, all that bears

his name is alike admired; and a regular Shaksperian falls into

ecstasies with trash which deserves a niche in the Dunciad. For my

part, I abhor your irregular geniuses, and I love to listen to the

little nightingale of Twickenham.'

'I have often observed,' said Herbert, 'that writers of an unbridled

imagination themselves, admire those whom the world, erroneously,

in my opinion, and from a confusion of ideas, esteems correct. I am

myself an admirer of Pope, though I certainly should not ever think of

classing him among the great creative spirits. And you, you are the

last poet in the world, Cadurcis, whom one would have fancied his

votary.'

'I have written like a boy,' said Cadurcis. 'I found the public bite,

and so I baited on with tainted meat. I have never written for fame,

only for notoriety; but I am satiated; I am going to turn over a new

leaf.'

'For myself,' said Herbert, 'if I ever had the power to impress my

creations on my fellow-men, the inclination is gone, and perhaps the

faculty is extinct. My career is over; perhaps a solitary echo from my

lyre may yet, at times, linger about the world like a breeze that has

lost its way. But there is a radical fault in my poetic mind, and I am

conscious of it. I am not altogether void of the creative faculty, but

mine is a fragmentary mind; I produce no whole. Unless you do this,

you cannot last; at least, you cannot materially affect your species.

But what I admire in you, Cadurcis, is that, with all the faults

of youth, of which you will free yourself, your creative power is

vigorous, prolific, and complete; your creations rise fast and fair,

like perfect worlds.'

'Well, we will not compliment each other,' said Cadurcis; 'for, after

all, it is a miserable craft. What is poetry but a lie, and what are

poets but liars?'

'You are wrong, Cadurcis,' said Herbert, 'poets are the unacknowledged

legislators of the world.'

'I see the towers of Porto Venere,' said Cadurcis directing the sail;

'we shall soon be on shore. I think, too, I recognise Venetia. Ah! my

dear Herbert, your daughter is a poem that beats all our inspiration!'

CHAPTER IX.

One circumstance alone cast a gloom over this happy family, and that

was the approaching departure of Captain Cadurcis for England. This

had been often postponed, but it could be postponed no longer. Not

even the entreaties of those kind friends could any longer prevent

what was inevitable. The kind heart, the sweet temper, and the lively

and companionable qualities of Captain Cadurcis, had endeared him to

everyone; all felt that his departure would occasion a blank in

their life, impossible to be supplied. It reminded the Herberts also

painfully of their own situation, in regard to their native country,

which they were ever unwilling to dwell upon. George talked of

returning to them, but the prospect was necessarily vague; they

felt that it was only one of those fanciful visions with which an

affectionate spirit attempts to soothe the pang of separation. His

position, his duties, all the projects of his life, bound him to

England, from which, indeed, he had been too long absent. It was

selfish to wish that, for their sakes, he should sink down into a mere

idler in Italy; and yet, when they recollected how little his future

life could be connected with their own, everyone felt dispirited.

'I shall not go boating to-day,' said George to Venetia; 'it is my

last day. Mr. Herbert and Plantagenet talk of going to Lavenza; let us

take a stroll together.'

Nothing can be refused to those we love on the last day, and Venetia

immediately acceded to his request. In the course of the morning,

therefore, herself and George quitted the valley, in the direction

of the coast towards Genoa. Many a white sail glittered on the blue

waters; it was a lively and cheering scene; but both Venetia and her

companion were depressed.

'I ought to be happy,' said George, and sighed. 'The fondest wish

of my heart is attained. You remember our conversation on the Lago

Maggiore, Venetia? You see I was a prophet, and you will be Lady

Cadurcis yet.'

'We must keep up our spirits,' said Venetia; 'I do not despair of our

all returning to England yet. So many wonders have happened, that I

cannot persuade myself that this marvel will not also occur. I am sure

my uncle will do something; I have a secret idea that the Bishop is

all this time working for papa; I feel assured I shall see Cherbury

and Cadurcis again, and Cadurcis will be your home.'

'A year ago you appeared dying, and Plantagenet was the most miserable

of men,' said Captain Cadurcis. 'You are both now perfectly well and

perfectly happy, living even under the same roof, soon, I feel, to be

united, and with the cordial approbation of Lady Annabel. Your father

is restored to you. Every blessing in the world seems to cluster round

your roof. It is selfish for me to wear a gloomy countenance.'

'Ah! dear George, you never can be selfish,' said Venetia.

'Yes, I am selfish, Venetia. What else can make me sad?'

'You know how much you contribute to our happiness,' said Venetia,

'and you feel for our sufferings at your absence.'

'No, Venetia, I feel for myself,' said Captain Cadurcis with energy;

'I am certain that I never can be happy, except in your society and

Plantagenet's. I cannot express to you how I love you both. Nothing

else gives me the slightest interest.'

'You must go home and marry,' said Venetia, smiling 'You must marry an

heiress.'

'Never,' said Captain Cadurcis. 'Nothing shall ever induce me to

marry. No! all my dreams are confined to being the bachelor uncle of

the family.'

'Well, now I think,' said Venetia, 'of all the persons I know, there

is no one so qualified for domestic happiness as yourself. I think

your wife, George, would be a very fortunate woman, and I only wish I

had a sister, that you might marry her.'

'I wish you had, Venetia; I would give up my resolution against

marriage directly.'

'Alas!' said Venetia, 'there is always some bitter drop in the cup of

life. Must you indeed go, George?'

'My present departure is inevitable,' he replied; 'but I have some

thoughts of giving up my profession and Parliament, and then I will

return, never to leave you again.'

'What will Lord ---- say? That will never do,' said Venetia. 'No; I

should not be content unless you prospered in the world, George. You

are made to prosper, and I should be miserable if you sacrificed your

existence to us. You must go home, and you must marry, and write

letters to us by every post, and tell us what a happy man you are. The

best thing for you to do would be to live with your wife at the abbey;

or Cherbury, if you liked. You see I settle everything.'

'I never will marry,' said Captain Cadurcis, seriously.

'Yes you will,' said Venetia.

'I am quite serious, Venetia. Now, mark my words, and remember this

day. I never will marry. I have a reason, and a strong and good one,

for my resolution.'

'What is it?'

'Because my marriage will destroy the intimacy that subsists between

me and yourself, and Plantagenet,' he added.

'Your wife should be my friend,' said Venetia.

'Happy woman!' said George.

'Let us indulge for a moment in a dream of domestic bliss,' said

Venetia gaily. 'Papa and mamma at Cherbury; Plantagenet and myself at

the abbey, where you and your wife must remain until we could build

you a house; and Dr. Masham coming down to spend Christmas with us.

Would it not be delightful? I only hope Plantagenet would be tame. I

think he would burst out a little sometimes.'

'Not with you, Venetia, not with you,' said George 'you have a hold

over him which nothing can ever shake. I could always put him in an

amiable mood in an instant by mentioning your name.'

'I wish you knew the abbey, George,' said Venetia. 'It is the most

interesting of all old places. I love it. You must promise me when you

arrive in England to go on a pilgrimage to Cadurcis and Cherbury, and

write me a long account of it.'

'I will indeed; I will write to you very often.'

'You shall find me a most faithful correspondent, which, I dare say,

Plantagenet would not prove.'

'Oh! I beg your pardon,' said George; 'you have no idea of the

quantity of letters he wrote me when he first quitted England.

And such delightful ones! I do not think there is a more lively

letter-writer in the world! His descriptions are so vivid; a few

touches give you a complete picture; and then his observations, they

are so playful! I assure you there is nothing in the world more easy

and diverting than a letter from Plantagenet.'

'If you could only see his first letter from Eton to me?' said

Venetia. 'I have always treasured it. It certainly was not very

diverting; and, if by easy you mean easy to decipher,' she added

laughing, 'his handwriting must have improved very much lately. Dear

Plantagenet, I am always afraid I never pay him sufficient respect;

that I do not feel sufficient awe in his presence; but I cannot

disconnect him from the playfellow of my infancy; and, do you know, it

seems to me, whenever he addresses me, his voice and air change, and

assume quite the tone and manner of childhood.'

'I have never known him but as a great man,' said Captain Cadurcis;

'but he was so frank and simple with me from the very first, that I

cannot believe that it is not two years since we first met.'

'Ah! I shall never forget that night at Ranelagh,' said Venetia, half

with a smile and half with a sigh. 'How interesting he looked! I loved

to see the people stare at him, and to hear them whisper his name.'

Here they seated themselves by a fountain, overshadowed by a

plane-tree, and for a while talked only of Plantagenet.

'All the dreams of my life have come to pass,' said Venetia. 'I

remember when I was at Weymouth, ill and not very happy, I used to

roam about the sands, thinking of papa, and how I wished Plantagenet

was like him, a great man, a great poet, whom all the world admired.

Little did I think that, before a year had passed, Plantagenet, my

unknown Plantagenet, would be the admiration of England; little did I

think another year would pass, and I should be living with my father

and Plantagenet together, and they should be bosom friends. You see,

George, we must never despair.'

'Under this bright sun,' said Captain Cadurcis, 'one is naturally

sanguine, but think of me alone and in gloomy England.'

'It is indeed a bright sun,' said Venetia; 'how wonderful to wake

every morning, and be sure of meeting its beam.'

Captain Cadurcis looked around him with a sailor's eye. Over the

Apennines, towards Genoa, there was a ridge of dark clouds piled up

with such compactness, that they might have been mistaken in a hasty

survey for part of the mountains themselves.

'Bright as is the sun,' said Captain Cadurcis, 'we may have yet a

squall before night.'

'I was delighted with Venice,' said his companion, not noticing his

observation; 'I think of all places in the world it is one which

Plantagenet would most admire. I cannot believe but that even his

delicious Athens would yield to it.'

'He did lead the oddest life at Athens you can conceive,' said Captain

Cadurcis. 'The people did not know what to make of him. He lived in

the Latin convent, a fine building which he had almost to himself,

for there are not half a dozen monks. He used to pace up and down the

terrace which he had turned into a garden, and on which he kept all

sorts of strange animals. He wrote continually there. Indeed he did

nothing but write. His only relaxation was a daily ride to Piraeus,

about five miles over the plain; he told me it was the only time in

his life he was ever contented with himself except when he was at

Cherbury. He always spoke of London with disgust.'

'Plantagenet loves retirement and a quiet life,' said Venetia; 'but he

must not be marred with vulgar sights and common-place duties. That is

the secret with him.'

'I think the wind has just changed,' said Captain Cadurcis. 'It seems

to me that we shall have a sirocco. There, it shifts again! We shall

have a sirocco for certain.'

'What did you think of papa when you first saw him?' said Venetia.

'Was he the kind of person you expected to see?'

'Exactly,' said Captain Cadurcis. 'So very spiritual! Plantagenet said

to me, as we went home the first night, that he looked like a golden

phantom. I think him very like you, Venetia; indeed, there can be no

doubt you inherited your face from your father.'

'Ah! if you had seen his portrait at Cherbury, when he was only

twenty!' said Venetia. 'That was a golden phantom, or rather he looked

like Hyperion. What are you staring at so, George?'

'I do not like this wind,' muttered Captain Cadurcis. 'There it goes.'

'You cannot see the wind, George?'

'Yes, I can, Venetia, and I do not like it at all. Do you see that

black spot flitting like a shade over the sea? It is like the

reflection of a cloud on the water; but there is no cloud. Well, that

is the wind, Venetia, and a very wicked wind too.'

'How strange! Is that indeed the wind?'

'We had better return home,' said Captain Cadurcis I wish they had not

gone to Lavenza.'

'But there is no danger?' said Venetia.

'Danger? No! no danger, but they may get a wet jacket.'

They walked on; but Captain Cadurcis was rather distrait: his eye was

always watching the wind; at last he said, 'I tell you, Venetia, we

must walk quickly; for, by Jove, we are going to have a white squall.'

They hurried their pace, Venetia mentioned her alarm again about the

boat; but her companion reassured her; yet his manner was not so

confident as his words.

A white mist began to curl above the horizon, the blueness of the day

seemed suddenly to fade, and its colour became grey; there was a swell

on the waters that hitherto had been quite glassy, and they were

covered with a scurfy foam.

'I wish I had been with them,' said Captain Cadurcis, evidently very

anxious.

'George, you are alarmed,' said Venetia, earnestly. 'I am sure there

is danger.'

'Danger! How can there be danger, Venetia? Perhaps they are in port by

this time. I dare say we shall find them at Spezzia. I will see you

home and run down to them. Only hurry, for your own sake, for you do

not know what a white squall in the Mediterranean is. We have but a

few moments.'

And even at this very instant, the wind came roaring and rushing with

such a violent gush that Venetia could scarcely stand; George put his

arm round her to support her. The air was filled with thick white

vapour, so that they could no longer see the ocean, only the surf

rising very high all along the coast.

'Keep close to me, Venetia,' said Captain Cadurcis; 'hold my arm and I

will walk first, for we shall not be able to see a yard before us in a

minute. I know where we are. We are above the olive wood, and we shall

soon be in the ravine. These Mediterranean white squalls are nasty

things; I had sooner by half be in a south-wester; for one cannot run

before the wind in this bay, the reefs stretch such a long way out.'

The danger, and the inutility of expressing fears which could only

perplex her guide, made Venetia silent, but she was terrified.

She could not divest herself of apprehension about her father and

Plantagenet. In spite of all he said, it was evident that her

companion was alarmed.

They had now entered the valley; the mountains had in some degree kept

off the vapour; the air was more clear. Venetia and Captain Cadurcis

stopped a moment to breathe. 'Now, Venetia, you are safe,' said

Captain Cadurcis. 'I will not come in; I will run down to the bay at

once.' He wiped the mist off his face: Venetia perceived him deadly

pale.

'George,' she said, 'conceal nothing from me; there is danger,

imminent danger. Tell me at once.'

'Indeed, Venetia,' said Captain Cadurcis, 'I am sure everything will

be quite right. There is some danger, certainly, at this moment; but

of course, long ago, they have run into harbour. I have no doubt they

are at Spezzia at this moment. Now, do not be alarmed; indeed there

is no cause. God bless you!' he said, and bounded away. 'No cause,'

thought he to himself, as the wind sounded like thunder, and the

vapour came rushing up the ravine. 'God grant I may be right; but

neither between the Tropics nor on the Line have I witnessed a severer

squall than this! What open boat can live in this weather Oh! that I

had been with them. I shall never forgive myself!'

CHAPTER X.

Venetia found her mother walking up and down the room, as was her

custom when she was agitated. She hurried to her daughter. 'You must

change your dress instantly, Venetia,' said Lady Annabel. 'Where is

George?'

'He has gone down to Spezzia to papa and Plantagenet; it is a white

squall; it comes on very suddenly in this sea. He ran down to Spezzia

instantly, because he thought they would be wet,' said the agitated

Venetia, speaking with rapidity and trying to appear calm.

'Are they at Spezzia?' inquired Lady Annabel, quickly.

'George has no doubt they are, mother,' said Venetia.

'No doubt!' exclaimed Lady Annabel, in great distress. 'God grant they

may be only wet.'

'Dearest mother,' said Venetia, approaching her, but speech deserted

her. She had advanced to encourage Lady Annabel, but her own fear

checked the words on her lips.

'Change your dress, Venetia,' said Lady Annabel; 'lose no time in

doing that. I think I will send down to Spezzia at once,'

'That is useless now, dear mother, for George is there.'

'Go, dearest,' said Lady Annabel; 'I dare say, we have no cause for

fear, but I am exceedingly alarmed about your father, about them: I

am, indeed. I do not like these sudden squalls, and I never liked this

boating; indeed, I never did. George being with them reconciled me to

it. Now go, Venetia; go, my love.'

Venetia quitted the room. She was so agitated that she made Pauncefort

a confidant of her apprehensions.

'La! my dear miss,' said Mistress Pauncefort, 'I should never have

thought of such a thing! Do not you remember what the old man said

at Weymouth, "there is many a boat will live in a rougher sea than a

ship;" and it is such an unlikely thing, it is indeed, Miss Venetia. I

am certain sure my lord can manage a boat as well as a common sailor,

and master is hardly less used to it than he. La! miss, don't make

yourself nervous about any such preposterous ideas. And I dare say you

will find them in the saloon when you go down again. Really I should

not wonder. I think you had better wear your twill dress; I have put

the new trimming on.'

They had not returned when Venetia joined her mother. That indeed she

could scarcely expect. But, in about half an hour, a message arrived

from Captain Cadurcis that they were not at Spezzia, but from

something he had heard, he had no doubt they were at Sarzana, and he

was going to ride on there at once. He felt sure, however, from what

he had heard, they were at Sarzana. This communication afforded Lady

Annabel a little ease, but Venetia's heart misgave her. She recalled

the alarm of George in the morning, which it was impossible for him to

disguise, and she thought she recognised in this hurried message and

vague assurances of safety something of the same apprehension, and the

same fruitless efforts to conceal it.

Now came the time of terrible suspense. Sarzana was nearly twenty

miles distant from Spezzia. The evening must arrive before they could

receive intelligence from Captain Cadurcis. In the meantime the squall

died away, the heavens became again bright, and, though the waves were

still tumultuous, the surf was greatly decreased. Lady Annabel had

already sent down more than one messenger to the bay, but they brought

no intelligence; she resolved now to go herself, that she might have

the satisfaction of herself cross-examining the fishermen who had been

driven in from various parts by stress of weather. She would not let

Venetia accompany her, who, she feared, might already suffer from the

exertions and rough weather of the morning. This was a most anxious

hour, and yet the absence of her mother was in some degree a relief to

Venetia; it at least freed her from the perpetual effort of assumed

composure. While her mother remained, Venetia had affected to read,

though her eye wandered listlessly over the page, or to draw, though

the pencil trembled in her hand; anything which might guard her from

conveying to her mother that she shared the apprehensions which had

already darkened her mother's mind. But now that Lady Annabel was

gone, Venetia, muffling herself up in her shawl, threw herself on a

sofa, and there she remained without a thought, her mind a chaos of

terrible images.

Her mother returned, and with a radiant countenance, Venetia sprang

from the sofa. 'There is good news; O mother! have they returned?'

'They are not at Spezzia,' said Lady Annabel, throwing herself into a

chair panting for breath; 'but there is good news. You see I was right

to go, Venetia. These stupid people we send only ask questions, and

take the first answer. I have seen a fisherman, and he says he heard

that two persons, Englishmen he believes, have put into Lerici in an

open boat.'

'God be praised!' said Venetia. 'O mother, I can now confess to you

the terror I have all along felt.'

'My own heart assures me of it, my child,' said Lady Annabel weeping;

and they mingled their tears together, but tears not of sorrow.

'Poor George!' said Lady Annabel, 'he will have a terrible journey to

Sarzana, and be feeling so much for us! Perhaps he may meet them.'

'I feel assured he will,' said Venetia; 'and perhaps ere long they

will all three be here again. Joy! joy!'

'They must never go in that boat again,' said Lady Annabel.

'Oh! they never will, dearest mother, if you ask them not,' said

Venetia.

'We will send to Lerici,' said Lady Annabel.

'Instantly,' said Venetia; 'but I dare say they already sent us a

messenger.'

'No!' said Lady Annabel; 'men treat the danger that is past very

lightly. We shall not hear from them except in person.'

Time now flew more lightly. They were both easy in their minds. The

messenger was despatched to Lerici; but even Lerici was a considerable

distance, and hours must elapse before his return. Still there was the

hope of seeing them, or hearing from them in the interval.

'I must go out, dear mother,' said Venetia. 'Let us both go out. It

is now very fine. Let us go just to the ravine, for indeed it is

impossible to remain here.'

Accordingly they both went forth, and took up a position on the coast

which commanded a view on all sides. All was radiant again, and

comparatively calm. Venetia looked upon the sea, and said, 'Ah! I

never shall forget a white squall in the Mediterranean, for all this

splendour.'

It was sunset: they returned home. No news yet from Lerici. Lady

Annabel grew uneasy again. The pensive and melancholy hour encouraged

gloom; but Venetia, who was sanguine, encouraged her mother.

'Suppose they were not Englishmen in the boat,' said Lady Annabel.

'It is impossible, mother. What other two persons in this

neighbourhood could have been in an open boat? Besides, the man said

Englishmen. You remember, he said Englishmen. You are quite sure he

did? It must be they. I feel as convinced of it as of your presence.'

'I think there can be no doubt,' said Lady Annabel. 'I wish that the

messenger would return.'

The messenger did return. No two persons in an open boat had put into

Lerici; but a boat, like the one described, with every stitch of

canvas set, had passed Lerici just before the squall commenced, and,

the people there doubted not, had made Sarzana.

Lady Annabel turned pale, but Venetia was still sanguine. 'They are

at Sarzana,' she said; 'they must be at Sarzana: you see George was

right. He said he was sure they were at Sarzana. Besides, dear mother,

he heard they were at Sarzana.'

'And we heard they were at Lerici,' said Lady Annabel in a melancholy

tone.

And so they were, dear mother; it all agrees. The accounts are

consistent. Do not you see how very consistent they are? They were

seen at Lerici, and were off Lerici, but they made Sarzana; and George

heard they were at Sarzana. I am certain they are at Sarzana. I feel

quite easy; I feel as easy as if they were here. They are safe at

Sarzana. But it is too far to return to-night. We shall see them at

breakfast to-morrow, all three.'

'Venetia, dearest! do not you sit up,' said her mother. 'I think there

is a chance of George returning; I feel assured he will send to-night;

but late, of course. Go, dearest, and sleep.'

'Sleep!' thought Venetia to herself; but to please her mother she

retired.

'Good-night, my child,' said Lady Annabel. 'The moment any one

arrives, you shall be aroused.'

CHAPTER XI.

Venetia, without undressing, lay down on her bed, watching for some

sound that might give her hope of George's return. Dwelling on every

instant, the time dragged heavily along, and she thought that the

night had half passed when Pauncefort entered her room, and she

learnt, to her surprise, that only an hour had elapsed since she had

parted from her mother. This entrance of Pauncefort had given Venetia

a momentary hope that they had returned.

'I assure you, Miss Venetia, it is only an hour,' said Pauncefort,

'and nothing could have happened. Now do try to go to sleep, that is

a dear young lady, for I am certain sure that they will all return in

the morning, as I am here. I was telling my lady just now, I said,

says I, I dare say they are all very wet, and very fatigued.'

'They would have returned, Pauncefort,' said Venetia, 'or they would

have sent. They are not at Sarzana.'

'La! Miss Venetia, why should they be at Sarzana? Why should they not

have gone much farther on! For, as Vicenzo was just saying to me, and

Vicenzo knows all about the coast, with such a wind as this, I should

not be surprised if they were at Leghorn.'

'O Pauncefort!' said Venetia, 'I am sick at heart!'

'Now really, Miss Venetia, do not take on so!' said Pauncefort; 'for

do not you remember when his lordship ran away from the abbey, and

went a gipsying, nothing would persuade poor Mrs. Cadurcis that he was

not robbed and murdered, and yet you see he was as safe and sound all

the time, as if he had been at Cherbury.'

'Does Vicenzo really think they could have reached Leghorn?' said

Venetia, clinging to every fragment of hope.

'He is morally sure of it, Miss Venetia,' said Pauncefort, 'and I feel

quite as certain, for Vicenzo is always right.'

'I had confidence about Sarzana,' said Venetia; 'I really did believe

they were at Sarzana. If only Captain Cadurcis would return; if he

only would return, and say they were not at Sarzana, I would try to

believe they were at Leghorn.'

'Now, Miss Venetia,' said Pauncefort, 'I am certain sure that they are

quite safe; for my lord is a very good sailor; he is, indeed; all the

men say so; and the boat is as seaworthy a boat as boat can be. There

is not the slightest fear, I do assure you, miss.'

'Do the men say that Plantagenet is a good sailor?' inquired Venetia.

'Quite professional!' said Mistress Pauncefort; 'and can command a

ship as well as the best of them. They all say that.'

'Hush! Pauncefort, I hear something.'

'It's only my lady, miss. I know her step,'

'Is my mother going to bed?' said Venetia.

'Yes,' said Pauncefort, 'my lady sent me here to see after you. I wish

I could tell her you were asleep.'

'It is impossible to sleep,' said Venetia, rising up from the bed,

withdrawing the curtain, and looking at the sky. 'What a peaceful

night! I wish my heart were like the sky. I think I will go to mamma,

Pauncefort!'

'Oh! dear, Miss Venetia, I am sure I think you had better not. If you

and my lady, now, would only just go to sleep, and forget every thing

till morning, it would be much better for you. Besides, I am sure if

my lady knew you were not gone to bed already, it would only make her

doubly anxious. Now, really, Miss Venetia, do take my advice, and just

lie down, again. You may be sure the moment any one arrives I will let

you know. Indeed, I shall go and tell my lady that you are lying down

as it is, and very drowsy;' and, so saying, Mistress Pauncefort caught

up her candle, and bustled out of the room.

Venetia took up the volume of her father's poems, which Cadurcis had

filled with his notes. How little did Plantagenet anticipate, when he

thus expressed at Athens the passing impressions of his mind, that,

ere a year had glided away, his fate would be so intimately blended

with that of Herbert! It was impossible, however, for Venetia to lose

herself in a volume which, under any other circumstances, might have

compelled her spirit! the very associations with the writers added

to the terrible restlessness of her mind. She paused each instant

to listen for the wished-for sound, but a mute stillness reigned

throughout the house and household. There was something in this deep,

unbroken silence, at a moment when anxiety was universally diffused

among the dwellers beneath that roof, and the heart of more than one

of them was throbbing with all the torture of the most awful suspense,

that fell upon Venetia's excited nerves with a very painful and even

insufferable influence. She longed for sound, for some noise that

might assure her she was not the victim of a trance. She closed her

volume with energy, and she started at the sound she had herself

created. She rose and opened the door of her chamber very softly, and

walked into the vestibule. There were caps, and cloaks, and whips, and

canes of Cadurcis and her father, lying about in familiar confusion.

It seemed impossible but that they were sleeping, as usual, under the

same roof. And where were they? That she should live and be unable to

answer that terrible question! When she felt the utter helplessness of

all her strong sympathy towards them, it seemed to her that she must

go mad. She gazed around her with a wild and vacant stare. At the

bottom of her heart there was a fear maturing into conviction too

horrible for expression. She returned to her own chamber, and the

exhaustion occasioned by her anxiety, and the increased coolness of

the night, made her at length drowsy. She threw herself on the bed and

slumbered.

She started in her sleep, she awoke, she dreamed they had come home.

She rose and looked at the progress of the night. The night was waning

fast; a grey light was on the landscape; the point of day approached.

Venetia stole softly to her mother's room, and entered it with a

soundless step. Lady Annabel had not retired to bed. She had sat up

the whole night, and was now asleep. A lamp on a small table was

burning at her side, and she held, firmly grasped in her hand, the

letter of her husband, which he had addressed to her at Venice, and

which she had been evidently reading. A tear glided down the cheek of

Venetia as she watched her mother retaining that letter with fondness

even in her sleep, and when she thought of all the misery, and

heartaches, and harrowing hours that had preceded its receipt, and

which Venetia believed that letter had cured for ever. What misery

awaited them now? Why were they watchers of the night? She shuddered

when these dreadful questions flitted through her mind. She shuddered

and sighed. Her mother started, and woke.

'Who is there?' inquired Lady Annabel.

'Venetia.'

'My child, have you not slept?'

'Yes, mother, and I woke refreshed, as I hope you do.'

'I wake with trust in God's mercy,' said Lady Annabel. 'Tell me the

hour.'

'It is just upon dawn, mother.'

'Dawn! no one has returned, or come.'

'The house is still, mother.'

'I would you were in bed, my child.'

'Mother, I can sleep no more. I wish to be with you;' and Venetia

seated herself at her mother's feet, and reclined her head upon her

mother's knee.

'I am glad the night has passed, Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, in a

suppressed yet solemn tone. 'It has been a trial.' And here she placed

the letter in her bosom. Venetia could only answer with a sigh.

'I wish Pauncefort would come,' said Lady Annabel; 'and yet I do not

like to rouse her, she was up so late, poor creature! If it be the

dawn I should like to send out messengers again; something may be

heard at Spezzia.'

'Vicenzo thinks they have gone to Leghorn, mother.'

'Has he heard anything!' said Lady Annabel, eagerly.

'No, but he is an excellent judge,' said Venetia, repeating all

Pauncefort's consolatory chatter. 'He knows the coast so well. He says

he is sure the wind would carry them on to Leghorn; and that accounts,

you know, mother, for George not returning. They are all at Leghorn.'

'Would that George would return,' murmured Lady Annabel; 'I wish I

could see again that sailor who said they were at Lerici. He was an

intelligent man.'

'Perhaps if we send down to the bay he may be there,' said Venetia.'

'Hush! I hear a step!' said Lady Annabel.

Venetia sprung up and opened the door, but it was only Pauncefort in

the vestibule.

'The household are all up, my lady,' said that important personage

entering; ''tis a beautiful morning. Vicenzo has run down to the bay,

my lady; I sent him off immediately. Vicenzo says he is certain sure

they are at Leghorn, my lady; and, this time three years, the very

same thing happened. They were fishing for anchovies, my lady, close

by, my lady, near Sarzana; two young men, or rather one about the same

age as master, and one like my lord; cousins, my lady, and just in the

same sort of boat, my lady; and there came on a squall, just the same

sort of squall, my lady; and they did not return home; and everyone

was frightened out of their wits, my lady, and their wives and

families quite distracted; and after all they were at Leghorn; for

this sort of wind always takes your open boats to Leghorn, Vicenzo

says.'

The sun rose, the household were all stirring, and many of them

abroad; the common routine of domestic duty seemed, by some general

yet not expressed understanding, to have ceased. The ladies descended

below at a very early hour, and went forth into the valley, once the

happy valley. What was to be its future denomination? Vicenzo returned

from the bay, and he contrived to return with cheering intelligence.

The master of a felucca who, in consequence of the squall had put in

at Lerici, and in the evening dropped down to Spezzia, had met an open

boat an hour before he reached Sarzana, and was quite confident that,

if it had put into port, it must have been, from the speed at which it

was going, a great distance down the coast. No wrecks had been heard

of in the neighbourhood. This intelligence, the gladsome time of day,

and the non-arrival of Captain Cadurcis, which according to their mood

was always a circumstance that counted either for good or for evil,

and the sanguine feelings which make us always cling to hope,

altogether reassured our friends. Venetia dismissed from her mind the

dark thought which for a moment had haunted her in the noon of night;

and still it was a suspense, a painful, agitating suspense, but only

suspense that yet influenced them.

'Time! said Lady Annabel. 'Time! we must wait.'

Venetia consoled her mother; she affected even a gaiety of spirit;

she was sure that Vicenzo would turn out to be right, after all;

Pauncefort said he always was right, and that they were at Leghorn.

The day wore apace; the noon arrived and passed; it was even

approaching sunset. Lady Annabel was almost afraid to counterorder the

usual meals, lest Venetia should comprehend her secret terror; the

very same sentiment influenced Venetia. Thus they both had submitted

to the ceremony of breakfast, but when the hour of dinner approached

they could neither endure the mockery. They looked at each other, and

almost at the same time they proposed that, instead of dining, they

should walk down to the bay.

'I trust we shall at least hear something before the night,' said Lady

Annabel. 'I confess I dread the coming night. I do not think I could

endure it.'

'The longer we do not hear, the more certain I am of their being at

Leghorn,' said Venetia.

'I have a great mind to travel there to-night,' said Lady Annabel.

As they were stepping into the portico, Venetia recognised Captain

Cadurcis in the distance. She turned pale; she would have fallen had

she not leaned on her mother, who was not so advanced, and who had not

seen him.

'What is the matter, Venetia!' said Lady Annabel, alarmed.

'He is here, he is here!'

'Marmion?'

'No, George. Let me sit down.'

Her mother tried to support her to a chair. Lady Annabel took off her

bonnet. She had not strength to walk forth. She could not speak. She

sat down opposite Venetia, and her countenance pictured distress to so

painful a degree, that at any other time Venetia would have flown to

her, but in this crisis of suspense it was impossible. George was in

sight; he was in the portico; he was in the room.

He looked wan, haggard, and distracted. More than once he essayed to

speak, but failed.

Lady Annabel looked at him with a strange, delirious expression.

Venetia rushed forward and seized his arm, and gazed intently on his

face. He shrank from her glance; his frame trembled.

CHAPTER XII.

In the heart of the tempest Captain Cadurcis traced his way in a sea

of vapour with extreme danger and difficulty to the shore. On his

arrival at Spezzia, however, scarcely a house was visible, and the

only evidence of the situation of the place was the cessation of an

immense white surf which otherwise indicated the line of the sea, but

the absence of which proved his contiguity to a harbour. In the thick

fog he heard the cries and shouts of the returning fishermen, and

of their wives and children responding from the land to their

exclamations. He was forced, therefore, to wait at Spezzia, in an

agony of impotent suspense, until the fury of the storm was over and

the sky was partially cleared. At length the objects became gradually

less obscure; he could trace the outline of the houses, and catch a

glimpse of the water half a mile out, and soon the old castles which

guard the entrance of the strait that leads into the gulf, looming

in the distance, and now and then a group of human beings in the

vanishing vapour. Of these he made some inquiries, but in vain,

respecting the boat and his friends. He then made the brig, but could

learn nothing except their departure in the morning. He at length

obtained a horse and galloped along the coast towards Lerici, keeping

a sharp look out as he proceeded and stopping at every village in his

progress for intelligence. When he had arrived in the course of three

hours at Lerici, the storm had abated, the sky was clear, and no

evidence of the recent squall remained except the agitated state

of the waves. At Lerici he could hear nothing, so he hurried on to

Sarzana, where he learnt for the first time that an open boat,

with its sails set, had passed more than an hour before the squall

commenced. From Sarzana he hastened on to Lavenza, a little port, the

nearest sea-point to Massa, and where the Carrara marble is shipped

for England. Here also his inquiries were fruitless, and, exhausted

by his exertions, he dismounted and rested at the inn, not only for

repose, but to consider over the course which he should now pursue.

The boat had not been seen off Lavenza, and the idea that they had

made the coast towards Leghorn now occurred to him. His horse was so

wearied that he was obliged to stop some time at Lavenza, for he could

procure no other mode of conveyance; the night also was fast coming

on, and to proceed to Leghorn by this dangerous route at this hour was

impossible. At Lavenza therefore he remained, resolved to hasten

to Leghorn at break of day. This was a most awful night. Although

physically exhausted, Captain Cadurcis could not sleep, and, after

some vain efforts, he quitted his restless bed on which he had laid

down without undressing, and walked forth to the harbour. Between

anxiety for Herbert and his cousin, and for the unhappy women whom he

had left behind, he was nearly distracted. He gazed on the sea, as if

some sail in sight might give him a chance of hope. His professional

experience assured him of all the danger of the squall. He could not

conceive how an open boat could live in such a sea, and an instant

return to port so soon as the squall commenced, appeared the only

chance of its salvation. Could they have reached Leghorn? It seemed

impossible. There was no hope they could now be at Sarzana, or Lerici.

When he contemplated the full contingency of what might have occurred,

his mind wandered, and refused to comprehend the possibility of the

terrible conclusion. He thought the morning would never break.

There was a cavernous rock by the seashore, that jutted into the water

like a small craggy promontory. Captain Cadurcis climbed to its top,

and then descending, reclined himself upon an inferior portion of it,

which formed a natural couch with the wave on each side. There, lying

at his length, he gazed upon the moon and stars whose brightness he

thought would never dim. The Mediterranean is a tideless sea, but the

swell of the waves, which still set in to the shore, bore occasionally

masses of sea-weed and other marine formations, and deposited them

around him, plashing, as it broke against the shore, with a melancholy

and monotonous sound. The abstraction of the scene, the hour, and the

surrounding circumstances brought, however, no refreshment to the

exhausted spirit of George Cadurcis. He could not think, indeed he did

not dare to think; but the villa of the Apennines and the open boat in

the squall flitted continually before him. His mind was feeble though

excited, and he fell into a restless and yet unmeaning reverie. As

long as he had been in action, as long as he had been hurrying along

the coast, the excitement of motion, the constant exercise of his

senses, had relieved or distracted the intolerable suspense. But this

pause, this inevitable pause, overwhelmed him. It oppressed his spirit

like eternity. And yet what might the morning bring? He almost wished

that he might remain for ever on this rock watching the moon and

stars, and that the life of the world might never recommence.

He started; he had fallen into a light slumber; he had been dreaming;

he thought he had heard the voice of Venetia calling him; he had

forgotten where he was; he stared at the sea and sky, and recalled

his dreadful consciousness. The wave broke with a heavy plash that

attracted his attention: it was, indeed, that sound that had awakened

him. He looked around; there was some object; he started wildly from

his resting-place, sprang over the cavern, and bounded on the beach.

It was a corpse; he is kneeling by its side. It is the corpse of his

cousin! Lord Cadurcis was a fine swimmer, and had evidently made

strong efforts for his life, for he was partly undressed. In all the

insanity of hope, still wilder than despair, George Cadurcis seized

the body and bore it some yards upon the shore. Life had been long

extinct. The corpse was cold and stark, the eyes closed, an expression

of energy, however, yet lingering in the fixed jaw, and the hair

sodden with the sea. Suddenly Captain Cadurcis rushed to the inn and

roused the household. With a distracted air, and broken speech and

rapid motion, he communicated the catastrophe. Several persons, some

bearing torches, others blankets and cordials, followed him instantly

to the fatal spot. They hurried to the body, they applied all the rude

remedies of the moment, rather from the impulse of nervous excitement

than with any practical purpose; for the case had been indeed long

hopeless. While Captain Cadurcis leant over the body, chafing

the extremities in a hurried frenzy, and gazing intently on the

countenance, a shout was heard from one of the stragglers who had

recently arrived. The sea had washed on the beach another corpse: the

form of Marmion Herbert. It would appear that he had made no struggle

to save himself, for his hand was locked in his waistcoat, where, at

the moment, he had thrust the Phaedo, showing that he had been reading

to the last, and was meditating on immortality when he died.

END OF BOOK VI.

BOOK VII

CHAPTER I.

It was the commencement of autumn. The verdure of summer still

lingered on the trees; the sky, if not so cloudless, was almost as

refulgent as Italy; and the pigeons, bright and glancing, clustered on

the roof of the hall of Cherbury. The steward was in attendance; the

household, all in deep mourning, were assembled; everything was in

readiness for the immediate arrival of Lady Annabel Herbert.

''Tis nearly four years come Martinmas,' said the grey-headed butler,

'since my lady left us.'

'And no good has come of it,' said the housekeeper. 'And for my part I

never heard of good coming from going to foreign parts.'

'I shall like to see Miss Venetia again,' said a housemaid. 'Bless her

sweet face.'

'I never expected to see her Miss Venetia again from all we heard,'

said a footman.

'God's will be done!' said the grey-headed butler; 'but I hope she

will find happiness at home. 'Tis nigh on twenty years since I first

nursed her in these arms.'

'I wonder if there is any new Lord Cadurcis,' said the footman. 'I

think he was the last of the line.'

'It would have been a happy day if I had lived to have seen the poor

young lord marry Miss Venetia,' said the housekeeper. 'I always

thought that match was made in heaven.'

'He was a sweet-spoken young gentleman,' said the housemaid.

'For my part,' said the footman, 'I should like to have seen our real

master, Squire Herbert. He was a famous gentleman by all accounts.'

'I wish they had lived quietly at home,' said the housekeeper.

'I shall never forget the time when my lord returned,' said the

grey-headed butler. 'I must say I thought it was a match.'

'Mistress Pauncefort seemed to think so,' said the housemaid.

'And she understands those things,' said the footman.

'I see the carriage,' said a servant who was at a window in the hall.

All immediately bustled about, and the housekeeper sent a message to

the steward.

The carriage might be just discovered at the end of the avenue. It was

some time before it entered the iron gates that were thrown open for

its reception. The steward stood on the steps with his hat off, the

servants were ranged in order at the entrance. Touching their horses

with the spur, and cracking their whips, the postilions dashed

round the circular plot and stopped at the hall-door. Under any

circumstances a return home after an interval of years is rather an

awful moment; there was not a servant who was not visibly affected.

On the outside of the carriage was a foreign servant and Mistress

Pauncefort, who was not so profuse as might have been expected in her

recognitions of her old friends; her countenance was graver than of

yore. Misfortune and misery had subdued even Mistress Pauncefort. The

foreign servant opened the door of the carriage; a young man, who was

a stranger to the household, but who was in deep mourning, alighted,

and then Lady Annabel appeared. The steward advanced to welcome her,

the household bowed and curtseyed. She smiled on them for a moment

graciously and kindly, but her countenance immediately reassumed a

serious air, and whispering one word to the strange gentleman, she

entered the hall alone, inviting the steward to follow her.

'I hope your ladyship is well; welcome home, my lady; welcome again to

Cherbury; a welcome return, my lady; hope Miss Venetia is quite well;

happy to see your ladyship amongst us again, and Miss Venetia too, my

lady.' Lady Annabel acknowledged these salutations with kindness, and

then, saying that Miss Herbert was not very well and was fatigued with

her journey, she dismissed her humble but trusty friends. Lady Annabel

then turned and nodded to her fellow-traveller.

Upon this Lord Cadurcis, if we must indeed use a title from which he

himself shrank, carried a shrouded form in his arms into the hall,

where the steward alone lingered, though withdrawn to the back part

of the scene; and Lady Annabel, advancing to meet him, embraced his

treasured burden, her own unhappy child.

'Now, Venetia! dearest Venetia!' she said, ''tis past; we are at

home.'

Venetia leant upon her mother, but made no reply.

'Upstairs, dearest,' said Lady Annabel: 'a little exertion, a very

little.' Leaning on her mother and Lord Cadurcis, Venetia ascended the

staircase, and they reached the terrace-room. Venetia looked around

her as she entered the chamber; that scene of her former life,

endeared to her by so many happy hours, and so many sweet incidents;

that chamber where she had first seen Plantagenet. Lord Cadurcis

supported her to a chair, and then, overwhelmed by irresistible

emotion, she sank back in a swoon.

No one was allowed to enter the room but Pauncefort. They revived her;

Lord Cadurcis holding her hand, and touching, with a watchful finger,

her pulse. Venetia opened her eyes, and looked around her. Her

mind did not wander; she immediately recognised where she was, and

recollected all that had happened. She faintly smiled, and said, in a

low voice 'You are all too kind, and I am very weak. After our trials,

what is this, George?' she added, struggling to appear animated; 'you

are at length at Cherbury.'

Once more at Cherbury! It was, indeed, an event that recalled a

thousand associations. In the wild anguish of her first grief, when

the dreadful intelligence was broken to her, if anyone had whispered

to Venetia that she would yet find herself once more at Cherbury, she

would have esteemed the intimation as mockery. But time and hope will

struggle with the most poignant affliction, and their influence is

irresistible and inevitable. From her darkened chamber in their

Mediterranean villa, Venetia had again come forth, and crossed

mountains, and traversed immense plains, and journeyed through many

countries. She could not die, as she had supposed at first that she

must, and therefore she had exerted herself to quit, and to quit

speedily, a scene so terrible as their late abode. She was the very

first to propose their return to England, and to that spot where she

had passed her early life, and where she now wished to fulfil, in

quiet and seclusion, the allotment of her remaining years; to

meditate over the marvellous past, and cherish its sweet and bitter

recollections. The native firmness of Lady Annabel, her long exercised

control over her emotions, the sadness and subdued tone which the

early incidents of her career had cast over her character, her

profound sympathy with her daughter, and that religious consolation

which never deserted her, had alike impelled and enabled her to bear

up against the catastrophe with more fortitude than her child. The

arrow, indeed, had struck Venetia with a double barb. She was the

victim; and all the cares of Lady Annabel had been directed to soothe

and support this stricken lamb. Yet perhaps these unhappy women must

have sunk under their unparalleled calamities, had it not been for the

devotion of their companion. In the despair of his first emotions,

George Cadurcis was nearly plunging himself headlong into the wave

that had already proved so fatal to his house. But when he thought of

Lady Annabel and Venetia in a foreign land, without a single friend in

their desolation, and pictured them to himself with the dreadful news

abruptly communicated by some unfeeling stranger; and called upon,

in the midst of their overwhelming agony, to attend to all the

heart-rending arrangements which the discovery of the bodies of the

beings to whom they were devoted, and in whom all their feelings were

centred, must necessarily entail upon them, he recoiled from what he

contemplated as an act of infamous desertion. He resolved to live, if

only to preserve them from all their impending troubles, and with the

hope that his exertions might tend, in however slight a degree, not

to alleviate, for that was impossible; but to prevent the increase

of that terrible woe, the very conception of which made his brain

stagger. He carried the bodies, therefore, with him to Spezzia, and

then prepared for that fatal interview, the commencement of which we

first indicated. Yet it must be confessed that, though the bravest

of men, his courage faltered as he entered the accustomed ravine. He

stopped and looked down on the precipice below; he felt it utterly

impossible to meet them; his mind nearly deserted him. Death, some

great and universal catastrophe, an earthquake, a deluge, that would

have buried them all in an instant and a common fate, would have been

hailed by George Cadurcis, at that moment, as good fortune.

He lurked about the ravine for nearly three hours before he could

summon up heart for the awful interview. The position he had taken

assured him that no one could approach the villa, to which he himself

dared not advance. At length, in a paroxysm of energetic despair, he

had rushed forward, met them instantly, and confessed with a whirling

brain, and almost unconscious of his utterance, that 'they could not

hope to see them again in this world.'

What ensued must neither be attempted to be described, nor even

remembered. It was one of those tragedies of life which enfeeble the

most faithful memories at a blow shatter nerves beyond the faculty of

revival, cloud the mind for ever, or turn the hair grey in an instant.

They carried Venetia delirious to her bed. The very despair, and

almost madness, of her daughter forced Lady Annabel to self-exertion,

of which it was difficult to suppose that even she was capable. And

George, too, was obliged to leave them. He stayed only the night. A

few words passed between Lady Annabel and himself; she wished the

bodies to be embalmed, and borne to England. There was no time to be

lost, and there was no one to be entrusted except George. He had to

hasten to Genoa to make all these preparations, and for two days he

was absent from the villa. When he returned, Lady Annabel saw him, but

Venetia was for a long time invisible. The moment she grew composed,

she expressed a wish to her mother instantly to return to Cherbury.

All the arrangements necessarily devolved upon George Cadurcis. It

was his study that Lady Annabel should be troubled upon no point. The

household were discharged, all the affairs were wound up, the felucca

hired which was to bear them to Genoa, and in readiness, before he

notified to them that the hour of departure had arrived. The most

bitter circumstance was looking again upon the sea. It seemed so

intolerable to Venetia, that their departure was delayed more than one

day in consequence; but it was inevitable; they could reach Genoa in

no other manner. George carried Venetia in his arms to the boat, with

her face covered with a shawl, and bore her in the same manner to the

hotel at Genoa, where their travelling carriage awaited them.

They travelled home rapidly. All seemed to be impelled, as it were,

by a restless desire for repose. Cherbury was the only thought in

Venetia's mind. She observed nothing; she made no remark during their

journey; they travelled often throughout the night; but no obstacles

occurred, no inconveniences. There was one in this miserable society

whose only object in life was to support Venetia under her terrible

visitation. Silent, but with an eye that never slept, George Cadurcis

watched Venetia as a nurse might a child. He read her thoughts, he

anticipated her wishes without inquiring them; every arrangement was

unobtrusively made that could possibly consult her comfort.

They passed through London without stopping there. George would not

leave them for an instant; nor would he spare a thought to his own

affairs, though they urgently required his attention. The change in

his position gave him no consolation; he would not allow his passport

to be made out with his title; he shuddered at being called Lord

Cadurcis; and the only reason that made him hesitate about attending

them to Cherbury was its contiguity to his ancestral seat, which he

resolved never to visit. There never in the world was a less selfish

and more single-hearted man than George Cadurcis. Though the death of

his cousin had invested him with one of the most ancient coronets in

England, a noble residence and a fair estate, he would willingly have

sacrificed his life to have recalled Plantagenet to existence, and to

have secured the happiness of Venetia Herbert.

CHAPTER II.

The reader must not suppose, from the irresistible emotion that

overcame Venetia at the very moment of her return, that she was

entirely prostrated by her calamities. On the contrary, her mind had

been employed, during the whole of her journey to England, in a silent

effort to endure her lot with resignation. She had resolved to bear up

against her misery with fortitude, and she inherited from her mother

sufficient firmness of mind to enable her to achieve her purpose. She

came back to Cherbury to live with patience and submission; and though

her dreams of happiness might be vanished for ever, to contribute as

much as was in her power to the content of that dear and remaining

relative who was yet spared to her, and who depended in this world

only upon the affection of her child. The return to Cherbury was a

pang, and it was over. Venetia struggled to avoid the habits of an

invalid; she purposed resuming, as far as was in her power, all the

pursuits and duties of her life; and if it were neither possible, nor

even desirable, to forget the past, she dwelt upon it neither to sigh

nor to murmur, but to cherish in a sweet and musing mood the ties and

affections round which all her feelings had once gathered with so much

enjoyment and so much hope.

She rose, therefore, on the morning after her return to Cherbury, at

least serene; and she took an early opportunity, when George and her

mother were engaged, and absent from the terrace-room, to go forth

alone and wander amid her old haunts. There was not a spot about the

park and gardens, which had been favourite resorts of herself and

Plantagenet in their childhood, that she did not visit. They were

unchanged; as green, and bright, and still as in old days, but what

was she? The freshness, and brilliancy, and careless happiness of her

life were fled for ever. And here he lived, and here he roamed, and

here his voice sounded, now in glee, now in melancholy, now in wild

and fanciful amusement, and now pouring into her bosom all his

domestic sorrows. It was but ten years since he first arrived at

Cherbury, and who could have anticipated that that little, silent,

reserved boy should, ere ten years had passed, have filled a wide and

lofty space in the world's thought; that his existence should have

influenced the mind of nations, and his death eclipsed their gaiety!

His death! Terrible and disheartening thought! Plantagenet was no

more. But he had not died without a record. His memory was embalmed

in immortal verse, and he had breathed his passion to his Venetia in

language that lingered in the ear, and would dwell for ever on the

lips, of his fellow-men.

Among these woods, too, had Venetia first mused over her father;

before her rose those mysterious chambers, whose secret she had

penetrated at the risk of her life. There were no secrets now. Was

she happier? Now she felt that even in her early mystery there was

delight, and that hope was veiled beneath its ominous shadow. There

was now no future to ponder over; her hope was gone, and memory alone

remained. All the dreams of those musing hours of her hidden reveries

had been realised. She had seen that father, that surpassing parent,

who had satisfied alike her heart and her imagination; she had been

clasped to his bosom; she had lived to witness even her mother yield

to his penitent embrace. And he too was gone; she could never meet him

again in this world; in this world in which they had experienced such

exquisite bliss; and now she was once more at Cherbury! Oh! give her

back her girlhood, with all its painful mystery and harassing doubt!

Give her again a future!

She returned to the hall; she met George on the terrace, she welcomed

him with a sweet, yet mournful smile. 'I have been very selfish,'

she said, 'for I have been walking alone. I mean to introduce you to

Cherbury, but I could not resist visiting some old spots.' Her voice

faltered in these last words. They re-entered the terrace-room

together, and joined her mother.

'Nothing is changed, mamma,' said Venetia, in a more cheerful tone.

'It is pleasant to find something that is the same.'

Several days passed, and Lord Cadurcis evinced no desire to visit his

inheritance. Yet Lady Annabel was anxious that he should do so, and

had more than once impressed upon him the propriety. Even Venetia

at length said to him, 'It is very selfish in us keeping you here,

George. Your presence is a great consolation, and yet, yet, ought you

not to visit your home?' She avoided the name of Cadurcis.

'I ought, dear Venetia.' said George, 'and I will. I have promised

Lady Annabel twenty times, but I feel a terrible disinclination.

To-morrow, perhaps.'

'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,' murmured Venetia to

herself, 'I scarcely comprehend now what to-morrow means.' And then

again addressing him, and with more liveliness, she said, 'We have

only one friend in the world now, George, and I think that we ought to

be very grateful that he is our neighbour.'

'It is a consolation to me,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'for I cannot remain

here, and otherwise I should scarcely know how to depart.'

'I wish you would visit your home, if only for one morning,' said

Venetia; 'if only to know how very near you are to us.'

'I dread going alone,' said Lord Cadurcis. 'I cannot ask Lady Annabel

to accompany me, because--' He hesitated.

'Because?' inquired Venetia.

'I cannot ask or wish her to leave you.'

'You are always thinking of me, dear George,' said Venetia, artlessly.

'I assure you, I have come back to Cherbury to be happy. I must visit

your home some day, and I hope I shall visit it often. We will all go,

soon,' she added.

'Then I will postpone my visit to that day,' said George. 'I am in

no humour for business, which I know awaits me there. Let me enjoy a

little more repose at dear Cherbury.'

'I have become very restless of late, I think,' said Venetia, 'but

there is a particular spot in the garden that I wish to see. Come with

me, George.'

Lord Cadurcis was only too happy to attend her. They proceeded through

a winding walk in the shrubberies until they arrived at a small

and open plot of turf, where Venetia stopped. 'There are some

associations,' she said, 'of this spot connected with both those

friends that we have lost. I have a fancy that it should be in some

visible manner consecrated to their memories. On this spot, George,

Plantagenet once spoke to me of my father. I should like to raise

their busts here; and indeed it is a fit place for such a purpose;

for poets,' she added, faintly smiling, 'should be surrounded with

laurels.'

'I have some thoughts on this head that I am revolving in my fancy

myself,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'but I will not speak of them now.'

'Yes, now, George; for indeed it is a satisfaction for me to speak of

them, at least with you, with one who understood them so well, and

loved them scarcely less than I did.'

George tenderly put his arm into hers and led her away. As they walked

along, he explained to her his plans, which yet were somewhat crude,

but which greatly interested her; but they were roused from their

conversation by the bell of the hall sounding as if to summon them,

and therefore they directed their way immediately to the terrace. A

servant running met them; he brought a message from Lady Annabel.

Their friend the Bishop of ---- had arrived.

CHAPTER III.

'Well, my little daughter,' said the good Masham, advancing as Venetia

entered the room, and tenderly embracing her. The kind-hearted old man

maintained a conversation on indifferent subjects with animation for

some minutes; and thus a meeting, the anticipation of which would have

cost Venetia hours of pain and anxiety, occurred with less uneasy

feelings.

Masham had hastened to Cherbury the moment he heard of the return of

the Herberts to England. He did not come to console, but to enliven.

He was well aware that even his eloquence, and all the influence of

his piety, could not soften the irreparable past; and knowing, from

experience, how in solitude the unhappy brood over sorrow, he fancied

that his arrival, and perhaps his arrival only, might tend in some

degree at this moment to their alleviation and comfort. He brought

Lady Annabel and Venetia letters from their relations, with whom he

had been staying at their country residence, and who were anxious that

their unhappy kinsfolk should find change of scene under their roof.

'They are very affectionate,' said Lady Annabel, 'but I rather think

that neither Venetia nor myself feel inclined to quit Cherbury at

present.'

'Indeed not, mamma,' said Venetia. 'I hope we shall never leave home

again.'

'You must come and see me some day,' said the Bishop; then turning to

George, whom he was glad to find here, he addressed him in a hearty

tone, and expressed his delight at again meeting him.

Insensibly to all parties this arrival of the good Masham exercised a

beneficial influence on their spirits. They could sympathise with his

cheerfulness, because they were convinced that he sympathised with

their sorrow. His interesting conversation withdrew their minds from

the painful subject on which they were always musing. It seemed

profanation to either of the three mourners when they were together

alone, to indulge in any topic but the absorbing one, and their utmost

effort was to speak of the past with composure; but they all felt

relieved, though at first unconsciously, when one, whose interest in

their feelings could not be doubted, gave the signal of withdrawing

their reflections from vicissitudes which it was useless to deplore.

Even the social forms which the presence of a guest rendered

indispensable, and the exercise of the courtesies of hospitality,

contributed to this result. They withdrew their minds from the past.

And the worthy Bishop, whose tact was as eminent as his good humour

and benevolence, evincing as much delicacy of feeling as cheerfulness

of temper, a very few days had elapsed before each of his companions

was aware that his presence had contributed to their increased

content.

'You have not been to the abbey yet, Lord Cadurcis,' said Masham to

him one day, as they were sitting together after dinner, the ladies

having retired. 'You should go.'

'I have been unwilling to leave them,' said George, 'and I could

scarcely expect them to accompany me. It is a visit that must revive

painful recollections.'

'We must not dwell on the past,' said Masham; 'we must think only of

the future.'

'Venetia has no future, I fear,' said Lord Cadurcis.

'Why not?' said Masham; 'she is yet a girl, and with a prospect of a

long life. She must have a future, and I hope, and I believe, it will

yet be a happy one.'

'Alas!' said Lord Cadurcis, 'no one can form an idea of the attachment

that subsisted between Plantagenet and Venetia. They were not common

feelings, or the feelings of common minds, my dear lord.'

'No one knew them both better than I did,' said Masham, 'not even

yourself: they were my children.'

'I feel that,' said George, 'and therefore it is a pleasure to us all

to see you, and to speak with you.'

'But we must look for consolation,' said Masham; 'to deplore is

fruitless. If we live, we must struggle to live happily. To tell you

the truth, though their immediate return to Cherbury was inevitable,

and their residence here for a time is scarcely to be deprecated, I

still hope they will not bury themselves here. For my part, after the

necessary interval, I wish to see Venetia once more in the world.'

Lord Cadurcis looked very mournful, and shook his head.

'As for her dear mother, she is habituated to sorrow and

disappointment,' said Masham. 'As long as Venetia lives Lady Annabel

will be content. Besides, deplorable as may be the past, there must be

solace to her in the reflection that she was reconciled to her husband

before his death, and contributed to his happiness. Venetia is the

stricken lamb, but Venetia is formed for happiness, and it is in the

nature of things that she will be happy. We must not, however, yield

unnecessarily to our feelings. A violent exertion would be unwise, but

we should habituate ourselves gradually to the exercise of our duties,

and to our accustomed pursuits. It would be well for you to go to

Cadurcis. If I were you I would go to-morrow. Take advantage of my

presence, and return and give a report of your visit. Habituate

Venetia to talk of a spot with which ultimately she must renew her

intimacy.'

Influenced by this advice, Lord Cadurcis rose early on the next

morning and repaired to the seat of his fathers, where hitherto his

foot had never trod. When the circle at Cherbury assembled at their

breakfast table he was missing, and Masham had undertaken the office

of apprising his friends of the cause of his absence. He returned to

dinner, and the conversation fell naturally upon the abbey, and the

impressions he had received. It was maintained at first by Lady

Annabel and the Bishop, but Venetia ultimately joined in it, and with

cheerfulness. Many a trait and incident of former days was alluded to;

they talked of Mrs. Cadurcis, whom George had never seen; they settled

the chambers he should inhabit; they mentioned the improvements

which Plantagenet had once contemplated, and which George must now

accomplish.

'You must go to London first,' said the Bishop; 'you have a great deal

to do, and you should not delay such business. I think you had better

return with me. At this time of the year you need not be long absent;

you will not be detained; and when you return, you will find yourself

much more at ease; for, after all, nothing is more harassing than the

feeling, that there is business which must be attended to, and which,

nevertheless, is neglected.'

Both Lady Annabel and Venetia enforced this advice of their friend;

and so it happened that, ere a week had elapsed, Lord Cadurcis,

accompanying Masham, found himself once more in London.

CHAPTER IV.

Venetia was now once more alone with her mother; it was as in old

times. Their life was the same as before the visit of Plantagenet

previous to his going to Cambridge, except indeed that they had no

longer a friend at Marringhurst. They missed the Sabbath visits of

that good man; for, though his successor performed the duties of the

day, which had been a condition when he was presented to the living,

the friend who knew all the secrets of their hearts was absent.

Venetia continued to bear herself with great equanimity, and the

anxiety which she observed instantly impressed on her mother's

countenance, the moment she fancied there was unusual gloom on the

brow of her child, impelled Venetia doubly to exert herself to appear

resigned. And in truth, when Lady Annabel revolved in her mind the

mournful past, and meditated over her early and unceasing efforts

to secure the happiness of her daughter, and then contrasted her

aspirations with the result, she could not acquit herself of having

been too often unconsciously instrumental in forwarding a very

different conclusion than that for which she had laboured. This

conviction preyed upon the mother, and the slightest evidence of

reaction in Venetia's tranquilised demeanour occasioned her the utmost

remorse and grief. The absence of George made both Lady Annabel and

Venetia still more finely appreciate the solace of his society. Left

to themselves, they felt how much they had depended on his vigilant

and considerate attention, and how much his sweet temper and his

unfailing sympathy had contributed to their consolation. He wrote,

however, to Venetia by every post, and his letters, if possible,

endeared him still more to their hearts. Unwilling to dwell upon

their mutual sorrows, yet always expressing sufficient to prove that

distance and absence had not impaired his sympathy, he contrived, with

infinite delicacy, even to amuse their solitude with the adventures of

his life of bustle. The arrival of the post was the incident of the

day; and not merely letters arrived; one day brought books, another

music; continually some fresh token of his thought and affection

reached them. He was, however, only a fortnight absent; but when he

returned, it was to Cadurcis. He called upon them the next day, and

indeed every morning found him at Cherbury; but he returned to his

home at night; and so, without an effort, from their guest he had

become their neighbour.

Plantagenet had left the whole of his property to his cousin: his

mother's fortune, which, as an accessory fund, was not inconsiderable,

besides the estate. And George intended to devote a portion of this to

the restoration of the abbey. Venetia was to be his counsellor in this

operation, and therefore there were ample sources of amusement for the

remainder of the year. On a high ridge, which was one of the beacons

of the county, and which, moreover, marked the junction of the domains

of Cherbury and Cadurcis, it was his intention to raise a monument to

the united memories of Marmion Herbert and Plantagenet Lord Cadurcis.

He brought down a design with him from London, and this was the

project which he had previously whispered to Venetia. With George for

her companion, too, Venetia was induced to resume her rides. It was

her part to make him acquainted with the county in which he was so

important a resident. Time therefore, at Cherbury, on the whole,

flowed on in a tide of tranquil pleasure; and Lady Annabel observed,

with interest and fondness, the continual presence beneath her roof

of one who, from the first day she had met him, had engaged her kind

feelings, and had since become intimately endeared to her.

The end of November was, however, now approaching, and Parliament

was about to reassemble. Masham had written more than once to Lord

Cadurcis, impressing upon him the propriety and expediency of taking

his seat. He had shown these letters, as he showed everything, to

Venetia, who was his counsellor on all subjects, and Venetia agreed

with their friend.

'It is right,' said Venetia; 'you have a duty to perform, and you must

perform it. Besides, I do not wish the name of Cadurcis to sink again

into obscurity. I shall look forward with interest to Lord Cadurcis

taking the oaths and his seat. It will please me; it will indeed.'

'But Venetia,' said George, 'I do not like to leave this place. I am

happy, if we may be happy. This life suits me. I am a quiet man. I

dislike London. I feel alone there.'

'You can write to us; you will have a great deal to say. And I shall

have something to say to you now. I must give you a continual report

how they go on at the abbey. I will be your steward, and superintend

everything.'

'Ah!' said George, 'what shall I do in London without you, without

your advice? There will be something occurring every day, and I shall

have no one to consult. Indeed I shall feel quite miserable; I shall

indeed.'

'It is quite impossible that, with your station, and at your time of

life, you should bury yourself in the country,' said Venetia. 'You

have the whole world before you, and you must enjoy it. It is very

well for mamma and myself to lead this life. I look upon ourselves as

two nuns. If Cadurcis is an abbey, Cherbury is now a convent.'

'How can a man wish to be more than happy? I am quite content here,'

said George, 'What is London to me?'

'It may be a great deal to you, more than you think,' said Venetia. 'A

great deal awaits you yet. However, there can be no doubt you should

take your seat. You can always return, if you wish. But take your

seat, and cultivate dear Masham. I have the utmost confidence in his

wisdom and goodness. You cannot have a friend more respectable. Now

mind my advice, George.'

'I always do, Venetia.'

CHAPTER V.

Time and Faith are the great consolers, and neither of these precious

sources of solace were wanting to the inhabitants of Cherbury. They

were again living alone, but their lives were cheerful; and if Venetia

no longer indulged in a worldly and blissful future, nevertheless, in

the society of her mother, in the resources of art and literature, in

the diligent discharge of her duties to her humble neighbours, and in

cherishing the memory of the departed, she experienced a life that was

not without its tranquil pleasures. She maintained with Lord Cadurcis

a constant correspondence; he wrote to her every day, and although

they were separated, there was not an incident of his life, and

scarcely a thought, of which she was not cognisant. It was with great

difficulty that George could induce himself to remain in London; but

Masham, who soon obtained over him all the influence which Venetia

desired, ever opposed his return to the abbey. The good Bishop was not

unaware of the feelings with which Lord Cadurcis looked back to the

hall of Cherbury, and himself of a glad and sanguine temperament, he

indulged in a belief in the consummation of all that happiness for

which his young friend, rather sceptically, sighed. But Masham was

aware that time could alone soften the bitterness of Venetia's sorrow,

and prepare her for that change of life which he felt confident

would alone ensure the happiness both of herself and her mother. He

therefore detained Lord Cadurcis in London the whole of the sessions

that, on his return to Cherbury, his society might be esteemed a novel

and agreeable incident in the existence of its inhabitants, and not be

associated merely with their calamities.

It was therefore about a year after the catastrophe which had so

suddenly changed the whole tenor of their lives, and occasioned so

unexpected a revolution in his own position, that Lord Cadurcis

arrived at his ancestral seat, with no intention of again speedily

leaving it. He had long and frequently apprised his friends of his

approaching presence, And, arriving at the abbey late at night, he was

at Cherbury early on the following morning.

Although no inconsiderable interval had elapsed since Lord Cadurcis

had parted from the Herberts, the continual correspondence that had

been maintained between himself and Venetia, divested his visit of the

slightest embarrassment. They met as if they had parted yesterday,

except perhaps with greater fondness. The chain of their feelings

was unbroken. He was indeed welcomed, both by Lady Annabel and her

daughter, with warm affection; and his absence had only rendered him

dearer to them by affording an opportunity of feeling how much his

society contributed to their felicity. Venetia was anxious to know his

opinion of the improvements at the abbey, which she had superintended;

but he assured her that he would examine nothing without her company,

and ultimately they agreed to walk over to Cadurcis.

It was a summer day, and they walked through that very wood wherein

we described the journey of the child Venetia, at the commencement

of this very history. The blue patches of wild hyacinths had all

disappeared, but there were flowers as sweet. What if the first

feelings of our heart fade, like the first flowers of spring,

succeeding years, like the coming summer, may bring emotions not less

charming, and, perchance, far more fervent!

'I can scarcely believe,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'that I am once more

with you. I know not what surprises me most, Venetia, that we should

be walking once more together in the woods of Cherbury, or that I ever

should have dared to quit them.'

'And yet it was better, dear George,' said Venetia. 'You must now

rejoice that you have fulfilled your duty, and yet you are here again.

Besides, the abbey never would have been finished if you had remained.

To complete all our plans, it required a mistress.'

'I wish it always had one,' said George. 'Ah, Venetia! once you told

me never to despair.'

'And what have you to despair about, George?'

'Heigh ho!' said Lord Cadurcis, 'I never shall be able to live in this

abbey alone.'

'You should have brought a wife from London,' said Venetia.

'I told you once, Venetia, that I was not a marrying man,' said Lord

Cadurcis; 'and certainly I never shall bring a wife from London.'

'Then you cannot accustom yourself too soon to a bachelor's life,'

said Venetia.

'Ah, Venetia!' said George, 'I wish I were clever; I wish I were a

genius; I wish I were a great man.'

'Why, George?'

'Because, Venetia, perhaps,' and Lord Cadurcis hesitated, 'perhaps you

would think differently of me? I mean perhaps your feelings towards me

might; ah, Venetia! perhaps you might think me worthy of you; perhaps

you might love me.'

'I am sure, dear George, if I did not love you, I should be the most

ungrateful of beings: you are our only friend.'

'And can I never be more than a friend to you, Venetia?' said Lord

Cadurcis, blushing very deeply.

'I am sure, dear George, I should be very sorry for your sake, if you

wished to be more,' said Venetia.

'Why?' said Lord Cadurcis.

'Because I should not like to see you unite your destiny with that of

a very unfortunate, if not a very unhappy, person.'

'The sweetest, the loveliest of women!' said Lord Cadurcis. 'O

Venetia! I dare not express what I feel, still less what I could hope.

I think so little of myself, so highly of you, that I am convinced my

aspirations are too arrogant for me to breathe them.'

'Ah! dear George, you deserve to be happy,' said Venetia. 'Would that

it were in my power to make you!'

'Dearest Venetia! it is, it is,' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis; then

checking himself, as if frightened by his boldness, he added in a more

subdued tone, 'I feel I am not worthy of you.'

They stood upon the breezy down that divided the demesnes of Cherbury

and the abbey. Beneath them rose, 'embosomed in a valley of green

bowers,' the ancient pile lately renovated under the studious care of

Venetia.

'Ah!' said Lord Cadurcis, 'be not less kind to the master of these

towers, than to the roof that you have fostered. You have renovated

our halls, restore our happiness! There is an union that will bring

consolation to more than one hearth, and baffle all the crosses of

adverse fate. Venetia, beautiful and noble-minded Venetia, condescend

to fulfil it!'

Perhaps the reader will not be surprised that, within a few months of

this morning walk, the hands of George, Lord Cadurcis, and Venetia

Herbert were joined in the chapel at Cherbury by the good Masham.

Peace be with them.