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VENETIA

BY THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD, K.G.

1905

'Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child?'

'The child of love, though born in bitterness
And nurtured in convulsion.'

TO

LORD LYNDHURST.

In happier hours, when I first mentioned to you the idea of this Work,
it was my intention, while inscribing it with your name, to have
entered into some details as to the principles which had guided me in
its composition, and the feelings with which I had attempted to shadow
forth, though as 'in in a glass darkly,' two of the most renowned and
refined spirits that have adorned these our latter days. But now I
will only express a hope that the time may come when, in these pages,
you may find some relaxation from the cares, and some distraction
from the sorrows, of existence, and that you will then receive this
dedication as a record of my respect and my affection.

This Work was first published in the year 1837.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

Some ten years before the revolt of our American colonies, there was
situate in one of our midland counties, on the borders of an extensive
forest, an ancient hall that belonged to the Herberts, but which,
though ever well preserved, had not until that period been visited by
any member of the family, since the exile of the Stuarts. It was an
edifice of considerable size, built of grey stone, much covered with
ivy, and placed upon the last gentle elevation of a long ridge of
hills, in the centre of a crescent of woods, that far overtopped its
clusters of tall chimneys and turreted gables. Although the principal
chambers were on the first story, you could nevertheless step forth
from their windows on a broad terrace, whence you descended into the
gardens by a double flight of stone steps, exactly in the middle
of its length. These gardens were of some extent, and filled with
evergreen shrubberies of remarkable overgrowth, while occasionally
turfy vistas, cut in the distant woods, came sloping down to the
south, as if they opened to receive the sunbeam that greeted the
genial aspect of the mansion, The ground-floor was principally
occupied by the hall itself, which was of great dimensions, hung round
with many a family portrait and rural picture, furnished with long
oaken seats covered with scarlet cushions, and ornamented with a
parti-coloured floor of alternate diamonds of black and white marble.
From the centre of the roof of the mansion, which was always covered
with pigeons, rose the clock-tower of the chapel, surmounted by a
vane; and before the mansion itself was a large plot of grass, with a
fountain in the centre, surrounded by a hedge of honeysuckle.

This plot of grass was separated from an extensive park, that opened
in front of the hall, by tall iron gates, on each of the pillars of
which was a lion rampant supporting the escutcheon of the family. The
deer wandered in this enclosed and well-wooded demesne, and about a
mile from the mansion, in a direct line with the iron gates, was an
old-fashioned lodge, which marked the limit of the park, and from
which you emerged into a fine avenue of limes bounded on both sides
by fields. At the termination of this avenue was a strong but simple
gate, and a woodman's cottage; and then spread before you a vast
landscape of open, wild lands, which seemed on one side interminable,
while on the other the eye rested on the dark heights of the
neighbouring forest.

This picturesque and secluded abode was the residence of Lady Annabel
Herbert and her daughter, the young and beautiful Venetia, a child, at
the time when our history commences, of very tender age. It was nearly
seven years since Lady Annabel and her infant daughter had sought the
retired shades of Cherbury, which they had never since quitted. They
lived alone and for each other; the mother educated her child, and
the child interested her mother by her affectionate disposition,
the development of a mind of no ordinary promise, and a sort of
captivating grace and charming playfulness of temper, which were
extremely delightful. Lady Annabel was still young and lovely. That
she was wealthy her establishment clearly denoted, and she was a
daughter of one of the haughtiest houses in the kingdom. It was
strange then that, with all the brilliant accidents of birth, and
beauty, and fortune, she should still, as it were in the morning of
her life, have withdrawn to this secluded mansion, in a county where
she was personally unknown, distant from the metropolis, estranged
from all her own relatives and connexions, and without resource of
even a single neighbour, for the only place of importance in her
vicinity was uninhabited. The general impression of the villagers was
that Lady Annabel was a widow; and yet there were some speculators
who would shrewdly remark, that her ladyship had never worn weeds,
although her husband could not have been long dead when she first
arrived at Cherbury. On the whole, however, these good people were not
very inquisitive; and it was fortunate for them, for there was little
chance and slight means of gratifying their curiosity. The whole of
the establishment had been formed at Cherbury, with the exception of
her ladyship's waiting-woman, Mistress Pauncefort, and she was by far
too great a personage to condescend to reply to any question which was
not made to her by Lady Annabel herself.

The beauty of the young Venetia was not the hereditary gift of her
beautiful mother. It was not from Lady Annabel that Venetia Herbert
had derived those seraphic locks that fell over her shoulders and
down her neck in golden streams, nor that clear grey eye even, whose
childish glance might perplex the gaze of manhood, nor that little
aquiline nose, that gave a haughty expression to a countenance that
had never yet dreamed of pride, nor that radiant complexion, that
dazzled with its brilliancy, like some winged minister of Raffael or
Correggio. The peasants that passed the lady and her daughter in their
walks, and who blessed her as they passed, for all her grace and
goodness, often marvelled why so fair a mother and so fair a child
should be so dissimilar, that one indeed might be compared to a starry
night, and the other to a sunny day.

CHAPTER II.

It was a bright and soft spring morning: the dewy vistas of Cherbury
sparkled in the sun, the cooing of the pigeons sounded around, the
peacocks strutted about the terrace and spread their tails with
infinite enjoyment and conscious pride, and Lady Annabel came forth
with her little daughter, to breathe the renovating odours of the
season. The air was scented with the violet, tufts of daffodils were
scattered all about, and though the snowdrop had vanished, and the
primroses were fast disappearing, their wild and shaggy leaves still
looked picturesque and glad.

'Mamma,' said the little Venetia, 'is this spring?'

'This is spring, my child,' replied Lady Annabel, 'beautiful spring!
The year is young and happy, like my little girl.'

'If Venetia be like the spring, mamma is like the summer!' replied the
child; and the mother smiled. 'And is not the summer young and happy?'
resumed Venetia.

'It is not quite so young as the spring,' said Lady Annabel, looking
down with fondness on her little companion, 'and, I fear, not quite so
happy.'

'But it is as beautiful,' said Venetia.

'It is not beauty that makes us happy,' said Lady Annabel; 'to be
happy, my love, we must be good.'

'Am I good?' said Venetia.

'Very good,' said Lady Annabel

'I am very happy,' said Venetia; 'I wonder whether, if I be always
good, I shall always be happy?'

'You cannot be happy without being good, my love; but happiness
depends upon the will of God. If you be good he will guard over you.'

'What can make me unhappy, mamma?' inquired Venetia.

'An evil conscience, my love.'

'Conscience!' said Venetia: 'what is conscience?'

'You are not yet quite old enough to understand,' said Lady Annabel,
'but some day I will teach you. Mamma is now going to take a long
walk, and Venetia shall walk with her.'

So saying, the Lady Annabel summoned Mistress Pauncefort, a
gentlewoman of not more discreet years than might have been expected
in the attendant of so young a mistress; but one well qualified for
her office, very zealous and devoted, somewhat consequential, full of
energy and decision, capable of directing, fond of giving advice, and
habituated to command. The Lady Annabel, leading her daughter, and
accompanied by her faithful bloodhound, Marmion, ascended one of those
sloping vistas that we have noticed, Mistress Pauncefort following
them about a pace behind, and after her a groom, at a respectful
distance, leading Miss Herbert's donkey.

They soon entered a winding path through the wood which was the
background of their dwelling. Lady Annabel was silent, and lost in her
reflections; Venetia plucked the beautiful wild hyacinths that then
abounded in the wood in such profusion, that their beds spread like
patches of blue enamel, and gave them to Mistress Pauncefort, who, as
the collection increased, handed them over to the groom; who, in turn,
deposited them in the wicker seat prepared for his young mistress. The
bright sun bursting through the tender foliage of the year, the clear
and genial air, the singing of the birds, and the wild and joyous
exclamations of Venetia, as she gathered her flowers, made it a
cheerful party, notwithstanding the silence of its mistress.

When they emerged from the wood, they found themselves on the brow
of the hill, a small down, over which Venetia ran, exulting in the
healthy breeze which, at this exposed height, was strong and fresh.
As they advanced to the opposite declivity to that which they had
ascended, a wide and peculiar landscape opened before them. The
extreme distance was formed by an undulating ridge of lofty and savage
hills; nearer than these were gentler elevations, partially wooded;
and at their base was a rich valley, its green meads fed by a clear
and rapid stream, which glittered in the sun as it coursed on, losing
itself at length in a wild and sedgy lake that formed the furthest
limit of a widely-spreading park. In the centre of this park, and
not very remote from the banks of the rivulet, was an ancient gothic
building, that had once been an abbey of great repute and wealth, and
had not much suffered in its external character, by having served for
nearly two centuries and a half as the principal dwelling of an old
baronial family.

Descending the downy hill, that here and there was studded with fine
old trees, enriching by their presence the view from the abbey, Lady
Annabel and her party entered the meads, and, skirting the lake,
approached the venerable walls without crossing the stream.

It was difficult to conceive a scene more silent and more desolate.
There was no sign of life, and not a sound save the occasional
cawing of a rook. Advancing towards the abbey, they passed a pile of
buildings that, in the summer, might be screened from sight by the
foliage of a group of elms, too scanty at present to veil their
desolation. Wide gaps in the roof proved that the vast and dreary
stables were no longer used; there were empty granaries, whose doors
had fallen from their hinges; the gate of the courtyard was prostrate
on the ground; and the silent clock that once adorned the cupola over
the noble entrance arch, had long lost its index. Even the litter of
the yard appeared dusty and grey with age. You felt sure no human foot
could have disturbed it for years. At the back of these buildings were
nailed the trophies of the gamekeeper: hundreds of wild cats, dried to
blackness, stretched their downward heads and legs from the mouldering
wall; hawks, magpies, and jays hung in tattered remnants! but all
grey, and even green, with age; and the heads of birds in plenteous
rows, nailed beak upward, and so dried and shrivelled by the suns and
winds and frosts of many seasons, that their distinctive characters
were lost.

'Do you know, my good Pauncefort,' said Lady Annabel, 'that I have
an odd fancy to-day to force an entrance into the old abbey. It is
strange, fond as I am of this walk, that we have never yet entered it.
Do you recollect our last vain efforts? Shall we be more fortunate
this time, think you?'

Mistress Pauncefort smiled and smirked, and, advancing to the old
gloomy porch, gave a determined ring at the bell. Its sound might
be heard echoing through the old cloisters, but a considerable time
elapsed without any other effect being produced. Perhaps Lady Annabel
would have now given up the attempt, but the little Venetia expressed
so much regret at the disappointment, that her mother directed the
groom to reconnoitre in the neighbourhood, and see if it were possible
to discover any person connected with the mansion.

'I doubt our luck, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort, 'for they do
say that the abbey is quite uninhabited.'

''Tis a pity,' said Lady Annabel, 'for, with all its desolation, there
is something about this spot which ever greatly interests me.'

'Mamma, why does no one live here?' said Venetia.

'The master of the abbey lives abroad, my child.'

'Why does he, mamma?'

'Never ask questions, Miss Venetia,' said Mistress Pauncefort, in a
hushed and solemn tone; 'it is not pretty.' Lady Annabel had moved
away.

The groom returned, and said he had met an old man, picking
water-cresses, and he was the only person who lived in the abbey,
except his wife, and she was bedridden. The old man had promised to
admit them when he had completed his task, but not before, and the
groom feared it would be some time before he arrived.

'Come, Pauncefort, rest yourself on this bench,' said Lady Annabel,
seating herself in the porch; 'and Venetia, my child, come hither to
me.'

'Mamma,' said Venetia, 'what is the name of the gentleman to whom this
abbey belongs?'

'Lord Cadurcis, love.'

'I should like to know why Lord Cadurcis lives abroad?' said Venetia,
musingly.

'There are many reasons why persons may choose to quit their native
country, and dwell in another, my love,' said Lady Annabel, very
quietly; 'some change the climate for their health.'

'Did Lord Cadurcis, mamma?' asked Venetia.

'I do not know Lord Cadurcis, dear, or anything of him, except that he
is a very old man, and has no family.'

At this moment there was a sound of bars and bolts withdrawn, and the
falling of a chain, and at length the massy door slowly opened, and
the old man appeared and beckoned to them to enter.

''Tis eight years, come Martinmas, since I opened this door,' said the
old man, 'and it sticks a bit. You must walk about by yourselves, for
I have no breath, and my mistress is bedridden. There, straight down
the cloister, you can't miss your way; there is not much to see.'

The interior of the abbey formed a quadrangle, surrounded by the
cloisters, and in this inner court was a curious fountain, carved with
exquisite skill by some gothic artist in one of those capricious moods
of sportive invention that produced those grotesque medleys for which
the feudal sculptor was celebrated. Not a sound was heard except the
fall of the fountain and the light echoes that its voice called up.

The staircase led Lady Annabel and her party through several small
rooms, scantily garnished with ancient furniture, in some of which
were portraits of the family, until they at length entered a noble
saloon, once the refectory of the abbey, and not deficient in
splendour, though sadly soiled and worm-eaten. It was hung with
tapestry representing the Cartoons of Raffael, and their still vivid
colours contrasted with the faded hangings and the dingy damask of the
chairs and sofas. A mass of Cromwellian armour was huddled together in
a corner of a long monkish gallery, with a standard, encrusted with
dust, and a couple of old drums, one broken. From one of the windows
they had a good view of the old walled garden, which did not
tempt them to enter it; it was a wilderness, the walks no longer
distinguishable from the rank vegetation of the once cultivated lawns;
the terraces choked up with the unchecked shrubberies; and here and
there a leaden statue, a goddess or a satyr, prostrate, and covered
with moss and lichen.

'It makes me melancholy,' said Lady Annabel; 'let us return.'

'Mamma,' said Venetia, 'are there any ghosts in this abbey?'

'You may well ask me, love,' replied Lady Annabel; 'it seems a
spell-bound place. But, Venetia, I have often told you there are no
such things as ghosts.'

'Is it naughty to believe in ghosts, mamma, for I cannot help
believing in them?'

'When you are older, and have more knowledge, you will not believe in
them, Venetia,' replied Lady Annabel.

Our friends left Cadurcis Abbey. Venetia mounted her donkey, her
mother walked by her side; the sun was beginning to decline when they
again reached Cherbury, and the air was brisk. Lady Annabel was glad
to find herself by her fireside in her little terrace-room, and
Venetia fetching her book, read to her mother until their dinner hour.

CHAPTER III.

Two serene and innocent years had glided away at Cherbury since this
morning ramble to Cadurcis Abbey, and Venetia had grown in loveliness,
in goodness, and intelligence. Her lively and somewhat precocious mind
had become greatly developed; and, though she was only nine years of
age, it scarcely needed the affection of a mother to find in her an
interesting and engaging companion. Although feminine education was
little regarded in those days, that of Lady Annabel had been an
exception to the general practice of society. She had been brought
up with the consciousness of other objects of female attainment and
accomplishment than embroidery, 'the complete art of making pastry,'
and reading 'The Whole Duty of Man.' She had profited, when a child,
by the guidance of her brother's tutor, who had bestowed no unfruitful
pains upon no ordinary capacity. She was a good linguist, a fine
musician, was well read in our elder poets and their Italian
originals, was no unskilful artist, and had acquired some knowledge
of botany when wandering, as a girl, in her native woods. Since her
retirement to Cherbury, reading had been her chief resource. The hall
contained a library whose shelves, indeed, were more full than choice;
but, amid folios of theological controversy and civil law, there might
be found the first editions of most of the celebrated writers of the
reign of Anne, which the contemporary proprietor of Cherbury, a man of
wit and fashion in his day, had duly collected in his yearly visits to
the metropolis, and finally deposited in the family book-room.

The education of her daughter was not only the principal duty of Lady
Annabel, but her chief delight. To cultivate the nascent intelligence
of a child, in those days, was not the mere piece of scientific
mechanism that the admirable labours of so many ingenious writers have
since permitted it comparatively to become. In those days there was no
Mrs. Barbauld, no Madame de Genlis, no Miss Edgeworth; no 'Evenings at
Home,' no 'Children's Friend,' no 'Parent's Assistant.' Venetia loved
her book; indeed, she was never happier than when reading; but she
soon recoiled from the gilt and Lilliputian volumes of the good Mr.
Newbury, and her mind required some more substantial excitement than
'Tom Thumb,' or even 'Goody Two-Shoes.' 'The Seven Champions' was
a great resource and a great favourite; but it required all the
vigilance of a mother to eradicate the false impressions which such
studies were continually making on so tender a student; and to
disenchant, by rational discussion, the fascinated imagination of her
child. Lady Annabel endeavoured to find some substitute in the essays
of Addison and Steele; but they required more knowledge of the
every-day world for their enjoyment than an infant, bred in such
seclusion, could at present afford; and at last Venetia lost herself
in the wildering pages of Clelia and the Arcadia, which she pored over
with a rapt and ecstatic spirit, that would not comprehend the warning
scepticism of her parent. Let us picture to ourselves the high-bred
Lady Annabel in the terrace-room of her ancient hall, working at
her tapestry, and, seated at her feet, her little daughter Venetia,
reading aloud the Arcadia! The peacocks have jumped up on the
window-sill, to look at their friends, who love to feed them, and by
their pecking have aroused the bloodhound crouching at Lady Annabel's
feet. And Venetia looks up from her folio with a flushed and smiling
face to catch the sympathy of her mother, who rewards her daughter's
study with a kiss. Ah! there are no such mothers and no such daughters
now!

Thus it will be seen that the life and studies of Venetia tended
rather dangerously, in spite of all the care of her mother, to the
development of her imagination, in case indeed she possessed that
terrible and fatal gift. She passed her days in unbroken solitude, or
broken only by affections which softened her heart, and in a scene
which itself might well promote any predisposition of the kind;
beautiful and picturesque objects surrounded her on all sides; she
wandered, at it were, in an enchanted wilderness, and watched the deer
reposing under the green shadow of stately trees; the old hall
itself was calculated to excite mysterious curiosity; one wing was
uninhabited and shut up; each morning and evening she repaired with
her mother and the household through long galleries to the chapel,
where she knelt to her devotions, illumined by a window blazoned with
the arms of that illustrious family of which she was a member, and
of which she knew nothing. She had an indefinite and painful
consciousness that she had been early checked in the natural inquiries
which occur to every child; she had insensibly been trained to speak
only of what she saw; and when she listened, at night, to the long
ivy rustling about the windows, and the wild owls hooting about the
mansion, with their pining, melancholy voices, she might have been
excused for believing in those spirits, which her mother warned her to
discredit; or she forgot these mournful impressions in dreams, caught
from her romantic volumes, of bright knights and beautiful damsels.

Only one event of importance had occurred at Cherbury during these two
years, if indeed that be not too strong a phrase to use in reference
to an occurrence which occasioned so slight and passing an interest.
Lord Cadurcis had died. He had left his considerable property to his
natural children, but the abbey had descended with the title to a very
distant relative. The circle at Cherbury had heard, and that was all,
that the new lord was a minor, a little boy, indeed very little older
than Venetia herself; but this information produced no impression. The
abbey was still deserted and desolate as ever.

CHAPTER IV.

Every Sunday afternoon, the rector of a neighbouring though still
somewhat distant parish, of which the rich living was in the gift of
the Herberts, came to perform divine service at Cherbury. It was a
subject of deep regret to Lady Annabel that herself and her family
were debarred from the advantage of more frequent and convenient
spiritual consolation; but, at this time, the parochial discipline
of the Church of England was not so strict as it fortunately is at
present. Cherbury, though a vicarage, possessed neither parish church,
nor a residence for the clergyman; nor was there indeed a village. The
peasants on the estate, or labourers as they are now styled, a term
whose introduction into our rural world is much to be lamented, lived
in the respective farmhouses on the lands which they cultivated. These
were scattered about at considerable distances, and many of their
inmates found it more convenient to attend the church of the
contiguous parish than to repair to the hall chapel, where the
household and the dwellers in the few cottages scattered about the
park and woods always assembled. The Lady Annabel, whose lot it had
been in life to find her best consolation in religion, and who was
influenced by not only a sincere but even a severe piety, had no other
alternative, therefore, but engaging a chaplain; but this, after much
consideration, she had resolved not to do. She was indeed her own
chaplain, herself performing each day such parts of our morning and
evening service whose celebration becomes a laic, and reading portions
from the writings of those eminent divines who, from the Restoration
to the conclusion of the last reign, have so eminently distinguished
the communion of our national Church.

Each Sunday, after the performance of divine service, the Rev. Dr.
Masham dined with the family, and he was the only guest at Cherbury
Venetia ever remembered seeing. The Doctor was a regular orthodox
divine of the eighteenth century; with a large cauliflower wig,
shovel-hat, and huge knee-buckles, barely covered by his top-boots;
learned, jovial, humorous, and somewhat courtly; truly pious, but not
enthusiastic; not forgetful of his tithes, but generous and charitable
when they were once paid; never neglecting the sick, yet occasionally
following a fox; a fine scholar, an active magistrate, and a good
shot; dreading the Pope, and hating the Presbyterians.

The Doctor was attached to the Herbert family not merely because they
had given him a good living. He had a great reverence for an old
English race, and turned up his nose at the Walpolian loanmongers.
Lady Annabel, too, so beautiful, so dignified, so amiable, and highly
bred, and, above all, so pious, had won his regard. He was not a
little proud, too, that he was the only person in the county who had
the honour of her acquaintance, and yet was disinterested enough to
regret that he led so secluded a life, and often lamented that nothing
would induce her to show her elegant person on a racecourse, or to
attend an assize ball, an assembly which was then becoming much the
fashion. The little Venetia was a charming child, and the kind-hearted
Doctor, though a bachelor, loved children.

O! matre pulchra, filia pulchrior,

was the Rev. Dr. Masham's apposite and favourite quotation after his
weekly visit to Cherbury.

Divine service was concluded; the Doctor had preached a capital
sermon; for he had been one of the shining lights of his university
until his rich but isolating preferment had apparently closed the
great career which it was once supposed awaited him. The accustomed
walk on the terrace was completed, and dinner was announced. This meal
was always celebrated at Cherbury, where new fashions stole down with
a lingering pace, in the great hall itself. An ample table was placed
in the centre on a mat of rushes, sheltered by a large screen covered
with huge maps of the shire and the neighbouring counties. The Lady
Annabel and her good pastor seated themselves at each end of the
table, while Venetia, mounted on a high chair, was waited on by
Mistress Pauncefort, who never condescended by any chance attention to
notice the presence of any other individual but her little charge, on
whose chair she just leaned with an air of condescending devotion.
The butler stood behind his lady, and two other servants watched the
Doctor; rural bodies all, but decked on this day in gorgeous livery
coats of blue and silver, which had been made originally for men of
very different size and bearing. Simple as was the usual diet at
Cherbury the cook was permitted on Sunday full play to her art, which,
in the eighteenth century, indulged in the production of dishes more
numerous and substantial than our refined tastes could at present
tolerate. The Doctor appreciated a good dinner, and his countenance
glistened with approbation as he surveyed the ample tureen of potage
royal, with a boned duck swimming in its centre. Before him still
scowled in death the grim countenance of a huge roast pike, flanked
on one side by a leg of mutton _a-la-daube_, and on the other by
the tempting delicacies of bombarded veal. To these succeeded that
masterpiece of the culinary art, a grand battalia pie, in which the
bodies of chickens, pigeons, and rabbits were embalmed in spices,
cocks' combs, and savoury balls, and well bedewed with one of those
rich sauces of claret, anchovy, and sweet herbs, in which our
great-grandfathers delighted, and which was technically termed a Lear.
But the grand essay of skill was the cover of this pasty, whereon the
curious cook had contrived to represent all the once-living forms that
were now entombed in that gorgeous sepulchre. A Florentine tourte, or
tansy, an old English custard, a more refined blamango, and a riband
jelly of many colours, offered a pleasant relief after these vaster
inventions, and the repast closed with a dish of oyster loaves and a
pompetone of larks.

Notwithstanding the abstemiousness of his hostess, the Doctor was
never deterred from doing justice to her hospitality. Few were the
dishes that ever escaped him. The demon dyspepsia had not waved its
fell wings over the eighteenth century, and wonderful were the feats
then achieved by a country gentleman with the united aid of a good
digestion and a good conscience.

The servants had retired, and Dr. Masham had taken his last glass
of port, and then he rang a bell on the table, and, I trust my fair
readers will not be frightened from proceeding with this history, a
servant brought him his pipe. The pipe was well stuffed, duly lighted,
and duly puffed; and then, taking it from his mouth, the Doctor spoke.

'And so, my honoured lady, you have got a neighbour at last.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Lady Annabel.

But the claims of the pipe prevented the good Doctor from too quickly
satisfying her natural curiosity. Another puff or two, and he then
continued.

'Yes,' said he, 'the old abbey has at last found a tenant.'

'A tenant, Doctor?'

'Ay! the best tenant in the world: its proprietor.'

'You quite surprise me. When did this occur?'

'They have been there these three days; I have paid them a visit. Mrs.
Cadurcis has come to live at the abbey with the little lord.'

'This is indeed news to us,' said Lady Annabel; 'and what kind of
people are they?'

'You know, my dear madam,' said the Doctor, just touching the ash of
his pipe with his tobacco-stopper of chased silver, 'that the present
lord is a very distant relative of the late one?'

Lady Annabel bowed assent.

'The late lord,' continued the Doctor, 'who was as strange and
wrong-headed a man as ever breathed, though I trust he is in the
kingdom of heaven for all that, left all his property to his unlawful
children, with the exception of this estate entailed on the title, as
all estates should be, 'Tis a fine place, but no great rental. I doubt
whether 'tis more than a clear twelve hundred a-year.'

'And Mrs. Cadurcis?' inquired Lady Annabel.

'Was an heiress,' replied the Doctor, 'and the late Mr. Cadurcis a
spendrift. He was a bad manager, and, worse, a bad husband. Providence
was pleased to summon him suddenly from this mortal scene, but not
before he had dissipated the greater part of his wife's means. Mrs.
Cadurcis, since she was a widow, has lived in strict seclusion with
her little boy, as you may, my dear lady, with your dear little girl.
But I am afraid,' said the Doctor, shaking his head, 'she has not
been in the habit of dining so well as we have to-day. A very
limited income, my dear madam; a very limited income indeed. And
the guardians, I am told, will only allow the little lord a hundred
a-year; but, on her own income, whatever it may be, and that addition,
she has resolved to live at the abbey; and I believe, I believe she
has it rent-free; but I don't know.'

'Poor woman!' said Lady Annabel, and not without a sigh. 'I trust her
child is her consolation.'

Venetia had not spoken during this conversation, but she had listened
to it very attentively. At length she said, 'Mamma, is not a widow a
wife that has lost her husband?'

'You are right, my dear,' said Lady Annabel, rather gravely.

Venetia mused a moment, and then replied, 'Pray, mamma, are you a
widow?'

'My dear little girl,' said Dr. Masham, 'go and give that beautiful
peacock a pretty piece of cake.'

Lady Annabel and the Doctor rose from the table with Venetia, and took
a turn in the park, while the Doctor's horses were getting ready.

'I think, my good lady,' said the Doctor, 'it would be but an act of
Christian charity to call upon Mrs. Cadurcis.'

'I was thinking the same,' said Lady Annabel; 'I am interested by what
you have told me of her history and fortunes. We have some woes in
common; I hope some joys. It seems that this case should indeed be an
exception to my rule.'

'I would not ask you to sacrifice your inclinations to the mere
pleasures of the world,' said the Doctor: 'but duties, my dear lady,
duties; there are such things as duties to our neighbour; and here is
a case where, believe me, they might be fulfilled.'

The Doctor's horses now appeared. Both master and groom wore their
pistols in their holsters. The Doctor shook hands warmly with Lady
Annabel, and patted Venetia on her head, as she ran up from a little
distance, with an eager countenance, to receive her accustomed
blessing. Then mounting his stout mare, he once more waived his hand
with an air of courtliness to his hostess, and was soon out of sight.
Lady Annabel and Venetia returned to the terrace-room.

CHAPTER V.

'And so I would, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort, when Lady Annabel
communicated to her faithful attendant, at night, the news of the
arrival of the Cadurcis family at the abbey, and her intention of
paying Mrs. Cadurcis a visit; 'and so I would, my lady,' said Mistress
Pauncefort, 'and it would be but an act of Christian charity after
all, as the Doctor says; for although it is not for me to complain
when my betters are satisfied, and after all I am always content, if
your ladyship be; still there is no denying the fact, that this is
a terrible lonesome life after all. And I cannot help thinking your
ladyship has not been looking so well of late, and a little society
would do your ladyship good; and Miss Venetia too, after all, she
wants a playfellow; I am certain sure that I was as tired of playing
at ball with her this morning as if I had never sat down in my born
days; and I dare say the little lord will play with her all day long.'

'If I thought that this visit would lead to what is understood by the
word society, my good Pauncefort, I certainly should refrain from
paying it,' said Lady Annabel, very quietly.

'Oh! Lord, dear my lady, I was not for a moment dreaming of any such
thing,' replied Mistress Pauncefort; 'society, I know as well as any
one, means grand balls, Ranelagh, and the masquerades. I can't abide
the thought of them, I do assure your ladyship; all I meant was that a
quiet dinner now and then with a few friends, a dance perhaps in the
evening, or a hand of whist, or a game of romps at Christmas, when the
abbey will of course be quite full, a--'

'I believe there is as little chance of the abbey being full at
Christmas, or any other time, as there is of Cherbury.' said Lady
Annabel. 'Mrs. Cadurcis is a widow, with a very slender fortune. Her
son will not enjoy his estate until he is of age, and its rental is
small. I am led to believe that they will live quite as quietly as
ourselves; and when I spoke of Christian charity, I was thinking only
of kindness towards them, and not of amusement for ourselves.'

'Well, my lady, your la'ship knows best,' replied Mistress Pauncefort,
evidently very disappointed; for she had indulged in momentary visions
of noble visitors and noble valets; 'I am always content, you know,
when your la'ship is; but, I must say, I think it is very odd for a
lord to be so poor. I never heard of such a thing. I think they will
turn out richer than you have an idea, my lady. Your la'ship knows
'tis quite a saying, "As rich as a lord."'

Lady Annabel smiled, but did not reply.

The next morning the fawn-coloured chariot, which had rarely been used
since Lady Annabel's arrival at Cherbury, and four black long-tailed
coach-horses, that from absolute necessity had been degraded, in
the interval, to the service of the cart and the plough, made their
appearance, after much bustle and effort, before the hall-door.
Although a morning's stroll from Cherbury through the woods, Cadurcis
was distant nearly ten miles by the road, and that road was in great
part impassable, save in favourable seasons. This visit, therefore,
was an expedition; and Lady Annabel, fearing the fatigue for a child,
determined to leave Venetia at home, from whom she had actually never
been separated one hour in her life. Venetia could not refrain from
shedding a tear when her mother embraced and quitted her, and begged,
as a last favour, that she might accompany her through the park to
the avenue lodge. So Pauncefort and herself entered the chariot, that
rocked like a ship, in spite of all the skill of the coachman and the
postilion.

Venetia walked home with Mistress Pauncefort, but Lady Annabel's
little daughter was not in her usual lively spirits; many a butterfly
glanced around without attracting her pursuit, and the deer trooped
by without eliciting a single observation. At length she said, in a
thoughtful tone, 'Mistress Pauncefort, I should have liked to have
gone and seen the little boy.'

'You shall go and see him another day, Miss,' replied her attendant.

'Mistress Pauncefort,' said Venetia, 'are you a widow?'

Mistress Pauncefort almost started; had the inquiry been made by a
man, she would almost have supposed he was going to be very rude. She
was indeed much surprised.

'And pray, Miss Venetia, what could put it in your head to ask such an
odd question?' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort. 'A widow! Miss Venetia;
I have never yet changed my name, and I shall not in a hurry, that I
can tell you.'

'Do widows change their names?' said Venetia.

'All women change their names when they marry,' responded Mistress
Pauncefort.

'Is mamma married?' inquired Venetia.

'La! Miss Venetia. Well, to be sure, you do ask the strangest
questions. Married! to be sure she is married,' said Mistress
Pauncefort, exceedingly flustered.

'And whom is she married to?' pursued the unwearied Venetia.

'Your papa, to be sure,' said Mistress Pauncefort, blushing up to her
eyes, and looking very confused; 'that is to say, Miss Venetia, you
are never to ask questions about such subjects. Have not I often told
you it is not pretty?'

'Why is it not pretty?' said Venetia.

'Because it is not proper,' said Mistress Pauncefort; 'because your
mamma does not like you to ask such questions, and she will be very
angry with me for answering them, I can tell you that.'

'I tell you what, Mistress Pauncefort,' said Venetia, 'I think mamma
is a widow.'

'And what then, Miss Venetia? There is no shame in that.'

'Shame!' exclaimed Venetia. 'What is shame?'

'Look, there is a pretty butterfly!' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort.
'Did you ever see such a pretty butterfly, Miss?'

'I do not care about butterflies to-day, Mistress Pauncefort; I like
to talk about widows.'

'Was there ever such a child!' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, with a
wondering glance.

'I must have had a papa,' said Venetia; 'all the ladies I read about
had papas, and married husbands. Then whom did my mamma marry?'

'Lord! Miss Venetia, you know very well your mamma always tells
you that all those books you read are a pack of stories,' observed
Mistress Pauncefort, with an air of triumphant art.

'There never were such persons, perhaps,' said Venetia, 'but it is not
true that there never were such things as papas and husbands, for all
people have papas; you must have had a papa, Mistress Pauncefort?'

'To be sure I had,' said Mistress Pauncefort, bridling up.

'And a mamma too?' said Venetia.

'As honest a woman as ever lived,' said Mistress Pauncefort.

'Then if I have no papa, mamma must be a wife that has lost her
husband, and that, mamma told me at dinner yesterday, was a widow.'

'Was the like ever seen!' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort. 'And what
then, Miss Venetia?'

'It seems to me so odd that only two people should live here, and both
be widows,' said Venetia, 'and both have a little child; the only
difference is, that one is a little boy, and I am a little girl.'

'When ladies lose their husbands, they do not like to have their names
mentioned,' said Mistress Pauncefort; 'and so you must never talk of
your papa to my lady, and that is the truth.'

'I will not now,' said Venetia.

When they returned home, Mistress Pauncefort brought her work, and
seated herself on the terrace, that she might not lose sight of her
charge. Venetia played about for some little time; she made a castle
behind a tree, and fancied she was a knight, and then a lady, and
conjured up an ogre in the neighbouring shrubbery; but these daydreams
did not amuse her as much as usual. She went and fetched her book, but
even 'The Seven Champions' could not interest her. Her eye was fixed
upon the page, and apparently she was absorbed in her pursuit, but
her mind wandered, and the page was never turned. She indulged in an
unconscious reverie; her fancy was with her mother on her visit; the
old abbey rose up before her: she painted the scene without an effort:
the court, with the fountain; the grand room, with the tapestry
hangings; that desolate garden, with the fallen statues; and that
long, gloomy gallery. And in all these scenes appeared that little
boy, who, somehow or other, seemed wonderfully blended with her
imaginings. It was a very long day this; Venetia dined along with
Mistress Pauncefort; the time hung very heavy; at length she fell
asleep in Mistress Pauncefort's lap. A sound roused her: the carriage
had returned; she ran to greet her mother, but there was no news; Mrs.
Cadurcis had been absent; she had gone to a distant town to buy some
furniture; and, after all, Lady Annabel had not seen the little boy.

CHAPTER VI.

A few days after the visit to Cadurcis, when Lady Annabel was sitting
alone, a postchaise drove up to the hall, whence issued a short and
stout woman with a rubicund countenance, and dressed in a style which
remarkably blended the shabby with the tawdry. She was accompanied
by a boy between eleven and twelve years of age, whose appearance,
however, much contrasted with that of his mother, for he was pale and
slender, with long curling black hair and large black eyes, which
occasionally, by their transient flashes, agreeably relieved a face
the general expression of which might be esteemed somewhat shy and
sullen. The lady, of course, was Mrs. Cadurcis, who was received by
Lady Annabel with the greatest courtesy.

'A terrible journey,' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, fanning herself as she
took her seat, 'and so very hot! Plantagenet, my love, make your
bow! Have not I always told you to make a bow when you enter a room,
especially where there are strangers? This is Lady Annabel Herbert,
who was so kind as to call upon us. Make your bow to Lady Annabel.'

The boy gave a sort of sulky nod, but Lady Annabel received it so
graciously and expressed herself so kindly to him that his features
relaxed a little, though he was quite silent and sat on the edge of
his chair, the picture of dogged indifference.

'Charming country, Lady Annabel,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, 'but worse
roads, if possible, than we had in Northumberland, where, indeed,
there were no roads at all. Cherbury a delightful place, very unlike
the abbey; dreadfully lonesome I assure you I find it, Lady Annabel.
Great change for us from a little town and all our kind neighbours.
Very different from Morpeth; is it not, Plantagenet?'

'I hate Morpeth,' said the boy.

'Hate Morpeth!' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis; 'well, I am sure, that
is very ungrateful, with so many kind friends as we always found.
Besides, Plantagenet, have I not always told you that you are to hate
nothing? It is very wicked. The trouble it costs me, Lady Annabel, to
educate this dear child!' continued Mrs. Cadurcis, turning to Lady
Annabel, and speaking in a semi-tone. 'I have done it all myself, I
assure you; and, when he likes, he can be as good as any one. Can't
you, Plantagenet?'

Lord Cadurcis gave a grim smile; seated himself at the very back of
the deep chair and swung his feet, which no longer reached the ground,
to and fro.

'I am sure that Lord Cadurcis always behaves well,' said Lady Annabel.

'There, Plantagenet,' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, 'only listen to that.
Hear what Lady Annabel Herbert says; she is sure you always behave
well. Now mind, never give her ladyship cause to change her opinion.'

Plantagenet curled his lip, and half turned his back on his
companions.

'I regretted so much that I was not at home when you did me the honour
to call,' resumed Mrs. Cadurcis; 'but I had gone over for the day to
Southport, buying furniture. What a business it is to buy furniture,
Lady Annabel!' added Mrs. Cadurcis, with a piteous expression.

'It is indeed very troublesome,' said Lady Annabel.

'Ah! you have none of these cares,' continued Mrs. Cadurcis, surveying
the pretty apartment. 'What a difference between Cherbury and the
abbey! I suppose you have never been there?'

'Indeed, it is one of my favourite walks,' answered Lady Annabel;
'and, some two years ago, I even took the liberty of walking through
the house.'

'Was there ever such a place!' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis. 'I assure you
my poor head turns whenever I try to find my way about it. But the
trustees offered it us, and I thought it my duty to my son to reside
there. Besides, it was a great offer to a widow; if poor Mr. Cadurcis
had been alive it would have been different. I hardly know what
I shall do there, particularly in winter. My spirits are always
dreadfully low. I only hope Plantagenet will behave well. If he goes
into his tantarums at the abbey, and particularly in winter, I hardly
know what will become of me!'

'I am sure Lord Cadurcis will do everything to make the abbey
comfortable to you. Besides, it is but a short walk from Cherbury, and
you must come often and see us.'

'Oh! Plantagenet can be good if he likes, I can assure you,
Lady Annabel; and behaves as properly as any little boy I know.
Plantagenet, my dear, speak. Have not I always told you, when you pay
a visit, that you should open your mouth now and then. I don't like
chattering children,' added Mrs. Cadurcis, 'but I like them to answer
when they are spoken to.'

'Nobody has spoken to me,' said Lord Cadurcis, in a sullen tone.

'Plantagenet, my love!' said his mother in a solemn voice.

'Well, mother, what do you want?'

'Plantagenet, my love, you know you promised me to be good!'

'Well! what have I done?'

'Lord Cadurcis,' said Lady Annabel, interfering, 'do you like to look
at pictures?'

'Thank you,' replied the little lord, in a more courteous tone; 'I
like to be left alone.'

'Did you ever know such an odd child!' said Mrs. Cadurcis; 'and yet,
Lady Annabel, you must not judge him by what you see. I do assure you
he can behave, when he likes, as pretty as possible.'

'Pretty!' muttered the little lord between his teeth.

'If you had only seen him at Morpeth sometimes at a little tea party,'
said Mrs. Cadurcis, 'he really was quite the ornament of the company.'

'No, I wasn't,' said Lord Cadurcis.

'Plantagenet!' said his mother again in a solemn tone, 'have I not
always told you that you are never to contradict any one?'

The little lord indulged in a suppressed growl.

'There was a little play last Christmas,' continued Mrs. Cadurcis,
'and he acted quite delightfully. Now you would not think that, from
the way he sits upon that chair. Plantagenet, my dear, I do insist
upon your behaving yourself. Sit like a man.'

'I am not a man,' said Lord Cadurcis, very quietly; 'I wish I were.'

'Plantagenet!' said the mother, 'have not I always told you that you
are never to answer me? It is not proper for children to answer! O
Lady Annabel, if you knew what it cost me to educate my son. He never
does anything I wish, and it is so provoking, because I know that he
can behave as properly as possible if he likes. He does it to provoke
me. You know you do it to provoke me, you little brat; now, sit
properly, sir; I do desire you to sit properly. How vexatious that you
should call at Cherbury for the first time, and behave in this manner!
Plantagenet, do you hear me?' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, with a face
reddening to scarlet, and almost menacing a move from her seat.

'Yes, everybody hears you, Mrs. Cadurcis,' said the little lord.

'Don't call me Mrs. Cadurcis,' exclaimed the mother, in a dreadful
rage. 'That is not the way to speak to your mother; I will not be
called Mrs. Cadurcis by you. Don't answer me, sir; I desire you not
to answer me. I have half a mind to get up and give you a good shake,
that I have. O Lady Annabel,' sighed Mrs. Cadurcis, while a tear
trickled down her cheek, 'if you only knew the life I lead, and what
trouble it costs me to educate that child!'

'My dear madam,' said Lady Annabel, 'I am sure that Lord Cadurcis has
no other wish but to please you. Indeed you have misunderstood him.'

'Yes! she always misunderstands me,' said Lord Cadurcis, in a softer
tone, but with pouting lips and suffused eyes.

'Now he is going on,' said his mother, beginning herself to cry
dreadfully. 'He knows my weak heart; he knows nobody in the world
loves him like his mother; and this is the way he treats me.'

'My dear Mrs. Cadurcis,' said Lady Annabel, 'pray take luncheon after
your long drive; and Lord Cadurcis, I am sure you must be fatigued.'

'Thank you, I never eat, my dear lady,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, 'except at
my meals. But one glass of Mountain, if you please, I would just take
the liberty of tasting, for the weather is so dreadfully hot, and
Plantagenet has so aggravated me, I really do not feel myself.'

Lady Annabel sounded her silver hand-bell, and the butler brought some
cakes and the Mountain. Mrs. Cadurcis revived by virtue of her single
glass, and the providential co-operation of a subsequent one or two.
Even the cakes and the Mountain, however, would not tempt her son to
open his mouth; and this, in spite of her returning composure, drove
her to desperation. A conviction that the Mountain and the cakes were
delicious, an amiable desire that the palate of her spoiled child
should be gratified, some reasonable maternal anxiety that after so
long and fatiguing a drive he in fact needed some refreshment, and
the agonising consciousness that all her own physical pleasure at the
moment was destroyed by the mental sufferings she endured at having
quarrelled with her son, and that he was depriving himself of what was
so agreeable only to pique her, quite overwhelmed the ill-regulated
mind of this fond mother. Between each sip and each mouthful, she
appealed to him to follow her example, now with cajolery, now with
menace, till at length, worked up by the united stimulus of the
Mountain and her own ungovernable rage, she dashed down the glass and
unfinished slice of cake, and, before the astonished Lady Annabel,
rushed forward to give him what she had long threatened, and what she
in general ultimately had recourse to, a good shake.

Her agile son, experienced in these storms, escaped in time, and
pushed his chair before his infuriated mother; Mrs. Cadurcis, however,
rallied, and chased him round the room; once more she flattered
herself she had captured him, once more he evaded her; in her despair
she took up Venetia's 'Seven Champions,' and threw the volume at his
head; he laughed a fiendish laugh, as, ducking his head, the book flew
on, and dashed through a pane of glass; Mrs. Cadurcis made a desperate
charge, and her son, a little frightened at her almost maniacal
passion, saved himself by suddenly seizing Lady Annabel's work-table,
and whirling it before her; Mrs. Cadurcis fell over the leg of the
table, and went into hysterics; while the bloodhound, who had long
started from his repose, looked at his mistress for instructions, and
in the meantime continued barking. The astonished and agitated Lady
Annabel assisted Mrs. Cadurcis to rise, and led her to a couch. Lord
Cadurcis, pale and dogged, stood in a corner, and after all this
uproar there was a comparative calm, only broken by the sobs of the
mother, each instant growing fainter and fainter.

At this moment the door opened, and Mistress Pauncefort ushered in the
little Venetia. She really looked like an angel of peace sent from
heaven on a mission of concord, with her long golden hair, her bright
face, and smile of ineffable loveliness.

'Mamma!' said Venetia, in the sweetest tone.

'Hush! darling,' said Lady Annabel, 'this lady is not very well.'

Mrs. Cadurcis opened her eyes and sighed. She beheld Venetia, and
stared at her with a feeling of wonder. 'O Lady Annabel,' she faintly
exclaimed, 'what must you think of me? But was there ever such an
unfortunate mother? and I have not a thought in the world but for that
boy. I have devoted my life to him, and never would have buried myself
in this abbey but for his sake. And this is the way he treats me,
and his father before him treated me even worse. Am I not the most
unfortunate woman you ever knew?'

'My dear madam,' said the kind Lady Annabel, in a soothing tone, 'you
will be very happy yet; all will be quite right and quite happy.'

'Is this angel your child?' inquired Mrs. Cadurcis, in a low voice.

'This is my little girl, Venetia. Come hither, Venetia, and speak to
Mrs. Cadurcis.'

'How do you do, Mrs. Cadurcis?' said Venetia. 'I am so glad you have
come to live at the abbey.'

'The angel!' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis. 'The sweet seraph! Oh! why did
not my Plantagenet speak to you, Lady Annabel, in the same tone?
And he can, if he likes; he can, indeed. It was his silence that so
mortified me; it was his silence that led to all. I am so proud of
him! and then he comes here, and never speaks a word. O Plantagenet, I
am sure you will break my heart.'

Venetia went up to the little lord in the corner, and gently stroked
his dark cheek. 'Are you the little boy?' she said.

Cadurcis looked at her; at first the glance was rather fierce, but
it instantly relaxed. 'What is your name?' he said in a low, but not
unkind, tone.

'Venetia!'

'I like you, Venetia,' said the boy. 'Do you live here?'

'Yes, with my mamma.'

'I like your mamma, too; but not so much as you. I like your gold
hair.'

'Oh, how funny! to like my gold hair!'

'If you had come in sooner,' said Cadurcis, 'we should not have had
this row.'

'What is a row, little boy?' said Venetia.

'Do not call me little boy,' he said, but not in an unkind tone; 'call
me by my name.'

'What is your name?'

'Lord Cadurcis; but you may call me by my Christian name, because I
like you.'

'What is your Christian name?'

'Plantagenet.'

'Plantagenet! What a long name!' said Venetia. 'Tell me then,
Plantagenet, what is a row?'

'What often takes place between me and my mother, but which I am sorry
now has happened here, for I like this place, and should like to come
often. A row is a quarrel.'

'A quarrel! What! do you quarrel with your mamma?'

'Often.'

'Why, then, you are not a good boy.'

'Ah! my mamma is not like yours,' said the little lord, with a sigh.
'It is not my fault. But now I want to make it up; how shall I do it?'

'Go and give her a kiss.'

'Poh! that is not the way.'

'Shall I go and ask my mamma what is best to do?' said Venetia;
and she stole away on tiptoe, and whispered to Lady Annabel that
Plantagenet wanted her. Her mother came forward and invited Lord
Cadurcis to walk on the terrace with her, leaving Venetia to amuse her
other guest.

Lady Annabel, though kind, was frank and firm in her unexpected
confidential interview with her new friend. She placed before him
clearly the enormity of his conduct, which no provocation could
justify; it was a violation of divine law, as well as human propriety.
She found the little lord attentive, tractable, and repentant,
and, what might not have been expected, exceedingly ingenious
and intelligent. His observations, indeed, were distinguished by
remarkable acuteness; and though he could not, and indeed did not even
attempt to vindicate his conduct, he incidentally introduced much
that might be urged in its extenuation. There was indeed in this,
his milder moment, something very winning in his demeanour, and Lady
Annabel deeply regretted that a nature of so much promise and capacity
should, by the injudicious treatment of a parent, at once fond and
violent, afford such slight hopes of future happiness. It was arranged
between Lord Cadurcis and Lady Annabel that she should lead him to his
mother, and that he should lament the past, and ask her forgiveness;
so they re-entered the room. Venetia was listening to a long story
from Mrs. Cadurcis, who appeared to have entirely recovered herself;
but her countenance assumed a befitting expression of grief and
gravity when she observed her son.

'My dear madam,' said Lady Annabel, 'your son is unhappy that he
should have offended you, and he has asked my kind offices to effect a
perfect reconciliation between a child who wishes to be dutiful to a
parent who, he feels, has always been so affectionate.'

Mrs. Cadurcis began crying.

'Mother,' said her son, 'I am sorry for what has occurred; mine was
the fault. I shall not be happy till you pardon me.'

'No, yours was not the fault,' said poor Mrs. Cadurcis, crying
bitterly. 'Oh! no, it was not! I was in fault, only I. There, Lady
Annabel, did I not tell you he was the sweetest, dearest, most
generous-hearted creature that ever lived? Oh! if he would only always
speak so, I am sure I should be the happiest woman that ever breathed!
He puts me in mind quite of his poor dear father, who was an
angel upon earth; he was indeed, when he was not vexed. O my
dear Plantagenet! my only hope and joy! you are the treasure and
consolation of my life, and always will be. God bless you, my darling
child! You shall have that pony you wanted; I am sure I can manage it:
I did not think I could.'

As Lady Annabel thought it was as well that the mother and the son
should not be immediately thrown together after this storm, she kindly
proposed that they should remain, and pass the day at Cherbury; and,
as Plantagenet's eyes brightened at the proposal, it did not require
much trouble to persuade his mother to accede to it. The day, that had
commenced so inauspiciously, turned out one of the most agreeable,
both to Mrs. Cadurcis and her child. The two mothers conversed
together, and, as Mrs. Cadurcis was a great workwoman, there was
at least one bond of sympathy between her and the tapestry of her
hostess. Then they all took a stroll in the park; and as Mrs. Cadurcis
was not able to walk for any length of time, the children were
permitted to stroll about together, attended by Mistress Pauncefort,
while Mrs. Cadurcis, chatting without ceasing, detailed to Lady
Annabel all the history of her life, all the details of her various
complaints and her economical arrangements, and all the secrets of her
husband's treatment of her, that favourite subject on which she ever
waxed most eloquent. Plantagenet, equally indulging in confidence,
which with him, however, was unusual, poured all his soul into the
charmed ear of Venetia. He told her how he and his mother had lived at
Morpeth, and how he hated it; how poor they had been, and how rich he
should be; how he loved the abbey, and especially the old gallery, and
the drums and armour; how he had been a day-scholar at a little school
which he abhorred, and how he was to go some day to Eton, of which he
was very proud.

At length they were obliged to return, and when dinner was over the
postchaise was announced. Mrs. Cadurcis parted from Lady Annabel with
all the warm expressions of a heart naturally kind and generous; and
Plantagenet embraced Venetia, and promised that the next day he would
find his way alone from Cadurcis, through the wood, and come and take
another walk with her.

CHAPTER VII.

This settlement of Mrs. Cadurcis and her son in the neighbourhood
was an event of no slight importance in the life of the family at
Cherbury. Venetia at length found a companion of her own age, itself
an incident which, in its influence upon her character and pursuits,
was not to be disregarded. There grew up between the little lord and
the daughter of Lady Annabel that fond intimacy which not rarely
occurs in childhood. Plantagenet and Venetia quickly imbibed for each
other a singular affection, not displeasing to Lady Annabel, who
observed, without dissatisfaction, the increased happiness of her
child, and encouraged by her kindness the frequent visits of the boy,
who soon learnt the shortest road from the abbey, and almost daily
scaled the hill, and traced his way through the woods to the hall.
There was much, indeed, in the character and the situation of Lord
Cadurcis which interested Lady Annabel Herbert. His mild, engaging,
and affectionate manners, when he was removed from the injudicious
influence of his mother, won upon her feelings; she felt for this
lone child, whom nature had gifted with so soft a heart and with a
thoughtful mind whose outbreaks not unfrequently attracted her notice;
with none to guide him, and with only one heart to look up to for
fondness; and that, too, one that had already contrived to forfeit the
respect even of so young a child.

Yet Lady Annabel was too sensible of the paramount claims of a
mother; herself, indeed, too jealous of any encroachment on the full
privileges of maternal love, to sanction in the slightest degree, by
her behaviour, any neglect of Mrs. Cadurcis by her son. For his sake,
therefore, she courted the society of her new neighbour; and although
Mrs. Cadurcis offered little to engage Lady Annabel's attention as
a companion, though she was violent in her temper, far from well
informed, and, from the society in which, in spite of her original
good birth, her later years had passed, very far from being
refined, she was not without her good qualities. She was generous,
kind-hearted, and grateful; not insensible of her own deficiencies,
and respectable from her misfortunes. Lady Annabel was one of those
who always judged individuals rather by their good qualities than
their bad. With the exception of her violent temper, which, under the
control of Lady Annabel's presence, and by the aid of all that kind
person's skilful management, Mrs. Cadurcis generally contrived to
bridle, her principal faults were those of manner, which, from the
force of habit, every day became less painful. Mrs. Cadurcis, who,
indeed, was only a child of a larger growth, became scarcely less
attached to the Herbert family than her son; she felt that her life,
under their influence, was happier and serener than of yore; that
there were less domestic broils than in old days; that her son was
more dutiful; and, as she could not help suspecting, though she found
it difficult to analyse the cause, herself more amiable. The truth
was, Lady Annabel always treated Mrs. Cadurcis with studied respect;
and the children, and especially Venetia, followed her example.
Mrs. Cadurcis' self-complacency was not only less shocked, but more
gratified, than before; and this was the secret of her happiness. For
no one was more mortified by her rages, when they were past, than Mrs.
Cadurcis herself; she felt they compromised her dignity, and had lost
her all moral command over a child whom she loved at the bottom of her
heart with a kind of wild passion, though she would menace and strike
him, and who often precipitated these paroxysms by denying his mother
that duty and affection which were, after all, the great charm and
pride of her existence.

As Mrs. Cadurcis was unable to walk to Cherbury, and as Plantagenet
soon fell into the habit of passing every morning at the hall, Lady
Annabel was frequent in her visits to the mother, and soon she
persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to order the old postchaise regularly on
Saturday, and remain at Cherbury until the following Monday; by these
means both families united together in the chapel at divine service,
while the presence of Dr. Masham, at their now increased Sunday
dinner, was an incident in the monotonous life of Mrs. Cadurcis far
from displeasing to her. The Doctor gave her a little news of the
neighbourhood, and of the country in general; amused her with an
occasional anecdote of the Queen and the young Princesses, and always
lent her the last number of 'Sylvanus Urban.'

This weekly visit to Cherbury, the great personal attention which she
always received there, and the frequent morning walks of Lady Annabel
to the abbey, effectually repressed on the whole the jealousy which
was a characteristic of Mrs. Cadurcis' nature, and which the constant
absence of her son from her in the mornings might otherwise have
fatally developed. But Mrs. Cadurcis could not resist the conviction
that the Herberts were as much her friends as her child's; her
jealousy was balanced by her gratitude; she was daily, almost hourly,
sensible of some kindness of Lady Annabel, for there were a thousand
services in the power of the opulent and ample establishment of
Cherbury to afford the limited and desolate household at the abbey.
Living in seclusion, it is difficult to refrain from imbibing even a
strong regard for our almost solitary companion, however incompatible
may be our pursuits, and however our tastes may vary, especially when
that companion is grateful, and duly sensible of the condescension of
our intimacy. And so it happened that, before a year had elapsed, that
very Mrs. Cadurcis, whose first introduction at Cherbury had been so
unfavourable to her, and from whose temper and manners the elegant
demeanour and the disciplined mind of Lady Annabel Herbert might have
been excused for a moment recoiling, had succeeded in establishing a
strong hold upon the affections of her refined neighbour, who sought,
on every occasion, her society, and omitted few opportunities of
contributing to her comfort and welfare.

In the meantime her son was the companion of Venetia, both in her
pastimes and studies. The education of Lord Cadurcis had received no
further assistance than was afforded by the little grammar-school at
Morpeth, where he had passed three or four years as a day-scholar, and
where his mother had invariably taken his part on every occasion that
he had incurred the displeasure of his master. There he had obtained
some imperfect knowledge of Latin; yet the boy was fond of reading,
and had picked up, in an odd way, more knowledge than might have been
supposed. He had read 'Baker's Chronicle,' and 'The Old Universal
History,' and 'Plutarch;' and had turned over, in the book room of an
old gentleman at Morpeth, who had been attracted by his intelligence,
not a few curious old folios, from which he had gleaned no
contemptible store of curious instances of human nature. His guardian,
whom he had never seen, and who was a great nobleman and lived in
London, had signified to Mrs. Cadurcis his intention of sending his
ward to Eton; but that time had not yet arrived, and Mrs. Cadurcis,
who dreaded parting with her son, determined to postpone it by every
maternal artifice in her power. At present it would have seemed that
her son's intellect was to be left utterly uncultivated, for there
was no school in the neighbourhood which he could attend, and no
occasional assistance which could be obtained; and to the constant
presence of a tutor in the house Mrs. Cadurcis was not less opposed
than his lordship could have been himself.

It was by degrees that Lord Cadurcis became the partner of Venetia
in her studies. Lady Annabel had consulted Dr. Masham about the poor
little boy, whose neglected state she deplored; and the good Doctor
had offered to ride over to Cherbury at least once a week, besides
Sunday, provided Lady Annabel would undertake that his directions,
in his absence, should be attended to. This her ladyship promised
cheerfully; nor had she any difficulty in persuading Cadurcis to
consent to the arrangement. He listened with docility and patience to
her representation of the fatal effects, in his after-life, of his
neglected education; of the generous and advantageous offer of Dr.
Masham; and how cheerfully she would exert herself to assist his
endeavours, if Plantagenet would willingly submit to her supervision.
The little lord expressed to her his determination to do all that she
desired, and voluntarily promised her that she should never repent
her goodness. And he kept his word. So every morning, with the full
concurrence of Mrs. Cadurcis, whose advice and opinion on the affair
were most formally solicited by Lady Annabel, Plantagenet arrived
early at the hall, and took his writing and French lessons with
Venetia, and then they alternately read aloud to Lady Annabel from the
histories of Hooke and Echard. When Venetia repaired to her drawing,
Cadurcis sat down to his Latin exercise, and, in encouraging and
assisting him, Lady Annabel, a proficient in Italian, began herself
to learn the ancient language of the Romans. With such a charming
mistress even these Latin exercises were achieved. In vain Cadurcis,
after turning leaf over leaf, would look round with a piteous air to
his fair assistant, 'O Lady Annabel, I am sure the word is not in the
dictionary;' Lady Annabel was in a moment at his side, and, by some
magic of her fair fingers, the word would somehow or other make its
appearance. After a little exposure of this kind, Plantagenet would
labour with double energy, until, heaving a deep sigh of exhaustion
and vexation, he would burst forth, 'O Lady Annabel, indeed there is
not a nominative case in this sentence.' And then Lady Annabel
would quit her easel, with her pencil in her hand, and give all her
intellect to the puzzling construction; at length, she would say,
'I think, Plantagenet, this must be our nominative case;' and so it
always was.

Thus, when Wednesday came, the longest and most laborious morning of
all Lord Cadurcis' studies, and when he neither wrote, nor read, nor
learnt French with Venetia, but gave up all his soul to Dr. Masham, he
usually acquitted himself to that good person's satisfaction, who left
him, in general, with commendations that were not lost on the pupil,
and plenty of fresh exercises to occupy him and Lady Annabel until the
next week. When a year had thus passed away, the happiest year yet
in Lord Cadurcis' life, in spite of all his disadvantages, he had
contrived to make no inconsiderable progress. Almost deprived of a
tutor, he had advanced in classical acquirement more than during the
whole of his preceding years of scholarship, while his handwriting
began to become intelligible, he could read French with comparative
facility, and had turned over many a volume in the well-stored library
at Cherbury.

CHAPTER VIII.

When the hours of study were past, the children, with that zest for
play which occupation can alone secure, would go forth together, and
wander in the park. Here they had made a little world for themselves,
of which no one dreamed; for Venetia had poured forth all her Arcadian
lore into the ear of Plantagenet; and they acted together many of
the adventures of the romance, under the fond names of Musidorus and
Philoclea. Cherbury was Arcadia, and Cadurcis Macedon; while the
intervening woods figured as the forests of Thessaly, and the breezy
downs were the heights of Pindus. Unwearied was the innocent sport
of their virgin imaginations; and it was a great treat if Venetia,
attended by Mistress Pauncefort, were permitted to accompany
Plantagenet some way on his return. Then they parted with an embrace
in the woods of Thessaly, and Musidorus strolled home with a heavy
heart to his Macedonian realm.

Parted from Venetia, the magic suddenly seemed to cease, and Musidorus
was instantly transformed into the little Lord Cadurcis, exhausted by
the unconscious efforts of his fancy, depressed by the separation from
his sweet companion, and shrinking from the unpoetical reception which
at the best awaited him in his ungenial home. Often, when thus alone,
would he loiter on his way and seat himself on the ridge, and watch
the setting sun, as its dying glory illumined the turrets of his
ancient house, and burnished the waters of the lake, until the tears
stole down his cheek; and yet he knew not why. No thoughts of sorrow
had flitted through his mind, nor indeed had ideas of any description
occurred to him. It was a trance of unmeaning abstraction; all that he
felt was a mystical pleasure in watching the sunset, and a conviction
that, if he were not with Venetia, that which he loved next best, was
to be alone.

The little Cadurcis in general returned home moody and silent, and
his mother too often, irritated by his demeanour, indulged in all the
expressions of a quick and offended temper; but since his intimacy
with the Herberts, Plantagenet had learnt to control his emotions,
and often successfully laboured to prevent those scenes of domestic
recrimination once so painfully frequent. There often, too, was a note
from Lady Annabel to Mrs. Cadurcis, or some other slight memorial,
borne by her son, which enlisted all the kind feelings of that lady in
favour of her Cherbury friends, and then the evening was sure to pass
over in peace; and, when Plantagenet was not thus armed, he exerted
himself to be cordial; and so, on the whole, with some skill in
management, and some trials of temper, the mother and child contrived
to live together with far greater comfort than they had of old.

Bedtime was always a great relief to Plantagenet, for it secured
him solitude. He would lie awake for hours, indulging in sweet and
unconscious reveries, and brooding over the future morn, that always
brought happiness. All that he used to sigh for, was to be Lady
Annabel's son; were he Venetia's brother, then he was sure he never
should be for a moment unhappy; that parting from Cherbury, and the
gloomy evenings at Cadurcis, would then be avoided. In such a mood,
and lying awake upon his pillow, he sought refuge from the painful
reality that surrounded him in the creative solace of his imagination.
Alone, in his little bed, Cadurcis was Venetia's brother, and he
conjured up a thousand scenes in which they were never separated, and
wherein he always played an amiable and graceful part. Yet he loved
the abbey; his painful infancy was not associated with that scene; it
was not connected with any of those grovelling common-places of his
life, from which he had shrunk back with instinctive disgust, even
at a very tender age. Cadurcis was the spot to which, in his most
miserable moments at Morpeth, he had always looked forward, as the
only chance of emancipation from the distressing scene that surrounded
him. He had been brought up with a due sense of his future position,
and although he had ever affected a haughty indifference on the
subject, from his disrelish for the coarse acquaintances who were
perpetually reminding him, with chuckling self-complacency, of his
future greatness, in secret he had ever brooded over his destiny as
his only consolation. He had imbibed from his own reflections, at a
very early period of life, a due sense of the importance of his lot;
he was proud of his hereditary honours, blended, as they were, with
some glorious passages in the history of his country, and prouder of
his still more ancient line. The eccentric exploits and the violent
passions, by which his race had been ever characterised, were to him a
source of secret exultation. Even the late lord, who certainly had
no claims to his gratitude, for he had robbed the inheritance to the
utmost of his power, commanded, from the wild decision of his life,
the savage respect of his successor. In vain Mrs. Cadurcis would
pour forth upon this, the favourite theme for her wrath and her
lamentations, all the bitter expressions of her rage and woe.
Plantagenet had never imbibed her prejudices against the departed, and
had often irritated his mother by maintaining that the late lord was
perfectly justified in his conduct.

But in these almost daily separations between Plantagenet and Venetia,
how different was her lot to that of her companion! She was the
confidante of all his domestic sorrows, and often he had requested
her to exert her influence to obtain some pacifying missive from Lady
Annabel, which might secure him a quiet evening at Cadurcis; and
whenever this had not been obtained, the last words of Venetia were
ever not to loiter, and to remember to speak to his mother as much as
he possibly could. Venetia returned to a happy home, welcomed by the
smile of a soft and beautiful parent, and with words of affection
sweeter than music. She found an engaging companion, who had no
thought but for her welfare, her amusement, and her instruction: and
often, when the curtains were drawn, the candles lit, and Venetia,
holding her mother's hand, opened her book, she thought of poor
Plantagenet, so differently situated, with no one to be kind to him,
with no one to sympathise with his thoughts, and perhaps at the very
moment goaded into some unhappy quarrel with his mother.

CHAPTER IX.

The appearance of the Cadurcis family on the limited stage of her
life, and the engrossing society of her companion, had entirely
distracted the thoughts of Venetia from a subject to which in old days
they were constantly recurring, and that was her father. By a process
which had often perplexed her, and which she could never succeed in
analysing, there had arisen in her mind, without any ostensible
agency on the part of her mother which she could distinctly recall, a
conviction that this was a topic on which she was never to speak. This
idea had once haunted her, and she had seldom found herself alone
without almost unconsciously musing over it. Notwithstanding the
unvarying kindness of Lady Annabel, she exercised over her child
a complete and unquestioned control. Venetia was brought up with
strictness, which was only not felt to be severe, because the system
was founded on the most entire affection, but, fervent as her love was
for her mother, it was equalled by her profound respect, which every
word and action of Lady Annabel tended to maintain.

In all the confidential effusions with Plantagenet, Venetia had never
dwelt upon this mysterious subject; indeed, in these conversations,
when they treated of their real and not ideal life, Venetia was a mere
recipient: all that she could communicate, Plantagenet could observe;
he it was who avenged himself at these moments for his habitual
silence before third persons; it was to Venetia that he poured forth
all his soul, and she was never weary of hearing his stories about
Morpeth, and all his sorrows, disgusts, and afflictions. There was
scarcely an individual in that little town with whom, from his lively
narratives, she was not familiar; and it was to her sympathising heart
that he confided all his future hopes and prospects, and confessed the
strong pride he experienced in being a Cadurcis, which from all others
was studiously concealed.

It had happened that the first Christmas Day after the settlement of
the Cadurcis family at the abbey occurred in the middle of the week;
and as the weather was severe, in order to prevent two journeys at
such an inclement season, Lady Annabel persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to pass
the whole week at the hall. This arrangement gave such pleasure to
Plantagenet that the walls of the abbey, as the old postchaise was
preparing for their journey, quite resounded with his merriment. In
vain his mother, harassed with all the mysteries of packing, indulged
in a thousand irritable expressions, which at any other time might
have produced a broil or even a fray; Cadurcis did nothing but laugh.
There was at the bottom of this boy's heart, with all his habitual
gravity and reserve, a fund of humour which would occasionally break
out, and which nothing could withstand. When he was alone with
Venetia, he would imitate the old maids of Morpeth, and all the
ceremonies of a provincial tea party, with so much life and genuine
fun, that Venetia was often obliged to stop in their rambles to
indulge her overwhelming mirth. When they were alone, and he was
gloomy, she was often accustomed to say, 'Now, dear Plantagenet, tell
me how the old ladies at Morpeth drink tea.'

This morning at the abbey, Cadurcis was irresistible, and the more
excited his mother became with the difficulties which beset her, the
more gay and fluent were his quips and cranks. Puffing, panting,
and perspiring, now directing her waiting-woman, now scolding her
man-servant, and now ineffectually attempting to box her son's ears,
Mrs. Cadurcis indeed offered a most ridiculous spectacle.

'John!' screamed Mrs. Cadurcis, in a voice of bewildered passion, and
stamping with rage, 'is that the place for my cap-box? You do it on
purpose, that you do!'

'John,' mimicked Lord Cadurcis, 'how dare you do it on purpose?'

'Take that, you brat,' shrieked the mother, and she struck her own
hand against the doorway. 'Oh! I'll give it you, I'll give it you,'
she bellowed under the united influence of rage and pain, and she
pursued her agile child, who dodged her on the other side of the
postchaise, which he persisted in calling the family carriage.

'Oh! ma'am, my lady,' exclaimed the waiting-woman, sallying forth from
the abbey, 'what is to be done with the parrot when we are away? Mrs.
Brown says she won't see to it, that she won't; 'taynt her place.'

This rebellion of Mrs. Brown was a diversion in favour of Plantagenet.
Mrs. Cadurcis waddled down the cloisters with precipitation, rushed
into the kitchen, seized the surprised Mrs. Brown by the shoulder, and
gave her a good shake; and darting at the cage, which held the parrot,
she bore it in triumph to the carriage. 'I will take the bird with
me,' said Mrs. Cadurcis.

'We cannot take the bird inside, madam,' said Plantagenet, 'for it
will overhear all our conversation, and repeat it. We shall not be
able to abuse our friends.'

Mrs. Cadurcis threw the cage at her son's head, who, for the sake of
the bird, dexterously caught it, but declared at the same time he
would immediately throw it into the lake. Then Mrs. Cadurcis began to
cry with rage, and, seating herself on the open steps of the chaise,
sobbed hysterically. Plantagenet stole round on tip-toe, and peeped
in her face: 'A merry Christmas and a happy new year, Mrs. Cadurcis,'
said her son.

'How can I be merry and happy, treated as I am?' sobbed the mother.
'You do not treat Lady Annabel so. Oh! no; it is only your mother whom
you use in this manner! Go to Cherbury. Go by all means, but go by
yourself; I shall not go: go to your friends, Lord Cadurcis; they are
your friends, not mine, and I hope they are satisfied, now that they
have robbed me of the affections of my child. I have seen what they
have been after all this time. I am not so blind as some people think.
No! I see how it is. I am nobody. Your poor mother, who brought you
up, and educated you, is nobody. This is the end of all your Latin and
French, and your fine lessons. Honour your father and your mother,
Lord Cadurcis; that's a finer lesson than all. Oh! oh! oh!'

This allusion to the Herberts suddenly calmed Plantagenet. He felt in
an instant the injudiciousness of fostering by his conduct the latent
jealousy which always lurked at the bottom of his mother's heart, and
which nothing but the united talent and goodness of Lady Annabel could
have hitherto baffled. So he rejoined in a kind yet playful tone, 'If
you will be good, I will give you a kiss for a Christmas-box, mother;
and the parrot shall go inside if you like.'

'The parrot may stay at home, I do not care about it: but I cannot
bear quarrelling; it is not my temper, you naughty, very naughty boy.'

'My dear mother,' continued his lordship, in a soothing tone, 'these
scenes always happen when people are going to travel. I assure you it
is quite a part of packing up.'

'You will be the death of me, that you will,' said the mother, 'with
all your violence. You are worse than your father, that you are.'

'Come, mother,' said her son, drawing nearer, and just touching her
shoulder with his hand, 'will you not have my Christmas-box?'

The mother extended her cheek, which the son slightly touched with his
lip, and then Mrs. Cadurcis jumped up as lively as ever, called for a
glass of Mountain, and began rating the footboy.

At length the postchaise was packed; they had a long journey before
them, because Cadurcis would go round by Southport, to call upon a
tradesman whom a month before he had commissioned to get a trinket
made for him in London, according to the newest fashion, as a present
for Venetia. The commission was executed; Mrs. Cadurcis, who had been
consulted in confidence by her son on the subject, was charmed with
the result of their united taste. She had good-naturedly contributed
one of her own few, but fine, emeralds to the gift; upon the back of
the brooch was engraved:--

TO VENETIA, FROM HER AFFECTIONATE BROTHER, PLANTAGENET.

'I hope she will be a sister, and more than a sister, to you,' said
Mrs. Cadurcis.

'Why?' inquired her son, rather confused.

'You may look farther, and fare worse,' said Mrs. Cadurcis.
Plantagenet blushed; and yet he wondered why he blushed: he understood
his mother, but he could not pursue the conversation; his heart
fluttered.

A most cordial greeting awaited them at Cherbury; Dr. Masham was
there, and was to remain until Monday. Mrs. Cadurcis would have opened
about the present immediately, but her son warned her on the threshold
that if she said a word about it, or seemed to be aware of its
previous existence, even when it was shown, he would fling it
instantly away into the snow; and her horror of this catastrophe
bridled her tongue. Mrs. Cadurcis, however, was happy, and Lady
Annabel was glad to see her so; the Doctor, too, paid her some
charming compliments; the good lady was in the highest spirits, for
she was always in extremes, and at this moment she would willingly
have laid down her life if she had thought the sacrifice could have
contributed to the welfare of the Herberts.

Cadurcis himself drew Venetia aside, and then, holding the brooch
reversed, he said, with rather a confused air, 'Read that, Venetia.'

'Oh! Plantagenet!' she said, very much astonished.

'You see, Venetia,' he added, leaving it in her hand, 'it is yours.'

Venetia turned the jewel; her eye was dazzled with its brilliancy.

'It is too grand for a little girl, Plantagenet,' she exclaimed, a
little pale.

'No, it is not,' said Plantagenet, firmly; 'besides, you will not
always be a little girl; and then, if ever we do not live together as
we do now, you will always remember you have a brother.'

'I must show it mamma; I must ask her permission to take it,
Plantagenet.'

Venetia went up to her mother, who was talking to Mrs. Cadurcis. She
had not courage to speak before that lady and Dr. Masham, so she
called her mother aside.

'Mamma,' she said, 'something has happened.'

'What, my dear?' said Lady Annabel, somewhat surprised at the
seriousness of her tone.

'Look at this, mamma!' said Venetia, giving her the brooch.

Lady Annabel looked at the jewel, and read the inscription. It was
a more precious offering than the mother would willingly have
sanctioned, but she was too highly bred, and too thoughtful of the
feelings of others, to hesitate for a moment to admire it herself, and
authorise its acceptance by her daughter. So she walked up to Cadurcis
and gave him a mother's embrace for his magnificent present to his
sister, placed the brooch itself near Venetia's heart, and then led
her daughter to Mrs. Cadurcis, that the gratified mother might
admire the testimony of her son's taste and affection. It was a most
successful present, and Cadurcis felt grateful to his mother for her
share in its production, and the very proper manner in which she
received the announcement of its offering.

CHAPTER X.

This was Christmas Eve; the snow was falling briskly. After dinner
they were glad to cluster round the large fire in the green
drawing-room. Dr. Masham had promised to read the evening service in
the chapel, which was now lit up, and the bell was sounding, that the
cottagers might have the opportunity of attending.

Plantagenet and Venetia followed the elders to the chapel; they walked
hand-in-hand down the long galleries.

'I should like to go all over this house,' said Plantagenet to his
companion. 'Have you ever been?'

'Never,' said Venetia; 'half of it is shut up. Nobody ever goes into
it, except mamma.'

In the night there was a violent snowstorm; not only was the fall
extremely heavy, but the wind was so high, that it carried the snow
off the hills, and all the roads were blocked up, in many places
ten or twelve feet deep. All communication was stopped. This was an
adventure that amused the children, though the rest looked rather
grave. Plantagenet expressed to Venetia his wish that the snow would
never melt, and that they might remain at Cherbury for ever.

The children were to have a holiday this week, and they had planned
some excursions in the park and neighbourhood, but now they were all
prisoners to the house. They wandered about, turning the staircase
into mountains, the great hall into an ocean, and the different rooms
into so many various regions. They amused themselves with their
adventures, and went on endless voyages of discovery. Every moment
Plantagenet longed still more for the opportunity of exploring the
uninhabited chambers; but Venetia shook her head, because she was sure
Lady Annabel would not grant them permission.

'Did you ever live at any place before you came to Cherbury?' inquired
Lord Cadurcis of Venetia.

'I know I was not born here,' said Venetia; 'but I was so young that I
have no recollection of any other place.'

'And did any one live here before you came?' said Plantagenet.

'I do not know,' said Venetia; 'I never heard if anybody did. I, I,'
she continued, a little constrained, 'I know nothing.'

'Do you remember your papa?' said Plantagenet.

'No,' said Venetia.

'Then he must have died almost as soon as you were born, said Lord
Cadurcis.

'I suppose he must,' said Venetia, and her heart trembled.

'I wonder if he ever lived here!' said Plantagenet.

'Mamma does not like me to ask questions about my papa,' said Venetia,
'and I cannot tell you anything.'

'Ah! your papa was different from mine, Venetia,' said Cadurcis; 'my
mother talks of him often enough. They did not agree very well; and,
when we quarrel, she always says I remind her of him. I dare say Lady
Annabel loved your papa very much.'

'I am sure mamma did,' replied Venetia.

The children returned to the drawing-room, and joined their friends:
Mrs. Cadurcis was sitting on the sofa, occasionally dozing over a
sermon; Dr. Masham was standing with Lady Annabel in the recess of
a distant window. Her ladyship's countenance was averted; she was
reading a newspaper, which the Doctor had given her. As the door
opened, Lady Annabel glanced round; her countenance was agitated; she
folded up the newspaper rather hastily, and gave it to the Doctor.

'And what have you been doing, little folks?' inquired the Doctor of
the new comers.

'We have been playing at the history of Rome,' said Venetia, 'and now
that we have conquered every place, we do not know what to do.'

'The usual result of conquest,' said the Doctor, smiling.

'This snowstorm is a great trial for you; I begin to believe that,
after all, you would be more pleased to take your holidays at another
opportunity.'

'We could amuse ourselves very well,' said Plantagenet, 'if Lady
Annabel would be so kind as to permit us to explore the part of the
house that is shut up.'

'That would be a strange mode of diversion,' said Lady Annabel,
quietly, 'and I do not think by any means a suitable one. There cannot
be much amusement in roaming over a number of dusty unfurnished
rooms.'

'And so nicely dressed as you are too!' said Mrs. Cadurcis, rousing
herself: 'I wonder how such an idea could enter your head!'

'It snows harder than ever,' said Venetia; 'I think, after all, I
shall learn my French vocabulary.'

'If it snows to-morrow,' said Plantagenet, 'we will do our lessons as
usual. Holidays, I find, are not so amusing as I supposed.'

The snow did continue, and the next day the children voluntarily
suggested that they should resume their usual course of life. With
their mornings occupied, they found their sources of relaxation ample;
and in the evening they acted plays, and Lady Annabel dressed them up
in her shawls, and Dr. Masham read Shakspeare to them.

It was about the fourth day of the visit that Plantagenet, loitering
in the hall with Venetia, said to her, 'I saw your mamma go into the
locked-up rooms last night. I do so wish that she would let us go
there.'

'Last night!' said Venetia; 'when could you have seen her last night?'

'Very late: the fact is, I could not sleep, and I took it into my head
to walk up and down the gallery. I often do so at the abbey. I like to
walk up and down an old gallery alone at night. I do not know why; but
I like it very much. Everything is so still, and then you hear the
owls. I cannot make out why it is; but nothing gives me more pleasure
than to get up when everybody is asleep. It seems as if one were the
only living person in the world. I sometimes think, when I am a man, I
will always get up in the night, and go to bed in the daytime. Is not
that odd?'

'But mamma!' said Venetia, 'how came you to see mamma?'

'Oh! I am certain of it,' said the boy; 'for, to tell you the truth, I
was rather frightened at first; only I thought it would not do for a
Cadurcis to be afraid, so I stood against the wall, in the shade, and
I was determined, whatever happened, not to cry out.'

'Oh! you frighten me so, Plantagenet!' said Venetia.

'Ah! you might well have been frightened if you had been there; past
midnight, a tall white figure, and a light! However, there is nothing
to be alarmed about; it was Lady Annabel, nobody else. I saw her as
clearly as I see you now. She walked along the gallery, and went to
the very door you showed me the other morning. I marked the door; I
could not mistake it. She unlocked it, and she went in.'

'And then?' inquired Venetia, eagerly.

'Why, then, like a fool, I went back to bed,' said Plantagenet. 'I
thought it would seem so silly if I were caught, and I might not have
had the good fortune to escape twice. I know no more.'

Venetia could not reply. She heard a laugh, and then her mother's
voice. They were called with a gay summons to see a colossal
snow-ball, that some of the younger servants had made and rolled to
the window of the terrace-room. It was ornamented with a crown of
holly and mistletoe, and the parti-coloured berries looked bright in a
straggling sunbeam which had fought its way through the still-loaded
sky, and fell upon the terrace.

In the evening, as they sat round the fire, Mrs. Cadurcis began
telling Venetia a long rambling ghost story, which she declared was
a real ghost story, and had happened in her own family. Such
communications were not very pleasing to Lady Annabel, but she was too
well bred to interrupt her guest. When, however, the narrative was
finished, and Venetia, by her observations, evidently indicated
the effect that it had produced upon her mind, her mother took the
occasion of impressing upon her the little credibility which should
be attached to such legends, and the rational process by which many
unquestionable apparitions might be accounted for. Dr. Masham,
following this train, recounted a story of a ghost which had been
generally received in a neighbouring village for a considerable
period, and attested by the most veracious witnesses, but which was
explained afterwards by turning out to be an instance of somnambulism.
Venetia appeared to be extremely interested in the subject; she
inquired much about sleep-walkers and sleepwalking; and a great many
examples of the habit were cited. At length she said, 'Mamma, did you
ever walk in your sleep?'

'Not to my knowledge,' said Lady Annabel, smiling; 'I should hope
not.'

'Well, do you know,' said Plantagenet, who had hitherto listened in
silence, 'it is very curious, but I once dreamt that you did, Lady
Annabel.'

'Indeed!' said the lady.

'Yes! and I dreamt it last night, too,' continued Cadurcis. 'I thought
I was sleeping in the uninhabited rooms here, and the door opened, and
you walked in with a light.'

'No! Plantagenet,' said Venetia, who was seated by him, and who spoke
in a whisper, 'it was not--'

'Hush!' said Cadurcis, in a low voice.

'Well, that was a strange dream,' said Mrs. Cadurcis; 'was it not,
Doctor?'

'Now, children, I will tell you a very curious story,' said the
Doctor; 'and it is quite a true one, for it happened to myself.'

The Doctor was soon embarked in his tale, and his audience speedily
became interested in the narrative; but Lady Annabel for some time
maintained complete silence.

CHAPTER XI.

The spring returned; the intimate relations between the two families
were each day more confirmed. Lady Annabel had presented her daughter
and Plantagenet each with a beautiful pony, but their rides were at
first to be confined to the park, and to be ever attended by a groom.
In time, however, duly accompanied, they were permitted to extend
their progress so far as Cadurcis. Mrs. Cadurcis had consented to
the wishes of her son to restore the old garden, and Venetia was his
principal adviser and assistant in the enterprise. Plantagenet was
fond of the abbey, and nothing but the agreeable society of Cherbury
on the one hand, and the relief of escaping from his mother on the
other, could have induced him to pass so little of his time at home;
but, with Venetia for his companion, his mornings at the abbey passed
charmingly, and, as the days were now at their full length again,
there was abundance of time, after their studies at Cherbury, to ride
together through the woods to Cadurcis, spend several hours there, and
for Venetia to return to the hall before sunset. Plantagenet always
accompanied her to the limits of the Cherbury grounds, and then
returned by himself, solitary and full of fancies.

Lady Annabel had promised the children that they should some day
ride together to Marringhurst, the rectory of Dr. Masham, to eat
strawberries and cream. This was to be a great festival, and was
looked forward to with corresponding interest. Her ladyship had kindly
offered to accompany Mrs. Cadurcis in the carriage, but that lady was
an invalid and declined the journey; so Lady Annabel, who was herself
a good horsewoman, mounted her jennet with Venetia and Plantagenet.

Marringhurst was only five miles from Cherbury by a cross-road,
which was scarcely passable for carriages. The rectory house was a
substantial, square-built, red brick mansion, shaded by gigantic elms,
but the southern front covered with a famous vine, trained over it
with elaborate care, and of which, and his espaliers, the Doctor was
very proud. The garden was thickly stocked with choice fruit-trees;
there was not the slightest pretence to pleasure grounds; but there
was a capital bowling-green, and, above all, a grotto, where the
Doctor smoked his evening pipe, and moralised in the midst of his
cucumbers and cabbages. On each side extended the meadows of his
glebe, where his kine ruminated at will. It was altogether a scene as
devoid of the picturesque as any that could be well imagined; flat,
but not low, and rich, and green, and still.

His expected guests met as warm a reception as such a hearty friend
might be expected to afford. Dr. Masham was scarcely less delighted at
the excursion than the children themselves, and rejoiced in the sunny
day that made everything more glad and bright. The garden, the grotto,
the bowling-green, and all the novelty of the spot, greatly diverted
his young companions; they visited his farmyard, were introduced to
his poultry, rambled over his meadows, and admired his cows, which he
had collected with equal care and knowledge. Nor was the interior of
this bachelor's residence devoid of amusement. Every nook and corner
was filled with objects of interest; and everything was in admirable
order. The goddess of neatness and precision reigned supreme,
especially in his hall, which, though barely ten feet square, was a
cabinet of rural curiosities. His guns, his fishing-tackle, a cabinet
of birds stuffed by himself, a fox in a glass-case that seemed
absolutely running, and an otter with a real fish in its mouth, in
turn delighted them; but chiefly, perhaps, his chimney-corner of Dutch
tiles, all Scriptural subjects, which Venetia and Plantagenet emulated
each other in discovering.

Then his library, which was rare and splendid, for the Doctor was one
of the most renowned scholars in the kingdom, and his pictures, his
prints, and his gold fish, and his canary birds; it seemed they never
could exhaust such sources of endless amusement; to say nothing of
every other room in the house, for, from the garret to the dairy,
his guests encouraged him in introducing them to every thing, every
person, and every place.

'And this is the way we old bachelors contrive to pass our lives,'
said the good Doctor; 'and now, my dear lady, Goody Blount will give
us some dinner.'

The Doctor's repast was a substantial one; he seemed resolved, at one
ample swoop, to repay Lady Annabel for all her hospitality; and he
really took such delight in their participation of it, that his
principal guest was constrained to check herself in more than one
warning intimation that moderation was desirable, were it only for the
sake of the strawberries and cream. All this time his housekeeper,
Goody Blount, as he called her, in her lace cap and ruffles, as
precise and starch as an old picture, stood behind his chair with
pleased solemnity, directing, with unruffled composure, the movements
of the liveried bumpkin who this day was promoted to the honour of
'waiting at table.'

'Come,' said the Doctor, as the cloth was cleared, 'I must bargain for
one toast, Lady Annabel: "Church and State."'

'What is Church and State?' said Venetia.

'As good things. Miss Venetia, as strawberries and cream,' said the
Doctor, laughing; 'and, like them, always best united.'

After their repast, the children went into the garden to amuse
themselves. They strolled about some time, until Plantagenet at length
took it into his head that he should like to learn to play at bowls;
and he said, if Venetia would wait in the grotto, where they then were
talking, he would run back and ask the Doctor if the servant might
teach him. He was not long absent; but appeared, on his return, a
little agitated. Venetia inquired if he had been successful, but he
shook his head, and said he had not asked.

'Why did you not?' said Venetia.

'I did not like,' he replied, looking very serious; 'something
happened.'

'What could have happened?' said Venetia.

'Something strange,' was his answer.

'Oh, do tell me, Plantagenet!'

'Why,' said he, in a low voice, 'your mamma is crying.'

'Crying!' exclaimed Venetia; 'my dear mamma crying! I must go to her
directly.'

'Hush!' said Plantagenet, shaking his head, 'you must not go.'

'I must.'

'No, you must not go, Venetia,' was his reply; 'I am sure she does not
want us to know she is crying.'

'What did she say to you?'

'She did not see me; the Doctor did, and he gave me a nod to go away.'

'I never saw mamma cry,' said Venetia.

'Don't you say anything about it, Venetia,' said Plantagenet, with a
manly air; 'listen to what I say.'

'I do, Plantagenet, always; but still I should like to know what mamma
can be crying about. Do tell me all about it.'

'Why, I came to the room by the open windows, and your mamma was
standing up, with her back to me, and leaning on the mantel-piece,
with her face in her handkerchief; and the Doctor was standing up too,
only his back was to the fireplace; and when he saw me, he made me a
sign to go away, and I went directly.'

'Are you sure mamma was crying?'

'I heard her sob.'

'I think I shall cry,' said Venetia.

'You must not; you must know nothing about it. If you let your mamma
know that I saw her crying, I shall never tell you anything again.'

'What do you think she was crying about, Plantagenet?'

'I cannot say; perhaps she had been talking about your papa. I do not
want to play at bowls now,' added Plantagenet; 'let us go and see the
cows.'

In the course of half an hour the servant summoned the children to
the house. The horses were ready, and they were now to return. Lady
Annabel received them with her usual cheerfulness.

'Well, dear children,' said she, 'have you been very much amused?'

Venetia ran forward, and embraced her mother with even unusual
fondness. She was mindful of Plantagenet's injunctions, and was
resolved not to revive her mother's grief by any allusion that could
recall the past; but her heart was, nevertheless, full of sympathy,
and she could not have rode home, had she not thus expressed her love
for her mother.

With the exception of this strange incident, over which, afterwards,
Venetia often pondered, and which made her rather serious the whole of
the ride home, this expedition to Marringhurst was a very happy day.

CHAPTER XII.

This happy summer was succeeded by a singularly wet autumn. Weeks of
continuous rain rendered it difficult even for the little Cadurcis,
who defied the elements, to be so constant as heretofore in his daily
visits to Cherbury. His mother, too, grew daily a greater invalid,
and, with increasing sufferings and infirmities, the natural
captiousness of her temper proportionally exhibited itself. She
insisted upon the companionship of her son, and that he should not
leave the house in such unseasonable weather. If he resisted, she fell
into one of her jealous rages, and taunted him with loving strangers
better than his own mother. Cadurcis, on the whole, behaved very well;
he thought of Lady Annabel's injunctions, and restrained his passion.
Yet he was not repaid for the sacrifice; his mother made no effort
to render their joint society agreeable, or even endurable. She was
rarely in an amiable mood, and generally either irritable or sullen.
If the weather held up a little, and he ventured to pay a visit to
Cherbury, he was sure to be welcomed back with a fit of passion;
either Mrs. Cadurcis was angered for being left alone, or had
fermented herself into fury by the certainty of his catching a fever.
If Plantagenet remained at the abbey, she was generally sullen; and,
as he himself was naturally silent under any circumstances, his mother
would indulge in that charming monologue, so conducive to domestic
serenity, termed 'talking at a person,' and was continually
insinuating that she supposed he found it very dull to pass his day
with her, and that she dared say that somebody could be lively enough
if he were somewhere else.

Cadurcis would turn pale, and bite his lip, and then leave the room;
and whole days would sometimes pass with barely a monosyllable being
exchanged between this parent and child. Cadurcis had found some
opportunities of pouring forth his griefs and mortification into the
ear of Venetia, and they had reached her mother; but Lady Annabel,
though she sympathised with this interesting boy, invariably
counselled duty. The morning studies were abandoned, but a quantity of
books were sent over from Cherbury for Plantagenet, and Lady Annabel
seized every opportunity of conciliating Mrs. Cadurcis' temper in
favour of her child, by the attention which she paid the mother. The
weather, however, prevented either herself or Venetia from visiting
the abbey; and, on the whole, the communications between the two
establishments and their inmates had become rare.

Though now a continual inmate of the abbey, Cadurcis was seldom the
companion of his mother. They met at their meals, and that was all. He
entered the room every day with an intention of conciliating; but the
mutual tempers of the mother and the son were so quick and sensitive,
that he always failed in his purpose, and could only avoid a storm
by dogged silence. This enraged Mrs. Cadurcis more even than his
impertinence; she had no conduct; she lost all command over herself,
and did not hesitate to address to her child terms of reproach and
abuse, which a vulgar mind could only conceive, and a coarse tongue
alone express. What a contrast to Cherbury, to the mild maternal
elegance and provident kindness of Lady Annabel, and the sweet tones
of Venetia's ever-sympathising voice. Cadurcis, though so young, was
gifted with an innate fastidiousness, that made him shrink from a rude
woman. His feelings were different in regard to men; he sympathised at
a very early age with the bold and the energetic; his favourites among
the peasantry were ever those who excelled in athletic sports; and,
though he never expressed the opinion, he did not look upon the
poacher with the evil eye of his class. But a coarse and violent woman
jarred even his young nerves; and this woman was his mother, his only
parent, almost his only relation; for he had no near relative except
a cousin whom he had never even seen, the penniless orphan of a
penniless brother of his father, and who had been sent to sea; so
that, after all, his mother was the only natural friend he had. This
poor little boy would fly from that mother with a sullen brow, or,
perhaps, even with a harsh and cutting repartee; and then he would
lock himself up in his room, and weep. But he allowed no witnesses of
this weakness. The lad was very proud. If any of the household passed
by as he quitted the saloon, and stared for a moment at his pale and
agitated face, he would coin a smile for the instant, and say even a
kind word, for he was very courteous to his inferiors, and all the
servants loved him, and then take refuge in his solitary woe.

Relieved by this indulgence of his mortified heart, Cadurcis looked
about him for resources. The rain was pouring in torrents, and the
plash of the troubled and swollen lake might be heard even at the
abbey. At night the rising gusts of wind, for the nights were always
clear and stormy, echoed down the cloisters with a wild moan to which
he loved to listen. In the morning he beheld with interest the savage
spoils of the tempest; mighty branches of trees strewn about,
and sometimes a vast trunk uprooted from its ancient settlement.
Irresistibly the conviction impressed itself upon his mind that, if
he were alone in this old abbey, with no mother to break that strange
fountain of fancies that seemed always to bubble up in his solitude,
he might be happy. He wanted no companions; he loved to be alone, to
listen to the winds, and gaze upon the trees and waters, and wander in
those dim cloisters and that gloomy gallery.

From the first hour of his arrival he had loved the venerable hall of
his fathers. Its appearance harmonised with all the associations of
his race. Power and pomp, ancestral fame, the legendary respect of
ages, all that was great, exciting, and heroic, all that was marked
out from the commonplace current of human events, hovered round him.
In the halls of Cadurcis he was the Cadurcis; though a child, he was
keenly sensible of his high race; his whole being sympathised with
their glory; he was capable of dying sooner than of disgracing them;
and then came the memory of his mother's sharp voice and harsh vulgar
words, and he shivered with disgust.

Forced into solitude, forced to feed upon his own mind, Cadurcis found
in that solitude each day a dearer charm, and in that mind a richer
treasure of interest and curiosity. He loved to wander about, dream of
the past, and conjure up a future as glorious. What was he to be? What
should be his career? Whither should he wend his course? Even at this
early age, dreams of far lands flitted over his mind; and schemes of
fantastic and adventurous life. But now he was a boy, a wretched boy,
controlled by a vulgar and narrow-minded woman! And this servitude
must last for years; yes! years must elapse before he was his own
master. Oh! if he could only pass them alone, without a human voice to
disturb his musings, a single form to distract his vision!

Under the influence of such feelings, even Cherbury figured to his
fancy in somewhat faded colours. There, indeed, he was loved and
cherished; there, indeed, no sound was ever heard, no sight ever seen,
that could annoy or mortify the high pitch of his unconscious ideal;
but still, even at Cherbury, he was a child. Under the influence
of daily intercourse, his tender heart had balanced, perhaps even
outweighed, his fiery imagination. That constant yet delicate
affection had softened all his soul: he had no time but to be grateful
and to love. He returned home only to muse over their sweet society,
and contrast their refined and gentle life with the harsh rude hearth
that awaited him. Whatever might be his reception at home, he was
thrown, back for solace on their memory, not upon his own heart; and
he felt the delightful conviction that to-morrow would renew the spell
whose enchantment had enabled him to endure the present vexation. But
now the magic of that intercourse had ceased; after a few days of
restlessness and repining, he discovered that he must find in his
desolation sterner sources of support than the memory of Venetia, and
the recollections of the domestic joys of Cherbury. It astonishing
with what rapidity the character of Cadurcis developed itself in
solitude; and strange was the contrast between the gentle child who,
a few weeks before, had looked forward with so much interest to
accompanying Venetia to a childish festival, and the stern and moody
being who paced the solitary cloisters of Cadurcis, and then would
withdraw to his lonely chamber and the amusement of a book. He was at
this time deeply interested in Purchas's Pilgrimage, one of the few
books of which the late lord had not despoiled him. Narratives of
travels and voyages always particularly pleased him; he had an idea
that he was laying up information which might be useful to him
hereafter; the Cherbury collection was rich in this class of volumes,
and Lady Annabel encouraged their perusal.

In this way many weeks elapsed at the abbey, during which the visits
of Plantagenet to Cherbury were very few. Sometimes, if the weather
cleared for an hour during the morning, he would mount his pony, and
gallop, without stopping, to the hall. The rapidity of the motion
excited his mind; he fancied himself, as he embraced Venetia, some
chieftain who had escaped for a moment from his castle to visit his
mistress; his imagination conjured up a war between the opposing
towers of Cadurcis and Cherbury; and when his mother fell into a
passion on his return, it passed with him only, according to its
length and spirit, as a brisk skirmish or a general engagement.

CHAPTER XIII.

One afternoon, on his return from Cherbury, Plantagenet found the fire
extinguished in the little room which he had appropriated to himself,
and where he kept his books. As he had expressed his wish to the
servant that the fire should be kept up, he complained to him of the
neglect, but was informed, in reply, that the fire had been allowed to
go out by his mother's orders, and that she desired in future that
he would always read in the saloon. Plantagenet had sufficient
self-control to make no observation before the servant, and soon after
joined his mother, who looked very sullen, as if she were conscious
that she had laid a train for an explosion.

Dinner was now served, a short and silent meal. Lord Cadurcis did not
choose to speak because he felt aggrieved, and his mother because
she was husbanding her energies for the contest which she believed
impending. At length, when the table was cleared, and the servant
departed, Cadurcis said in a quiet tone, 'I think I shall write to my
guardian to-morrow about my going to Eton.'

'You shall do no such thing,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, bristling up; 'I
never heard such a ridiculous idea in my life as a boy like you
writing letters on such subjects to a person you have never yet seen.
When I think it proper that you should go to Eton, I shall write.'

'I wish you would think it proper now then, ma'am.'

'I won't be dictated to,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, fiercely.

'I was not dictating,' replied her son, calmly.

'You would if you could,' said his mother.

'Time enough to find fault with me when I do, ma'am.'

'There is enough to find fault about at all times, sir.'

'On which side, Mrs. Cadurcis?' inquired Plantagenet, with a sneer.

'Don't aggravate me, Lord Cadurcis,' said his mother.

'How am I aggravating you, ma'am?'

'I won't be answered,' said the mother.

'I prefer silence myself,' said the son.

'I won't be insulted in my own room, sir,' said Mrs. Cadurcis.

'I am not insulting you, Mrs. Cadurcis,' said Plantagenet, rather
fiercely; 'and, as for your own room, I never wish to enter it. Indeed
I should not be here at this moment, had you not ordered my fire to be
put out, and particularly requested that I should sit in the saloon.'

'Oh! you are a vastly obedient person, I dare say,' replied Mrs.
Cadurcis, very pettishly. 'How long, I should like to know, have my
requests received such particular attention? Pooh!'

'Well, then, I will order my fire to be lighted again,' said
Plantagenet.

'You shall do no such thing,' said the mother; 'I am mistress in this
house. No one shall give orders here but me, and you may write to your
guardian and tell him that, if you like.'

'I shall certainly not write to my guardian for the first time,' said
Lord Cadurcis, 'about any such nonsense.'

'Nonsense, sir! Nonsense you said, did you? Your mother nonsense! This
is the way to treat a parent, is it? I am nonsense, am I? I will teach
you what nonsense is. Nonsense shall be very good sense; you shall
find that, sir, that you shall. Nonsense, indeed! I'll write to your
guardian, that I will! You call your mother nonsense, do you? And
where did you learn that, I should like to know? Nonsense, indeed!
This comes of your going to Cherbury! So your mother is nonsense; a
pretty lesson for Lady Annabel to teach you. Oh! I'll speak my mind to
her, that I will.'

'What has Lady Annabel to do with it?' inquired Cadurcis, in a loud
tone.

'Don't threaten me, sir,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, with violent gesture.
'I won't be menaced; I won't be menaced by my son. Pretty goings
on, indeed! But I will put a stop to them; will I not? that is all.
Nonsense, indeed; your mother nonsense!'

'Well, you do talk nonsense, and the greatest,' said Plantagenet,
doggedly; 'you are talking nonsense now, you are always talking
nonsense, and you never open your mouth about Lady Annabel without
talking nonsense.'

'If I was not very ill I would give it you,' said his mother, grinding
her teeth. 'O you brat! You wicked brat, you! Is this the way to
address me? I have half a mind to shake your viciousness out of you,
that I have!

You are worse than your father, that you are!' and here she wept with
rage.

'I dare say my father was not so bad, after all!' said Cadurcis.

'What should you know about your father, sir?' said Mrs. Cadurcis.
'How dare you speak about your father!'

'Who should speak about a father but a son?'

'Hold your impudence, sir!'

'I am not impudent, ma'am.'

'You aggravating brat!' exclaimed the enraged woman, 'I wish I had
something to throw at you!'

'Did you throw things at my father?' asked his lordship.

Mrs. Cadurcis went into an hysterical rage; then, suddenly jumping up,
she rushed at her son. Lord Cadurcis took up a position behind
the table, but the sportive and mocking air which he generally
instinctively assumed on these occasions, and which, while it
irritated his mother more, was in reality affected by the boy from a
sort of nervous desire of preventing these dreadful exposures from
assuming a too tragic tone, did not characterise his countenance on
the present occasion; on the contrary, it was pale, but composed and
very serious. Mrs. Cadurcis, after one or two ineffectual attempts to
catch him, paused and panted for breath. He took advantage of this
momentary cessation, and spoke thus, 'Mother, I am in no humour for
frolics. I moved out of your way that you might not strike me, because
I have made up my mind that, if you ever strike me again, I will live
with you no longer. Now, I have given you warning; do what you please;
I shall sit down in this chair, and not move. If you strike me, you
know the consequences.' So saying, his lordship resumed his chair.

Mrs. Cadurcis simultaneously sprang forward and boxed his ears; and
then her son rose without the slightest expression of any kind, and
slowly quitted the chamber.

Mrs. Cadurcis remained alone in a savage sulk; hours passed away, and
her son never made his appearance. Then she rang the bell, and ordered
the servant to tell Lord Cadurcis that tea was ready; but the servant
returned, and reported that his lordship had locked himself up in his
room, and would not reply to his inquiries. Determined not to give in,
Mrs. Cadurcis, at length, retired for the night, rather regretting her
violence, but still sullen. Having well scolded her waiting-woman, she
at length fell asleep.

The morning brought breakfast, but no Lord Cadurcis; in vain were all
the messages of his mother, her son would make no reply to them. Mrs.
Cadurcis, at length, personally repaired to his room and knocked at
the door, but she was as unsuccessful as the servants; she began to
think he would starve, and desired the servant to offer from himself
to bring his meal. Still silence. Indignant at his treatment of these
overtures of conciliation, Mrs. Cadurcis returned to the saloon,
confident that hunger, if no other impulse, would bring her wild cub
out of his lair; but, just before dinner, her waiting-woman came
running into the room.

'Oh, ma'am, ma'am, I don't know where Lord Cadurcis has gone; but I
have just seen John, and he says there was no pony in the stable this
morning.'

'Mrs. Cadurcis sprang up, rushed to her son's chamber, found the door
still locked, ordered it to be burst open, and then it turned out that
his lordship had never been there at all, for the bed was unused. Mrs.
Cadurcis was frightened out of her life; the servants, to console
her, assured her that Plantagenet must be at Cherbury; and while she
believed their representations, which were probable, she became not
only more composed, but resumed her jealousy and sullenness. 'Gone
to Cherbury, indeed! No doubt of it! Let him remain at Cherbury.'
Execrating Lady Annabel, she flung herself into an easy chair, and
dined alone, preparing herself to speak her mind on her son's return.

The night, however, did not bring him, and Mrs. Cadurcis began to
recur to her alarm. Much as she now disliked Lady Annabel, she
could not resist the conviction that her ladyship would not permit
Plantagenet to remain at Cherbury. Nevertheless, jealous, passionate,
and obstinate, she stifled her fears, vented her spleen on her unhappy
domestics, and, finally, exhausting herself by a storm of passion
about some very unimportant subject, again sought refuge in sleep.

She awoke early in a fright, and inquired immediately for her son.
He had not been seen. She ordered the abbey bell to be sounded, sent
messengers throughout the demesne, and directed all the offices to
be searched. At first she thought he must have returned, and slept,
perhaps in a barn; then she adopted the more probable conclusion, that
he had drowned himself in the lake. Then she went into hysterics;
called Plantagenet her lost darling; declared he was the best and most
dutiful of sons, and the image of his poor father, then abused all the
servants, and then abused herself.

About noon she grew quite distracted, and rushed about the house
with her hair dishevelled, and in a dressing-gown, looked in all the
closets, behind the screens, under the chairs, into her work-box, but,
strange to say, with no success. Then she went off into a swoon, and
her servants, alike frightened about master and mistress, mother and
son, dispatched a messenger immediately to Cherbury for intelligence,
advice, and assistance. In less than an hour's time the messenger
returned, and informed them that Lord Cadurcis had not been at
Cherbury since two days back, but that Lady Annabel was very sorry
to hear that their mistress was so ill, and would come on to see her
immediately. In the meantime, Lady Annabel added that she had sent
to Dr. Masham, and had great hopes that Lord Cadurcis was at
Marringhurst. Mrs. Cadurcis, who had now come to, as her waiting-woman
described the returning consciousness of her mistress, eagerly
embraced the hope held out of Plantagenet being at Marringhurst,
poured forth a thousand expressions of gratitude, admiration, and
affection for Lady Annabel, who, she declared, was her best, her only
friend, and the being in the world whom she loved most, next to her
unhappy and injured child.

After another hour of suspense Lady Annabel arrived, and her entrance
was the signal for a renewed burst of hysterics from Mrs. Cadurcis, so
wild and terrible that they must have been contagious to any female of
less disciplined emotions than her guest.

CHAPTER XIV.

Towards evening Dr. Masham arrived at Cadurcis. He could give no
intelligence of Plantagenet, who had not called at Marringhurst; but
he offered, and was prepared, to undertake his pursuit. The good
Doctor had his saddle-bags well stocked, and was now on his way to
Southport, that being the nearest town, and where he doubted not
to gain some tidings of the fugitive. Mrs. Cadurcis he found so
indisposed, that he anticipated the charitable intentions of Lady
Annabel not to quit her; and after having bid them place their
confidence in Providence and his humble exertions, he at once departed
on his researches.

In the meantime let us return to the little lord himself. Having
secured the advantage of a long start, by the device of turning the
key of his chamber, he repaired to the stables, and finding no one
to observe him, saddled his pony and galloped away without plan or
purpose. An instinctive love of novelty and adventure induced him to
direct his course by a road which he had never before pursued; and,
after two or three miles progress through a wild open country of
brushwood, he found that he had entered that considerable forest which
formed the boundary of many of the views from Cadurcis. The afternoon
was clear and still, the sun shining in the light blue sky, and the
wind altogether hushed. On each side of the winding road spread the
bright green turf, occasionally shaded by picturesque groups of
doddered oaks. The calm beauty of the sylvan scene wonderfully touched
the fancy of the youthful fugitive; it soothed and gratified him. He
pulled up his pony; patted its lively neck, as if in gratitude for
its good service, and, confident that he could not be successfully
pursued, indulged in a thousand dreams of Robin Hood and his merry
men. As for his own position and prospects, he gave himself no anxiety
about them: satisfied with his escape from a revolting thraldom, his
mind seemed to take a bound from the difficulty of his situation and
the wildness of the scene, and he felt himself a man, and one, too,
whom nothing could daunt or appal.

Soon the road itself quite disappeared and vanished in a complete
turfy track; but the continuing marks of cartwheels assured him that
it was a thoroughfare, although he was now indeed journeying in the
heart of a forest of oaks and he doubted not it would lead to some
town or village, or at any rate to some farmhouse. Towards sunset, he
determined to make use of the remaining light, and pushed on apace;
but it soon grew so dark, that he found it necessary to resume his
walking pace, from fear of the overhanging branches and the trunks of
felled trees which occasionally crossed his way.

Notwithstanding the probable prospect of passing his night in the
forest, our little adventurer did not lose heart. Cadurcis was an
intrepid child, and when in the company of those with whom he was not
familiar, and free from those puerile associations to which those who
had known and lived with him long were necessarily subject, he would
assume a staid and firm demeanour unusual with one of such tender
years. A light in the distance was now not only a signal that
the shelter he desired was at hand, but reminded him that it was
necessary, by his assured port, to prove that he was not unused to
travel alone, and that he was perfectly competent and qualified to be
his own master.

As he drew nearer, the lights multiplied, and the moon, which now rose
over the forest, showed to him that the trees, retiring on both sides
to some little distance, left a circular plot of ground, on which were
not only the lights which had at first attracted his attention, but
the red flames of a watch-fire, round which some dark figures had
hitherto been clustered. The sound of horses' feet had disturbed them,
and the fire was now more and more visible. As Cadurcis approached, he
observed some low tents, and in a few minutes he was in the centre of
an encampment of gipsies. He was for a moment somewhat dismayed, for
he had been brought up with the usual terror of these wild people;
nevertheless, he was not unequal to the occasion. He was surrounded in
an instant, but only with women and children; for the gipsy-men never
immediately appear. They smiled with their bright eyes, and the flames
of the watch-fire threw a lurid glow over their dark and flashing
countenances; they held out their practised hands; they uttered
unintelligible, but not unfriendly sounds. The heart of Cadurcis
faltered, but his voice did not betray him.

'I am cold, good people,' said the undaunted boy; 'will you let me
warm myself by your fire?'

A beautiful girl, with significant gestures, pressed her hand to her
heart, then pointed in the direction of the tents, and then rushed
away, soon reappearing with a short thin man, inclining to middle age,
but of a compact and apparently powerful frame, lithe, supple, and
sinewy. His complexion was dark, but clear; his eye large, liquid, and
black; but his other features small, though precisely moulded. He wore
a green jacket and a pair of black velvet breeches, his legs and feet
being bare, with the exception of slippers. Round his head was twisted
a red handkerchief, which, perhaps, might not have looked like a
turban on a countenance less oriental.

'What would the young master?' inquired the gipsy-man, in a voice far
from disagreeable, and with a gesture of courtesy; but, at the same
time, he shot a scrutinising glance first at Plantagenet, and then at
his pony.

'I would remain with you,' said Cadurcis; 'that is, if you will let
me.'

The gipsy-man made a sign to the women, and Plantagenet was lifted
by them off his pony, before he could be aware of their purpose; the
children led the pony away, and the gipsy-man conducted Plantagenet to
the fire, where an old woman sat, presiding over the mysteries of an
enormous flesh-pot. Immediately his fellows, who had originally been
clustered around it, re-appeared; fresh blocks and branches were
thrown on, the flames crackled and rose, the men seated themselves
around, and Plantagenet, excited by the adventure, rubbed his hands
before the fire, and determined to fear nothing.

A savoury steam exuded from the flesh-pot.

'That smells well,' said Plantagenet.

'Tis a dimber cove,'[A] whispered one of the younger men to a
companion.

[Footnote A: 'Tis a lively lad.]

'Our supper has but rough seasoning for such as you,' said the man who
had first saluted him, and who was apparently the leader; 'but the
welcome is hearty.'

The woman and girls now came with wooden bowls and platters, and,
after serving the men, seated themselves in an exterior circle, the
children playing round them.

'Come, old mort,' said the leader, in a very different tone to the one
in which he addressed his young guest, 'tout the cobble-colter; are we
to have darkmans upon us? And, Beruna, flick the panam.'[A]

[Footnote A: Come, old woman, took after the turkey. Are we to wait
till night! And, Beruna, cut the bread.]

Upon this, that beautiful girl, who had at first attracted the notice
of Cadurcis, called out in a sweet lively voice, 'Ay! ay! Morgana!'
and in a moment handed over the heads of the women a pannier of bread,
which the leader took, and offered its contents to our fugitive.
Cadurcis helped himself, with a bold but gracious air. The pannier was
then passed round, and the old woman, opening the pot, drew out, with
a huge iron fork, a fine turkey, which she tossed into a large wooden
platter, and cut up with great quickness. First she helped Morgana,
but only gained a reproof for her pains, who immediately yielded his
portion to Plantagenet. Each man was provided with his knife, but the
guest had none. Morgana immediately gave up his own.

'Beruna!' he shouted, 'gibel a chiv for the gentry cove.'[A]

[Footnote A: Bring a knife for the gentleman.]

'Ay! ay! Morgana!' said the girl; and she brought the knife to
Plantagenet himself, saying at the same time, with sparkling eyes,
'Yam, yam, gentry cove.'[A]

[Footnote A: Eat, eat, gentleman.]

Cadurcis really thought it was the most delightful meal he had ever
made in his life. The flesh-pot held something besides turkeys. Rough
as was the fare, it was good and plentiful. As for beverage, they
drank humpty-dumpty, which is ale boiled with brandy, and which is
not one of the slightest charms of a gipsy's life. When the men were
satisfied, their platters were filled, and given to the women and
children; and Beruna, with her portion, came and seated herself by
Plantagenet, looking at him with a blended glance of delight and
astonishment, like a beautiful young savage, and then turning to her
female companions to stifle a laugh. The flesh-pot was carried away,
the men lit their pipes, the fire was replenished, its red shadow
mingled with the silver beams of the moon; around were the glittering
tents and the silent woods; on all sides flashing eyes and picturesque
forms. Cadurcis glanced at his companions, and gazed upon the scene
with feelings of ravishing excitement; and then, almost unconscious of
what he was saying, exclaimed, 'At length I have found the life that
suits me!'

'Indeed, squire!' said Morgana. 'Would you be one of us?'

'From this moment,' said Cadurcis, 'if you will admit me to your band.
But what can I do? And I have nothing to give you. You must teach me
to earn my right to our supper.'

'We'll make a Turkey merchant[A] of you yet,' said an old gipsy,
'never fear that.'

[Footnote A: _i.e._ We will teach you to steal a turkey]

'Bah, Peter!' said Morgana, with an angry look, 'your red rag will
never be still. And what was the purpose of your present travel?' he
continued to Plantagenet.

'None; I was sick of silly home.'

'The gentry cove will be romboyled by his dam,' said a third gipsy.
'Queer Cuffin will be the word yet, if we don't tout.'[A]

[Footnote A: His mother will make a hue and cry after the gentleman
yet; justice of the peace will be the word, if we don't look sharp.]

'Well, you shall see a little more of us before you decide,' said
Morgana, thoughtfully, and turning the conversation. 'Beruna.'

'Ay! ay! Morgana!'

'Tip me the clank, like a dimber mort as you are; trim a ken for the
gentry cove; he is no lanspresado, or I am a kinchin.'[A]

[Footnote A: Give me the tankard, like a pretty girl. Get a bed ready
for the gentleman. He is no informer, or I am an infant.]

'Ay! ay! Morgana' gaily exclaimed the girl, and she ran off to prepare
a bed for the Lord of Cadurcis.

CHAPTER XV.

Dr. Masham could gain no tidings of the object of his pursuit at
Southport: here, however, he ascertained that Plantagenet could not
have fled to London, for in those days public conveyances were rare.
There was only one coach that ran, or rather jogged, along this road,
and it went but once a week, it being expected that very night; while
the innkeeper was confident that so far as Southport was concerned,
his little lordship had not sought refuge in the waggon, which
was more frequent, though somewhat slower, in its progress to the
metropolis. Unwilling to return home, although the evening was now
drawing in, the Doctor resolved to proceed to a considerable town
about twelve miles further, which Cadurcis might have reached by a
cross road; so drawing his cloak around him, looking to his pistols,
and desiring his servant to follow his example, the stout-hearted
Rector of Marringhurst pursued his way.

It was dark when the Doctor entered the town, and he proceeded
immediately to the inn where the coach was expected, with some faint
hope that the fugitive might be discovered abiding within its walls;
but, to all his inquiries about young gentlemen and ponies, he
received very unsatisfactory answers; so, reconciling himself as well
as he could to the disagreeable posture of affairs, he settled himself
in the parlour of the inn, with a good fire, and, lighting his pipe,
desired his servant to keep a sharp look-out.

In due time a great uproar in the inn-yard announced the arrival of
the stage, an unwieldy machine, carrying six inside, and dragged by as
many horses. The Doctor, opening the door of his apartment, which
led on to a gallery that ran round the inn-yard, leaned over the
balustrade with his pipe in his mouth, and watched proceedings. It so
happened that the stage was to discharge one of its passengers at this
town, who had come from the north, and the Doctor recognised in him a
neighbour and brother magistrate, one Squire Mountmeadow, an important
personage in his way, the terror of poachers, and somewhat of an
oracle on the bench, as it was said that he could take a deposition
without the assistance of his clerk. Although, in spite of the
ostler's lanterns, it was very dark, it was impossible ever to be
unaware of the arrival of Squire Mountmeadow; for he was one of those
great men who take care to remind the world of their dignity by the
attention which they require on every occasion.

'Coachman!' said the authoritative voice of the Squire. 'Where is the
coachman? Oh! you are there, sir, are you? Postilion! Where is the
postilion? Oh! you are there, sir, are you? Host! Where is the host?
Oh! you are there, sir, are you? Waiter! Where is the waiter? I say
where is the waiter?'

'Coming, please your worship!'

'How long am I to wait? Oh! you are there, sir, are you? Coachman!'

'Your worship!'

'Postilion!'

'Yes, your worship!'

'Host!'

'Your worship's servant!'

'Waiter!'

'Your worship's honour's humble servant!'

'I am going to alight!'

All four attendants immediately bowed, and extended their arms to
assist this very great man; but Squire Mountmeadow, scarcely deigning
to avail himself of their proffered assistance, and pausing on each
step, looking around him with his long, lean, solemn visage, finally
reached terra firma in safety, and slowly stretched his tall, ungainly
figure. It was at this moment that Dr. Masham's servant approached
him, and informed his worship that his master was at the inn, and
would be happy to see him. The countenance of the great Mountmeadow
relaxed at the mention of the name of a brother magistrate, and in an
audible voice he bade the groom 'tell my worthy friend, his worship,
your worthy master, that I shall be rejoiced to pay my respects to an
esteemed neighbour and a brother magistrate.'

With slow and solemn steps, preceded by the host, and followed by the
waiter, Squire Mountmeadow ascended the staircase of the external
gallery, pausing occasionally, and looking around him with thoughtful
importance, and making an occasional inquiry as to the state of the
town and neighbourhood during his absence, in this fashion: 'Stop!
where are you, host? Oh! you are there, sir, are you? Well, Mr. Host,
and how have we been? orderly, eh?'

'Quite orderly, your worship.'

'Hoh! Orderly! Hem! Well, very well! Never easy, if absent only
four-and-twenty hours. The law must be obeyed.'

'Yes, your worship.'

'Lead on, sir. And, waiter; where are you, waiter? Oh, you are there,
sir, are you? And so my brother magistrate is here?'

'Yes, your honour's worship.'

'Hem! What can he want? something in the wind; wants my advice, I dare
say; shall have it. Soldiers ruly; king's servants; must be obeyed.'

'Yes, your worship; quite ruly, your worship,' said the host.

'As obliging and obstreperous as can be,' said the waiter.

'Well, very well;' and here the Squire had gained the gallery, where
the Doctor was ready to receive him.

'It always gives me pleasure to meet a brother magistrate,' said
Squire Mountmeadow, bowing with cordial condescension; 'and a
gentleman of your cloth, too. The clergy must be respected; I stand or
fall by the Church. After you, Doctor, after you.' So saying, the two
magistrates entered the room.

'An unexpected pleasure, Doctor,' said the Squire; 'and what brings
your worship to town?'

'A somewhat strange business,' said the Doctor; 'and indeed I am not a
little glad to have the advantage of your advice and assistance.'

'Hem! I thought so,' said the Squire; 'your worship is very
complimentary. What is the case? Larceny?'

'Nay, my good sir, 'tis a singular affair; and, if you please, we will
order supper first, and discuss it afterwards. 'Tis for your private
ear.'

'Oh! ho!' said the Squire, looking very mysterious and important.
'With your worship's permission,' he added, filling a pipe.

The host was no laggard in waiting on two such important guests. The
brother magistrates despatched their rump-steak; the foaming tankard
was replenished; the fire renovated. At length, the table and the room
being alike clear, Squire Mountmeadow drew a long puff, and said, 'Now
for business, Doctor.'

His companion then informed him of the exact object of his visit, and
narrated to him so much of the preceding incidents as was necessary.
The Squire listened in solemn silence, elevating his eyebrows, nodding
his head, trimming his pipe, with profound interjections; and finally,
being appealed to for his opinion by the Doctor, delivered himself of
a most portentous 'Hem!'

'I question, Doctor,' said the Squire, 'whether we should not
communicate with the Secretary of State. 'Tis no ordinary business.
'Tis a spiriting away of a Peer of the realm. It smacks of treason.'

'Egad!' said the Doctor, suppressing a smile, 'I think we can hardly
make a truant boy a Cabinet question.'

The Squire glanced a look of pity at his companion. 'Prove the
truancy, Doctor; prove it. 'Tis a case of disappearance; and how do we
know that there is not a Jesuit at the bottom of it?'

'There is something in that,' said the Doctor.

'There is everything in it,' said the Squire, triumphantly. 'We must
offer rewards; we must raise the posse comitatus.'

'For the sake of the family, I would make as little stir as
necessary,' said Dr. Masham.

'For the sake of the family!' said the Squire. 'Think of the nation,
sir! For the sake of the nation we must make as much stir as possible.
'Tis a Secretary of State's business; 'tis a case for a general
warrant.'

'He is a well-meaning lad enough,' said the Doctor.

'Ay, and therefore more easily played upon,' said the Squire. 'Rome is
at the bottom of it, brother Masham, and I am surprised that a good
Protestant like yourself, one of the King's Justices of the Peace, and
a Doctor of Divinity to boot, should doubt the fact for an instant.'

'We have not heard much of the Jesuits of late years,' said the
Doctor.

'The very reason that they are more active,' said the Squire.

'An only child!' said Dr. Masham.

'A Peer of the realm!' said Squire Mountmeadow.

'I should think he must be in the neighbourhood.'

'More likely at St. Omer's.'

'They would scarely take him to the plantations with this war?'

'Let us drink "Confusion to the rebels!"' said the Squire. 'Any news?'

'Howe sails this week,' said the Doctor.

'May he burn Boston!' said the Squire.

'I would rather he would reduce it, without such extremities,' said
Dr. Masham.

'Nothing is to be done without extremities,' said Squire Mountmeadow.

'But this poor child?' said the Doctor, leading back the conversation.
'What can we do?'

'The law of the case is clear,' said the Squire; 'we must move a
habeas corpus.'

'But shall we be nearer getting him for that?' inquired the Doctor.

'Perhaps not, sir; but 'tis the regular way. We must proceed by rule.'

'I am sadly distressed,' said Dr. Masham. 'The worst is, he has gained
such a start upon us; and yet he can hardly have gone to London; he
would have been recognised here or at Southport.'

'With his hair cropped, and in a Jesuit's cap?' inquired the Squire,
with a slight sneer. 'Ah! Doctor, Doctor, you know not the gentry you
have to deal with!'

'We must hope,' said Dr. Masham. 'To-morrow we must organise some
general search.'

'I fear it will be of no use,' said the Squire, replenishing his pipe.
'These Jesuits are deep fellows.'

'But we are not sure about the Jesuits, Squire.'

'I am,' said the Squire; 'the case is clear, and the sooner you break
it to his mother the better. You asked me for my advice, and I give it
you.'

CHAPTER XVI.

It was on the following morning, as the Doctor was under the operation
of the barber, that his groom ran into the room with a pale face and
agitated air, and exclaimed,

'Oh! master, master, what do you think? Here is a man in the yard with
my lord's pony.'

'Stop him, Peter,' exclaimed the Doctor. 'No! watch him, watch him;
send for a constable. Are you certain 'tis the pony?'

'I could swear to it out of a thousand,' said Peter.

'There, never mind my beard, my good man,' said the Doctor. 'There is
no time for appearances. Here is a robbery, at least; God grant no
worse. Peter, my boots!' So saying, the Doctor, half equipped, and
followed by Peter and the barber, went forth on the gallery. 'Where is
he?' said the Doctor.

'He is down below, talking to the ostler, and trying to sell the
pony,' said Peter.

'There is no time to lose,' said the Doctor; 'follow me, like true
men:' and the Doctor ran downstairs in his silk nightcap, for his wig
was not yet prepared.

'There he is,' said Peter; and true enough there was a man in a
smock-frock and mounted on the very pony which Lady Annabel had
presented to Plantagenet.

'Seize this man in the King's name,' said the Doctor, hastily
advancing to him. 'Ostler, do your duty; Peter, be firm. I charge you
all; I am a justice of the peace. I charge you arrest this man.'

The man seemed very much astonished; but he was composed, and offered
no resistance. He was dressed like a small farmer, in top-boots and a
smock-frock. His hat was rather jauntily placed on his curly red hair.

'Why am I seized?' at length said the man.

'Where did you get that pony?' said the Doctor.

'I bought it,' was the reply.

'Of whom?'

'A stranger at market.'

'You are accused of robbery, and suspected of murder,' said Dr.
Masham. 'Mr. Constable,' said the Doctor, turning to that functionary,
who had now arrived, 'handcuff this man, and keep him in strict
custody until further orders.'

The report that a man was arrested for robbery, and suspected of
murder, at the Red Dragon, spread like wildfire through the town;
and the inn-yard was soon crowded with the curious and excited
inhabitants.

Peter and the barber, to whom he had communicated everything, were
well qualified to do justice to the important information of which
they were the sole depositaries; the tale lost nothing by their
telling; and a circumstantial narrative of the robbery and murder of
no less a personage than Lord Cadurcis, of Cadurcis Abbey, was soon
generally prevalent.

The stranger was secured in a stable, before which the constable kept
guard; mine host, and the waiter, and the ostlers acted as a sort of
supernumerary police, to repress the multitude; while Peter held the
real pony by the bridle, whose identity, which he frequently attested,
was considered by all present as an incontrovertible evidence of the
commission of the crime.

In the meantime Dr. Masham, really agitated, roused his brother
magistrate, and communicated to his worship the important discovery.
The Squire fell into a solemn flutter. 'We must be regular, brother
Masham; we must proceed by rule; we are a bench in ourselves. Would
that my clerk were here! We must send for Signsealer forthwith. I will
not decide without the statutes. The law must be consulted, and it
must be obeyed. The fellow hath not brought my wig. 'Tis a case of
murder no doubt. A Peer of the realm murdered! You must break the
intelligence to his surviving parent, and I will communicate to the
Secretary of State. Can the body be found? That will prove the murder.
Unless the body be found, the murder will not be proved, save
the villain confess, which he will not do unless he hath sudden
compunctions. I have known sudden compunctions go a great way. We had
a case before our bench last month; there was no evidence. It was not
a case of murder; it was of woodcutting; there was no evidence; but
the defendant had compunctions. Oh! here is my wig. We must send for
Signsealer. He is clerk to our bench, and he must bring the statutes.
'Tis not simple murder this; it involves petty treason.'

By this time his worship had completed his toilet, and he and his
colleague took their way to the parlour they had inhabited the
preceding evening. Mr. Signsealer was in attendance, much to the real,
though concealed, satisfaction of Squire Mountmeadow. Their worships
were seated like two consuls before the table, which Mr. Signsealer
had duly arranged with writing materials and various piles of
calf-bound volumes. Squire Mountmeadow then, arranging his
countenance, announced that the bench was prepared, and mine host was
instructed forthwith to summon the constable and his charge, together
with Peter and the ostler as witnesses. There was a rush among some of
the crowd who were nighest the scene to follow the prisoner into the
room; and, sooth to say, the great Mountmeadow was much too enamoured
of his own self-importance to be by any means a patron of close courts
and private hearings; but then, though he loved his power to be
witnessed, he was equally desirous that his person should be
reverenced. It was his boast that he could keep a court of quarter
sessions as quiet as a church; and now, when the crowd rushed in with
all those sounds of tumult incidental to such a movement, it required
only Mountmeadow slowly to rise, and drawing himself up to the full
height of his gaunt figure, to knit his severe brow, and throw one
of his peculiar looks around the chamber, to insure a most awful
stillness. Instantly everything was so hushed, that you might have
heard Signsealer nib his pen.

The witnesses were sworn; Peter proved that the pony belonged to Lord
Cadurcis, and that his lordship had been missing from home for several
days, and was believed to have quitted the abbey on this identical
pony. Dr. Masham was ready, if necessary, to confirm this evidence.
The accused adhered to his first account, that he had purchased the
animal the day before at a neighbouring fair, and doggedly declined to
answer any cross-examination. Squire Mountmeadow looked alike pompous
and puzzled; whispered to the Doctor; and then shook his head at Mr.
Signsealer.

'I doubt whether there be satisfactory evidence of the murder, brother
Masham,' said the Squire; 'what shall be our next step?'

'There is enough evidence to keep this fellow in custody,' said the
Doctor. 'We must remand him, and make inquiries at the market town.
I shall proceed there immediately, He is a strange-looking fellow,'
added the Doctor: 'were it not for his carroty locks, I should
scarcely take him for a native.'

'Hem!' said the Squire, 'I have my suspicions. Fellow,' continued his
worship, in an awful tone, 'you say that you are a stranger, and that
your name is Morgan; very suspicious all this: you have no one to
speak to your character or station, and you are found in possession of
stolen goods. The bench will remand you for the present, and will at
any rate commit you for trial for the robbery. But here is a Peer of
the realm missing, fellow, and you are most grievously suspected of
being concerned in his spiriting away, or even murder. You are upon
tender ground, prisoner; 'tis a case verging on petty treason, if not
petty treason itself. Eh! Mr. Signsealer? Thus runs the law, as I take
it? Prisoner, it would be well for you to consider your situation.
Have you no compunctions? Compunctions might save you, if not a
principal offender. It is your duty to assist the bench in executing
justice. The Crown is merciful; you may be king's evidence.'

Mr. Signsealer whispered the bench; he proposed that the prisoner's
hat should be examined, as the name of its maker might afford a clue
to his residence.

'True, true, Mr. Clerk,' said Squire Mountmeadow, 'I am coming to
that. 'Tis a sound practice; I have known such a circumstance lead to
great disclosures. But we must proceed in order. Order is everything.
Constable, take the prisoner's hat off.'

The constable took the hat off somewhat rudely; so rudely, indeed,
that the carroty locks came off in company with it, and revealed a
profusion of long plaited hair, which had been adroitly twisted under
the wig, more in character with the countenance than its previous
covering.

'A Jesuit, after all!' exclaimed the Squire.

'A gipsy, as it seems to me,' whispered the Doctor.

'Still worse,' said the Squire.

'Silence in the Court!' exclaimed the awful voice of Squire
Mountmeadow, for the excitement of the audience was considerable.
The disguise was generally esteemed as incontestable evidence of the
murder. 'Silence, or I will order the Court to be cleared. Constable,
proclaim silence. This is an awful business,' added the Squire, with a
very long face. 'Brother Masham, we must do our duty; but this is an
awful business. At any rate we must try to discover the body. A Peer
of the realm must not be suffered to lie murdered in a ditch. He must
have Christian burial, if possible, in the vaults of his ancestors.'

When Morgana, for it was indeed he, observed the course affairs were
taking, and ascertained that his detention under present circumstances
was inevitable, he relaxed from his doggedness, and expressed a
willingness to make a communication to the bench. Squire Mountmeadow
lifted up his eyes to Heaven, as if entreating the interposition of
Providence to guide him in his course; then turned to his brother
magistrate, and then nodded to the clerk.

'He has compunctions, brother Masham,' said his worship: 'I told you
so; he has compunctions. Trust me to deal with these fellows. He knew
not his perilous situation; the hint of petty treason staggered him.
Mr. Clerk, take down the prisoner's confession; the Court must be
cleared; constable, clear the Court. Let a stout man stand on each
side of the prisoner, to protect the bench. The magistracy of England
will never shrink from doing their duty, but they must be protected.
Now, prisoner, the bench is ready to hear your confession. Conceal
nothing, and if you were not a principal in the murder, or an
accessory before the fact; eh, Mr. Clerk, thus runs the law, as I take
it? there may be mercy; at any rate, if you be hanged, you will have
the satisfaction of having cheerfully made the only atonement to
society in your power.'

'Hanging be damned!' said Morgana.

Squire Mountmeadow started from his seat, his cheeks distended with
rage, his dull eyes for once flashing fire. 'Did you ever witness such
atrocity, brother Masham?' exclaimed his worship. 'Did you hear the
villain? I'll teach him to respect the bench. I'll fine him before he
is executed, that I will!'

'The young gentleman to whom this pony belongs,' continued the gipsy,
'may or may not be a lord. I never asked him his name, and he never
told it me; but he sought hospitality of me and my people, and we gave
it him, and he lives with us, of his own free choice. The pony is of
no use to him now, and so I came to sell it for our common good.'

'A Peer of the realm turned gipsy!' exclaimed the Squire. 'A very
likely tale! I'll teach you to come here and tell your cock-and-bull
stories to two of his majesty's justices of the peace. 'Tis a flat
case of robbery and murder, and I venture to say something else. You
shall go to gaol directly, and the Lord have mercy on your soul!'

'Nay,' said the gipsy, appealing to Dr. Marsham; 'you, sir, appear to
be a friend of this youth. You will not regain him by sending me to
gaol. Load me, if you will, with irons; surround me with armed men,
but at least give me the opportunity of proving the truth of what I
say. I offer in two hours to produce to you the youth, and you shall
find he is living with my people in content and peace.'

'Content and fiddlestick!' said the Squire, in a rage.

'Brother Mountmeadow,' said the Doctor, in a low tone, to his
colleague, 'I have private duties to perform to this family. Pardon
me if, with all deference to your sounder judgment and greater
experience, I myself accept the prisoner's offer.'

'Brother Masham, you are one of his majesty's justices of the peace,
you are a brother magistrate, and you are a Doctor of Divinity; you
owe a duty to your country, and you owe a duty to yourself. Is it
wise, is it decorous, that one of the Quorum should go a-gipsying?
Is it possible that you can credit this preposterous tale? Brother
Masham, there will be a rescue, or my name is not Mountmeadow.'

In spite, however, of all these solemn warnings, the good Doctor, who
was not altogether unaware of the character of his pupil, and could
comprehend that it was very possible the statement of the gipsy might
be genuine, continued without very much offending his colleague, who
looked upon, his conduct indeed rather with pity than resentment,
to accept the offer of Morgana; and consequently, well-secured and
guarded, and preceding the Doctor, who rode behind the cart with his
servant, the gipsy soon sallied forth from the inn-yard, and requested
the driver to guide his course in the direction of the forest.

CHAPTER XVII.

It was the afternoon of the third day after the arrival of Cadurcis at
the gipsy encampment, and nothing had yet occurred to make him repent
his flight from the abbey, and the choice of life he had made. He had
experienced nothing but kindness and hospitality, while the beautiful
Beruna seemed quite content to pass her life in studying his
amusement. The weather, too, had been extremely favourable to his new
mode of existence; and stretched at his length upon the rich turf,
with his head on Beruna's lap, and his eyes fixed upon the rich forest
foliage glowing in the autumnal sunset, Plantagenet only wondered
that he could have endured for so many years the shackles of his
common-place home.

His companions were awaiting the return of their leader, Morgana,
who had been absent since the preceding day, and who had departed on
Plantagenet's pony. Most of them were lounging or strolling in the
vicinity of their tents; the children were playing; the old woman was
cooking at the fire; and altogether, save that the hour was not so
late, the scene presented much the same aspect as when Cadurcis had
first beheld it. As for his present occupation, Beruna was giving him
a lesson in the gipsy language, which he was acquiring with a rapid
facility, which quite exceeded all his previous efforts in such
acquisitions.

Suddenly a scout sang out that a party was in sight. The men instantly
disappeared; the women were on the alert; and one ran forward as a
spy, on pretence of telling fortunes. This bright-eyed professor of
palmistry soon, however, returned running, and out of breath, yet
chatting all the time with inconceivable rapidity, and accompanying
the startling communication she was evidently making with the most
animated gestures. Beruna started up, and, leaving the astonished
Cadurcis, joined them. She seemed alarmed. Cadurcis was soon convinced
there was consternation in the camp.

Suddenly a horseman galloped up, and was immediately followed by a
companion. They called out, as if encouraging followers, and one of
them immediately galloped away again, as if to detail the results
of their reconnaissance. Before Cadurcis could well rise and make
inquiries as to what was going on, a light cart, containing several
men, drove up, and in it, a prisoner, he detected Morgana. The
branches of the trees concealed for a moment two other horsemen
who followed the cart; but Cadurcis, to his infinite alarm and
mortification, soon recognised Dr. Masham and Peter.

When the gipsies found their leader was captive, they no longer
attempted to conceal themselves; they all came forward, and would have
clustered round the cart, had not the riders, as well as those who
more immediately guarded the prisoner, prevented them. Morgana spoke
some words in a loud voice to the gipsies, and they immediately
appeared less agitated; then turning to Dr. Masham, he said in
English, 'Behold your child!'

Instantly two gipsy men seized Cadurcis, and led him to the Doctor.

'How now, my lord!' said the worthy Rector, in a stern voice, 'is this
your duty to your mother and your friends?'

Cadurcis looked down, but rather dogged than ashamed.

'You have brought an innocent man into great peril,' continued the
Doctor. 'This person, no longer a prisoner, has been arrested on
suspicion of robbery, and even murder, through your freak. Morgana, or
whatever your name may be, here is some reward for your treatment of
this child, and some compensation for your detention. Mount your pony,
Lord Cadurcis, and return to your home with me.'

'This is my home, sir,' said Plantagenet.

'Lord Cadurcis, this childish nonsense must cease; it has already
endangered the life of your mother, nor can I answer for her safety,
if you lose a moment in returning.'

'Child, you must return,' said Morgana.

'Child!' said Plantagenet, and he walked some steps away, and leant
against a tree. 'You promised that I should remain,' said he,
addressing himself reproachfully to Morgana.

'You are not your own master,' said the gipsy; 'your remaining here
will only endanger and disturb us. Fortunately we have nothing to fear
from laws we have never outraged; but had there been a judge less wise
and gentle than the master here, our peaceful family might have been
all harassed and hunted to the very death.'

He waved his hand, and addressed some words to his tribe, whereupon
two brawny fellows seized Cadurcis, and placed him again, in spite of
his struggling, upon his pony, with the same irresistible facility
with which they had a few nights before dismounted him. The little
lord looked very sulky, but his position was beginning to get
ludicrous. Morgana, pocketing his five guineas, leaped over the side
of the cart, and offered to guide the Doctor and his attendants
through the forest. They moved on accordingly. It was the work of an
instant, and Cadurcis suddenly found himself returning home between
the Rector and Peter. Not a word, however, escaped his lips; once only
he moved; the light branch of a tree, aimed with delicate precision,
touched his back; he looked round; it was Beruna. She kissed her hand
to him, and a tear stole down his pale, sullen cheek, as, taking from
his breast his handkerchief, he threw it behind him, unperceived, that
she might pick it up, and keep it for his sake.

After proceeding two or three miles under the guidance of Morgana, the
equestrians gained the road, though it still ran through the forest.
Here the Doctor dismissed the gipsy-man, with whom he had occasionally
conversed during their progress; but not a sound ever escaped from the
mouth of Cadurcis, or rather, the captive, who was now substituted in
Morgana's stead. The Doctor, now addressing himself to Plantagenet,
informed him that it was of importance that they should make the best
of their way, and so he put spurs to his mare, and Cadurcis sullenly
complied with the intimation. At this rate, in the course of little
more than another hour, they arrived in sight of the demesne of
Cadurcis, where they pulled up their steeds.

They entered the park, they approached the portal of the abbey; at
length they dismounted. Their coming was announced by a servant, who
had recognised his lord at a distance, and had ran on before with the
tidings. When they entered the abbey, they were met by Lady Annabel in
the cloisters; her countenance was very serious. She shook hands with
Dr. Masham, but did not speak, and immediately led him aside. Cadurcis
remained standing in the very spot where Doctor Masham left him, as if
he were quite a stranger in the place, and was no longer master of
his own conduct. Suddenly Doctor Masham, who was at the end of the
cloister, while Lady Annabel was mounting the staircase, looked round
with a pale face, and said in an agitated voice, 'Lord Cadurcis, Lady
Annabel wishes to speak to you in the saloon.'

Cadurcis immediately, but slowly, repaired to the saloon. Lady Annabel
was walking up and down in it. She seemed greatly disturbed. When she
saw him, she put her arm round his neck affectionately, and said in
a low voice, 'My dearest Plantagenet, it has devolved upon me to
communicate to you some distressing intelligence.' Her voice faltered,
and the tears stole down her cheek.

'My mother, then, is dangerously ill?' he inquired in a calm but
softened tone.

'It is even sadder news than that, dear child.'

Cadurcis looked about him wildly, and then with an inquiring glance at
Lady Annabel:

'There can be but one thing worse than that,' he at length said.

'What if it have happened?' said Lady Annabel.

He threw himself into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.
After a few minutes he looked up and said, in a low but distinct
voice, 'It is too terrible to think of; it is too terrible to mention;
but, if it have happened, let me be alone.'

Lady Annabel approached him with a light step; she embraced him, and,
whispering that she should be found in the next room, she quitted the
apartment.

Cadurcis remained seated for more than half an hour without changing
in the slightest degree his position. The twilight died away; it grew
quite dark; he looked up with a slight shiver, and then quitted the
apartment.

In the adjoining room, Lady Annabel was seated with Doctor Masham,
and giving him the details of the fatal event. It had occurred that
morning. Mrs. Cadurcis, who had never slept a wink since her knowledge
of her son's undoubted departure, and scarcely for an hour been free
from violent epileptic fits, had fallen early in the morning into a
doze, which lasted about half an hour, and from which her medical
attendant, who with Pauncefort had sat up with her during the night,
augured the most favourable consequences. About half-past six o'clock
she woke, and inquired whether Plantagenet had returned. They answered
her that Doctor Masham had not yet arrived, but would probably be at
the abbey in the course of the morning. She said it would be too late.
They endeavoured to encourage her, but she asked to see Lady Annabel,
who was immediately called, and lost no time in repairing to her. When
Mrs. Cadurcis recognised her, she held out her hand, and said in a
dying tone, 'It was my fault; it was ever my fault; it is too late
now; let him find a mother in you.' She never spoke again, and in the
course of an hour expired.

While Lady Annabel and the Doctor were dwelling on these sad
circumstances, and debating whether he should venture to approach
Plantagenet, and attempt to console him, for the evening was now
far advanced, and nearly three hours had elapsed since the fatal
communication had been made to him, it happened that Mistress
Pauncefort chanced to pass Mrs. Cadurcis' room, and as she did so she
heard some one violently sobbing. She listened, and hearing the sounds
frequently repeated, she entered the room, which, but for her candle,
would have been quite dark, and there she found Lord Cadurcis kneeling
and weeping by his mother's bedside. He seemed annoyed at being seen
and disturbed, but his spirit was too broken to murmur. 'La! my lord,'
said Mistress Pauncefort, 'you must not take on so; you must not
indeed. I am sure this dark room is enough to put any one in low
spirits. Now do go downstairs, and sit with my lady and the Doctor,
and try to be cheerful; that is a dear good young gentleman. I wish
Miss Venetia were here, and then she would amuse you. But you must not
take on, because there is no use in it. You must exert yourself, for
what is done cannot be undone; and, as the Doctor told us last Sunday,
we must all die; and well for those who die with a good conscience;
and I am sure the poor dear lady that is gone must have had a good
conscience, because she had a good heart, and I never heard any one
say the contrary. Now do exert yourself, my dear lord, and try to be
cheerful, do; for there is nothing like a little exertion in these
cases, for God's will must be done, and it is not for us to say yea or
nay, and taking on is a murmuring against God's providence.' And so
Mistress Pauncefort would have continued urging the usual topics of
coarse and common-place consolation; but Cadurcis only answered with a
sigh that came from the bottom of his heart, and said with streaming
eyes, 'Ah! Mrs. Pauncefort, God had only given me one friend in this
world, and there she lies.'

CHAPTER XVIII.

The first conviction that there is death in the house is perhaps the
most awful moment of youth. When we are young, we think that not only
ourselves, but that all about us, are immortal. Until the arrow has
struck a victim round our own hearth, death is merely an unmeaning
word; until then, its casual mention has stamped no idea upon our
brain. There are few, even among those least susceptible of thought
and emotion, in whose hearts and minds the first death in the family
does not act as a powerful revelation of the mysteries of life, and of
their own being; there are few who, after such a catastrophe, do not
look upon the world and the world's ways, at least for a time, with
changed and tempered feelings. It recalls the past; it makes us ponder
over the future; and youth, gay and light-hearted youth, is taught,
for the first time, to regret and to fear.

On Cadurcis, a child of pensive temperament, and in whose strange
and yet undeveloped character there was, amid lighter elements, a
constitutional principle of melancholy, the sudden decease of his
mother produced a profound effect. All was forgotten of his parent,
except the intimate and natural tie, and her warm and genuine
affection. He was now alone in the world; for reflection impressed
upon him at this moment what the course of existence too generally
teaches to us all, that mournful truth, that, after all, we have no
friends that we can depend upon in this life but our parents. All
other intimacies, however ardent, are liable to cool; all other
confidence, however unlimited, to be violated. In the phantasmagoria
of life, the friend with whom we have cultivated mutual trust for
years is often suddenly or gradually estranged from us, or becomes,
from, painful, yet irresistible circumstances, even our deadliest foe.
As for women, as for the mistresses of our hearts, who has not learnt
that the links of passion are fragile as they are glittering; and
that the bosom on which we have reposed with idolatry all our secret
sorrows and sanguine hopes, eventually becomes the very heart that
exults in our misery and baffles our welfare? Where is the enamoured
face that smiled upon our early love, and was to shed tears over our
grave? Where are the choice companions of our youth, with whom we were
to breast the difficulties and share the triumphs of existence? Even
in this inconstant world, what changes like the heart? Love is a
dream, and friendship a delusion. No wonder we grow callous; for how
few have the opportunity of returning to the hearth which they quitted
in levity or thoughtless weariness, yet which alone is faithful to
them; whose sweet affections require not the stimulus of prosperity
or fame, the lure of accomplishments, or the tribute of flattery; but
which are constant to us in distress, and console us even in disgrace!

Before she retired for the night, Lady Annabel was anxious to see
Plantagenet. Mistress Pauncefort had informed her of his visit to
his mother's room. Lady Annabel found Cadurcis in the gallery, now
partially lighted by the moon which had recently risen. She entered
with her light, as if she were on her way to her own room, and not
seeking him.

'Dear Plantagenet,' she said, 'will you not go to bed?'

'I do not intend to go to bed to-night,' he replied.

She approached him and took him by the hand, which he did not withdraw
from her, and they walked together once or twice up and down the
gallery.

'I think, dear child,' said Lady Annabel, 'you had better come and sit
with us.'

'I like to be alone,' was his answer; but not in a sullen voice, low
and faltering.

'But in sorrow we should be with our friends,' said Lady Annabel.

'I have no friends,' he answered. 'I only had one.'

'I am your friend, dear child; I am your mother now, and you shall
find me one if you like. And Venetia, have you forgotten your sister?
Is she not your friend? And Dr. Masham, surely you cannot doubt his
friendship?'

Cadurcis tried to stifle a sob. 'Ay, Lady Annabel,' he said, 'you are
my friend now, and so are you all; and you know I love you much. But
you were not my friends two years ago; and things will change again;
they will, indeed. A mother is your friend as long as she lives; she
cannot help being your friend.'

'You shall come to Cherbury and live with us,' said Lady Annabel.' You
know you love Cherbury, and you shall find it a home, a real home.'

He pressed her hand to his lips; the hand was covered with his tears.

'We will go to Cherbury to-morrow, dear Plantagenet; remaining here
will only make you sad.'

'I will never leave Cadurcis again while my mother is in this house,'
he said, in a firm and serious voice. And then, after a moment's
pause, he added, 'I wish to know when the burial is to take place.'

'We will ask Dr. Masham,' replied Lady Annabel. 'Come, let us go to
him; come, my own child.'

He permitted himself to be led away. They descended to the small
apartment where Lady Annabel had been previously sitting. They found
the Doctor there; he rose and pressed Plantagenet's hand with great
emotion. They made room for him at the fire between them; he sat in
silence, with his gaze intently fixed upon the decaying embers,
yet did not quit his hold of Lady Annabel's hand. He found it a
consolation to him; it linked him to a being who seemed to love him.
As long as he held her hand he did not seem quite alone in the world.

Now nobody spoke; for Lady Annabel felt that Cadurcis was in some
degree solaced; and she thought it unwise to interrupt the more
composed train of his thoughts. It was, indeed, Plantagenet himself
who first broke silence.

'I do not think I can go to bed, Lady Annabel,' he said. 'The thought
of this night is terrible to me. I do not think it ever can end. I
would much sooner sit up in this room.'

'Nay! my child, sleep is a great consoler; try to go to bed, love.'

'I should like to sleep in my mother's room,' was his strange reply.
'It seems to me that I could sleep there. And if I woke in the night,
I should like to see her.'

Lady Annabel and the Doctor exchanged looks.

'I think,' said the Doctor, 'you had better sleep in my room, and
then, if you wake in the night, you will have some one to speak to.
You will find that a comfort.'

'Yes, that you will,' said Lady Annabel. 'I will go and have the sofa
bed made up in the Doctor's room for you. Indeed that will be the very
best plan.'

So at last, but not without a struggle, they persuaded Cadurcis to
retire. Lady Annabel embraced him tenderly when she bade him good
night; and, indeed, he felt consoled by her affection.

As nothing could persuade Plantagenet to leave the abbey until his
mother was buried, Lady Annabel resolved to take up her abode there,
and she sent the next morning for Venetia. There were a great many
arrangements to make about the burial and the mourning; and Lady
Annabel and Dr. Masham were obliged, in consequence, to go the next
morning to Southport; but they delayed their departure until the
arrival of Venetia, that Cadurcis might not be left alone.

The meeting between himself and Venetia was a very sad one, and yet
her companionship was a great solace. Venetia urged every topic that
she fancied could reassure his spirits, and upon the happy home he
would find at Cherbury.

'Ah!' said Cadurcis, 'they will not leave me here; I am sure of that.
I think our happy days are over, Venetia.'

What mourner has not felt the magic of time? Before the funeral could
take place, Cadurcis had recovered somewhat of his usual cheerfulness,
and would indulge with Venetia in plans of their future life. And
living, as they all were, under the same roof, sharing the same
sorrows, participating in the same cares, and all about to wear the
same mournful emblems of their domestic calamity, it was difficult for
him to believe that he was indeed that desolate being he had at first
correctly estimated himself. Here were true friends, if such could
exist; here were fine sympathies, pure affections, innocent and
disinterested hearts! Every domestic tie yet remained perfect, except
the spell-bound tie of blood. That wanting, all was a bright and happy
vision, that might vanish in an instant, and for ever; that perfect,
even the least graceful, the most repulsive home, had its irresistible
charms; and its loss, when once experienced, might be mourned for
ever, and could never be restored.

CHAPTER XIX.

After the funeral of Mrs. Cadurcis, the family returned to Cherbury
with Plantagenet, who was hereafter to consider it his home. All that
the most tender solicitude could devise to reconcile him to the change
in his life was fulfilled by Lady Annabel and her daughter, and, under
their benignant influence, he soon regained his usual demeanour. His
days were now spent as in the earlier period of their acquaintance,
with the exception of those painful returns to home, which had once
been a source to him of so much gloom and unhappiness. He pursued his
studies as of old, and shared the amusements of Venetia. His allotted
room was ornamented by her drawings, and in the evenings they read
aloud by turns to Lady Annabel the volume which she selected. The
abbey he never visited again after his mother's funeral.

Some weeks had passed in this quiet and contented manner, when one
day Doctor Masham, who, since the death of his mother, had been
in correspondence with his guardian, received a letter from that
nobleman, to announce that he had made arrangements for sending his
ward to Eton, and to request that he would accordingly instantly
proceed to the metropolis. This announcement occasioned both Cadurcis
and Venetia poignant affliction. The idea of separation was to both
of them most painful; and although Lady Annabel herself was in
some degree prepared for an arrangement, which sooner or later she
considered inevitable, she was herself scarcely less distressed.
The good Doctor, in some degree to break the bitterness of parting,
proposed accompanying Plantagenet to London, and himself personally
delivering the charge, in whose welfare they were so much interested,
to his guardian. Nevertheless, it was a very sad affair, and the week
which was to intervene before his departure found both himself and
Venetia often in tears. They no longer took any delight in their
mutual studies but passed the day walking about and visiting old
haunts, and endeavouring to console each other for what they both
deemed a great calamity, and which was indeed, the only serious
misfortune Venetia had herself experienced in the whole course of her
serene career.

'But if I were really your brother,' said Plantagenet, 'I must have
quitted you the same, Venetia. Boys always go to school; and then we
shall be so happy when I return.'

'Oh! but we are so happy now, Plantagenet. I cannot believe that we
are going to part. And are you sure that you will return? Perhaps your
guardian will not let you, and will wish you to spend your holidays at
his house. His house will be your home now.'

It was impossible for a moment to forget the sorrow that was impending
over them. There were so many preparations to be made for his
departure, that every instant something occurred to remind them of
their sorrow. Venetia sat with tears in her eyes marking his new
pocket-handkerchiefs which they had all gone to Southport to purchase,
for Plantagenet asked, as a particular favour, that no one should mark
them but Venetia. Then Lady Annabel gave Plantagenet a writing-case,
and Venetia filled it with pens and paper, that he might never want
means to communicate with them; and her evenings were passed in
working him a purse, which Lady Annabel took care should be well
stocked. All day long there seemed something going on to remind them
of what was about to happen; and as for Pauncefort, she flounced in
and out the room fifty times a day, with 'What is to be done about my
lord's shirts, my lady? I think his lordship had better have another
dozen, your la'ship. Better too much than too little, I always say;'
or, 'O! my lady, your la'ship cannot form an idea of what a state my
lord's stockings are in, my lady. I think I had better go over to
Southport with John, my lady, and buy him some;' or, 'Please, my lady,
did I understand your la'ship spoke to the tailor on Thursday about
my lord's things? I suppose your la'ship knows my lord has got no
great-coat?'

Every one of these inquiries made Venetia's heart tremble. Then there
was the sad habit of dating every coming day by its distance from
the fatal one. There was the last day but four, and the last day
but three, and the last day but two. The last day but one at length
arrived; and at length, too, though it seemed incredible, the last day
itself.

Plantagenet and Venetia both rose very early, that they might make it
as long as possible. They sighed involuntarily when they met, and then
they went about to pay last visits to every creature and object of
which they had been so long fond. Plantagenet went to bid farewell
to the horses and adieu to the cows, and then walked down to the
woodman's cottage, and then to shake hands with the keeper. He would
not say 'Good-bye' to the household until the very last moment; and as
for Marmion, the bloodhound, he accompanied both of them so faithfully
in this melancholy ramble, and kept so close to both, that it was
useless to break the sad intelligence to him yet.

'I think now, Venetia, we have been to see everything,' said
Plantagenet, 'I shall see the peacocks at breakfast time. I wish Eton
was near Cherbury, and then I could come home on Sunday. I cannot bear
going to Cadurcis again, but I should like you to go once a week, and
try to keep up our garden, and look after everything, though there is
not much that will not take care of itself, except the garden. We made
that together, and I could not bear its being neglected.'

Venetia could not assure him that no wish of his should be neglected,
because she was weeping.

'I am glad the Doctor,' he continued, 'is going to take me to town.
I should be very wretched by myself. But he will put me in mind of
Cherbury, and we can talk together of Lady Annabel and you. Hark! the
bell rings; we must go to breakfast, the last breakfast but one.'

Lady Annabel endeavoured, by unusual good spirits, to cheer up her
little friends. She spoke of Plantagenet's speedy return so much as a
matter of course, and the pleasant things they were to do when he came
back, that she really succeeded in exciting a smile in Venetia's April
face, for she was smiling amid tears.

Although it was the last day, time hung heavily on their hands. After
breakfast they went over the house together; and Cadurcis, half with
genuine feeling, and half in a spirit of mockery of their sorrow, made
a speech to the inanimate walls, as if they were aware of his intended
departure. At length, in their progress, they passed the door of the
closed apartments, and here, holding Venetia's hand, he stopped, and,
with an expression of irresistible humour, making a low bow to them,
he said, very gravely, 'And good-bye rooms that I have never entered;
perhaps, before I come back, Venetia will find out what is locked up
in you!'

Dr. Masham arrived for dinner, and in a postchaise. The unusual
conveyance reminded them of the morrow very keenly. Venetia could not
bear to see the Doctor's portmanteau taken out and carried into the
hall. She had hopes, until then, that something would happen and
prevent all this misery. Cadurcis whispered her, 'I say, Venetia, do
not you wish this was winter?'

'Why, Plantagenet?'

'Because then we might have a good snowstorm, and be blocked up again
for a week.'

Venetia looked at the sky, but not a cloud was to be seen.

The Doctor was glad to warm himself at the hall-fire, for it was a
fresh autumnal afternoon.

'Are you cold, sir?' said Venetia, approaching him.

'I am, my little maiden,' said the Doctor.

'Do you think there is any chance of its snowing, Doctor Masham?'

'Snowing! my little maiden; what can you be thinking of?'

The dinner was rather gayer than might have been expected. The Doctor
was jocular, Lady Annabel lively, and Plantagenet excited by an
extraordinary glass of wine. Venetia alone remained dispirited. The
Doctor made mock speeches and proposed toasts, and told Plantagenet
that he must learn to make speeches too, or what would he do when
he was in the House of Lords? And then Plantagenet tried to make a
speech, and proposed Venetia's health; and then Venetia, who could not
bear to hear herself praised by him on such a day, the last day, burst
into tears. Her mother called her to her side and consoled her, and
Plantagenet jumped up and wiped her eyes with one of those very
pocket-handkerchiefs on which she had embroidered his cipher and
coronet with her own beautiful hair. Towards evening Plantagenet began
to experience the reaction of his artificial spirits. The Doctor had
fallen into a gentle slumber, Lady Annabel had quitted the room,
Venetia sat with her hand in Plantagenet's on a stool by the fireside.
Both were sad and silent. At last Venetia said, 'O Plantagenet, I
wish I were your real sister! Perhaps, when I see you again, you will
forget this,' and she turned the jewel that was suspended round her
neck, and showed him the inscription.

'I am sure when I see you-again, Venetia,' he replied, 'the only
difference will be, that I shall love you more than ever.'

'I hope so,' said Venetia.

'I am sure of it. Now remember what we are talking about. When we meet
again, we shall see which of us two will love each other the most.'

'O Plantagenet, I hope they will be kind to you at Eton.'

'I will make them.'

'And, whenever you are the least unhappy, you will write to us?'

'I shall never be unhappy about anything but being away from you. As
for the rest, I will make people respect me; I know what I am.'

'Because if they do not behave well to you, mamma could ask Dr. Masham
to go and see you, and they will attend to him; and I would ask him
too. I wonder,' she continued after a moment's pause, 'if you have
everything you want. I am quite sure the instant you are gone, we
shall remember something you ought to have; and then I shall be quite
brokenhearted.'

'I have got everything.'

'You said you wanted a large knife.'

'Yes! but I am going to buy one in London. Dr. Masham says he will
take me to a place where the finest knives in the world are to be
bought. It is a great thing to go to London with Dr. Masham.'

'I have never written your name in your Bible and Prayer-book. I will
do it this evening.'

'Lady Annabel is to write it in the Bible, and you are to write it in
the Prayer-book.'

'You are to write to us from London by Dr. Masham, if only a line.'

'I shall not fail.'

'Never mind about your handwriting; but mind you write.'

At this moment Lady Annabel's step was heard, and Plantagenet said,
'Give me a kiss, Venetia, for I do not mean to bid good-bye to-night.'

'But you will not go to-morrow before we are up?'

'Yes, we shall.'

'Now, Plantagenet, I shall be up to bid you good-bye, mind that'

Lady Annabel entered, the Doctor woke, lights followed, the servant
made up the fire, and the room looked cheerful again. After tea,
the names were duly written in the Bible and Prayer-book; the last
arrangements were made, all the baggage was brought down into the
hall, all ransacked their memory and fancy, to see if it were possible
that anything that Plantagenet could require was either forgotten
or had been omitted. The clock struck ten; Lady Annabel rose. The
travellers were to part at an early hour: she shook hands with Dr.
Masham, but Cadurcis was to bid her farewell in her dressing-room, and
then, with heavy hearts and glistening eyes, they all separated. And
thus ended the last day!

CHAPTER XX.

Venetia passed a restless night. She was so resolved to be awake in
time for Plantagenet's departure, that she could not sleep; and at
length, towards morning, fell, from exhaustion, into a light slumber,
from which she sprang up convulsively, roused by the sound of the
wheels of the postchaise. She looked out of her window, and saw the
servant strapping on the portmanteaus. Shortly after this she heard
Plantagenet's step in the vestibule; he passed her room, and proceeded
to her mother's dressing-room, at the door of which she heard him
knock, and then there was silence.

'You are in good time,' said Lady Annabel, who was seated in an easy
chair when Plantagenet entered her room. 'Is the Doctor up?'

'He is breakfasting.'

'And have you breakfasted?'

'I have no appetite.'

'You should take something, my child, before you go. Now, come hither,
my dear Plantagenet,' she said, extending her hand; 'listen to me, one
word. When you arrive in London, you will go to your guardian's. He
is a great man, and I believe a very good one, and the law and your
father's will have placed him in the position of a parent to you. You
must therefore love, honour, and obey him; and I doubt not he will
deserve all your affection, respect, and duty. Whatever he desires or
counsels you will perform, and follow. So long as you act according to
his wishes, you cannot be wrong. But, my dear Plantagenet, if by any
chance it ever happens, for strange things sometimes happen in this
world, that you are in trouble and require a friend, remember that
Cherbury is also your home; the home of your heart, if not of the law;
and that not merely from my own love for you, but because I promised
your poor mother on her death-bed, I esteem myself morally, although
not legally, in the light of a parent to you. You will find Eton a
great change; you will experience many trials and temptations; but you
will triumph over and withstand them all, if you will attend to these
few directions. Fear God; morning and night let nothing induce you
ever to omit your prayers to Him; you will find that praying will
make you happy. Obey your superiors; always treat your masters with
respect. Ever speak the truth. So long as you adhere to this rule,
you never can be involved in any serious misfortune. A deviation from
truth is, in general, the foundation of all misery. Be kind to your
companions, but be firm. Do not be laughed into doing that which you
know to be wrong. Be modest and humble, but ever respect yourself.
Remember who you are, and also that it is your duty to excel.
Providence has given you a great lot. Think ever that you are born to
perform great duties.

'God bless you, Plantagenet!' she continued, after a slight pause,
with a faltering voice, 'God bless you, my sweet child. And God will
bless you if you remember Him. Try also to remember us,' she added, as
she embraced him, and placed in his hand Venetia's well-lined purse.
'Do not forget Cherbury and all it contains; hearts that love you
dearly, and will pray ever for your welfare.'

Plantagenet leant upon her bosom. He had entered the room resolved to
be composed, with an air even of cheerfulness, but his tender heart
yielded to the first appeal to his affections. He could only murmur
out some broken syllables of devotion, and almost unconsciously found
that he had quitted the chamber.

With streaming eyes and hesitating steps he was proceeding along the
vestibule, when he heard his name called by a low sweet voice. He
looked around; it was Venetia. Never had he beheld such a beautiful
vision. She was muffled up in her dressing-gown, her small white feet
only guarded from the cold by her slippers. Her golden hair seemed to
reach her waist, her cheek was flushed, her large blue eyes glittered
with tears.

'Plantagenet,' she said--

Neither of them could speak. They embraced, they mingled their tears
together, and every instant they wept more plenteously. At length a
footstep was heard; Venetia murmured a blessing, and vanished.

Cadurcis lingered on the stairs a moment to compose himself. He wiped
his eyes; he tried to look undisturbed. All the servants were in the
hall; from Mistress Pauncefort to the scullion there was not a dry
eye. All loved the little lord, he was so gracious and so gentle.
Every one asked leave to touch his hand before he went. He tried to
smile and say something kind to all. He recognised the gamekeeper,
and told him to do what he liked at Cadurcis; said something to the
coachman about his pony; and begged Mistress Pauncefort, quite aloud,
to take great care of her young mistress. As he was speaking, he
felt something rubbing against his hand: it was Marmion, the old
bloodhound. He also came to bid his adieus. Cadurcis patted him with
affection, and said, 'Ah! my old fellow, we shall yet meet again.'

The Doctor appeared, smiling as usual, made his inquiries whether all
were right, nodded to the weeping household, called Plantagenet his
brave boy, and patted him on the back, and bade him jump into the
chaise. Another moment, and Dr. Masham had also entered; the door was
closed, the fatal 'All right' sung out, and Lord Cadurcis was whirled
away from that Cherbury where he was so loved.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

Life is not dated merely by years. Events are sometimes the best
calendars. There are epochs in our existence which cannot be
ascertained by a formal appeal to the registry. The arrival of the
Cadurcis family at their old abbey, their consequent intimacy at
Cherbury, the death of the mother, and the departure of the son: these
were events which had been crowded into a space of less than two
years; but those two years were not only the most eventful in the life
of Venetia Herbert, but in their influence upon the development of her
mind, and the formation of her character, far exceeded the effects of
all her previous existence.

Venetia once more found herself with no companion but her mother,
but in vain she attempted to recall the feelings she had before
experienced under such circumstances, and to revert to the resources
she had before commanded. No longer could she wander in imaginary
kingdoms, or transform the limited world of her experience into a
boundless region of enchanted amusement. Her play-pleasure hours were
fled for ever. She sighed for her faithful and sympathising companion.
The empire of fancy yielded without a struggle to the conquering sway
of memory.

For the first few weeks Venetia was restless and dispirited, and when
she was alone she often wept. A mysterious instinct prompted her,
however, not to exhibit such emotion before her mother. Yet she loved
to hear Lady Annabel talk of Plantagenet, and a visit to the abbey was
ever her favourite walk. Sometimes, too, a letter arrived from Lord
Cadurcis, and this was great joy; but such communications were rare.
Nothing is more difficult than for a junior boy at a public school to
maintain a correspondence; yet his letters were most affectionate,
and always dwelt upon the prospect of his return. The period for this
hoped-for return at length arrived, but it brought no Plantagenet.
His guardian wished that the holidays should be spent under his roof.
Still at intervals Cadurcis wrote to Cherbury, to which, as time flew
on, it seemed destined he never was to return. Vacation followed
vacation, alike passed with his guardian, either in London, or at
a country seat still more remote from Cherbury, until at length it
became so much a matter of course that his guardian's house should
be esteemed his home, that Plantagenet ceased to allude even to the
prospect of return. In time his letters became rarer and rarer, until,
at length, they altogether ceased. Meanwhile Venetia had overcome the
original pang of separation; if not as gay as in old days, she was
serene and very studious; delighting less in her flowers and birds,
but much more in her books, and pursuing her studies with an
earnestness and assiduity which her mother was rather fain to check
than to encourage. Venetia Herbert, indeed, promised to become a most
accomplished woman. She had a fine ear for music, a ready tongue for
languages; already she emulated her mother's skill in the arts; while
the library of Cherbury afforded welcome and inexhaustible resources
to a girl whose genius deserved the richest and most sedulous
cultivation, and whose peculiar situation, independent of her studious
predisposition, rendered reading a pastime to her rather than a
task. Lady Annabel watched the progress of her daughter with lively
interest, and spared no efforts to assist the formation of her
principles and her taste. That deep religious feeling which was the
characteristic of the mother had been carefully and early cherished
in the heart of the child, and in time the unrivalled writings of the
great divines of our Church became a principal portion of her reading.
Order, method, severe study, strict religious exercise, with no
amusement or relaxation but of the most simple and natural character,
and with a complete seclusion from society, altogether formed a
system, which, acting upon a singularly susceptible and gifted nature,
secured the promise in Venetia Herbert, at fourteen years of age, of
an extraordinary woman; a system, however, against which her lively
and somewhat restless mind might probably have rebelled, had not
that system been so thoroughly imbued with all the melting spell of
maternal affection. It was the inspiration of this sacred love that
hovered like a guardian angel over the life of Venetia. It roused her
from her morning slumbers with an embrace, it sanctified her evening
pillow with a blessing; it anticipated the difficulty of the student's
page, and guided the faltering hand of the hesitating artist; it
refreshed her memory, it modulated her voice; it accompanied her in
the cottage, and knelt by her at the altar. Marvellous and beautiful
is a mother's love. And when Venetia, with her strong feelings and
enthusiastic spirit, would look around and mark that a graceful form
and a bright eye were for ever watching over her wants and wishes,
instructing with sweetness, and soft even with advice, her whole soul
rose to her mother, all thoughts and feelings were concentrated in
that sole existence, and she desired no happier destiny than to pass
through life living in the light of her mother's smiles, and clinging
with passionate trust to that beneficent and guardian form.

But with all her quick and profound feelings Venetia was thoughtful
and even shrewd, and when she was alone her very love for her
mother, and her gratitude for such an ineffable treasure as parental
affection, would force her mind to a subject which at intervals had
haunted her even from her earliest childhood. Why had she only one
parent? What mystery was this that enveloped that great tie? For
that there was a mystery Venetia felt as assured as that she was a
daughter. By a process which she could not analyse, her father had
become a forbidden subject. True, Lady Annabel had placed no formal
prohibition upon its mention; nor at her present age was Venetia one
who would be influenced in her conduct by the bygone and arbitrary
intimations of a menial; nevertheless, that the mention of her father
would afford pain to the being she loved best in the world, was a
conviction which had grown with her years and strengthened with her
strength. Pardonable, natural, even laudable as was the anxiety of the
daughter upon such a subject, an instinct with which she could not
struggle closed the lips of Venetia for ever upon this topic. His name
was never mentioned, his past existence was never alluded to. Who was
he? That he was of noble family and great position her name betokened,
and the state in which they lived. He must have died very early;
perhaps even before her mother gave her birth. A dreadful lot indeed;
and yet was the grief that even such a dispensation might occasion, so
keen, so overwhelming, that after fourteen long years his name might
not be permitted, even for an instant, to pass the lips of his
bereaved wife? Was his child to be deprived of the only solace for
his loss, the consolation of cherishing his memory? Strange, passing
strange indeed, and bitter! At Cherbury the family of Herbert were
honoured only from tradition. Until the arrival of Lady Annabel, as we
have before mentioned, they had not resided at the hall for more than
half a century. There were no old retainers there from whom Venetia
might glean, without suspicion, the information for which she panted.
Slight, too, as was Venetia's experience of society, there were times
when she could not resist the impression that her mother was not
happy; that there was some secret sorrow that weighed upon her
spirit, some grief that gnawed at her heart. Could it be still the
recollection of her lost sire? Could one so religious, so resigned,
so assured of meeting the lost one in a better world, brood with a
repining soul over the will of her Creator? Such conduct was entirely
at variance with all the tenets of Lady Annabel. It was not thus she
consoled the bereaved, that she comforted the widow, and solaced the
orphan. Venetia, too, observed everything and forgot nothing. Not an
incident of her earliest childhood that was not as fresh in her memory
as if it had occurred yesterday. Her memory was naturally keen; living
in solitude, with nothing to distract it, its impressions never faded
away. She had never forgotten her mother's tears the day that she and
Plantagenet had visited Marringhurst. Somehow or other Dr. Masham
seemed connected with this sorrow. Whenever Lady Annabel was most
dispirited it was after an interview with that gentleman; yet the
presence of the Doctor always gave her pleasure, and he was the most
kind-hearted and cheerful of men. Perhaps, after all, it was only her
illusion; perhaps, after all, it was the memory of her father to which
her mother was devoted, and which occasionally overcame her; perhaps
she ventured to speak of him to Dr. Masham, though not to her
daughter, and this might account for that occasional agitation which
Venetia had observed at his visits. And yet, and yet, and yet; in vain
she reasoned. There is a strange sympathy which whispers convictions
that no evidence can authorise, and no arguments dispel. Venetia
Herbert, particularly as she grew older, could not refrain at times
from yielding to the irresistible belief that her existence was
enveloped in some mystery. Mystery too often presupposes the idea of
guilt. Guilt! Who was guilty? Venetia shuddered at the current of her
own thoughts. She started from the garden seat in which she had fallen
into this dangerous and painful reverie; flew to her mother, who
received her with smiles; and buried her face in the bosom of Lady
Annabel.

CHAPTER II.

We have indicated in a few pages the progress of three years. How
differently passed to the two preceding ones, when the Cadurcis family
were settled at the abbey! For during this latter period it seemed
that not a single incident had occurred. They had glided away in one
unbroken course of study, religion, and domestic love, the enjoyment
of nature, and the pursuits of charity; like a long summer
sabbath-day, sweet and serene and still, undisturbed by a single
passion, hallowed and hallowing.

If the Cadurcis family were now not absolutely forgotten at Cherbury,
they were at least only occasionally remembered. These last three
years so completely harmonised with the life of Venetia before their
arrival, that, taking a general view of her existence, their residence
at the abbey figured only as an episode in her career; active indeed
and stirring, and one that had left some impressions not easily
discarded; but, on the whole, mellowed by the magic of time, Venetia
looked back to her youthful friendship as an event that was only an
exception in her lot, and she viewed herself as a being born and bred
up in a seclusion which she was never to quit, with no aspirations
beyond the little world in which she moved, and where she was to die
in peace, as she had lived in purity.

One Sunday, the conversation after dinner fell upon Lord Cadurcis.
Doctor Masham had recently met a young Etonian, and had made some
inquiries about their friend of old days. The information he had
obtained was not very satisfactory. It seemed that Cadurcis was a more
popular boy with his companions than his tutors; he had been rather
unruly, and had only escaped expulsion by the influence of his
guardian, who was not only a great noble, but a powerful minister.

This conversation recalled old times. They talked over the arrival of
Mrs. Cadurcis at the abbey, her strange character, her untimely end.
Lady Annabel expressed her conviction of the natural excellence of
Plantagenet's disposition, and her regret of the many disadvantages
under which he laboured; it gratified Venetia to listen to his praise.

'He has quite forgotten us, mamma,' said Venetia.

'My love, he was very young when he quitted us,' replied Lady Annabel;
'and you must remember the influence of a change of life at so tender
an age. He lives now in a busy world.'

'I wish that he had not forgotten to write to us sometimes,' said
Venetia.

'Writing a letter is a great achievement for a schoolboy,' said the
Doctor; 'it is a duty which even grown-up persons too often forget
to fulfil, and, when postponed, it is generally deferred for ever.
However, I agree with Lady Annabel, Cadurcis was a fine fellow, and
had he been properly brought up, I cannot help thinking, might have
turned out something.'

'Poor Plantagenet!' said Venetia, 'how I pity him. His was a terrible
lot, to lose both his parents! Whatever were the errors of Mrs.
Cadurcis, she was his mother, and, in spite of every mortification, he
clung to her. Ah! I shall never forget when Pauncefort met him coming
out of her room the night before the burial, when he said, with
streaming eyes, "I only had one friend in the world, and now she is
gone." I could not love Mrs. Cadurcis, and yet, when I heard of these
words, I cried as much as he.'

'Poor fellow!' said the Doctor, filling his glass.

'If there be any person in the world whom I pity,' said Venetia, ''tis
an orphan. Oh! what should I be without mamma? And Plantagenet, poor
Plantagenet! he has no mother, no father.' Venetia added, with a
faltering voice: 'I can sympathise with him in some degree; I, I, I
know, I feel the misfortune, the misery;' her face became crimson, yet
she could not restrain the irresistible words, 'the misery of never
having known a father,' she added.

There was a dead pause, a most solemn silence. In vain Venetia
struggled to look calm and unconcerned; every instant she felt
the blood mantling in her cheek with a more lively and spreading
agitation. She dared not look up; it was not possible to utter a word
to turn the conversation. She felt utterly confounded and absolutely
mute. At length, Lady Annabel spoke. Her tone was severe and choking,
very different to her usual silvery voice.

'I am sorry that my daughter should feel so keenly the want of a
parent's love,' said her ladyship.

What would not Venetia have given for the power or speech! but
it seemed to have deserted her for ever. There she sat mute and
motionless, with her eyes fixed on the table, and with a burning
cheek, as if she were conscious of having committed some act of shame,
as if she had been detected in some base and degrading deed. Yet, what
had she done? A daughter had delicately alluded to her grief at the
loss of a parent, and expressed her keen sense of the deprivation.

It was an autumnal afternoon: Doctor Masham looked at the sky, and,
after a long pause, made an observation about the weather, and then
requested permission to order his horses, as the evening came on
apace, and he had some distance to ride. Lady Annabel rose; the
Doctor, with a countenance unusually serious, offered her his arm; and
Venetia followed them like a criminal. In a few minutes the horses
appeared; Lady Annabel bid adieu to her friend in her usual kind tone,
and with her usual sweet smile; and then, without noticing Venetia,
instantly retired to her own chamber.

And this was her mother; her mother who never before quitted her for
an instant without some sign and symbol of affection, some playful
word of love, a winning smile, a passing embrace, that seemed to
acknowledge that the pang of even momentary separation could only be
alleviated by this graceful homage to the heart. What had she done?
Venetia was about to follow Lady Annabel, but she checked herself.
Agony at having offended her mother, and, for the first time, was
blended with a strange curiosity as to the cause, and some hesitating
indignation at her treatment. Venetia remained anxiously awaiting
the return of Lady Annabel; but her ladyship did not reappear. Every
instant, the astonishment and the grief of Venetia increased. It was
the first domestic difference that had occurred between them. It
shocked her much. She thought of Plantagenet and Mrs. Cadurcis. There
was a mortifying resemblance, however slight, between the respective
situations of the two families. Venetia, too, had quarrelled with her
mother; that mother who, for fourteen years, had only looked upon her
with fondness and joy; who had been ever kind, without being ever
weak, and had rendered her child happy by making her good; that mother
whose beneficent wisdom had transformed duty into delight; that
superior, yet gentle being, so indulgent yet so just, so gifted yet so
condescending, who dedicated all her knowledge, and time, and care,
and intellect to her daughter.

Venetia threw herself upon a couch and wept. They were the first tears
of unmixed pain that she had ever shed. It was said by the household
of Venetia when a child, that she had never cried; not a single tear
had ever sullied that sunny face. Surrounded by scenes of innocence,
and images of happiness and content, Venetia smiled on a world that
smiled on her, the radiant heroine of a golden age. She had, indeed,
wept over the sorrows and the departure of Cadurcis; but those were
soft showers of sympathy and affection sent from a warm heart, like
drops from a summer sky. But now this grief was agony: her brow
throbbed, her hand was clenched, her heart beat with tumultuous
palpitation; the streaming torrent came scalding down her cheek like
fire rather than tears, and instead of assuaging her emotion, seemed,
on the contrary, to increase its fierce and fervid power.

The sun had set, the red autumnal twilight had died away, the shadows
of night were brooding over the halls of Cherbury. The moan of the
rising wind might be distinctly heard, and ever and anon the branches
of neighbouring trees swung with a sudden yet melancholy sound against
the windows of the apartment, of which the curtains had remained
undrawn. Venetia looked up; the room would have been in perfect
darkness but for a glimmer which just indicated the site of the
expiring fire, and an uncertain light, or rather modified darkness,
that seemed the sky. Alone and desolate! Alone and desolate and
unhappy! Alone and desolate and unhappy, and for the first time! Was
it a sigh, or a groan, that issued from the stifling heart of Venetia
Herbert? That child of innocence, that bright emanation of love and
beauty, that airy creature of grace and gentleness, who had never said
an unkind word or done an unkind thing in her whole career, but had
glanced and glided through existence, scattering happiness and
joy, and receiving the pleasure which she herself imparted, how
overwhelming was her first struggle with that dark stranger, Sorrow!

Some one entered the room; it was Mistress Pauncefort. She held a
taper in her hand, and came tripping gingerly in, with a new cap
streaming with ribands, and scarcely, as it were, condescending to
execute the mission with which she was intrusted, which was no greater
than fetching her lady's reticule. She glanced at the table, but it
was not there; she turned up her nose at a chair or two, which she
even condescended to propel a little with a saucy foot, as if the
reticule might be hid under the hanging drapery, and then, unable to
find the object of her search, Mistress Pauncefort settled herself
before the glass, elevating the taper above her head, that she might
observe what indeed she had been examining the whole day, the effect
of her new cap. With a complacent simper, Mistress Pauncefort then
turned from pleasure to business, and, approaching the couch, gave
a faint shriek, half genuine, half affected, as she recognised the
recumbent form of her young mistress. 'Well to be sure,' exclaimed
Mistress Pauncefort, 'was the like ever seen! Miss Venetia, as I live!
La! Miss Venetia, what can be the matter? I declare I am all of a
palpitation.'

Venetia, affecting composure, said she was rather unwell; that she
had a headache, and, rising, murmured that she would go to bed. 'A
headache!' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, 'I hope no worse, for there
is my lady, and she is as out of sorts as possible. She has a headache
too; and when I shut the door just now, I am sure as quiet as a lamb,
she told me not to make so much noise when I left the room. "Noise!"
says I; "why really, my lady, I don't pretend to be a spirit; but if
it comes to noise--" "Never answer me, Pauncefort," says my lady. "No,
my lady," says I, "I never do, and, I am sure, when I have a headache
myself, I don't like to be answered." But, to be sure, if you have a
headache, and my lady has a headache too, I only hope we have not got
the epidemy. I vow, Miss Venetia, that your eyes are as red as if you
had been running against the wind. Well, to be sure, if you have not
been crying! I must go and tell my lady immediately.'

'Light me to my room,' said Venetia; 'I will not disturb my mother, as
she is unwell.'

Venetia rose, and Mistress Pauncefort followed her to her chamber, and
lit her candles. Venetia desired her not to remain; and when she had
quitted the chamber, Venetia threw herself in her chair and sighed.

To sleep, it was impossible; it seemed to Venetia that she could never
rest again. She wept no more, but her distress was very great. She
felt it impossible to exist through the night without being reconciled
to her mother; but she refrained from going to her room, from the fear
of again meeting her troublesome attendant. She resolved, therefore,
to wait until she heard Mistress Pauncefort retire for the night, and
she listened with restless anxiety for the sign of her departure in
the sound of her footsteps along the vestibule on which the doors of
Lady Annabel's and her daughter's apartments opened.

An hour elapsed, and at length the sound was heard. Convinced that
Pauncefort had now quitted her mother for the night, Venetia ventured
forth, and stopping before the door of her mother's room, she knocked
gently. There was no reply, and in a few minutes Venetia knocked
again, and rather louder. Still no answer. 'Mamma,' said Venetia, in a
faltering tone, but no sound replied. Venetia then tried the door,
and found it fastened. Then she gave up the effort in despair, and
retreating to her own chamber, she threw herself on her bed, and wept
bitterly.

Some time elapsed before she looked up again; the candles were flaring
in their sockets. It was a wild windy night; Venetia rose, and
withdrew the curtain of her window. The black clouds were scudding
along the sky, revealing, in their occasional but transient rifts,
some glimpses of the moon, that seemed unusually bright, or of a star
that trembled with supernatural brilliancy. She stood a while gazing
on the outward scene that harmonised with her own internal agitation:
her grief was like the storm, her love like the light of that bright
moon and star. There came over her a desire to see her mother, which
she felt irresistible; she was resolved that no difficulty, no
impediment, should prevent her instantly from throwing herself on her
bosom. It seemed to her that her brain would burn, that this awful
night could never end without such an interview. She opened her door,
went forth again into the vestibule, and approached with a nervous but
desperate step her mother's chamber. To her astonishment the door was
ajar, but there was a light within. With trembling step and downcast
eyes, Venetia entered the chamber, scarcely daring to advance, or to
look up.

'Mother,' she said, but no one answered; she heard the tick of the
clock; it was the only sound. 'Mother,' she repeated, and she dared to
look up, but the bed was empty. There was no mother. Lady Annabel was
not in the room. Following an irresistible impulse, Venetia knelt by
the side of her mother's bed and prayed. She addressed, in audible and
agitated tones, that Almighty and Beneficent Being of whom she was
so faithful and pure a follower. With sanctified simplicity, she
communicated to her Creator and her Saviour all her distress, all her
sorrow, all the agony of her perplexed and wounded spirit. If she had
sinned, she prayed for forgiveness, and declared in solitude, to One
whom she could not deceive, how unintentional was the trespass; if she
were only misapprehended, she supplicated for comfort and consolation,
for support under the heaviest visitation she had yet experienced, the
displeasure of that earthly parent whom she revered only second to her
heavenly Father.

'For thou art my Father,' said Venetia, 'I have no other father
but thee, O God! Forgive me, then, my heavenly parent, if in my
wilfulness, if in my thoughtless and sinful blindness, I have sighed
for a father on earth, as well as in heaven! Great have thy mercies
been to me, O God! in a mother's love. Turn, then, again to me the
heart of that mother whom I have offended! Let her look upon her child
as before; let her continue to me a double parent, and let me pay to
her the duty and the devotion that might otherwise have been divided!'

'Amen!' said a sweet and solemn voice; and Venetia was clasped in her
mother's arms.

CHAPTER III.

If the love of Lady Annabel for her child were capable of increase, it
might have been believed that it absolutely became more profound and
ardent after that short-lived but painful estrangement which we have
related in the last chapter. With all Lady Annabel's fascinating
qualities and noble virtues, a fine observer of human nature enjoying
opportunities of intimately studying her character, might have
suspected that an occasion only was wanted to display or develop in
that lady's conduct no trifling evidence of a haughty, proud, and even
inexorable spirit. Circumstanced as she was at Cherbury, with no one
capable or desirous of disputing her will, the more gracious and
exalted qualities of her nature were alone apparent. Entertaining a
severe, even a sublime sense of the paramount claims of duty in all
conditions and circumstances of life, her own conduct afforded an
invariable and consistent example of her tenet; from those around her
she required little, and that was cheerfully granted; while, on the
other hand, her more eminent situation alike multiplied her own
obligations and enabled her to fulfil them; she appeared, therefore,
to pass her life in conferring happiness and in receiving gratitude.
Strictly religious, of immaculate reputation, rigidly just,
systematically charitable, dignified in her manners, yet more than
courteous to her inferiors, and gifted at the same time with great
self-control and great decision, she was looked up to by all within
her sphere with a sentiment of affectionate veneration. Perhaps there
was only one person within her little world who, both by disposition
and relative situation, was qualified in any way to question her
undoubted sway, or to cross by independence of opinion the tenour of
the discipline she had established, and this was her child. Venetia,
with one of the most affectionate and benevolent natures in the world,
was gifted with a shrewd, inquiring mind, and a restless imagination.
She was capable of forming her own opinions, and had both reason and
feeling at command to gauge their worth. But to gain an influence over
this child had been the sole object of Lady Annabel's life, and she
had hitherto met that success which usually awaits in this world the
strong purpose of a determined spirit. Lady Annabel herself was far
too acute a person not to have detected early in life the talents of
her child, and she was proud of them. She had cultivated them with
exemplary devotion and with admirable profit. But Lady Annabel had not
less discovered that, in the ardent and susceptible temperament of
Venetia, means were offered by which the heart might be trained not
only to cope with but overpower the intellect. With great powers of
pleasing, beauty, accomplishments, a sweet voice, a soft manner, a
sympathetic heart, Lady Annabel was qualified to charm the world; she
had contrived to fascinate her daughter. She had inspired Venetia with
the most romantic attachment for her: such as rather subsists
between two female friends of the same age and hearts, than between
individuals in the relative situations which they bore to each other.
Yet while Venetia thus loved her mother, she could not but also
respect and revere the superior being whose knowledge was her guide on
all subjects, and whose various accomplishments deprived her secluded
education of all its disadvantages; and when she felt that one so
gifted had devoted her life to the benefit of her child, and that
this beautiful and peerless lady had no other ambition but to be
her guardian and attendant spirit; gratitude, fervent and profound,
mingled with admiring reverence and passionate affection, and together
formed a spell that encircled the mind of Venetia with talismanic
sway.

Under the despotic influence of these enchanted feelings, Venetia
was fast growing into womanhood, without a single cloud having ever
disturbed or sullied the pure and splendid heaven of her domestic
life. Suddenly the horizon had become clouded, a storm had gathered
and burst, and an eclipse could scarcely have occasioned more terror
to the untutored roamer of the wilderness, than this unexpected
catastrophe to one so inexperienced in the power of the passions as
our heroine. Her heaven was again serene; but such was the effect
of this ebullition on her character, so keen was her dread of again
encountering the agony of another misunderstanding with her mother,
that she recoiled with trembling from that subject which had so often
and so deeply engaged her secret thoughts; and the idea of her father,
associated as it now was with pain, mortification, and misery, never
rose to her imagination but instantly to be shunned as some unhallowed
image, of which the bitter contemplation was fraught with not less
disastrous consequences than the denounced idolatry of the holy
people.

Whatever, therefore, might be the secret reasons which impelled Lady
Annabel to shroud the memory of the lost parent of her child in such
inviolate gloom, it is certain that the hitherto restless though
concealed curiosity of Venetia upon the subject, the rash
demonstration to which it led, and the consequence of her boldness,
instead of threatening to destroy in an instant the deep and matured
system of her mother, had, on the whole, greatly contributed to the
fulfilment of the very purpose for which Lady Annabel had so long
laboured. That lady spared no pains in following up the advantage
which her acuteness and knowledge of her daughter's character assured
her that she had secured. She hovered round her child more like an
enamoured lover than a fond mother; she hung upon her looks, she read
her thoughts, she anticipated every want and wish; her dulcet tones
seemed even sweeter than before; her soft and elegant manners even
more tender and refined. Though even in her childhood Lady Annabel had
rather guided than commanded Venetia; now she rather consulted than
guided her. She seized advantage of the advanced character and mature
appearance of Venetia to treat her as a woman rather than a child, and
as a friend rather than a daughter. Venetia yielded herself up to this
flattering and fascinating condescension. Her love for her mother
amounted to passion; she had no other earthly object or desire but to
pass her entire life in her sole and sweet society; she could conceive
no sympathy deeper or more delightful; the only unhappiness she
had ever known had been occasioned by a moment trenching upon its
exclusive privilege; Venetia could not picture to herself that such a
pure and entrancing existence could ever experience a change.

And this mother, this devoted yet mysterious mother, jealous of her
child's regret for a father that she had lost, and whom she had never
known! shall we ever penetrate the secret of her heart?

CHAPTER IV.

It was in the enjoyment of these exquisite feelings that a year,
and more than another year, elapsed at our lone hall of Cherbury.
Happiness and content seemed at least the blessed destiny of the
Herberts. Venetia grew in years, and grace, and loveliness; each day
apparently more her mother's joy, and each day bound to that mother
by, if possible, more ardent love. She had never again experienced
those uneasy thoughts which at times had haunted her from her infancy;
separated from her mother, indeed, scarcely for an hour together, she
had no time to muse. Her studies each day becoming more various and
interesting, and pursued with so gifted and charming a companion,
entirely engrossed her; even the exercise that was her relaxation was
participated by Lady Annabel; and the mother and daughter, bounding
together on their steeds, were fanned by the same breeze, and
freshened by the same graceful and healthy exertion.

One day the post, that seldom arrived at Cherbury, brought a letter to
Lady Annabel, the perusal of which evidently greatly agitated her.
Her countenance changed as her eye glanced over the pages; her hand
trembled as she held it. But she made no remark; and succeeded in
subduing her emotion so quickly that Venetia, although she watched
her mother with anxiety, did not feel justified in interfering with
inquiring sympathy. But while Lady Annabel resumed her usual calm
demeanour, she relapsed into unaccustomed silence, and, soon rising
from the breakfast table, moved to the window, and continued
apparently gazing on the garden, with her face averted from Venetia
for some time. At length she turned to her, and said, 'I think,
Venetia, of calling on the Doctor to-day; there is business on which I
wish to consult him, but I will not trouble you, dearest, to accompany
me. I must take the carriage, and it is a long and tiring drive.'

There was a tone of decision even in the slightest observations of
Lady Annabel, which, however sweet might be the voice in which they
were uttered, scarcely encouraged their propriety to be canvassed. Now
Venetia was far from desirous of being separated from her mother this
morning. It was not a vain and idle curiosity, prompted by the receipt
of the letter and its consequent effects, both in the emotion of her
mother and the visit which it had rendered necessary, that swayed her
breast. The native dignity of a well-disciplined mind exempted Venetia
from such feminine weakness. But some consideration might be due to
the quick sympathy of an affectionate spirit that had witnessed, with
corresponding feeling, the disturbance of the being to whom she was
devoted. Why this occasional and painful mystery that ever and anon
clouded the heaven of their love, and flung a frigid shadow over the
path of a sunshiny life? Why was not Venetia to share the sorrow or
the care of her only friend, as well as participate in her joy and her
content? There were other claims, too, to this confidence, besides
those of the heart. Lady Annabel was not merely her only friend; she
was her parent, her only parent, almost, for aught she had ever heard
or learnt, her only relative. For her mother's family, though she was
aware of their existence by the freedom with which Lady Annabel ever
mentioned them, and though Venetia was conscious that an occasional
correspondence was maintained between them and Cherbury, occupied no
station in Venetia's heart, scarcely in her memory. That noble family
were nullities to her; far distant, apparently estranged from her
hearth, except in form she had never seen them; they were associated
in her recollection with none of the sweet ties of kindred. Her
grandfather was dead without her ever having received his blessing;
his successor, her uncle, was an ambassador, long absent from his
country; her only aunt married to a soldier, and established at a
foreign station. Venetia envied Dr. Masham the confidence which was
extended to him; it seemed to her, even leaving out of sight the
intimate feelings that subsisted between her and her mother, that the
claims of blood to this confidence were at least as strong as those of
friendship. But Venetia stifled these emotions; she parted from her
mother with a kind, yet somewhat mournful expression. Lady Annabel
might have read a slight sentiment of affectionate reproach in the
demeanour of her daughter when she bade her farewell. Whatever might
be the consciousness of the mother, she was successful in concealing
her impression. Very kind, but calm and inscrutable, Lady Annabel,
having given directions for postponing the dinner-hour, embraced her
child and entered the chariot.

Venetia, from the terrace, watched her mother's progress through the
park. After gazing for some minutes, a tear stole down her cheek. She
started, as if surprised at her own emotion. And now the carriage
was out of sight, and Venetia would have recurred to some of those
resources which were ever at hand for the employment or amusement of
her secluded life. But the favourite volume ceased to interest this
morning, and almost fell from her hand. She tried her spinet, but her
ear seemed to have lost its music; she looked at her easel, but the
cunning had fled from her touch.

Restless and disquieted, she knew not why, Venetia went forth again
into the garden. All nature smiled around her; the flitting birds were
throwing their soft shadows over the sunny lawns, and rustling amid
the blossoms of the variegated groves. The golden wreaths of the
laburnum and the silver knots of the chestnut streamed and glittered
around; the bees were as busy as the birds, and the whole scene was
suffused and penetrated with brilliancy and odour. It still was
spring, and yet the gorgeous approach of summer, like the advancing
procession of some triumphant king, might almost be detected amid the
lingering freshness of the year; a lively and yet magnificent period,
blending, as it were, Attic grace with Roman splendour; a time when
hope and fruition for once meet, when existence is most full of
delight, alike delicate and voluptuous, and when the human frame is
most sensible to the gaiety and grandeur of nature.

And why was not the spirit of the beautiful and innocent Venetia as
bright as the surrounding scene? There are moods of mind that baffle
analysis, that arise from a mysterious sympathy we cannot penetrate.
At this moment the idea of her father irresistibly recurred to the
imagination of Venetia. She could not withstand the conviction that
the receipt of the mysterious letter and her mother's agitation were
by some inexplicable connexion linked with that forbidden subject.
Strange incidents of her life flitted across her memory: her mother
weeping on the day they visited Marringhurst; the mysterious chambers;
the nocturnal visit of Lady Annabel that Cadurcis had witnessed; her
unexpected absence from her apartment when Venetia, in her despair,
had visited her some months ago. What was the secret that enveloped
her existence? Alone, which was unusual; dispirited, she knew not
why; and brooding over thoughts which haunted her like evil spirits,
Venetia at length yielded to a degree of nervous excitement which
amazed her. She looked up to the uninhabited wing of the mansion with
an almost fierce desire to penetrate its mysteries. It seemed to her
that a strange voice came whispering on the breeze, urging her to the
fulfilment of a mystical mission. With a vague, yet wild, purpose she
entered the house, and took her way to her mother's chamber. Mistress
Pauncefort was there. Venetia endeavoured to assume her accustomed
serenity. The waiting-woman bustled about, arranging the toilet-table,
which had been for a moment discomposed, putting away a cap, folding
up a shawl, and indulging in a multitude of inane observations which
little harmonised with the high-strung tension of Venetia's mind.
Mistress Pauncefort opened a casket with a spring lock, in which she
placed some trinkets of her mistress. Venetia stood by her in silence;
her eye, vacant and wandering, beheld the interior of the casket.
There must have been something in it, the sight of which greatly
agitated her, for Venetia turned pale, and in a moment left the
chamber and retired to her own room.

She locked her door, threw herself in a chair; almost gasping for
breath, she covered her face with her hands. It was some minutes
before she recovered comparative composure; she rose and looked in
the mirror; her face was quite white, but her eyes glittering with
excitement. She walked up and down her room with a troubled step, and
a scarlet flush alternately returned to and retired from her changing
cheek. Then she leaned against a cabinet in thought. She was disturbed
from her musings by the sound of Pauncefort's step along the
vestibule, as she quitted her mother's chamber. In a few minutes
Venetia herself stepped forth into the vestibule and listened. All was
silent. The golden morning had summoned the whole household to its
enjoyment. Not a voice, not a domestic sound, broke the complete
stillness. Venetia again repaired to the apartment of Lady Annabel.
Her step was light, but agitated; it seemed that she scarcely dared
to breathe. She opened the door, rushed to the cabinet, pressed the
spring lock, caught at something that it contained, and hurried again
to her own chamber.

And what is this prize that the trembling Venetia holds almost
convulsively in her grasp, apparently without daring even to examine
it? Is this the serene and light-hearted girl, whose face was like
the cloudless splendour of a sunny day? Why is she so pallid and
perturbed? What strong impulse fills her frame? She clutches in her
hand a key!

On that tempestuous night of passionate sorrow which succeeded the
first misunderstanding between Venetia and her mother, when the voice
of Lady Annabel had suddenly blended with that of her kneeling
child, and had ratified with her devotional concurrence her wailing
supplications; even at the moment when Venetia, in a rapture of love
and duty, felt herself pressed to her mother's reconciled heart, it
had not escaped her that Lady Annabel held in her hand a key; and
though the feelings which that night had so forcibly developed, and
which the subsequent conduct of Lady Annabel had so carefully and
skilfully cherished, had impelled Venetia to banish and erase from her
thought and memory all the associations which that spectacle, however
slight, was calculated to awaken, still, in her present mood, the
unexpected vision of the same instrument, identical she could not
doubt, had triumphed in an instant over all the long discipline of
her mind and conduct, in an instant had baffled and dispersed her
self-control, and been hailed as the providential means by which she
might at length penetrate that mystery which she now felt no longer
supportable.

The clock of the belfry of Cherbury at this moment struck, and Venetia
instantly sprang from her seat. It reminded her of the preciousness
of the present morning. Her mother was indeed absent, but her mother
would return. Before that event a great fulfilment was to occur.
Venetia, still grasping the key, as if it were the talisman of her
existence, looked up to Heaven as if she required for her allotted
task an immediate and special protection; her lips seemed to move, and
then she again quitted her apartment. As she passed through an oriel
in her way towards the gallery, she observed Pauncefort in the avenue
of the park, moving in the direction of the keeper's lodge. This
emboldened her. With a hurried step she advanced along the gallery,
and at length stood before the long-sealed door that had so often
excited her strange curiosity. Once she looked around; but no one was
near, not a sound was heard. With a faltering hand she touched the
lock; but her powers deserted her: for a minute she believed that the
key, after all, would not solve the mystery. And yet the difficulty
arose only from her own agitation. She rallied her courage; once more
she made the trial; the key fitted with completeness, and the
lock opened with ease, and Venetia found herself in a small and
scantily-furnished ante-chamber. Closing the door with noiseless care,
Venetia stood trembling in the mysterious chamber, where apparently
there was nothing to excite wonder. The chamber into which the
ante-room opened was still closed, and it was some minutes before the
adventurous daughter of Lady Annabel could summon courage for the
enterprise which awaited her.

The door yielded without an effort. Venetia stepped into a spacious
and lofty chamber. For a moment she paused almost upon the threshold,
and looked around her with a vague and misty vision. Anon she
distinguished something of the character of the apartment. In the
recess of a large oriel window that looked upon the park, and of which
the blinds were nearly drawn, was an old-fashioned yet sumptuous
toilet-table of considerable size, arranged as if for use. Opposite
this window, in a corresponding recess, was what might be deemed a
bridal bed, its furniture being of white satin richly embroidered; the
curtains half closed; and suspended from the canopy was a wreath of
roses that had once emulated, or rather excelled, the lustrous purity
of the hangings, but now were wan and withered. The centre of the
inlaid and polished floor of the apartment was covered with a Tournay
carpet of brilliant yet tasteful decoration. An old cabinet of
fanciful workmanship, some chairs of ebony, and some girandoles of
silver completed the furniture of the room, save that at its extreme
end, exactly opposite to the door by which Venetia entered, covered
with a curtain of green velvet, was what she concluded must be a
picture.

An awful stillness pervaded the apartment: Venetia herself, with
a face paler even than the hangings of the mysterious bed, stood
motionless with suppressed breath, gazing on the distant curtain with
a painful glance of agitated fascination. At length, summoning her
energies as if for the achievement of some terrible yet inevitable
enterprise, she crossed the room, and averting her face, and closing
her eyes in a paroxysm of nervous excitement, she stretched forth her
arm, and with a rapid motion withdrew the curtain. The harsh sound of
the brass rings drawn quickly over the rod, the only noise that had
yet met her ear in this mystical chamber, made her start and tremble.
She looked up, she beheld, in a broad and massy frame, the full-length
portrait of a man.

A man in the very spring of sunny youth, and of radiant beauty. Above
the middle height, yet with a form that displayed exquisite grace, he
was habited in a green tunic that enveloped his figure to advantage,
and became the scene in which he was placed: a park, with a castle in
the distance; while a groom at hand held a noble steed, that seemed
impatient for the chase. The countenance of its intended rider met
fully the gaze of the spectator. It was a countenance of singular
loveliness and power. The lips and the moulding of the chin resembled
the eager and impassioned tenderness of the shape of Antinous; but
instead of the effeminate sullenness of the eye, and the narrow
smoothness of the forehead, shone an expression of profound and
piercing thought. On each side of the clear and open brow descended,
even to the shoulders, the clustering locks of golden hair; while the
eyes, large and yet deep, beamed with a spiritual energy, and shone
like two wells of crystalline water that reflect the all-beholding
heavens.

Now when Venetia Herbert beheld this countenance a change came over
her. It seemed that when her eyes met the eyes of the portrait, some
mutual interchange of sympathy occurred between them. She freed
herself in an instant from the apprehension and timidity that before
oppressed her. Whatever might ensue, a vague conviction of having
achieved a great object pervaded, as it were, her being. Some great
end, vast though indefinite, had been fulfilled. Abstract and
fearless, she gazed upon the dazzling visage with a prophetic heart.
Her soul was in a tumult, oppressed with thick-coming fancies too big
for words, panting for expression. There was a word which must be
spoken: it trembled on her convulsive lip, and would not sound. She
looked around her with an eye glittering with unnatural fire, as if to
supplicate some invisible and hovering spirit to her rescue, or that
some floating and angelic chorus might warble the thrilling word whose
expression seemed absolutely necessary to her existence. Her cheek
is flushed, her eye wild and tremulous, the broad blue veins of her
immaculate brow quivering and distended; her waving hair falls back
over her forehead, and rustles like a wood before the storm. She seems
a priestess in the convulsive throes of inspiration, and about to
breathe the oracle. The picture, as we have mentioned, was hung in
a broad and massy frame. In the centre of its base was worked an
escutcheon, and beneath the shield this inscription:

MARMION HERBERT, AET. XX.

Yet there needed not these letters to guide the agitated spirit of
Venetia, for, before her eye had reached them, the word was spoken;
and falling on her knees before the portrait, the daughter of Lady
Annabel had exclaimed, 'My father!'

CHAPTER V.

The daughter still kneels before the form of the father, of whom she
had heard for the first time in her life. He is at length discovered.
It was, then, an irresistible destiny that, after the wild musings and
baffled aspirations of so many years, had guided her to this chamber.
She is the child of Marmion Herbert; she beholds her lost parent. That
being of supernatural beauty, on whom she gazes with a look of blended
reverence and love, is her father. What a revelation! Its reality
exceeded the wildest dreams of her romance; her brightest visions of
grace and loveliness and genius seemed personified in this form; the
form of one to whom she was bound by the strongest of all earthly
ties, of one on whose heart she had a claim second only to that of the
being by whose lips his name was never mentioned. Was he, then, no
more? Ah! could she doubt that bitterest calamity? Ah! was it, was
it any longer a marvel, that one who had lived in the light of those
seraphic eyes, and had watched them until their terrestrial splendour
had been for ever extinguished, should shrink from the converse that
could remind her of the catastrophe of all her earthly hopes! This
chamber, then, was the temple of her mother's woe, the tomb of her
baffled affections and bleeding heart. No wonder that Lady Annabel,
the desolate Lady Annabel, that almost the same spring must have
witnessed the most favoured and the most disconsolate of women, should
have fled from the world that had awarded her at the same time a lot
so dazzling and so full of despair. Venetia felt that the existence
of her mother's child, her own fragile being, could have been that
mother's sole link to life. The heart of the young widow of Marmion
Herbert must have broken but for Venetia; and the consciousness of
that remaining tie, and the duties that it involved, could alone have
sustained the victim under a lot of such unparalleled bitterness. The
tears streamed down her cheek as she thought of her mother's misery,
and her mother's gentle love; the misery that she had been so cautious
her child should never share; the vigilant affection that, with all
her own hopes blighted, had still laboured to compensate to her
child for a deprivation the fulness of which Venetia could only now
comprehend.

When, where, why did he die? Oh that she might talk of him to her
mother for ever! It seemed that life might pass away in listening to
his praises. Marmion Herbert! and who was Marmion Herbert? Young as he
was, command and genius, the pride of noble passions, all the glory of
a creative mind, seemed stamped upon his brow. With all his marvellous
beauty, he seemed a being born for greatness. Dead! in the very burst
of his spring, a spring so sweet and splendid; could he be dead? Why,
then, was he ever born? It seemed to her that he could not be dead;
there was an animated look about the form, that seemed as if it could
not die without leaving mankind a prodigal legacy of fame.

Venetia turned and looked upon her parents' bridal bed. Now that
she had discovered her father's portrait, every article in the room
interested her, for her imagination connected everything with him. She
touched the wreath of withered roses, and one instantly broke away
from the circle, and fell; she knelt down, and gathered up the
scattered leaves, and placed them in her bosom. She approached the
table in the oriel: in its centre was a volume, on which reposed a
dagger of curious workmanship; the volume bound in velvet, and the
word 'ANNABEL' embroidered upon it in gold. Venetia unclasped it. The
volume was his; in a fly-leaf were written these words:

'TO THE LADY OF MY LOVE, FROM HER MARMION HERBERT.'

With a fluttering heart, yet sparkling eye, Venetia sank into a chair,
which was placed before the table, with all her soul concentred in the
contents of this volume. Leaning on her right hand, which shaded her
agitated brow, she turned a page of the volume with a trembling hand.
It contained a sonnet, delineating the feelings of a lover at the
first sight of his beloved, a being to him yet unknown. Venetia
perused with breathless interest the graceful and passionate picture
of her mother's beauty. A series of similar compositions detailed the
history of the poet's heart, and all the thrilling adventures of his
enchanted life. Not an incident, not a word, not a glance, in that
spell-bound prime of existence, that was not commemorated by his lyre
in strains as sweet and as witching! Now he poured forth his passion;
now his doubts; now his hopes; now came the glowing hour when he was
first assured of his felicity; the next page celebrated her visit to
the castle of his fathers; and another led her to the altar.

With a flushed cheek and an excited eye, Venetia had rapidly pored
over these ardent annals of the heart from whose blood she had sprung.
She turns the page; she starts; the colour deserts her countenance;
a mist glides over her vision; she clasps her hands with convulsive
energy; she sinks back in her chair. In a few moments she extends one
hand, as if fearful again to touch the book that had excited so much
emotion, raises herself in her seat, looks around her with a vacant
and perplexed gaze, apparently succeeds in collecting herself, and
then seizes, with an eager grasp, the volume, and throwing herself on
her, knees before the chair, her long locks hanging on each side over
a cheek crimson as the sunset, loses her whole soul in the lines which
the next page reveals.

ON THE NIGHT OUR DAUGHTER WAS BORN.

I.

Within our heaven of love, the new-born star
We long devoutly watched, like shepherd kings,
Steals into light, and, floating from afar,
Methinks some bright transcendent seraph sings,
Waving with flashing light her radiant wings,
Immortal welcome to the stranger fair:
To us a child is born. With transport clings
The mother to the babe she sighed to bear;
Of all our treasured loves the long-expected heir!

II.

My daughter! can it be a daughter now
Shall greet my being with her infant smile?
And shall I press that fair and taintless brow
With my fond lips, and tempt, with many a wile
Of playful love, those features to beguile
A parent with their mirth? In the wild sea
Of this dark life, behold a little isle
Rises amid the waters, bright and free,
A haven for my hopes of fond security!

III.

And thou shalt bear a name my line has loved,
And their fair daughters owned for many an age,
Since first our fiery blood a wanderer roved,
And made in sunnier lands his pilgrimage,
Where proud defiance with the waters wage
The sea-born city's walls; the graceful towers
Loved by the bard and honoured by the sage!
My own VENETIA now shall gild our bowers,
And with her spell enchain our life's enchanted hours!

IV.

Oh! if the blessing of a father's heart
Hath aught of sacred in its deep-breath'd prayer,
Skilled to thy gentle being to impart,
As thy bright form itself, a fate as fair;
On thee I breathe that blessing! Let me share,
O God! her joys; and if the dark behest
Of woe resistless, and avoidless care,
Hath, not gone forth, oh! spare this gentle guest.
And wreak thy needful wrath on my resigned breast!

An hour elapsed, and Venetia did not move. Over and over again she
conned the only address from the lips of her father that had ever
reached her ear. A strange inspiration seconded the exertion of an
exercised memory. The duty was fulfilled, the task completed. Then
a sound was heard without. The thought that her mother had returned
occurred to her; she looked up, the big tears streaming down her face;
she listened, like a young hind just roused by the still-distant
huntsman, quivering and wild: she listened, and she sprang up,
replaced the volume, arranged the chair, cast one long, lingering,
feverish glance at the portrait, skimmed through the room, hesitated
one moment in the ante-chamber; opened, as all was silent, the no
longer mysterious door, turned the noiseless lock, tripped lightly
along the vestibule; glided into her mother's empty apartment,
reposited the key that had opened so many wonders in the casket; and,
then, having hurried to her own chamber, threw herself on her bed in a
paroxysm of contending emotions, that left her no power of pondering
over the strange discovery that had already given a new colour to her
existence.

CHAPTER VI.

Her mother had not returned; it was a false alarm; but Venetia could
not quit her bed. There she remained, repeating to herself her
father's verses. Then one thought alone filled her being. Was he dead?
Was this fond father, who had breathed this fervent blessing over her
birth, and invoked on his own head all the woe and misfortunes of her
destiny, was he, indeed, no more? How swiftly must the arrow have sped
after he received the announcement that a child was given to him,

Of all his treasured loves the long-expected heir!

He could scarcely have embraced her ere the great Being, to whom he
had offered his prayer, summoned him to his presence! Of that father
she had not the slightest recollection; she had ascertained that she
had reached Cherbury a child, even in arms, and she knew that her
father had never lived under the roof. What an awful bereavement! Was
it wonderful that her mother was inconsolable? Was it wonderful that
she could not endure even his name to be mentioned in her presence;
that not the slightest allusion to his existence could be tolerated by
a wife who had been united to such a peerless being, only to behold
him torn away from her embraces? Oh! could he, indeed, be dead? That
inspired countenance that seemed immortal, had it in a moment been
dimmed? and all the symmetry of that matchless form, had it indeed
been long mouldering in the dust? Why should she doubt it? Ah! why,
indeed? How could she doubt it? Why, ever and anon, amid the tumult of
her excited mind, came there an unearthly whisper to her ear, mocking
her with the belief that he still lived? But he was dead; he must be
dead; and why did she live? Could she survive what she had seen and
learnt this day? Did she wish to survive it? But her mother, her
mother with all her sealed-up sorrows, had survived him. Why? For her
sake; for her child; for 'his own Venetia!' His own!

She clenched her feverish hand, her temples beat with violent
palpitations, her brow was burning hot. Time flew on, and every minute
Venetia was more sensible of the impossibility of rising to welcome
her mother. That mother at length returned; Venetia could not again
mistake the wheels of the returning carriage. Some minutes passed, and
there was a knock at her door. With a choking voice Venetia bade them
enter. It was Pauncefort.

'Well, Miss,' she exclaimed, 'if you ayn't here, after all! I told my
lady, "My lady," says I, "I am sure Miss Venetia must be in the park,
for I saw her go out myself, and I have never seen her come home."
And, after all, you are here. My lady has come home, you know, Miss,
and has been inquiring for you several times.'

'Tell mamma that I am not very well,' said Venetia, in a low voice,
'and that I have been obliged to lie down.'

'Not well, Miss,' exclaimed Pauncefort; 'and what can be the matter
with you? I am afraid you have walked too much; overdone it, I dare
say; or, mayhap, you have caught cold; it is an easterly wind: for I
was saying to John this morning, "John," says I, "if Miss Venetia will
walk about with only a handkerchief tied round her head, why, what can
be expected?"'

'I have only a headache, a very bad headache, Pauncefort; I wish to be
quiet,' said Venetia.

Pauncefort left the room accordingly, and straightway proceeded to
Lady Annabel, when she communicated the information that Miss Venetia
was in the house, after all, though she had never seen her return,
and that she was lying down because she had a very bad headache. Lady
Annabel, of course, did not lose a moment in visiting her darling. She
entered the room softly, so softly that she was not heard; Venetia was
lying on her bed, with her back to the door. Lady Annabel stood by her
bedside for some moments unnoticed. At length Venetia heaved a
deep sigh. Her mother then said in a soft voice, 'Are you in pain,
darling?'

'Is that mamma?' said Venetia, turning with quickness.

'You are ill, dear,' said Lady Annabel, taking her hand. 'Your hand is
hot; you are feverish. How long has my Venetia felt ill?'

Venetia could not answer; she did nothing but sigh. Her strange manner
excited her mother's wonder. Lady Annabel sat by the bedside, still
holding her daughter's hand in hers, watching her with a glance of
great anxiety.

'Answer me, my love,' she repeated in a voice of tenderness. 'What do
you feel?'

'My head, my head,' murmured Venetia.

Her mother pressed her own hand to her daughter's brow; it was very hot.
'Does that pain you?' inquired Lady Annabel; but Venetia did not reply;
her look was wild and abstracted. Her mother gently withdrew her hand,
and then summoned Pauncefort, with whom she communicated without
permitting her to enter the room.

'Miss Herbert is very ill,' said Lady Annabel, pale, but in a firm
tone. 'I am alarmed about her. She appears to me to have fever; send
instantly to Southport for Mr. Hawkins; and let the messenger use
and urge all possible expedition. Be in attendance in the vestibule,
Pauncefort; I shall not quit her room, but she must be kept perfectly
quiet.'

Lady Annabel then drew her chair to the bedside of her daughter, and
bathed her temples at intervals with rose-water; but none of these
attentions apparently attracted the notice of the sufferer. She was,
it would seem, utterly unconscious of all that was occurring. She now
lay with her face turned towards her mother, but did not exchange even
looks with her. She was restless, and occasionally she sighed deeply.

Once, by way of experiment, Lady Annabel again addressed her, but
Venetia gave no answer. Then the mother concluded what, indeed, had
before attracted her suspicion, that Venetia's head was affected. But
then, what was this strange, this sudden attack, which appeared to
have prostrated her daughter's faculties in an instant? A few hours
back, and Lady Annabel had parted from Venetia in all the glow of
health and beauty. The season was most genial; her exercise had
doubtless been moderate; as for her general health, so complete was
her constitution, and so calm the tenour of her life, that Venetia
had scarcely experienced in her whole career a single hour of
indisposition. It was an anxious period of suspense until the medical
attendant arrived from Southport. Fortunately he was one in whom, from
reputation, Lady Annabel was disposed to place great trust; and his
matured years, his thoughtful manner, and acute inquiries, confirmed
her favourable opinion of him. All that Mr. Hawkins could say,
however, was, that Miss Herbert had a great deal of fever, but the
cause was concealed, and the suddenness of the attack perplexed him.
He administered one of the usual remedies; and after an hour had
elapsed, and no favourable change occurring, he blooded her. He
quitted Cherbury, with the promise of returning late in the evening,
having several patients whom he was obliged to visit.

The night drew on; the chamber was now quite closed, but Lady Annabel
never quitted it. She sat reading, removed from her daughter, that her
presence might not disturb her, for Venetia seemed inclined to sleep.
Suddenly Venetia spoke; but she said only one word, 'Father!'

Lady Annabel started; her book nearly fell from her hand; she grew
very pale. Quite breathless, she listened, and again Venetia spoke,
and again called upon her father. Now, with a great effort, Lady
Annabel stole on tiptoe to the bedside of her daughter. Venetia was
lying on her back, her eyes were closed, her lips still as it were
quivering with the strange word they had dared to pronounce. Again
her voice sounded; she chanted, in an unearthly voice, verses. The
perspiration stood in large drops on the pallid forehead of the mother
as she listened. Still Venetia proceeded; and Lady Annabel, throwing
herself on her knees, held up her hands to Heaven in an agony of
astonishment, terror, and devotion.

Now there was again silence; but her mother remained apparently buried
in prayer. Again Venetia spoke; again she repeated the mysterious
stanzas. With convulsive agony her mother listened to every fatal line
that she unconsciously pronounced.

The secret was then discovered. Yes! Venetia must have penetrated the
long-closed chamber; all the labours of years had in a moment been
subverted; Venetia had discovered her parent, and the effects of the
discovery might, perhaps, be her death. Then it was that Lady Annabel,
in the torture of her mind, poured forth her supplications that the
life or the heart of her child might never be lost to her, 'Grant, O
merciful God!' she exclaimed, 'that this sole hope of my being may be
spared to me. Grant, if she be spared, that she may never desert her
mother! And for him, of whom she has heard this day for the first
time, let him be to her as if he were no more! May she never learn
that he lives! May she never comprehend the secret agony of her
mother's life! Save her, O God! save her from his fatal, his
irresistible influence! May she remain pure and virtuous as she has
yet lived! May she remain true to thee, and true to thy servant, who
now bows before thee! Look down upon me at this moment with gracious
mercy; turn to me my daughter's heart; and, if it be my dark doom to
be in this world a widow, though a wife, add not to this bitterness
that I shall prove a mother without a child!'

At this moment the surgeon returned. It was absolutely necessary that
Lady Annabel should compose herself. She exerted all that strength of
character for which she was remarkable. From this moment she resolved,
if her life were the forfeit, not to quit for an instant the bedside
of Venetia until she was declared out of danger; and feeling conscious
that if she once indulged her own feelings, she might herself soon
be in a situation scarcely less hazardous than her daughter's, she
controlled herself with a mighty effort. Calm as a statue, she
received the medical attendant, who took the hand of the unconscious
Venetia with apprehension too visibly impressed upon his grave
countenance. As he took her hand, Venetia opened her eyes, stared at
her mother and her attendant, and then immediately closed them.

'She has slept?' inquired Lady Annabel.

'No,' said the surgeon, 'no: this is not sleep; it is a feverish
trance that brings her no refreshment.' He took out his watch, and
marked her pulse with great attention; then he placed his hand on her
brow, and shook his head. 'These beautiful curls must come off,' he
said. Lady Annabel glided to the table, and instantly brought the
scissors, as if the delay of an instant might be fatal. The surgeon
cut off those long golden locks. Venetia raised her hand to her head,
and said, in a low voice, 'They are for my father.' Lady Annabel leant
upon the surgeon's arm and shook.

Now he led the mother to the window, and spoke in a hushed tone.

'Is it possible that there is anything on your daughter's mind, Lady
Annabel?' he inquired.

The agitated mother looked at the inquirer, and then at her daughter;
and then for a moment she raised her hand to her eyes; then she
replied, in a low but firm voice, 'Yes.'

'Your ladyship must judge whether you wish me to be acquainted with
it,' said Mr. Hawkins, calmly.

'My daughter has suddenly become acquainted, sir, with some family
incidents of a painful nature, and the knowledge of which I have
hitherto spared her. They are events long past, and their consequences
are now beyond all control.'

'She knows, then, the worst?'

'Without her mind, I cannot answer that question,' said Lady Annabel.

'It is my duty to tell you that Miss Herbert is in imminent danger;
she has every appearance of a fever of a malignant character. I cannot
answer for her life.'

'O God!' exclaimed Lady Annabel.

'Yet you must compose yourself, my dear lady. Her chance of recovery
greatly depends upon the vigilance of her attendants. I shall bleed
her again, and place leeches on her temples. There is inflammation on
the brain. There are other remedies also not less powerful. We must
not despair; we have no cause to despair until we find these fail. I
shall not leave her again; and, for your satisfaction, not for my own,
I shall call in additional advice, the aid of a physician.'

A messenger accordingly was instantly despatched for the physician,
who resided at a town more distant than Southport; the very town,
by-the-bye, where Morgana, the gipsy, was arrested. They contrived,
with the aid of Pauncefort, to undress Venetia, and place her in her
bed, for hitherto they had refrained from this exertion. At this
moment the withered leaves of a white rose fell from Venetia's dress.
A sofa-bed was then made for Lady Annabel, of which, however, she did
not avail herself. The whole night she sat by her daughter's side,
watching every movement of Venetia, refreshing her hot brow and
parched lips, or arranging, at every opportunity, her disordered
pillows. About an hour past midnight the surgeon retired to rest, for
a few hours, in the apartment prepared for him, and Pauncefort, by the
desire of her mistress, also withdrew: Lady Annabel was alone with her
child, and with those agitated thoughts which the strange occurrences
of the day were well calculated to excite.

CHAPTER VII.

Early in the morning the physician arrived at Cherbury. It remained
for him only to approve of the remedies which had been pursued. No
material change, however, had occurred in the state of Venetia: she
had not slept, and still she seemed unconscious of what was occurring.
The gracious interposition of Nature seemed the only hope. When the
medical men had withdrawn to consult in the terrace-room, Lady Annabel
beckoned to Pauncefort, and led her to the window of Venetia's
apartment, which she would not quit.

'Pauncefort,' said Lady Annabel, 'Venetia has been in her father's
room.'

'Oh! impossible, my lady,' burst forth Mistress Pauncefort; but Lady
Annabel placed her finger on her lip, and checked her. 'There is no
doubt of it, there can be no doubt of it, Pauncefort; she entered it
yesterday; she must have passed the morning there, when you believed
she was in the park.'

'But, my lady,' said Pauncefort, 'how could it be? For I scarcely left
your la'ship's room a second, and Miss Venetia, I am sure, never was
near it. And the key, my lady, the key is in the casket. I saw it half
an hour ago with my own eyes.'

'There is no use arguing about it, Pauncefort,' said Lady Annabel,
with decision. 'It is as I say. I fear great misfortunes are about to
commence at Cherbury.'

'Oh! my lady, don't think of such things,' said Pauncefort, herself
not a little alarmed. 'What can happen?'

'I fear more than I know,' said Lady Annabel; 'but I do fear much. At
present I can only think of her.'

'Well! my lady,' said poor Mistress Pauncefort, looking bewildered,
'only to think of such a thing! and after all the pains I have taken!
I am sure I have not opened my lips on the subject these fifteen
years; and the many questions I have been asked too! I am sure there
is not a servant in the house--'

'Hush! hush!' said Lady Annabel, 'I do not blame you, and therefore
you need not defend yourself. Go, Pauncefort, I must be alone.'
Pauncefort withdrew, and Lady Annabel resumed her seat by her
daughter's side.

On the fourth day of her attack the medical attendants observed a
favourable change in their patient, and were not, of course, slow in
communicating this joyful intelligence to her mother. The crisis had
occurred and was past: Venetia had at length sunk into slumber. How
different was her countenance from the still yet settled features
they had before watched with such anxiety! She breathed lightly, the
tension of the eyelids had disappeared, her mouth was slightly open.
The physician and his colleague declared that immediate danger was
past, and they counselled Lady Annabel to take repose. On condition
that one of them should remain by the side of her daughter, the
devoted yet miserable mother quitted, for the first time her child's
apartment. Pauncefort followed her to her room.

'Oh! my lady,' said Pauncefort, 'I am so glad your la'ship is going to
lie down a bit.'

'I am not going to lie down, Pauncefort. Give me the key.'

And Lady Annabel proceeded alone to the forbidden chamber, that
chamber which, after what has occurred, we may now enter with her, and
where, with so much labour, she had created a room exactly imitative
of their bridal apartment at her husband's castle. With a slow but
resolved step she entered the apartment, and proceeding immediately to
the table, took up the book; it opened at the stanzas to Venetia. The
pages had recently been bedewed with tears. Lady Annabel then looked
at the bridal bed, and marked the missing rose in the garland: it was
as she expected. She seated herself then in the chair opposite the
portrait, on which she gazed with a glance rather stern than fond.

'Marmion,' she exclaimed, 'for fifteen years, a solitary votary,
I have mourned over, in this temple of baffled affections, the
inevitable past. The daughter of our love has found her way, perhaps
by an irresistible destiny, to a spot sacred to my long-concealed
sorrows. At length she knows her father. May she never know more! May
she never learn that the being, whose pictured form has commanded her
adoration, is unworthy of those glorious gifts that a gracious Creator
has bestowed upon him! Marmion, you seem to smile upon me; you seem
to exult in your triumph over the heart of your child. But there is a
power in a mother's love that yet shall baffle you. Hitherto I have
come here to deplore the past; hitherto I have come here to dwell
upon the form that, in spite of all that has happened, I still was,
perhaps, weak enough, to love. Those feelings are past for ever. Yes!
you would rob me of my child, you would tear from my heart the only
consolation you have left me. But Venetia shall still be mine; and
I, I am no longer yours. Our love, our still lingering love, has
vanished. You have been my enemy, now I am yours. I gaze upon your
portrait for the last time; and thus I prevent the magical fascination
of that face again appealing to the sympathies of my child. Thus and
thus!' She seized the ancient dagger that we have mentioned as lying
on the volume, and, springing on the chair, she plunged it into the
canvas; then, tearing with unflinching resolution the severed parts,
she scattered the fragments over the chamber, shook into a thousand
leaves the melancholy garland, tore up the volume of his enamoured
Muse, and then quitting the chamber, and locking and double locking
the door, she descended the staircase, and proceeding to the great
well of Cherbury, hurled into it the fatal key.

'Oh! my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort, as she met Lady Annabel
returning in the vestibule, 'Doctor Masham is here.'

'Is he?' said Lady Annabel, as calm as usual. 'I will see him before I
lie down. Do not go into Venetia's room. She sleeps, and Mr. Hawkins
has promised me to let me know when she wakes.'

CHAPTER VIII.

As Lady Annabel entered the terrace-room, Doctor Masham came forward
and grasped her hand.

'You have heard of our sorrow!' said her ladyship in a faint voice.

'But this instant,' replied the Doctor, in a tone of great anxiety.'
Immediate danger--'

'Is past. She sleeps,' replied Lady Annabel.

'A most sudden and unaccountable attack,' said the Doctor.

It is difficult to describe the contending emotions of the mother as
her companion made this observation. At length she replied, 'Sudden,
certainly sudden; but not unaccountable. Oh! my friend,' she added,
after a moment's pause, 'they will not be content until they have torn
my daughter from me.'

'They tear your daughter from you!' exclaimed Doctor Masham. 'Who?'

'He, he,' muttered Lady Annabel; her speech was incoherent, her manner
very disturbed.

'My dear lady,' said the Doctor, gazing on her with extreme anxiety,
'you are yourself unwell.'

Lady Annabel heaved a deep sigh; the Doctor bore her to a seat. 'Shall
I send for any one, anything?'

'No one, no one,' quickly answered Lady Annabel. 'With you, at least,
there is no concealment necessary.'

She leant back in her chair, the Doctor holding her hand, and standing
by her side.

Still Lady Annabel continued sighing deeply: at length she looked up
and said, 'Does she love me? Do you think, after all, she loves me?'

'Venetia?' inquired the Doctor, in a low and doubtful voice, for he
was greatly perplexed.

'She has seen him; she loves him; she has forgotten her mother.'

'My dear lady, you require rest,' said Doctor Masham. 'You are
overcome with strange fancies. Whom has your daughter seen?'

'Marmion.'

'Impossible! you forget he is--'

'Here also. He has spoken to her: she loves him: she will recover: she
will fly to him; sooner let us both die!'

'Dear lady!'

'She knows everything. Fate has baffled me; we cannot struggle with
fate. She is his child; she is like him; she is not like her mother.
Oh! she hates me; I know she hates me.'

'Hush! hush! hush!' said the Doctor, himself very agitated. 'Venetia
loves you, only you. Why should she love any one else?'

'Who can help it? I loved him. I saw him. I loved him. His voice was
music. He has spoken to her, and she yielded: she yielded in a moment.
I stood by her bedside. She would not speak to me; she would not know
me; she shrank from me. Her heart is with her father: only with him.'

'Where did she see him? How?'

'His room: his picture. She knows all. I was away with you, and she
entered his chamber.'

'Ah!'

'Oh! Doctor, you have influence with her. Speak to her. Make her love
me! Tell her she has no father; tell her he is dead.'

'We will do that which is well and wise,' replied Doctor Masham: 'at
present let us be calm; if you give way, her life may be the forfeit.
Now is the moment for a mother's love.'

'You are right. I should not have left her for an instant. I would not
have her wake and find her mother not watching over her. But I was
tempted. She slept; I left her for a moment; I went to destroy the
spell. She cannot see him again. No one shall see him again. It was my
weakness, the weakness of long years; and now I am its victim.'

'Nay, nay, my sweet lady, all will be quite well. Be but calm; Venetia
will recover.'

'But will she love me? Oh! no, no, no! She will think only of him. She
will not love her mother. She will yearn for her father now. She has
seen him, and she will not rest until she is in his arms. She will
desert me, I know it.'

'And I know the contrary,' said the Doctor, attempting to reassure
her; 'I will answer for Venetia's devotion to you. Indeed she has no
thought but your happiness, and can love only you. When there is
a fitting time, I will speak to her; but now, now is the time for
repose. And you must rest, you must indeed.'

'Rest! I cannot. I slumbered in the chair last night by her bedside,
and a voice roused me. It was her own. She was speaking to her father.
She told him how she loved him; how long, how much she thought of him;
that she would join him when she was well, for she knew he was not
dead; and, if he were dead, she would die also. She never mentioned
me.'

'Nay! the light meaning of a delirious brain.' 'Truth, truth, bitter,
inevitable truth. Oh! Doctor, I could bear all but this; but my child,
my beautiful fond child, that made up for all my sorrows. My joy, my
hope, my life! I knew it would be so; I knew he would have her heart.
He said she never could be alienated from him; he said she never
could be taught to hate him. I did not teach her to hate him. I said
nothing. I deemed, fond, foolish mother, that the devotion of my life
might bind her to me. But what is a mother's love? I cannot contend
with him. He gained the mother; he will gain the daughter too.'

'God will guard over you,' said Masham, with streaming eyes; 'God will
not desert a pious and virtuous woman.'

'I must go,' said Lady Annabel, attempting to rise, but the Doctor
gently controlled her; 'perhaps she is awake, and I am not at her
side. She will not ask for me, she will ask for him; but I will be
there; she will desert me, but she shall not say I ever deserted her.'

'She will never desert you,' said the Doctor; 'my life on her pure
heart. She has been a child of unbroken love and duty; still she
will remain so. Her mind is for a moment overpowered by a marvellous
discovery. She will recover, and be to you as she was before.'

'We'll tell her he is dead,' said Lady Annabel, eagerly. 'You must
tell her. She will believe you. I cannot speak to her of him; no, not
to secure her heart; never, never, never can I speak to Venetia of her
father.'

'I will speak,' replied the Doctor, 'at the just time. Now let us
think of her recovery. She is no longer in danger. We should be
grateful, we should be glad.'

'Let us pray to God! Let us humble ourselves,' said Lady Annabel. 'Let
us beseech him not to desert this house. We have been faithful to him,
we have struggled to be faithful to him. Let us supplicate him to
favour and support us!'

'He will favour and support you,' said the Doctor, in a solemn tone.
'He has upheld you in many trials; he will uphold you still.'

'Ah! why did I love him! Why did I continue to love him! How weak, how
foolish, how mad I have been! I have alone been the cause of all this
misery. Yes, I have destroyed my child.'

'She lives, she will live. Nay, nay! you must reassure yourself. Come,
let me send for your servant, and for a moment repose. Nay! take my
arm. All depends upon you. We have great cares now; let us not conjure
up fantastic fears.'

'I must go to my daughter's room. Perhaps by her side I might rest.
Nowhere else. You will attend me to the door, my friend. Yes! it is
something in this life to have a friend.'

Lady Annabel took the arm of the good Masham. They stopped at her
daughter's door.

'Rest here a moment,' she said, as she entered the room without a
sound. In a moment she returned. 'She still sleeps,' said the mother;
'I shall remain with her, and you--?'

'I will not leave you,' said the Doctor, 'but think not of me. Nay! I
will not leave you. I will remain under this roof. I have shared its
serenity and joy; let me not avoid it in this time of trouble and
tribulation.'

CHAPTER IX.

Venetia still slept: her mother alone in the chamber watched by her
side. Some hours had elapsed since her interview with Dr. Masham; the
medical attendant had departed for a few hours.

Suddenly Venetia moved, opened her eyes, and said in a faint voice,
'Mamma!'

The blood rushed to Lady Annabel's heart. That single word afforded
her the most exquisite happiness.

'I am here, dearest,' she replied.

'Mamma, what is all this?' inquired Venetia.

'You have not been well, my own, but now you are much better.'

'I thought I had been dreaming,' replied Venetia, 'and that all was
not right; somebody, I thought, struck me on my head. But all is right
now, because you are here, my dear mamma.'

But Lady Annabel could not speak for weeping.

'Are you sure, mamma, that nothing has been done to my head?'
continued Venetia. 'Why, what is this?' and she touched a light
bandage on her brow.

'My darling, you have been ill, and you have lost blood; but now you
are getting quite well. I have been very unhappy about you; but now I
am quite happy, my sweet, sweet child.'

'How long have I been ill?'

'You have been very ill indeed for four or five days; you have had a
fever, Venetia; but now the fever is gone; and you are only a little
weak, and you will soon be well.'

'A fever! and how did I get the fever?'

'Perhaps you caught cold, my child; but we must not talk too much.'

'A fever! I never had a fever before. A fever is like a dream.'

'Hush! sweet love. Indeed you must not speak.'

'Give me your hand, mamma; I will not speak if you will let me hold
your hand. I thought in the fever that we were parted.'

'I have never left your side, my child, day or night,' said Lady
Annabel, not without agitation.

'All this time! all these days and nights! No one would do that but
you, mamma. You think only of me.'

'You repay me by your love, Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, feeling that
her daughter ought not to speak, yet irresistibly impelled to lead out
her thoughts.

'How can I help loving you, my dear mamma?'

'You do love me, you do love me very much; do you not, sweet child?'

'Better than all the world,' replied Venetia to her enraptured parent.
'And yet, in the fever I seemed to love some one else: but fevers are
like dreams; they are not true.'

Lady Annabel pressed her lips gently to her daughter's, and whispered
her that she must speak no more.

When Mr. Hawkins returned, he gave a favourable report of Venetia. He
said that all danger was now past, and that all that was required for
her recovery were time, care, and repose. He repeated to Lady Annabel
alone that the attack was solely to be ascribed to some great mental
shock which her daughter had received, and which suddenly had affected
her circulation; leaving it, after this formal intimation, entirely to
the mother to take those steps in reference to the cause, whatever it
might be, which she should deem expedient.

In the evening, Lady Annabel stole down for a few moments to Dr.
Masham, laden with joyful intelligence; assured of the safety of her
child, and, what was still more precious, of her heart, and even
voluntarily promising her friend that she should herself sleep
this night in her daughter's chamber, on the sofa-bed. The Doctor,
therefore, now bade her adieu, and said that he should ride over from
Marringhurst every day, to hear how their patient was proceeding.

From this time, the recovery of Venetia, though slow, was gradual. She
experienced no relapse, and in a few weeks quitted her bed. She was
rather surprised at her altered appearance when it first met her
glance in the mirror, but scarcely made any observation on the loss of
her locks. During this interval, the mind of Venetia had been quite
dormant; the rage of the fever, and the violent remedies to which it
had been necessary to have recourse, had so exhausted her, that she
had not energy enough to think. All that she felt was a strange
indefinite conviction that some occurrence had taken place with which
her memory could not grapple. But as her strength returned, and as she
gradually resumed her usual health, by proportionate though almost
invisible degrees her memory returned to her, and her intelligence.
She clearly recollected and comprehended what had taken place. She
recalled the past, compared incidents, weighed circumstances, sifted
and balanced the impressions that now crowded upon her consciousness.
It is difficult to describe each link in the metaphysical chain which
at length connected the mind of Venetia Herbert with her actual
experience and precise situation. It was, however, at length perfect,
and gradually formed as she sat in an invalid chair, apparently
listless, not yet venturing on any occupation, or occasionally amused
for a moment by her mother reading to her. But when her mind had thus
resumed its natural tone, and in time its accustomed vigour, the past
demanded all her solicitude. At length the mystery of her birth was
revealed to her. She was the daughter of Marmion Herbert; and who was
Marmion Herbert? The portrait rose before her. How distinct was the
form, how definite the countenance! No common personage was Marmion
Herbert, even had he not won his wife, and celebrated his daughter in
such witching strains. Genius was stamped on his lofty brow, and spoke
in his brilliant eye; nobility was in all his form. This chivalric
poet was her father. She had read, she had dreamed of such beings, she
had never seen them. If she quitted the solitude in which she lived,
would she see men like her father? No other could ever satisfy her
imagination; all beneath that standard would rank but as imperfect
creations in her fancy. And this father, he was dead. No doubt.
Ah! was there indeed no doubt? Eager as was her curiosity on this
all-absorbing subject, Venetia could never summon courage to speak
upon it to her mother. Her first disobedience, or rather her first
deception of her mother, in reference to this very subject, had
brought, and brought so swiftly on its retributive wings, such
disastrous consequences, that any allusion to Lady Annabel was
restrained by a species of superstitious fear, against which Venetia
could not contend. Then her father was either dead or living. That was
certain. If dead, it was clear that his memory, however cherished by
his relict, was associated with feelings too keen to admit of any
other but solitary indulgence. If living, there was a mystery
connected with her parents, a mystery evidently of a painful
character, and one which it was a prime object with her mother to
conceal and to suppress. Could Venetia, then, in defiance of that
mother, that fond devoted mother, that mother who had watched through
long days and long nights over her sick bed, and who now, without a
murmur, was a prisoner to this very room, only to comfort and console
her child: could Venetia take any step which might occasion this
matchless parent even a transient pang? No; it was impossible. To her
mother she could never speak. And yet, to remain enveloped in the
present mystery, she was sensible, was equally insufferable. All she
asked, all she wanted to know, was he alive? If he were alive, then,
although she could not see him, though she might never see him, she
could exist upon his idea; she could conjure up romances of future
existence with him; she could live upon the fond hope of some day
calling him father, and receiving from his hands the fervid blessing
he had already breathed to her in song.

In the meantime her remaining parent commanded all her affections.
Even if he were no more, blessed was her lot with such a mother! Lady
Annabel seemed only to exist to attend upon her daughter. No lover
ever watched with such devotion the wants or even the caprices of his
mistress. A thousand times every day Venetia found herself expressing
her fondness and her gratitude. It seemed that the late dreadful
contingency of losing her daughter had developed in Lady Annabel's
heart even additional powers of maternal devotion; and Venetia, the
fond and grateful Venetia, ignorant of the strange past, which she
believed she so perfectly comprehended, returned thanks to Heaven that
her mother was at least spared the mortification of knowing that her
daughter, in her absence, had surreptitiously invaded the sanctuary of
her secret sorrow.

CHAPTER X.

When Venetia had so far recovered that, leaning on her mother's arm,
she could resume her walks upon the terrace, Doctor Masham persuaded
his friends, as a slight and not unpleasant change of scene, to pay
him a visit at Marringhurst. Since the chamber scene, indeed, Lady
Annabel's tie to Cherbury was much weakened. There were certain
feelings of pain, and fear, and mortification, now associated with
that place which she could not bear to dwell upon, and which greatly
balanced those sentiments of refuge and repose, of peace and love,
with which the old hall, in her mind, was heretofore connected.
Venetia ever adopted the slightest intimations of a wish on the part
of her mother, and so she readily agreed to fall into the arrangement.

It was rather a long and rough journey to Marringhurst, for they were
obliged to use the old chariot; but Venetia forgot her fatigues in
the cordial welcome of their host, whose sparkling countenance well
expressed the extreme gratification their arrival occasioned him.
All that the tenderest solicitude could devise for the agreeable
accommodation of the invalid had been zealously concerted; and the
constant influence of Dr. Masham's cheerful mind was as beneficial to
Lady Annabel as to her daughter. The season was gay, the place was
pleasant; and although they were only a few miles from home, in a
house with which they were familiar, and their companion one whom they
had known intimately all their lives, and of late almost daily seen;
yet such is the magic of a change in our habits, however slight, and
of the usual theatre of their custom, that this visit to Marringhurst
assumed quite the air of an adventure, and seemed at first almost
invested with the charm and novelty of travel.

The surrounding country, which, though verdant, was flat, was well
adapted to the limited exertions and still feeble footsteps of an
invalid, and Venetia began to study botany with the Doctor, who indeed
was not very profound in his attainments in this respect, but knew
quite enough to amuse his scholar. By degrees also, as her strength
daily increased, they extended their walks; and at length she even
mounted her pony, and was fast recovering her elasticity both of body
and mind. There were also many pleasant books with which she was
unacquainted; a cabinet of classic coins, prints, and pictures. She
became, too, interested in the Doctor's rural pursuits; would watch
him with his angle, and already meditated a revolution in his garden.
So time, on the whole, flew cheerfully on, certainly without
any weariness; and the day seldom passed that they did not all
congratulate themselves on the pleasant and profitable change.

In the meantime Venetia, when alone, still recurred to that idea that
was now so firmly rooted in her mind, that it was quite out of the
power of any social discipline to divert her attention from it. She
was often the sole companion of the Doctor, and she had long resolved
to seize a favourable opportunity to appeal to him on the subject of
her father. It so happened that she was walking alone with him one
morning in the neighbourhood of Marringhurst, having gone to visit the
remains of a Roman encampment in the immediate vicinity. When they had
arrived at the spot, and the Doctor had delivered his usual lecture on
the locality, they sat down together on a mound, that Venetia might
rest herself.

'Were you ever in Italy, Doctor Masham?' said Venetia.

'I never was out of my native country,' said the Doctor. 'I once,
indeed, was about making the grand tour with a pupil of mine at
Oxford, but circumstances interfered which changed his plans, and so I
remain a regular John Bull.'

'Was my father at Oxford?' said Venetia, quietly.

'He was,' replied the Doctor, looking confused.

'I should like to see Oxford much,' said Venetia.

'It is a most interesting seat of learning,' said the Doctor, quite
delighted to change the subject. 'Whether we consider its antiquity,
its learning, the influence it has exercised upon the history of the
country, its magnificent endowments, its splendid buildings, its great
colleges, libraries, and museums, or that it is one of the principal
head-quarters of all the hope of England, our youth, it is not too
much to affirm that there is scarcely a spot on the face of the globe
of equal interest and importance.'

'It is not for its colleges, or libraries, or museums, or all its
splendid buildings,' observed Venetia, 'that I should wish to see it.
I wish to see it because my father was once there. I should like to
see a place where I was quite certain my father had been.'

'Still harping of her father,' thought the Doctor to himself, and
growing uneasy; yet, from his very anxiety to turn the subject, quite
incapable of saying an appropriate word.

'Do you remember my father at Oxford, Doctor Masham?' said Venetia.

'Yes! no, yes!' said the Doctor, rather colouring; 'that he must have
been there in my time, I rather think.'

'But you do not recollect him?' said Venetia, pressing question.

'Why,' rejoined the Doctor, a little more collected, 'when you
remember that there are between two and three thousand young men at
the university, you must not consider it very surprising that I might
not recollect your father.'

'No,' said Venetia, 'perhaps not: and yet I cannot help thinking that
he must always have been a person who, if once seen, would not easily
have been forgotten.'

'Here is an Erica vagans,' said the Doctor, picking a flower; 'it
is rather uncommon about here;' and handing it at the same time to
Venetia.

'My father must have been very young when he died?' said Venetia,
scarcely looking at the flower.

'Yes, your father was very young,' he replied.

'Where did he die?'

'I cannot answer that question.'

'Where was he buried?'

'You know, my dear young lady, that the subject is too tender for any
one to converse with your poor mother upon it. It is not in my power
to give you the information you desire. Be satisfied, my dear Miss
Herbert, that a gracious Providence has spared to you one parent, and
one so inestimable.'

'I trust I know how to appreciate so great a blessing,' replied
Venetia; 'but I should be sorry if the natural interest which all
children must take in those who have given them birth, should be
looked upon as idle and unjustifiable curiosity.'

'My dear young lady, you misapprehend me.'

'No, Doctor Masham, indeed I do not,' replied Venetia, with firmness.
'I can easily conceive that the mention of my father may for various
reasons be insupportable to my mother; it is enough for me that I am
convinced such is the case: my lips are sealed to her for ever upon
the subject; but I cannot recognise the necessity of this constraint
to others. For a long time I was kept in ignorance whether I had
a father or not. I have discovered, no matter how, who he was. I
believe, pardon me, my dearest friend, I cannot help believing, that
you were acquainted, or, at least, that you know something of him; and
I entreat you! yes,' repeated Venetia with great emphasis, laying
her hand upon his arm, and looking with earnestness in his face, 'I
entreat you, by all your kind feelings to my mother and myself, by all
that friendship we so prize, by the urgent solicitation of a daughter
who is influenced in her curiosity by no light or unworthy feeling;
yes! by all the claims of a child to information which ought not to be
withheld from her, tell me, tell me all, tell me something! Speak, Dr.
Masham, do speak!'

'My dear young lady,' said the Doctor, with a glistening eye, 'it is
better that we should both be silent.'

'No, indeed,' replied Venetia, 'it is not better; it is not well that
we should be silent. Candour is a great virtue. There is a charm, a
healthy charm, in frankness. Why this mystery? Why these secrets? Have
they worked good? Have they benefited us? O! my friend, I would not
say so to my mother, I would not be tempted by any sufferings to pain
for an instant her pure and affectionate heart; but indeed, Doctor
Masham, indeed, indeed, what I tell you is true, all my late illness,
my present state, all, all are attributable but to one cause, this
mystery about my father!'

'What can I tell you?' said the unhappy Masham.

'Tell me only one fact. I ask no more. Yes! I promise you, solemnly I
promise you, I will ask no more. Tell me, does he live?'

'He does!' said the Doctor. Venetia sank upon his shoulder.

'My dear young lady, my darling young lady!' said the Doctor; 'she has
fainted. What can I do?' The unfortunate Doctor placed Venetia in a
reclining posture, and hurried to a brook that was nigh, and brought
water in his hand to sprinkle on her. She revived; she made a struggle
to restore herself.

'It is nothing,' she said, 'I am resolved to be well. I am well. I am
myself again. He lives; my father lives! I was confident of it! I will
ask no more. I am true to my word. O! Doctor Masham, you have always
been my kind friend, but you have never yet conferred on me a favour
like the one you have just bestowed.'

'But it is well,' said the Doctor, 'as you know so much, that you
should know more.'

'Yes! yes!'

'As we walk along,' he continued, 'we will converse, or at another
time; there is no lack of opportunity.'

'No, now, now!' eagerly exclaimed Venetia, 'I am quite well. It was
not pain or illness that overcame me. Now let us walk, now let us talk
of these things. He lives?'

'I have little to add,' said Dr. Masham, after a moment's thought;
'but this, however painful, it is necessary for you to know, that your
father is unworthy of your mother, utterly; they are separated; they
never can be reunited.'

'Never?' said Venetia.

'Never,' replied Dr. Masham; 'and I now warn you; if, indeed, as I
cannot doubt, you love your mother; if her peace of mind and happiness
are, as I hesitate not to believe, the principal objects of your life,
upon this subject with her be for ever silent. Seek to penetrate no
mysteries, spare all allusions, banish, if possible, the idea of your
father from your memory. Enough, you know he lives. We know no more.
Your mother labours to forget him; her only consolation for sorrows
such as few women ever experienced, is her child, yourself, your love.
Now be no niggard with it. Cling to this unrivalled parent, who has
dedicated her life to you. Soothe her sufferings, endeavour to make
her share your happiness; but, of this be certain, that if you
raise up the name and memory of your father between your mother and
yourself, her life will be the forfeit!'

'His name shall never pass my lips,' said Venetia; 'solemnly I vow it.
That his image shall be banished from my heart is too much to ask, and
more than it is in my power to grant. But I am my mother's child. I
will exist only for her; and if my love can console her, she shall
never be without solace. I thank you, Doctor, for all your kindness.
We will never talk again upon the subject; yet, believe me, you have
acted wisely, you have done good.'

CHAPTER XI.

Venetia observed her promise to Doctor Masham with strictness. She
never alluded to her father, and his name never escaped her mother's
lips. Whether Doctor Masham apprised Lady Annabel of the conversation
that had taken place between himself and her daughter, it is not in
our power to mention. The visit to Marringhurst was not a short one.
It was a relief both to Lady Annabel and Venetia, after all that had
occurred, to enjoy the constant society of their friend; and this
change of life, though apparently so slight, proved highly beneficial
to Venetia. She daily recovered her health, and a degree of mental
composure which she had not for some time enjoyed. On the whole she
was greatly satisfied with the discoveries which she had made. She had
ascertained the name and the existence of her father: his very form
and appearance were now no longer matter for conjecture; and in a
degree she had even communicated with him. Time, she still believed,
would develope even further wonders. She clung to an irresistible
conviction that she should yet see him; that he might even again
be united to her mother. She indulged in dreams as to his present
pursuits and position; she repeated to herself his verses, and
remembered his genius with pride and consolation.

They returned to Cherbury, they resumed the accustomed tenour of their
lives, as if nothing had occurred to disturb it. The fondness between
the mother and her daughter was unbroken and undiminished. They shared
again the same studies and the same amusements. Lady Annabel perhaps
indulged the conviction that Venetia had imbibed the belief that her
father was no more, and yet in truth that father was the sole idea on
which her child ever brooded. Venetia had her secret now; and often
as she looked up at the windows of the uninhabited portion of the
building, she remembered with concealed, but not less keen exultation,
that she had penetrated their mystery. She could muse for hours over
all that chamber had revealed to her, and indulge in a thousand
visions, of which her father was the centre. She was his 'own
Venetia.' Thus he had hailed her at her birth, and thus he might yet
again acknowledge her. If she could only ascertain where he existed!
What if she could, and she were to communicate with him? He must love
her. Her heart assured her he must love her. She could not believe,
if they were to meet, that his breast could resist the silent appeal
which the sight merely of his only child would suffice to make. Oh!
why had her parents parted? What could have been his fault? He was so
young! But a few, few years older than herself, when her mother must
have seen him for the last time. Yes! for the last time beheld that
beautiful form, and that countenance that seemed breathing only with
genius and love. He might have been imprudent, rash, violent; but
she would not credit for an instant that a stain could attach to the
honour or the spirit of Marmion Herbert.

The summer wore away. One morning, as Lady Annabel and Venetia were
sitting together, Mistress Pauncefort bustled into the room with
a countenance radiant with smiles and wonderment. Her ostensible
business was to place upon the table a vase of flowers, but it was
evident that her presence was occasioned by affairs of far greater
urgency. The vase was safely deposited; Mistress Pauncefort gave the
last touch to the arrangement of the flowers; she lingered about Lady
Annabel. At length she said, 'I suppose you have heard the news, my
lady?'

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

'My lord is coming to the abbey.'

'Indeed!'

'Oh! yes, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort; 'I am not at all
surprised your ladyship should be so astonished. Never to write, too!
Well, I must say he might have given us a line. But he is coming, I am
certain sure of that, my lady. My lord's gentleman has been down these
two days; and all his dogs and guns too, my lady. And the keeper is
ordered to be quite ready, my lady, for the first. I wonder if there
is going to be a party. I should not be at all surprised.'

'Plantagenet returned!' said Lady Annabel. 'Well, I shall be very glad
to see him again.'

'So shall I, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort; 'but I dare say we
shall hardly know him again, he must be so grown. Trimmer has been
over to the abbey, my lady, and saw my lord's valet. Quite the fine
gentleman, Trimmer says. I was thinking of walking over myself this
afternoon, to see poor Mrs. Quin, my lady; I dare say we might be
of use, and neighbours should be handy, as they say. She is a very
respectable woman, poor Mrs. Quin, and I am sure for my part, if your
ladyship has no objection, I should be very glad to be of service to
her.'

'I have of course no objection, Pauncefort, to your being of service
to the housekeeper, but has she required your assistance?'

'Why no, my lady, but poor Mrs. Quin would hardly like to ask for
anything, my lady; but I am sure we might be of very great use, for
my lord's gentleman seems very dissatisfied at his reception, Trimmer
says. He has his hot breakfast every morning, my lady, and poor Mrs.
Quin says--'

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

'We have almost forgotten Plantagenet, Venetia,' added Lady Annabel,
addressing herself to her daughter.

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

END OF BOOK II

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

Five years had elapsed since Lord Cadurcis had quitted the seat of his
fathers, nor did the fair inhabitants of Cherbury hear of his return
without emotion. Although the intercourse between them during this
interval had from the first been too slightly maintained, and of late
years had entirely died off, his return was, nevertheless, an event
which recalled old times and revived old associations. His visit to
the hall was looked forward to with interest. He did not long keep his
former friends in suspense; for although he was not uninfluenced by
some degree of embarrassment from the consciousness of neglect on his
side, rendered more keen now that he again found himself in the scene
endeared by the remembrance of their kindness, he was, nevertheless,
both too well bred and too warm-hearted to procrastinate the
performance of a duty which the regulations of society and natural
impulse alike assured him was indispensable. On the very morning,
therefore, after his arrival, having sauntered awhile over the old
abbey and strolled over the park, mused over his mother's tomb with
emotion, not the less deep because there was no outward and visible
sign of its influence, he ordered his horses, and directed his way
through the accustomed woods to Cherbury.

Five years had not passed away without their effects at least upon the
exterior being of Cadurcis. Although still a youth, his appearance
was manly. A thoughtful air had become habitual to a countenance
melancholy even in his childhood. Nor was its early promise of beauty
unfulfilled; although its expression was peculiar, and less pleasing
than impressive. His long dark locks shaded a pale and lofty brow that
well became a cast of features delicately moulded, yet reserved and
haughty, and perhaps even somewhat scornful. His figure had set into a
form of remarkable slightness and elegance, and distinguished for
its symmetry. Altogether his general mien was calculated to attract
attention and to excite interest.

His vacations while at Eton had been spent by Lord Cadurcis in the
family of his noble guardian, one of the king's ministers. Here he had
been gradually initiated in the habits and manners of luxurious and
refined society. Since he had quitted Eton he had passed a season,
previous to his impending residence at Cambridge, in the same sphere.
The opportunities thus offered had not been lost upon a disposition
which, with all its native reserve, was singularly susceptible.
Cadurcis had quickly imbibed the tone and adopted the usages of
the circle in which he moved. Naturally impatient of control, he
endeavoured by his precocious manhood to secure the respect and
independence which would scarcely have been paid or permitted to his
years. From an early period he never permitted himself to be treated
as a boy; and his guardian, a man whose whole soul was concentred in
the world, humoured a bent which he approved and from which he augured
the most complete success. Attracted by the promising talents and the
premature character of his ward, he had spared more time to assist the
development of his mind and the formation of his manners than might
have been expected from a minister of state. His hopes, indeed, rested
with confidence on his youthful relative, and he looked forward with
no common emotion to the moment when he should have the honour of
introducing to public life one calculated to confer so much credit
on his tutor, and shed so much lustre on his party. The reader will,
therefore, not be surprised if at this then unrivalled period of
political excitement, when the existence of our colonial empire was
at stake, Cadurcis, with his impetuous feelings, had imbibed to
their fullest extent all the plans, prejudices, and passions of his
political connections. He was, indeed, what the circumstances of the
times and his extreme youth might well excuse, if not justify, a most
violent partisan. Bold, sanguine, resolute, and intolerant, it was
difficult to persuade him that any opinions could be just which were
opposed to those of the circle in which he lived; and out of that
pale, it must be owned, he was as little inclined to recognise the
existence of ability as of truth.

As Lord Cadurcis slowly directed his way through the woods and park of
Cherbury, past years recurred to him like a faint yet pleasing dream.
Among these meads and bowers had glided away the only happy years of
his boyhood, the only period of his early life to which he could look
back without disgust. He recalled the secret exultation with which, in
company with his poor mother, he had first repaired to Cadurcis, about
to take possession of what, to his inexperienced imagination, then
appeared a vast and noble inheritance, and for the first time in his
life to occupy a position not unworthy of his rank. For how many
domestic mortifications did the first sight of that old abbey
compensate! How often, in pacing its venerable galleries and solemn
cloisters, and musing over the memory of an ancient and illustrious
ancestry, had he forgotten those bitter passages of daily existence,
so humbling to his vanity and so harassing to his heart! Ho had beheld
that morn, after an integral of many years, the tomb of his mother.
That simple and solitary monument had revived and impressed upon him a
conviction that too easily escaped in the various life and busy scenes
in which he had since moved, the conviction of his worldly desolation
and utter loneliness. He had no parents, no relations; now that he was
for a moment free from the artificial life in which he had of late
mingled, he felt that he had no friends. The image of his mother came
back to him, softened by the magical tint of years; after all she was
his mother, and a deep sharer in all his joys and woes. Transported to
the old haunts of his innocent and warm-hearted childhood. He sighed
for a finer and a sweeter sympathy than was ever yielded by the roof
which he had lately quitted; a habitation, but not a home. He conjured
up the picture of his guardian, existing in a whirl of official bustle
and social excitement. A dreamy reminiscence of finer impulses stole
over the heart of Cadurcis. The dazzling pageant of metropolitan
splendour faded away before the bright scene of nature that surrounded
him. He felt the freshness of the fragrant breeze; he gazed with
admiration on the still and ancient woods, and his pure and lively
blood bubbled beneath the influence of the golden sunbeams. Before him
rose the halls of Cherbury, that roof where he had been so happy, that
roof to which he had appeared so ungrateful. The memory of a thousand
acts of kindness, of a thousand soft and soothing traits of affection,
recurred to him with a freshness which startled as much as it pleased
him. Not to him only, but to his mother, that mother whose loss he had
lived to deplore, had the inmates of Cherbury been ministering angels
of peace and joy. Oh! that indeed had been a home; there indeed had
been days of happiness; there indeed he had found sympathy, and
solace, and succour! And now he was returning to them a stranger, to
fulfil one of the formal duties of society in paying them his cold
respects; an attention which he could scarcely have avoided offering
had he been to them the merest acquaintance, instead of having found
within those walls a home not merely in words, but friendship the most
delicate and love the most pure, a second parent, and the only being
whom he had ever styled sister!

The sight of Cadurcis became dim with emotion as the associations of
old scenes and his impending interview with Venetia brought back
the past with a power which he had rarely experienced in the
playing-fields of Eton, or the saloons of London. Five years! It was
an awful chasm in their acquaintance.

He despaired of reviving the kindness which had been broken by such a
dreary interval, and broken on his side so wilfully; and yet he
began to feel that unless met with that kindness he should be very
miserable. Sooth to say, he was not a little embarrassed, and scarcely
knew which contingency he most desired, to meet, or to escape from
her. He almost repented his return to Cadurcis, and yet to see Venetia
again he felt must be exquisite pleasure. Influenced by these feelings
he arrived at the hall steps, and so, dismounting and giving his horse
to his groom, Cadurcis, with a palpitating heart and faltering hand,
formally rang the bell of that hall which in old days he entered at
all seasons without ceremony.

Never perhaps did a man feel more nervous; he grew pale, paler even
than usual, and his whole frame trembled as the approaching footstep
of the servant assured him the door was about to open. He longed now
that the family might not be at home, that he might at least gain
four-and-twenty hours to prepare himself. But the family were at home
and he was obliged to enter. He stopped for a moment in the hall under
the pretence of examining the old familiar scene, but it was merely to
collect himself, for his sight was clouded; spoke to the old servant,
to reassure himself by the sound of his own voice, but the husky words
seemed to stick in his throat; ascended the staircase with tottering
steps, and leant against the banister as he heard his name announced.
The effort, however, must be made; it was too late to recede; and Lord
Cadurcis, entering the terrace-room, extended his hand to Lady Annabel
Herbert. She was not in the least changed, but looked as beautiful and
serene as usual. Her salutation, though far from deficient in warmth,
was a little more dignified than that which Plantagenet remembered;
but still her presence reassured him, and while he pressed her hand
with earnestness he contrived to murmur forth with pleasing emotion,
his delight at again meeting her. Strange to say, in the absorbing
agitation of the moment, all thought of Venetia had vanished; and
it was when he had turned and beheld a maiden of the most exquisite
beauty that his vision had ever lighted on, who had just risen from
her seat and was at the moment saluting him, that he entirely lost his
presence of mind; he turned scarlet, was quite silent, made an awkward
bow, and then stood perfectly fixed.

'My daughter,' said Lady Annabel, slightly pointing to Venetia; 'will
not you be seated?'

Cadurcis fell into a chair in absolute confusion. The rare and
surpassing beauty of Venetia, his own stupidity, his admiration of
her, his contempt for himself, the sight of the old chamber, the
recollection of the past, the minutest incidents of which seemed all
suddenly to crowd upon his memory, the painful consciousness of the
revolution which had occurred in his position in the family, proved by
his first being obliged to be introduced to Venetia, and then
being addressed so formally by his title by her mother; all these
impressions united overcame him; he could not speak, he sat silent and
confounded; and had it not been for the imperturbable self-composure
and delicate and amiable consideration of Lady Annabel, it would
have been impossible for him to have remained in a room where he
experienced agonising embarrassment.

Under cover, however, of a discharge of discreet inquiries as to when
he arrived, how long he meant to stay, whether he found Cadurcis
altered, and similar interrogations which required no extraordinary
exertion of his lordship's intellect to answer, but to which he
nevertheless contrived to give inconsistent and contradictory
responses, Cadurcis in time recovered himself sufficiently to maintain
a fair though not very brilliant conversation, and even ventured
occasionally to address an observation to Venetia, who was seated at
her work perfectly composed, but who replied to all his remarks with
the same sweet voice and artless simplicity which had characterised
her childhood, though time and thought had, by their blended
influence, perhaps somewhat deprived her of that wild grace and
sparkling gaiety for which she was once so eminent.

These great disenchanters of humanity, if indeed they had stolen away
some of the fascinating qualities of infancy, had amply recompensed
Venetia Herbert for the loss by the additional and commanding charms
which they had conferred on her. From a beautiful child she had
expanded into a most beautiful woman. She had now entirely recovered
from her illness, of which the only visible effect was the addition
that it had made to her stature, already slightly above the middle
height, but of exquisite symmetry. Like her mother, she did not wear
powder, then usual in society; but her auburn hair, of the finest
texture, descended in long and luxuriant tresses far over her
shoulders, braided with ribands, perfectly exposing her pellucid brow,
here and there tinted with an undulating vein, for she had retained,
if possible with increased lustre, the dazzling complexion of her
infancy. If the rose upon the cheek were less vivid than of yore, the
dimples were certainly more developed; the clear grey eye was shadowed
by long dark lashes, and every smile and movement of those ruby lips
revealed teeth exquisitely small and regular, and fresh and brilliant
as pearls just plucked by a diver.

Conversation proceeded and improved. Cadurcis became more easy and
more fluent. His memory, which seemed suddenly to have returned to him
with unusual vigour, wonderfully served him. There was scarcely an
individual of whom he did not contrive to inquire, from Dr. Masham to
Mistress Pauncefort; he was resolved to show that if he had neglected,
he had at least not forgotten them. Nor did he exhibit the slightest
indication of terminating his visit; so that Lady Annabel, aware that
he was alone at the abbey and that he could have no engagement in the
neighbourhood, could not refrain from inviting him to remain and dine
with them. The invitation was accepted without hesitation. In due
course of time Cadurcis attended the ladies in their walk; it was a
delightful stroll in the park, though he felt some slight emotion when
he found himself addressing Venetia by the title of 'Miss Herbert.'
When he had exhausted all the topics of local interest, he had a great
deal to say about himself in answer to the inquiries of Lady Annabel.
He spoke with so much feeling and simplicity of his first days at
Eton, and the misery he experienced on first quitting Cherbury, that
his details could not fail of being agreeable to those whose natural
self-esteem they so agreeably mattered. Then he dwelt upon his casual
acquaintance with London society, and Lady Annabel was gratified to
observe, from many incidental observations, that his principles were
in every respect of the right tone; and that he had zealously enlisted
himself in the ranks of that national party who opposed themselves
to the disorganising opinions then afloat. He spoke of his impending
residence at the university with the affectionate anticipations which
might have been expected from a devoted child of the ancient and
orthodox institutions of his country, and seemed perfectly impressed
with the responsible duties for which he was destined, as an
hereditary legislator of England. On the whole, his carriage and
conversation afforded a delightful evidence of a pure, and earnest,
and frank, and gifted mind, that had acquired at an early age much of
the mature and fixed character of manhood, without losing anything
of that boyish sincerity and simplicity too often the penalty of
experience.

The dinner passed in pleasant conversation, and if they were no longer
familiar, they were at least cordial. Cadurcis spoke of Dr. Masham
with affectionate respect, and mentioned his intention of visiting
Marringhurst on the following day. He ventured to hope that Lady
Annabel and Miss Herbert might accompany him, and it was arranged that
his wish should be gratified. The evening drew on apace, and Lady
Annabel was greatly pleased when Lord Cadurcis expressed his wish to
remain for their evening prayers. He was indeed sincerely religious;
and as he knelt in the old chapel that had been the hallowed scene
of his boyish devotions, he offered his ardent thanksgivings to his
Creator who had mercifully kept his soul pure and true, and allowed
him, after so long an estrangement from the sweet spot of his
childhood, once more to mingle his supplications with his kind and
virtuous friends.

Influenced by the solemn sounds still lingering in his ear, Cadurcis
bade them farewell for the night, with an earnestness of manner and
depth of feeling which he would scarcely have ventured to exhibit at
their first meeting. 'Good night, dear Lady Annabel,' he said, as he
pressed her hand; 'you know not how happy, how grateful I feel, to be
once more at Cherbury. Good night, Venetia!'

That last word lingered on his lips; it was uttered in a tone at once
mournful and sweet, and her hand was unconsciously retained for a
moment in his; but for a moment; and yet in that brief instant a
thousand thoughts seemed to course through his brain.

Before Venetia retired to rest she remained for a few minutes in her
mother's room. 'What do you think of him, mamma?' she said; 'is he not
very changed?'

'He is, my love,' replied Lady Annabel; 'what I sometimes thought he
might, what I always hoped he would, be.'

'He really seemed happy to meet us again, and yet how strange that for
years he should never have communicated with us.'

'Not so very strange, my love! He was but a child when we parted, and
he has felt embarrassment in resuming connections which for a long
interval had been inevitably severed. Remember what a change his life
had to endure; few, after such an interval, would have returned with
feelings so kind and so pure!'

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

'I always fancied that I observed in him the seeds of great virtues
and great talents; but I was not so sanguine that they would have
flourished as they appear to have done.'

In the meantime the subject of their observations strolled home
on foot, for he had dismissed his horses, to the abbey. It was a
brilliant night, and the white beams of the moon fell full upon the
old monastic pile, of which massy portions were in dark shade while
the light gracefully rested on the projecting ornaments of the
building, and played, as it were, with the fretted and fantastic
pinnacles. Behind were the savage hills, softened by the hour; and on
the right extended the still and luminous lake. Cadurcis rested for
a moment and gazed upon the fair, yet solemn scene. The dreams of
ambition that occasionally distracted him were dead. The surrounding
scene harmonised with the thoughts of purity, repose, and beauty that
filled his soul. Why should he ever leave this spot, sacred to him by
the finest emotions of his nature? Why should he not at once quit
that world which he had just entered, while he could quit it without
remorse? If ever there existed a being who was his own master, who
might mould his destiny at his will, it seemed to be Cadurcis. His
lone yet independent situation, his impetuous yet firm volition, alike
qualified him to achieve the career most grateful to his disposition.
Let him, then, achieve it here; here let him find that solitude he had
ever loved, softened by that affection for which he had ever sighed,
and which here only he had ever found. It seemed to him that there
was only one being in the world whom he had ever loved, and that was
Venetia Herbert: it seemed to him that there was only one thing in
this world worth living for, and that was the enjoyment of her sweet
heart. The pure-minded, the rare, the gracious creature! Why should
she ever quit these immaculate bowers wherein she had been so
mystically and delicately bred? Why should she ever quit the fond
roof of Cherbury, but to shed grace and love amid the cloisters of
Cadurcis? Her life hitherto had been an enchanted tale; why should
the spell ever break? Why should she enter that world where care,
disappointment, mortification, misery, must await her? He for a season
had left the magic circle of her life, and perhaps it was well. He was
a man, and so he should know all. But he had returned, thank Heaven!
he had returned, and never again would he quit her. Fool that he had
been ever to have neglected her! And for a reason that ought to have
made him doubly her friend, her solace, her protector. Oh! to think of
the sneers or the taunts of the world calling for a moment the colour
from that bright cheek, or dusking for an instant the radiance of that
brilliant eye! His heart ached at the thought of her unhappiness, and
he longed to press her to it, and cherish her like some innocent dove
that had flown from the terrors of a pursuing hawk.

CHAPTER II.

'Well, Pauncefort,' said Lord Cadurcis, smiling, as he renewed his
acquaintance with his old friend, 'I hope you have not forgotten my
last words, and have taken care of your young lady.'

'Oh! dear, my lord,' said Mistress Pauncefort, blushing and simpering.
'Well to be sure, how your lordship has surprised us all! I thought we
were never going to see you again!'

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

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

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

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

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

'That is just what I said last night,' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort,
eagerly. 'And why not? for I said, says I, his lordship must marry
sooner or later, and the sooner the better, say I: and to be sure he
is very young, but what of that? for, says I, no one can say he does
not look quite a man. And really, my lord, saving your presence, you
are grown indeed.'

'Pish!' said Lord Cadurcis, turning away and laughing, 'I have left
off growing, Pauncefort, and all those sort of things.'

'You have not forgotten our last visit to Marringhurst?' said Lord
Cadurcis to Venetia, as the comfortable mansion of the worthy Doctor
appeared in sight.

'I have forgotten nothing,' replied Venetia with a faint smile; 'I do
not know what it is to forget. My life has been so uneventful that
every past incident, however slight, is as fresh in my memory as if it
occurred yesterday.'

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

'And other circumstances less agreeable,' he fancied Venetia observed,
but her voice was low.

'Do you know, Lady Annabel,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'that I was very
nearly riding my pony to-day? I wish to bring back old times with the
utmost possible completeness; I wish for a moment to believe that I
have never quitted Cherbury.'

'Let us think only of the present now,' said Lady Annabel in a
cheerful voice, 'for it is very agreeable. I see the good Doctor; he
has discovered us.'

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

'Have you no occasional cavalier for whom at a distance I may be
mistaken?' inquired his lordship in a tone of affected carelessness,
though in truth it was an inquiry that he made not without anxiety.

'Everything remains here exactly as you left it,' replied Lady
Annabel, with some quickness, yet in a lively tone.

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

They rode briskly on; the Doctor was standing at his gate. He saluted
Lady Annabel and Venetia with his accustomed cordiality, and then
stared at their companion as if waiting for an introduction.

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

'Lord Cadurcis!' exclaimed Dr. Masham. His lordship had by this time
dismounted and eagerly extended his hand to his old tutor.

Having quitted their horses they all entered the house, nor was there
naturally any want of conversation. Cadurcis had much information to
give and many questions to answer. He was in the highest spirits
and the most amiable mood; gay, amusing, and overflowing with
kind-heartedness. The Doctor seldom required any inspiration, to be
joyous, and Lady Annabel was unusually animated. Venetia alone, though
cheerful, was calmer than pleased Cadurcis. Time, he sorrowfully
observed, had occasioned a greater change in her manner than he could
have expected. Youthful as she still was, indeed but on the threshold
of womanhood, and exempted, as it seemed she had been, from anything
to disturb the clearness of her mind, that enchanting play of fancy
which had once characterised her, and which he recalled with a sigh,
appeared in a great degree to have deserted her. He watched her
countenance with emotion, and, supremely beautiful as it undeniably
was, there was a cast of thoughtfulness or suffering impressed upon
the features which rendered him mournful he knew not why, and caused
him to feel as if a cloud had stolen unexpectedly over the sun and
made him shiver.

But there was no time or opportunity for sad reflections; he had to
renew his acquaintance with all the sights and curiosities of the
rectory, to sing to the canaries, and visit the gold fish, admire the
stuffed fox, and wonder that in the space of five years the voracious
otter had not yet contrived to devour its prey. Then they refreshed
themselves after their ride with a stroll in the Doctor's garden;
Cadurcis persisted in attaching himself to Venetia, as in old days,
and nothing would prevent him from leading her to the grotto. Lady
Annabel walked behind, leaning on the Doctor's arm, narrating, with no
fear of being heard, all the history of their friend's return.

'I never was so surprised in my life,' said the Doctor; 'he is vastly
improved; he is quite a man; his carriage is very finished.'

'And his principles,' said Lady Annabel. 'You have no idea, my dear
Doctor, how right his opinions seem to be on every subject. He has
been brought up in a good school; he does his guardian great credit.
He is quite loyal and orthodox in all his opinions; ready to risk his
life for our blessed constitution in Church and State. He requested,
as a favour, that he might remain at our prayers last night. It is
delightful for me to see him turn out so well!'

In the meantime Cadurcis and Venetia entered the grotto.

'The dear Doctor!' said Cadurcis: 'five years have brought no visible
change even to him; perhaps he may be a degree less agile, but I will
not believe it. And Lady Annabel; it seems to me your mother is more
youthful and beautiful than ever. There is a spell in our air,'
continued his lordship, with a laughing eye; 'for if we have changed,
Venetia, ours is, at least, an alteration that bears no sign of decay.
We are advancing, but they have not declined; we are all enchanted.'

'I feel changed,' said Venetia gravely.

'I left you a child and I find you a woman,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'a
change which who can regret?'

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

'We were happy,' said Lord Cadurcis, in a thoughtful tone; and then in
an inquiring voice he added, 'and so we are now?'

Venetia shook her head.

'Can you be unhappy?'

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

'Ah! say not so, Venetia, or you will make even me gloomy. I am happy,
positively happy. There must not be a cloud upon your brow.'

'You are joyous,' said Venetia, 'because you are excited. It is the
novelty of return that animates you. It will wear off; you will grow
weary, and when you go to the university you will think yourself happy
again.'

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

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

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

'When you go to Cambridge,' said Dr. Masham, who just then reached
them, 'I shall trouble you with a letter to an old friend of mine
whose acquaintance you may find valuable.'

Venetia smiled; Cadurcis bowed, expressed his thanks, and muttered
something about talking over the subject with the Doctor.

After this the conversation became general, and at length they all
returned to the house to partake of the Doctor's hospitality, who
promised to dine at the hall on the morrow. The ride home was
agreeable and animated, but the conversation on the part of the ladies
was principally maintained by Lady Annabel, who seemed every moment
more delighted with the society of Lord Cadurcis, and to sympathise
every instant more completely with his frank exposition of his
opinions on all subjects. When they returned to Cherbury, Cadurcis
remained with them as a matter of course. An invitation was neither
expected nor given. Not an allusion was made to the sports of the
field, to enjoy which was the original purpose of his visit to the
abbey; and he spoke of to-morrow as of a period which, as usual, was
to be spent entirely in their society. He remained with them, as on
the previous night, to the latest possible moment. Although reserved
in society, no one could be more fluent with those with whom he was
perfectly unembarrassed. He was indeed exceedingly entertaining, and
Lady Annabel relaxed into conversation beyond her custom. As for
Venetia, she did not speak often, but she listened with interest, and
was evidently amused. When Cadurcis bade them good-night Lady Annabel
begged him to breakfast with them; while Venetia, serene, though kind,
neither seconded the invitation, nor seemed interested one way or the
other in its result.

CHAPTER III.

Except returning to sleep at the abbey, Lord Cadurcis was now as much
an habitual inmate of Cherbury Hall as in the days of his childhood.
He was there almost with the lark, and never quitted its roof until
its inmates were about to retire for the night. His guns and dogs,
which had been sent down from London with so much pomp of preparation,
were unused and unnoticed; and he passed his days in reading
Richardson's novels, which he had brought with him from town, to the
ladies, and then in riding with them about the country, for he loved
to visit all his old haunts, and trace even the very green sward
where he first met the gipsies, and fancied that he had achieved his
emancipation from all the coming cares and annoyances of the world.
In this pleasant life several weeks had glided away: Cadurcis had
entirely resumed his old footing in the family, nor did he attempt to
conceal the homage he was paying to the charms of Venetia. She indeed
seemed utterly unconscious that such projects had entered, or indeed
could enter, the brain of her old playfellow, with whom, now that
she was habituated to his presence, and revived by his inspiriting
society, she had resumed all her old familiar intimacy, addressing him
by his Christian name, as if he had never ceased to be her brother.
But Lady Annabel was not so blind as her daughter, and had indeed her
vision been as clouded, her faithful minister, Mistress Pauncefort,
would have taken care quickly to couch it; for a very short time had
elapsed before that vigilant gentlewoman, resolved to convince her
mistress that nothing could escape her sleepless scrutiny, and that it
was equally in vain for her mistress to hope to possess any secrets
without her participation, seized a convenient opportunity before she
bid her lady good night, just to inquire 'when it might be expected to
take place?' and in reply to the very evident astonishment which Lady
Annabel testified at this question, and the expression of her extreme
displeasure at any conversation on a circumstance for which there
was not the slightest foundation, Mistress Pauncefort, after duly
flouncing about with every possible symbol of pettish agitation and
mortified curiosity, her cheek pale with hesitating impertinence, and
her nose quivering with inquisitiveness, condescended to admit with a
sceptical sneer, that, of course, no doubt her ladyship knew more of
such a subject than she could; it was not her place to know anything
of such business; for her part she said nothing; it was not her
place, but if it were, she certainly must say that she could not help
believing that my lord was looking remarkably sweet on Miss Venetia,
and what was more, everybody in the house thought the same, though for
her part, whenever they mentioned the circumstance to her, she said
nothing, or bid them hold their tongues, for what was it to them; it
was not their business, and they could know nothing; and that nothing
would displease her ladyship more than chattering on such subjects,
and many's the match as good as finished, that's gone off by no worse
means than the chitter-chatter of those who should hold their tongues.
Therefore she should say no more; but if her ladyship wished her to
contradict it, why she could, and the sooner, perhaps, the better.

Lady Annabel observed to her that she wished no such thing, but
she desired that Pauncefort would make no more observations on the
subject, either to her or to any one else. And then Pauncefort bade
her ladyship good night in a huff, catching up her candle with a
rather impertinent jerk, and gently slamming the door, as if she had
meant to close it quietly, only it had escaped out of her fingers.

Whatever might be the tone, whether of surprise or displeasure, which
Lady Annabel thought fit to assume to her attendant on her noticing
Lord Cadurcis' attentions to her daughter, there is no doubt that
his conduct had early and long engaged her ladyship's remark, her
consideration, and her approval. Without meditating indeed an
immediate union between Cadurcis and Venetia, Lady Annabel pleased
herself with the prospect of her daughter's eventual marriage with one
whom she had known so early and so intimately; who was by nature of a
gentle, sincere, and affectionate disposition, and in whom education
had carefully instilled the most sound and laudable principles and
opinions; one apparently with simple tastes, moderate desires, fair
talents, a mind intelligent, if not brilliant, and passions which at
the worst had been rather ill-regulated than violent; attached also
to Venetia from her childhood, and always visibly affected by her
influence. All these moral considerations seemed to offer a fair
security for happiness; and the material ones were neither less
promising, nor altogether disregarded by the mother. It was an union
which would join broad lands and fair estates; which would place on
the brow of her daughter one of the most ancient coronets in England;
and, which indeed was the chief of these considerations, would,
without exposing Venetia to that contaminating contact with the
world from which Lady Annabel recoiled, establish her, without this
initiatory and sorrowful experience, in a position superior to which
even the blood of the Herberts, though it might flow in so fair and
gifted a form as that of Venetia, need not aspire.

Lord Cadurcis had not returned to Cherbury a week before this scheme
entered into the head of Lady Annabel. She had always liked him; had
always given him credit for good qualities; had always believed that
his early defects were the consequence of his mother's injudicious
treatment; and that at heart he was an amiable, generous, and
trustworthy being, one who might be depended on, with a naturally good
judgment, and substantial and sufficient talents, which only required
cultivation. When she met him again after so long an interval, and
found her early prognostics so fairly, so completely fulfilled, and
watched his conduct and conversation, exhibiting alike a well-informed
mind, an obliging temper, and, what Lady Annabel valued even above all
gifts and blessings, a profound conviction of the truth of all her own
opinions, moral, political, and religious, she was quite charmed; she
was moved to unusual animation; she grew excited in his praise; his
presence delighted her; she entertained for him the warmest affection,
and reposed in him unbounded confidence. All her hopes became
concentred in the wish of seeing him her son-in-law; and she detected
with lively satisfaction the immediate impression which Venetia had
made upon his heart; for indeed it should not be forgotten, that
although Lady Annabel was still young, and although her frame and
temperament were alike promising of a long life, it was natural, when
she reflected upon the otherwise lone condition of her daughter, that
she should tremble at the thought of quitting this world without
leaving her child a protector. To Doctor Masham, from whom Lady
Annabel had no secrets, she confided in time these happy but covert
hopes, and he was not less anxious than herself for their fulfilment.
Since the return of Cadurcis the Doctor contrived to be a more
frequent visitor at the hall than usual, and he lost no opportunity of
silently advancing the object of his friend.

As for Cadurcis himself, it was impossible for him not quickly to
discover that no obstacle to his heart's dearest wish would arise on
the part of the parent. The demeanour of the daughter somewhat more
perplexed him. Venetia indeed had entirely fallen into her old habits
of intimacy and frankness with Plantagenet; she was as affectionate
and as unembarrassed as in former days, and almost as gay; for his
presence and companionship had in a great degree insensibly removed
that stillness and gravity which had gradually influenced her mind and
conduct. But in that conduct there was, and he observed it with some
degree of mortification, a total absence of the consciousness of being
the object of the passionate admiration of another. She treated Lord
Cadurcis as a brother she much loved, who had returned to his home
after a long absence. She liked to listen to his conversation, to hear
of his adventures, to consult over his plans. His arrival called
a smile to her face, and his departure for the night was always
alleviated by some allusion to their meeting on the morrow. But many
an ardent gaze on the part of Cadurcis, and many a phrase of emotion,
passed unnoticed and unappreciated. His gallantry was entirely
thrown away, or, if observed, only occasioned a pretty stare at the
unnecessary trouble he gave himself, or the strange ceremony which
she supposed an acquaintance with society had taught him. Cadurcis
attributed this reception of his veiled and delicate overtures to
her ignorance of the world; and though he sighed for as passionate
a return to his strong feelings as the sentiments which animated
himself, he was on the whole not displeased, but rather interested, by
these indications of a pure and unsophisticated spirit.

CHAPTER IV.

Cadurcis had proposed, and Lady Annabel had seconded the proposition
with eager satisfaction, that they should seek some day at the abbey
whatever hospitality it might offer; Dr. Masham was to be of the
party, which was, indeed, one of those fanciful expeditions where the
same companions, though they meet at all times without restraint
and with every convenience of life, seek increased amusement in the
novelty of a slight change of habits. With the aid of the neighbouring
town of Southport, Cadurcis had made preparations for his friends not
entirely unworthy of them, though he affected to the last all the
air of a conductor of a wild expedition of discovery, and laughingly
impressed upon them the necessity of steeling their minds and bodies
to the experience and endurance of the roughest treatment and the most
severe hardships.

The morning of this eventful day broke as beautifully as the preceding
ones. Autumn had seldom been more gorgeous than this year. Although he
was to play the host, Cadurcis would not deprive himself of his usual
visit to the hall; and he appeared there at an early hour to accompany
his guests, who were to ride over to the abbey, to husband all their
energies for their long rambles through the demesne.

Cadurcis was in high spirits, and Lady Annabel scarcely less
joyous. Venetia smiled with her usual sweetness and serenity. They
congratulated each other on the charming season; and Mistress
Pauncefort received a formal invitation to join the party and go
a-nutting with one of her fellow-servants and his lordship's valet.
The good Doctor was rather late, but he arrived at last on his stout
steed, in his accustomed cheerful mood. Here was a party of pleasure
which all agreed must be pleasant; no strangers to amuse, or to be
amusing, but formed merely of four human beings who spent every day of
their lives in each other's society, between whom there was the most
complete sympathy and the most cordial good-will.

By noon they were all mounted on their steeds, and though the air was
warmed by a meridian sun shining in a clear sky, there was a gentle
breeze abroad, sweet and grateful; and moreover they soon entered the
wood and enjoyed the shelter of its verdant shade. The abbey looked
most picturesque when they first burst upon it; the nearer and wooded
hills, which formed its immediate background, just tinted by the
golden pencil of autumn, while the meads of the valley were still
emerald green; and the stream, now lost, now winding, glittered
here and there in the sun, and gave a life and sprightliness to the
landscape which exceeded even the effect of the more distant and
expansive lake.

They were received at the abbey by Mistress Pauncefort, who had
preceded them, and who welcomed them with a complacent smile. Cadurcis
hastened to assist Lady Annabel to dismount, and was a little confused
but very pleased when she assured him she needed no assistance but
requested him to take care of Venetia. He was just in time to receive
her in his arms, where she found herself without the slightest
embarrassment. The coolness of the cloisters was grateful after their
ride, and they lingered and looked upon the old fountain, and felt the
freshness of its fall with satisfaction which all alike expressed.
Lady Annabel and Venetia then retired for a while to free themselves
from their riding habits, and Cadurcis affectionately taking the arm
of Dr. Masham led him a few paces, and then almost involuntarily
exclaimed, 'My dear Doctor, I think I am the happiest fellow that ever
lived!'

'That I trust you may always be, my dear boy,' said Dr. Masham; 'but
what has called forth this particular exclamation?'

'To feel that I am once more at Cadurcis; to feel that I am here once
more with you all; to feel that I never shall leave you again.'

'Not again?'

'Never!' said Cadurcis. 'The experience of these last few weeks, which
yet have seemed an age in my existence, has made me resolve never to
quit a society where I am persuaded I may obtain a degree of happiness
which what is called the world can never afford me.'

'What will your guardian say?'

'What care I?'

'A dutiful ward!'

'Poh! the relations between us were formed only to secure my welfare.
It is secured; it will be secured by my own resolution.'

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

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

'And that you do not doubt.'

'We doubt everything when everything is at stake,' replied Lord
Cadurcis. 'I know that her consent would ensure my happiness; and when
I reflect, I cannot help being equally persuaded that it would secure
hers. Her mother, I think, would not be adverse to our union. And you,
my dear sir, what do you think?'

'I think,' said Dr. Masham, 'that whoever marries Venetia will marry
the most beautiful and the most gifted of God's creatures; I hope you
may marry her; I wish you to marry her; I believe you will marry her,
but not yet; you are too young, Lord Cadurcis.'

'Oh, no! my dear Doctor, not too young to marry Venetia. Remember I
have known her all my life, at least so long as I have been able to
form an opinion. How few are the men, my dear Doctor, who are so
fortunate as to unite themselves with women whom they have known, as I
have known Venetia, for more than seven long years!'

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

'Mine was the fault! And yet I cannot help thinking, as it may
probably turn out, as you yourself believe it will turn out, that
it is as well that we have been separated for this interval. It has
afforded me opportunities for observation which I should never have
enjoyed at Cadurcis; and although my lot either way could not have
altered the nature of things, I might have been discontented, I might
have sighed for a world which now I do not value. It is true I have
not seen Venetia for five years, but I find her the same, or changed
only by nature, and fulfilling all the rich promise which her
childhood intimated. No, my dear Doctor, I respect your opinion more
than that of any man living; but nobody, nothing, can persuade me that
I am not as intimately acquainted with Venetia's character, with all
her rare virtues, as if we had never separated.'

'I do not doubt it,' said the Doctor; 'high as you may pitch your
estimate you cannot overvalue her.'

'Then why should we not marry?'

'Because, my dear friend, although you may be perfectly acquainted
with Venetia, you cannot be perfectly acquainted with yourself.'

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

'Because it is impossible. No young man of eighteen ever possessed
such precious knowledge. I esteem and admire you; I give you every
credit for a good heart and a sound head; but it is impossible, at
your time of life, that your character can be formed; and, until it
be, you may marry Venetia and yet be a very miserable man.'

'It is formed,' said his lordship firmly; 'there is not a subject
important to a human being on which my opinions are not settled.'

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

'Impossible!' said Lord Cadurcis. 'My dear Doctor, I cannot understand
you; you say that you hope, that you wish, even that you believe that
I shall marry Venetia; and yet you permit me to infer that our union
will only make us miserable. What do you wish me to do?'

'Go to college for a term or two.'

'Without Venetia! I should die.'

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

'You joke, my dear Doctor.'

'My dear boy, I am perfectly serious.'

'But she may marry somebody else?'

'I am your only rival,' said the Doctor, with a smile; 'and though
even friends can scarcely be trusted under such circumstances, I
promise you not to betray you.'

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

'Good advice seldom is,' said the Doctor.

'My dear Doctor, I have made up my mind to marry her, and marry her at
once. I know her well, you admit that yourself. I do not believe that
there ever was a woman like her, that there ever will be a woman like
her. Nature has marked her out from other women, and her education
has not been less peculiar. Her mystic breeding pleases me. It
is something to marry a wife so fair, so pure, so refined, so
accomplished, who is, nevertheless, perfectly ignorant of the world.
I have dreamt of such things; I have paced these old cloisters when a
boy and when I was miserable at home, and I have had visions, and
this was one. I have sighed to live alone with a fair spirit for my
minister. Venetia has descended from heaven for me, and for me alone.
I am resolved I will pluck this flower with the dew upon its leaves.'

'I did not know I was reasoning with a poet,' said the Doctor, with a
smile. 'Had I been conscious of it, I would not have been so rash.'

'I have not a grain of poetry in my composition,' said his lordship;
'I never could write a verse; I was notorious at Eton for begging all
their old manuscripts from boys when they left school, to crib from;
but I have a heart, and I can feel. I love Venetia, I have always
loved her, and, if possible, I will marry her, and marry her at once.'

CHAPTER V.

The reappearance of the ladies at the end of the cloister terminated
this conversation, the result of which was rather to confirm Lord
Cadurcis in his resolution of instantly urging his suit, than the
reverse. He ran forward to greet his friends with a smile, and took
his place by the side of Venetia, whom, a little to her surprise, he
congratulated in glowing phrase on her charming costume. Indeed she
looked very captivating, with a pastoral hat, then much in fashion,
and a dress as simple and as sylvan, both showing to admirable
advantage her long descending hair, and her agile and springy figure.

Cadurcis proposed that they should ramble over the abbey, he talked of
projected alterations, as if he really had the power immediately to
effect them, and was desirous of obtaining their opinions before any
change was made. So they ascended the staircase which many years
before Venetia had mounted for the first time with her mother, and
entered that series of small and ill-furnished rooms in which Mrs.
Cadurcis had principally resided, and which had undergone no change.
The old pictures were examined; these, all agreed, never must move;
and the new furniture, it was settled, must be in character with the
building. Lady Annabel entered into all the details with an interest
and animation which rather amused Dr. Masham. Venetia listened and
suggested, and responded to the frequent appeals of Cadurcis to her
judgment with an unconscious equanimity not less diverting.

'Now here we really can do something,' said his lordship as they
entered the saloon, or rather refectory; 'here I think we may effect
wonders. The tapestry must always remain. Is it not magnificent,
Venetia? But what hangings shall we have? We must keep the old chairs,
I think. Do you approve of the old chairs, Venetia? And what shall we
cover them with? Shall it be damask? What do you think, Venetia? Do
you like damask? And what colour shall it be? Shall it be crimson?
Shall it be crimson damask, Lady Annabel? Do you think Venetia would
like crimson damask? Now, Venetia, do give us the benefit of your
opinion.'

Then they entered the old gallery; here was to be a great
transformation. Marvels were to be effected in the old gallery,
and many and multiplied were the appeals to the taste and fancy of
Venetia.

'I think,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'I shall leave the gallery to be
arranged when I am settled. The rooms and the saloon shall be done at
once, I shall give orders for them to begin instantly. Whom do you
recommend, Lady Annabel? Do you think there is any person at Southport
who could manage to do it, superintended by our taste? Venetia, what
do you think?'

Venetia was standing at the window, rather apart from her companions,
looking at the old garden. Lord Cadurcis joined her. 'Ah! it has been
sadly neglected since my poor mother's time. We could not do much in
those days, but still she loved this garden. I must depend upon you
entirely to arrange my garden, Venetia. This spot is sacred to you.
You have not forgotten our labours here, have you, Venetia? Ah! those
were happy days, and these shall be more happy still. This is your
garden; it shall always be called Venetia's garden.'

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

'But what?' inquired Lord Cadurcis anxiously.

'We hardly felt authorised,' replied Venetia calmly. 'We came at first
when you left Cadurcis, but at last it did not seem that our presence
was very acceptable.'

'The brutes!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis.

'No, no; good simple people, they were unused to orders from strange
masters, and they were perplexed. Besides, we had no right to
interfere.'

'No right to interfere! Venetia, my little fellow-labourer, no
right to interfere! Why all is yours! Fancy your having no right to
interfere at Cadurcis!'

Then they proceeded to the park and wandered to the margin of the
lake. There was not a spot, not an object, which did not recall
some adventure or incident of childhood. Every moment Lord Cadurcis
exclaimed, 'Venetia! do you remember this?' 'Venetia! have you
forgotten that?' and every time Venetia smiled, and proved how
faithful was her memory by adding some little unmentioned trait to the
lively reminiscences of her companion.

'Well, after all,' said Lord Cadurcis with a sigh, 'my poor mother was
a strange woman, and, God bless her! used sometimes to worry me out
of my senses! but still she always loved you. No one can deny that.
Cherbury was a magic name with her. She loved Lady Annabel, and she
loved you, Venetia. It ran in the blood, you see. She would be happy,
quite happy, if she saw us all here together, and if she knew--'

'Plantagenet,' said Lady Annabel, 'you must build a lodge at this
end of the park. I cannot conceive anything more effective than an
entrance from the Southport road in this quarter.'

'Certainly, Lady Annabel, certainly we must build a lodge. Do not you
think so, Venetia?'

'Indeed I think it would be a great improvement,' replied Venetia;
'but you must take care to have a lodge in character with the abbey.'

'You shall make a drawing for it,' said Lord Cadurcis; 'it shall be
built directly, and it shall be called Venetia Lodge.'

The hours flew away, loitering in the park, roaming in the woods. They
met Mistress Pauncefort and her friends loaded with plunder, and they
offered to Venetia a trophy of their success; but when Venetia, merely
to please their kind hearts, accepted their tribute with cordiality,
and declared there was nothing she liked better, Lord Cadurcis would
not be satisfied unless he immediately commenced nutting, and each
moment he bore to Venetia the produce of his sport, till in time she
could scarcely sustain the rich and increasing burden. At length they
bent their steps towards home, sufficiently wearied to look forward
with welcome to rest and their repast, yet not fatigued, and
exhilarated by the atmosphere, for the sun was now in its decline,
though in this favoured season there were yet hours enough remaining
of enchanting light.

In the refectory they found, to the surprise of all but their host, a
banquet. It was just one of those occasions when nothing is
expected and everything is welcome and surprising; when, from the
unpremeditated air generally assumed, all preparation startles and
pleases; when even ladies are not ashamed to eat, and formality
appears quite banished. Game of all kinds, teal from the lake,
and piles of beautiful fruit, made the table alike tempting and
picturesque. Then there were stray bottles of rare wine disinterred
from venerable cellars; and, more inspiriting even than the choice
wine, a host under the influence of every emotion, and swayed by every
circumstance that can make a man happy and delightful. Oh! they were
very gay, and it seemed difficult to believe that care or sorrow,
or the dominion of dark or ungracious passions, could ever disturb
sympathies so complete and countenances so radiant.

At the urgent request of Cadurcis, Venetia sang to them; and while she
sang, the expression of her countenance and voice harmonising with the
arch hilarity of the subject, Plantagenet for a moment believed that
he beheld the little Venetia of his youth, that sunny child so full
of mirth and grace, the very recollection of whose lively and bright
existence might enliven the gloomiest hour and lighten the heaviest
heart.

Enchanted by all that surrounded him, full of hope, and joy, and
plans of future felicity, emboldened by the kindness of the daughter,
Cadurcis now ventured to urge a request to Lady Annabel, and the
request was granted, for all seemed to feel that it was a day on which
nothing was to be refused to their friend. Happy Cadurcis! The child
had a holiday, and it fancied itself a man enjoying a triumph. In
compliance, therefore, with his wish, it was settled that they should
all walk back to the hall; even Dr. Masham declared he was competent
to the exertion, but perhaps was half entrapped into the declaration
by the promise of a bed at Cherbury. This consent enchanted Cadurcis,
who looked forward with exquisite pleasure to the evening walk with
Venetia.

CHAPTER VI.

Although the sun had not set, it had sunk behind the hills leading
to Cherbury when our friends quitted the abbey. Cadurcis, without
hesitation, offered his arm to Venetia, and whether from a secret
sympathy with his wishes, or merely from some fortunate accident, Lady
Annabel and Dr. Masham strolled on before without busying themselves
too earnestly with their companions.

'And how do you think our expedition to Cadurcis has turned out?'
inquired the young lord, of Venetia, 'Has it been successful?'

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

'Then it has been successful,' rejoined his lordship; 'for my only
wish was to amuse you.'

'I think we have all been equally amused,' said Venetia. 'I never knew
mamma in such good spirits. I think ever since you returned she has
been unusually light-hearted.'

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

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

'And yet, when I first returned, I heard you utter a complaint; the
first that to my knowledge ever escaped your lips.'

'Ah! we cannot be always equally gay.'

'Once you were, dear Venetia.'

'I was a child then.'

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

'Well, we are both happy now.'

'Oh! say that again, say that again, Venetia; for indeed you made me
miserable when you told me that you had changed. I cannot bear that
you, Venetia, should ever change.'

'It is the course of nature, Plantagenet; we all change, everything
changes. This day that was so bright is changing fast.'

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

'And what do you infer?'

'That Venetia, a woman, is as beautiful as Venetia, a little girl; and
should be as happy.'

'Is beauty happiness, Plantagenet?'

'It makes others happy, Venetia; and when we make others happy we
should be happy ourselves.'

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

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

'Well, then, be happy always.'

'Would that I might! Ah, Venetia! can I ever forget old days? You were
the solace of my dark childhood; you were the charm that first taught
me existence was enjoyment. Before I came to Cherbury I never was
happy, and since that hour--Ah, Venetia! dear, dearest Venetia! who is
like to you?'

'Dear Plantagenet, you were always too kind to me. Would we were
children once more!'

'Nay, my own Venetia! you tell me everything changes, and we must not
murmur at the course of nature. I would not have our childhood back
again, even with all its joys, for there are others yet in store for
us, not less pure, not less beautiful. We loved each other then,
Venetia, and we love each other now.'

'My feelings towards you have never changed, Plantagenet; I heard
of you always with interest, and I met you again with heartfelt
pleasure.'

'Oh, that morning! Have you forgotten that morning? Do you know, you
will smile very much, but I really believe that I expected to see my
Venetia still a little girl, the very same who greeted me when I first
arrived with my mother and behaved so naughtily! And when I saw you,
and found what you had become, and what I ought always to have known
you must become, I was so confused I entirely lost my presence of
mind. You must have thought me very awkward, very stupid?'

'Indeed, I was rather gratified by observing that you could not meet
us again without emotion. I thought it told well for your heart, which
I always believed to be most kind, at least, I am sure, to us.'

'Kind! oh, Venetia! that word but ill describes what my heart ever
was, what it now is, to you. Venetia! dearest, sweetest Venetia!
can you doubt for a moment my feelings towards your home, and what
influence must principally impel them? Am I so dull, or you so blind,
Venetia? Can I not express, can you not discover how much, how
ardently, how fondly, how devotedly, I, I, I love you?'

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

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

Venetia stared.

'I thought we could not love each other more than we did,
Plantagenet,' at length she said. 'Do you remember the jewel that you
gave me? I always wore it until you seemed to forget us, and then I
thought it looked so foolish! You remember what is inscribed on it:
'TO VENETIA, FROM HER AFFECTIONATE BROTHER, PLANTAGENET.' And as a
brother I always loved you; had I indeed been your sister I could not
have loved you more warmly and more truly.'

'I am not your brother, Venetia; I wish not to be loved as a brother:
and yet I must be loved by you, or I shall die.'

'What then do you wish?' inquired Venetia, with great simplicity.

'I wish you to marry me,' replied Lord Cadurcis.

'Marry!' exclaimed Venetia, with a face of wonder. 'Marry! Marry you!
Marry you, Plantagenet!'

'Ay! is that so wonderful? I love you, and if you love me, why should
we not marry?'

Venetia was silent and looked upon the ground, not from agitation,
for she was quite calm, but in thought; and then she said, 'I never
thought of marriage in my life, Plantagenet; I have no intention, no
wish to marry; I mean to live always with mamma.'

'And you shall always live with mamma, but that need not prevent you
from marrying me,' he replied. 'Do not we all live together now? What
will it signify if you dwell at Cadurcis and Lady Annabel at Cherbury?
Is it not one home? But at any rate, this point shall not be an
obstacle; for if it please you we will all live at Cherbury.'

'You say that we are happy now, Plantagenet; oh! let us remain as we
are.'

'My own sweet girl, my sister, if you please, any title, so it be one
of fondness, your sweet simplicity charms me; but, believe me, it
cannot be as you wish; we cannot remain as we are unless we marry.'

'Why not?'

'Because I shall be wretched and must live elsewhere, if indeed I can
live at all.'

'Oh, Plantagenet! indeed I thought you were my brother; when I found
you after so long a separation as kind as in old days, and kinder
still, I was so glad; I was so sure you loved me; I thought I had the
kindest brother in the world. Let us not talk of any other love. It
will, indeed it will, make mamma so miserable!'

'I am greatly mistaken,' replied Lord Cadurcis, who saw no obstacles
to his hopes in their conversation hitherto, 'if, on the contrary, our
union would not prove far from disagreeable to your mother, Venetia; I
will say our mother, for indeed to me she has been one.'

'Plantagenet,' said Venetia, in a very earnest tone, 'I love you
very much; but, if you love me, press me on this subject no more at
present. You have surprised, indeed you have bewildered me. There are
thoughts, there are feelings, there are considerations, that must be
respected, that must influence me. Nay! do not look so sorrowful,
Plantagenet. Let us be happy now. To-morrow, only to-morrow, and
to-morrow we are sure to meet, we will speak further of all this; but
now, now, for a moment let us forget it, if we can forget anything so
strange. Nay! you shall smile!'

He did. Who could resist that mild and winning glance! And indeed Lord
Cadurcis was scarcely disappointed, and not at all mortified at his
reception, or, as he esteemed it, the progress of his suit. The
conduct of Venetia he attributed entirely to her unsophisticated
nature and the timidity of a virgin soul. It made him prize even more
dearly the treasure that he believed awaited him. Silent, then, though
for a time they both struggled to speak on different subjects, silent,
and almost content, Cadurcis proceeded, with the arm of Venetia locked
in his and ever and anon unconsciously pressing it to his heart. The
rosy twilight had faded away, the stars were stealing forth, and the
moon again glittered. With a soul softer than the tinted shades of eve
and glowing like the heavens, Cadurcis joined his companions as they
entered the gardens of Cherbury. When they had arrived at home it
seemed that exhaustion had suddenly succeeded all the excitement
of the day. The Doctor, who was wearied, retired immediately. Lady
Annabel pressed Cadurcis to remain and take tea, or, at least to ride
home; but his lordship, protesting that he was not in the slightest
degree fatigued, and anticipating their speedy union on the morrow,
bade her good night, and pressing with fondness the hand of Venetia,
retraced his steps to the now solitary abbey.

CHAPTER VII.

Cadurcis returned to the abbey, but not to slumber. That love of
loneliness which had haunted him from his boyhood, and which ever
asserted its sway when under the influence of his passions, came over
him now with irresistible power. A day of enjoyment had terminated,
and it left him melancholy. Hour after hour he paced the moon-lit
cloisters of his abbey, where not a sound disturbed him, save the
monotonous fall of the fountain, that seems by some inexplicable
association always to blend with and never to disturb our feelings;
gay when we are joyful, and sad amid our sorrow.

Yet was he sorrowful! He was gloomy, and fell into a reverie about
himself, a subject to him ever perplexing and distressing. His
conversation of the morning with Doctor Masham recurred to him. What
did the Doctor mean by his character not being formed, and that
he might yet live to change all his opinions? Character! what was
character? It must be will; and his will was violent and firm. Young
as he was, he had early habituated himself to reflection, and the
result of his musings had been a desire to live away from the world
with those he loved. The world, as other men viewed it, had no charms
for him. Its pursuits and passions seemed to him on the whole paltry
and faint. He could sympathise with great deeds, but not with bustling
life. That which was common did not please him. He loved things that
were rare and strange; and the spell that bound him so strongly to
Venetia Herbert was her unusual life, and the singular circumstances
of her destiny that were not unknown to him. True he was young;
but, lord of himself, youth was associated with none of those
mortifications which make the juvenile pant for manhood. Cadurcis
valued his youth and treasured it. He could not conceive love, and the
romantic life that love should lead, without the circumambient charm
of youth adding fresh lustre to all that was bright and fair, and a
keener relish to every combination of enjoyment. The moonbeam fell
upon his mother's monument, a tablet on the cloister wall that
recorded the birth and death of KATHERINE CADURCIS. His thoughts flew
to his ancestry. They had conquered in France and Palestine, and left
a memorable name to the annalist of his country. Those days were past,
and yet Cadurcis felt within him the desire, perhaps the power, of
emulating them; but what remained? What career was open in this
mechanical age to the chivalric genius of his race? Was he misplaced
then in life? The applause of nations, there was something grand and
exciting in such a possession. To be the marvel of mankind what would
he not hazard? Dreams, dreams! If his ancestors were valiant and
celebrated it remained for him to rival, to excel them, at least in
one respect. Their coronet had never rested on a brow fairer than
the one for which he destined it. Venetia then, independently of his
passionate love, was the only apparent object worth his pursuit, the
only thing in this world that had realised his dreams, dreams sacred
to his own musing soul, that even she had never shared or guessed. And
she, she was to be his. He could not doubt it: but to-morrow would
decide; to-morrow would seal his triumph.

His sleep was short and restless; he had almost out-watched the stars,
and yet he rose with the early morn. His first thought was of Venetia;
he was impatient for the interview, the interview she promised and
even proposed. The fresh air was grateful to him; he bounded along to
Cherbury, and brushed the dew in his progress from the tall grass and
shrubs. In sight of the hall, he for a moment paused. He was before
his accustomed hour; and yet he was always too soon. Not to-day,
though, not to-day; suddenly he rushes forward and springs down the
green vista, for Venetia is on the terrace, and alone!

Always kind, this morning she greeted him with unusual affection.
Never had she seemed to him so exquisitely beautiful. Perhaps her
countenance to-day was more pale than wont. There seemed a softness in
her eyes usually so brilliant and even dazzling; the accents of her
salutation were suppressed and tender.

'I thought you would be here early,' she remarked, 'and therefore I
rose to meet you.'

Was he to infer from this artless confession that his image had
haunted her in her dreams, or only that she would not delay the
conversation on which his happiness depended? He could scarcely doubt
which version to adopt when she took his arm and led him from the
terrace to walk where they could not be disturbed.

'Dear Plantagenet,' she said, 'for indeed you are very dear to me; I
told you last night that I would speak to you to-day on your wishes,
that are so kind to me and so much intended for my happiness. I do not
love suspense; but indeed last night I was too much surprised, too
much overcome by what occurred, that exhausted as I naturally was by
all our pleasure, I could not tell you what I wished; indeed I could
not, dear Plantagenet.'

'My own Venetia!'

'So I hope you will always deem me; for I should be very unhappy if
you did not love me, Plantagenet, more unhappy than I have even been
these last two years; and I have been very unhappy, very unhappy
indeed, Plantagenet.'

'Unhappy, Venetia! my Venetia unhappy?'

'Listen! I will not weep. I can control my feelings. I have learnt to
do this; it is very sad, and very different to what my life once was;
but I can do it.'

'You amaze me!'

Venetia sighed, and then resumed, but in a tone mournful and low, and
yet to a degree firm.

'You have been away five years, Plantagenet.'

'But you have pardoned that.'

'I never blamed you; I had nothing to pardon. It was well for you to
be away; and I rejoice your absence has been so profitable to you.'

'But it was wicked to have been so silent.'

'Oh! no, no, no! Such ideas never entered into my head, nor even
mamma's. You were very young; you did as all would, as all must do.
Harbour not such thoughts. Enough, you have returned and love us yet.'

'Love! adore!'

'Five years are a long space of time, Plantagenet. Events will happen
in five years, even at Cherbury. I told you I was changed.'

'Yes!' said Lord Cadurcis, in a voice of some anxiety, with a
scrutinising eye.

'You left me a happy child; you find me a woman, and a miserable one.'

'Good God, Venetia! this suspense is awful. Be brief, I pray you. Has
any one--'

Venetia looked at him with an air of perplexity. She could not
comprehend the idea that impelled his interruption.

'Go on,' Lord Cadurcis added, after a short pause; 'I am indeed all
anxiety.'

'You remember that Christmas which you passed at the hall and walking
at night in the gallery, and--'

'Well! Your mother, I shall never forget it.'

'You found her weeping when you were once at Marringhurst. You told me
of it.'

'Ay, ay!'

'There is a wing of our house shut up. We often talked of it.'

'Often, Venetia; it was a mystery.'

'I have penetrated it,' replied Venetia in a solemn tone; 'and never
have I known what happiness is since.'

'Yes, yes!' said Lord Cadurcis, very pale, and in a whisper.

'Plantagenet, I have a father.'

Lord Cadurcis started, and for an instant his arm quitted Venetia's.
At length he said in a gloomy voice, 'I know it.'

'Know it!' exclaimed Venetia with astonishment. 'Who could have told
you the secret?'

'It is no secret,' replied Cadurcis; 'would that it were!'

'Would that it were! How strange you speak, how strange you look,
Plantagenet! If it be no secret that I have a father, why this
concealment then? I know that I am not the child of shame!' she added,
after a moment's pause, with an air of pride. A tear stole down the
cheek of Cadurcis.

'Plantagenet! dear, good Plantagenet! my brother! my own brother! see,
I kneel to you; Venetia kneels to you! your own Venetia! Venetia that
you love! Oh! if you knew the load that is on my spirit bearing me
down to a grave which I would almost welcome, you would speak to me;
you would tell me all. I have sighed for this; I have longed for this;
I have prayed for this. To meet some one who would speak to me of my
father; who had heard of him, who knew him; has been for years the
only thought of my being, the only object for which I existed. And
now, here comes Plantagenet, my brother! my own brother! and he knows
all, and he will tell me; yes, that he will; he will tell his Venetia
all, all!'

'Is there not your mother?' said Lord Cadurcis, in a broken tone.

'Forbidden, utterly forbidden. If I speak, they tell me her heart will
break; and therefore mine is breaking.'

'Have you no friend?'

'Are not you my friend?'

'Doctor Masham?'

'I have applied to him; he tells me that he lives, and then he shakes
his head.'

'You never saw your father; think not of him.'

'Not think of him!' exclaimed Venetia, with extraordinary energy. 'Of
what else? For what do I live but to think of him? What object have I
in life but to see him? I have seen him, once.'

'Ah!'

'I know his form by heart, and yet it was but a shade. Oh, what a
shade! what a glorious, what an immortal shade! If gods were upon
earth they would be like my father!'

'His deeds, at least, are not godlike,' observed Lord Cadurcis dryly,
and with some bitterness.

'I deny it!' said Venetia, her eyes sparkling with fire, her form
dilated with enthusiasm, and involuntarily withdrawing her arm from
her companion. Lord Cadurcis looked exceedingly astonished.

'You deny it!' he exclaimed. 'And what should you know about it?'

'Nature whispers to me that nothing but what is grand and noble could
be breathed by those lips, or fulfilled by that form.'

'I am glad you have not read his works,' said Lord Cadurcis, with
increased bitterness. 'As for his conduct, your mother is a living
evidence of his honour, his generosity, and his virtue.'

'My mother!' said Venetia, in a softened voice; 'and yet he loved my
mother!'

'She was his victim, as a thousand others may have been.'

'She is his wife!' replied Venetia, with some anxiety.

'Yes, a deserted wife; is that preferable to being a cherished
mistress? More honourable, but scarcely less humiliating.'

'She must have misunderstood him,' said Venetia. 'I have perused the
secret vows of his passion. I have read his praises of her beauty.
I have pored over the music of his emotions when he first became a
father; yes, he has gazed on me, even though but for a moment, with
love! Over me he has breathed forth the hallowed blessing of a parent!
That transcendent form has pressed his lips to mine, and held me with
fondness to his heart! And shall I credit aught to his dishonour? Is
there a being in existence who can persuade me he is heartless or
abandoned? No! I love him! I adore him! I am devoted to him with all
the energies of my being! I live only on the memory that he lives,
and, were he to die, I should pray to my God that I might join him
without delay in a world where it cannot be justice to separate a
child from a father.'

And this was Venetia! the fair, the serene Venetia! the young, the
inexperienced Venetia! pausing, as it were, on the parting threshold
of girlhood, whom, but a few hours since, he had fancied could
scarcely have proved a passion; who appeared to him barely to
comprehend the meaning of his advances; for whose calmness or whose
coldness he had consoled himself by the flattering conviction of her
unknowing innocence. Before him stood a beautiful and inspired Moenad,
her eye flashing supernatural fire, her form elevated above her
accustomed stature, defiance on her swelling brow, and passion on her
quivering lip!

Gentle and sensitive as Cadurcis ever appeared to those he loved,
there was in his soul a deep and unfathomed well of passions that had
been never stirred, and a bitter and mocking spirit in his brain, of
which he was himself unconscious. He had repaired this hopeful morn to
Cherbury to receive, as he believed, the plighted faith of a simple
and affectionate, perhaps grateful, girl. That her unsophisticated and
untutored spirit might not receive the advances of his heart with an
equal and corresponding ardour, he was prepared. It pleased him
that he should watch the gradual development of this bud of sweet
affections, waiting, with proud anxiety, her fragrant and her
full-blown love. But now it appeared that her coldness or her
indifference might be ascribed to any other cause than the one to
which he had attributed it, the innocence of an inexperienced mind.
This girl was no stranger to powerful passions; she could love, and
love with fervency, with devotion, with enthusiasm. This child of joy
was a woman of deep and thoughtful sorrows, brooding in solitude over
high resolves and passionate aspirations. Why were not the emotions
of such a tumultuous soul excited by himself? To him she was calm and
imperturbable; she called him brother, she treated him as a child. But
a picture, a fantastic shade, could raise in her a tempestuous swell
of sentiment that transformed her whole mind, and changed the colour
of all her hopes and thoughts. Deeply prejudiced against her father,
Cadurcis now hated him, and with a fell and ferocious earnestness that
few bosoms but his could prove. Pale with rage, he ground his teeth
and watched her with a glance of sarcastic aversion.

'You led me here to listen to a communication which interested me,' he
at length said. 'Have I heard it?'

His altered tone, the air of haughtiness which he assumed, were
not lost upon Venetia. She endeavoured to collect herself, but she
hesitated to reply.

'I repeat my inquiry,' said Cadurcis. 'Have you brought me here only
to inform me that you have a father, and that you adore him, or his
picture?'

'I led you here,' replied Venetia, in a subdued tone, and looking on
the ground, 'to thank you for your love, and to confess to you that I
love another.'

'Love another!' exclaimed Cadurcis, in a tone of derision. Simpleton!
The best thing your mother can do is to lock you up in the chamber
with the picture that has produced such marvellous effects.'

'I am no simpleton, Plantagenet,' rejoined Venetia, quietly, 'but one
who is acting as she thinks right; and not only as her mind, but as
her heart prompts her.'

They had stopped in the earlier part of this conversation on a little
plot of turf surrounded by shrubs; Cadurcis walked up and down this
area with angry steps, occasionally glancing at Venetia with a look of
mortification and displeasure.

'I tell you, Venetia,' he at length said, 'that you are a little fool.
What do you mean by saying that you cannot marry me because you love
another? Is not that other, by your own account, your father? Love him
as much as you like. Is that to prevent you from loving your husband
also?'

'Plantagenet, you are rude, and unnecessarily so,' said Venetia. 'I
repeat to you again, and for the last time, that all my heart is my
father's. It would be wicked in me to marry you, because I cannot love
you as a husband should be loved. I can never love you as I love my
father. However, it is useless to talk upon this subject. I have not
even the power of marrying you if I wished, for I have dedicated
myself to my father in the name of God; and I have offered a vow, to
be registered in heaven, that thenceforth I would exist only for the
purpose of being restored to his heart.'

'I congratulate you on your parent, Miss Herbert.'

'I feel that I ought to be proud of him, though, alas I can only feel
it. But, whatever your opinion may be of my father, I beg you to
remember that you are speaking to his child.'

'I shall state my opinion respecting your father, madam, with the most
perfect unreserve, wherever and whenever I choose; quite convinced
that, however you esteem that opinion, it will not be widely different
from the real sentiments of the only parent whom you ought to respect,
and whom you are bound to obey.'

'And I can tell you, sir, that whatever your opinion is on any subject
it will never influence mine. If, indeed, I were the mistress of my
own destiny, which I am not, it would have been equally out of my
power to have acted as you have so singularly proposed. I do not wish
to marry, and marry I never will; but were it in my power, or in
accordance with my wish, to unite my fate for ever with another's, it
should at least be with one to whom I could look up with reverence,
and even with admiration. He should be at least a man, and a great
man; one with whose name the world rung; perhaps, like my father, a
genius and a poet.'

'A genius and a poet!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, in a fury, stamping
with passion; 'are these fit terms to use when speaking of the most
abandoned profligate of his age? A man whose name is synonymous with
infamy, and which no one dares to breathe in civilised life; whose
very blood is pollution, as you will some day feel; who has violated
every tie, and derided every principle, by which society is
maintained; whose life is a living illustration of his own shameless
doctrines; who is, at the same time, a traitor to his king and an
apostate from his God!'

Curiosity, overpowering even indignation, had permitted Venetia to
listen even to this tirade. Pale as her companion, but with a glance
of withering scorn, she exclaimed, 'Passionate and ill-mannered boy!
words cannot express the disgust and the contempt with which you
inspire me.' She spoke and she disappeared. Cadurcis was neither able
nor desirous to arrest her flight. He remained rooted to the ground,
muttering to himself the word 'boy!' Suddenly raising his arm and
looking up to the sky, he exclaimed, 'The illusion is vanished!
Farewell, Cherbury! farewell, Cadurcis! a wider theatre awaits me! I
have been too long the slave of soft affections! I root them out of my
heart for ever!' and, fitting the action to the phrase, it seemed that
he hurled upon the earth all the tender emotions of his soul. 'Woman!
henceforth you shall be my sport! I have now no feeling but for
myself. When she spoke I might have been a boy; I am a boy no longer.
What I shall do I know not; but this I know, the world shall ring with
my name; I will be a man, and a great man!'

CHAPTER VIII.

The agitation of Venetia on her return was not unnoticed by her
mother; but Lady Annabel ascribed it to a far different cause than the
real one. She was rather surprised when the breakfast passed, and Lord
Cadurcis did not appear; somewhat perplexed when her daughter seized
the earliest opportunity of retiring to her own chamber; but, with
that self-restraint of which she was so complete a mistress, Lady
Annabel uttered no remark.

Once more alone, Venetia could only repeat to herself the wild words
that had burst from Plantagenet's lips in reference to her father.
What could they mean? His morals might be misrepresented, his opinions
might be misunderstood; stupidity might not comprehend his doctrines,
malignity might torture them; the purest sages have been accused
of immorality, the most pious philosophers have been denounced as
blasphemous: but, 'a traitor to his king,' that was a tangible, an
intelligible proposition, one with which all might grapple, which
could be easily disproved if false, scarcely propounded were it
not true. 'False to his God!' How false? Where? When? What mystery
involved her life? Unhappy girl! in vain she struggled with the
overwhelming burden of her sorrows. Now she regretted that she had
quarrelled with Cadurcis; it was evident that he knew everything and
would have told her all. And then she blamed him for his harsh and
unfeeling demeanour, and his total want of sympathy with her cruel and
perplexing situation. She had intended, she had struggled to be so
kind to him; she thought she had such a plain tale to tell that he
would have listened to it in considerate silence, and bowed to her
necessary and inevitable decision without a murmur. Amid all these
harassing emotions her mind tossed about like a ship without a rudder,
until, in her despair, she almost resolved to confess everything to
her mother, and to request her to soothe and enlighten her agitated
and confounded mind. But what hope was there of solace or information
from such a quarter? Lady Annabel's was not a mind to be diverted from
her purpose. Whatever might have been the conduct of her husband, it
was evident that Lady Annabel had traced out a course from which she
had resolved not to depart. She remembered the earnest and repeated
advice of Dr. Masham, that virtuous and intelligent man who never
advised anything but for their benefit. How solemnly had he enjoined
upon her never to speak to her mother upon the subject, unless she
wished to produce misery and distress! And what could her mother tell
her? Her father lived, he had abandoned her, he was looked upon as a
criminal, and shunned by the society whose laws and prejudices he had
alike outraged. Why should she revive, amid the comparative happiness
and serenity in which her mother now lived, the bitter recollection of
the almost intolerable misfortune of her existence? No! Venetia was
resolved to be a solitary victim. In spite of her passionate and
romantic devotion to her father she loved her mother with perfect
affection, the mother who had dedicated her life to her child, and at
least hoped she had spared her any share in their common unhappiness.
And this father, whoso image haunted her dreams, whose unknown voice
seemed sometimes to float to her quick ear upon the wind, could he be
that abandoned being that Cadurcis had described, and that all around
her, and all the circumstances of her life, would seem to indicate?
Alas! it might be truth; alas! it seemed like truth: and for one so
lost, so utterly irredeemable, was she to murmur against that pure
and benevolent parent who had cherished her with such devotion, and
snatched her perhaps from disgrace, dishonour, and despair!

And Cadurcis, would he return? With all his violence, the kind
Cadurcis! Never did she need a brother more than now; and now he was
absent, and she had parted with him in anger, deep, almost deadly:
she, too, who had never before uttered a harsh word to a human being,
who had been involved in only one quarrel in her life, and that almost
unconsciously, and which had nearly broken her heart. She wept,
bitterly she wept, this poor Venetia!

By one of those mental efforts which her strange lot often forced her
to practise, Venetia at length composed herself, and returned to the
room where she believed she would meet her mother, and hoped she
should see Cadurcis. He was not there: but Lady Annabel was seated as
calm and busied as usual; the Doctor had departed. Even his presence
would have proved a relief, however slight, to Venetia, who dreaded at
this moment to be alone with her mother. She had no cause, however,
for alarm; Lord Cadurcis never appeared, and was absent even from
dinner; the day died away, and still he was wanting; and at length
Venetia bade her usual good night to Lady Annabel, and received
her usual blessing and embrace without his name having been even
mentioned.

Venetia passed a disturbed night, haunted by painful dreams, in which
her father and Cadurcis were both mixed up, and with images of pain,
confusion, disgrace, and misery; but the morrow, at least, did not
prolong her suspense, for just as she had joined her mother at
breakfast, Mistress Pauncefort, who had been despatched on some
domestic mission by her mistress, entered with a face of wonder,
and began as usual: 'Only think, my lady; well to be sure, who have
thought it? I am quite confident, for my own part, I was quite taken
aback when I heard it; and I could not have believed my ears, if John
had not told me himself, and he had it from his lordship's own man.'

'Well, Pauncefort, what have you to say?' inquired Lady Annabel, very
calmly.

'And never to send no note, my lady; at least I have not seen one come
up. That makes it so very strange.'

'Makes what, Pauncefort?'

'Why, my lady, doesn't your la'ship know his lordship left the abbey
yesterday, and never said nothing to nobody; rode off without a word,
by your leave or with your leave? To be sure he always was the oddest
young gentleman as ever I met with; and, as I said to John: John, says
I, I hope his lordship has not gone to join the gipsies again.'

Venetia looked into a teacup, and then touched an egg, and then
twirled a spoon; but Lady Annabel seemed quite imperturbable, and only
observed, 'Probably his guardian is ill, and he has been suddenly
summoned to town. I wish you would bring my knitting-needles,
Pauncefort.'

The autumn passed, and Lord Cadurcis never returned to the abbey,
and never wrote to any of his late companions. Lady Annabel never
mentioned his name; and although she seemed to have no other object in
life but the pleasure and happiness of her child, this strange mother
never once consulted Venetia on the probable occasion of his sudden
departure, and his strange conduct.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

Party feeling, perhaps, never ran higher in England than during the
period immediately subsequent to the expulsion of the Coalition
Ministry. After the indefatigable faction of the American war, and the
flagrant union with Lord North, the Whig party, and especially Charles
Fox, then in the full vigour of his bold and ready mind, were stung to
the quick that all their remorseless efforts to obtain and preserve
the government of the country should terminate in the preferment and
apparent permanent power of a mere boy.

Next to Charles Fox, perhaps the most eminent and influential member
of the Whig party was Lady Monteagle. The daughter of one of the
oldest and most powerful peers in the kingdom, possessing lively
talents and many fascinating accomplishments, the mistress of a great
establishment, very beautiful, and, although she had been married
some years, still young, the celebrated wife of Lord Monteagle found
herself the centre of a circle alike powerful, brilliant, and refined.
She was the Muse of the Whig party, at whose shrine every man of wit
and fashion was proud to offer his flattering incense; and her house
became not merely the favourite scene of their social pleasures, but
the sacred, temple of their political rites; here many a manoeuvre was
planned, and many a scheme suggested; many a convert enrolled, and
many a votary initiated.

Reclining on a couch in a boudoir, which she was assured was the exact
facsimile of that of Marie Antoinette, Lady Monteagle, with an eye
sparkling with excitement and a cheek flushed with emotion, appeared
deeply interested in a volume, from which she raised her hand as her
husband entered the room.

'Gertrude, my love,' said his lordship, 'I have asked the new bishop
to dine with us to-day.'

'My dear Henry,' replied her ladyship, 'what could induce you to do
anything so strange?'

'I suppose I have made a mistake, as usual,' said his lordship,
shrugging his shoulders, with a smile.

'My dear Henry, you know you may ask whomever you like to your house.
I never find fault with what you do. But what could induce you to ask
a Tory bishop to meet a dozen of our own people?'

'I thought I had done wrong directly I had asked him,' rejoined his
lordship; 'and yet he would not have come if I had not made such a
point of it. I think I will put him off.'

'No, my love, that would be wrong; you cannot do that.'

'I cannot think how it came into my head. The fact is, I lost my
presence of mind. You know he was my tutor at Christchurch, when poor
dear Herbert and I were such friends, and very kind he was to us both;
and so, the moment I saw him, I walked across the House, introduced
myself, and asked him to dinner.'

'Well, never mind,' said Lady Monteagle, smiling. 'It is rather
ridiculous: but I hope nothing will be said to offend him.'

'Oh! do not be alarmed about that: he is quite a man of the world,
and, although he has his opinions, not at all a partisan. I assure you
poor dear Herbert loved him to the last, and to this very moment has
the greatest respect and affection for him.'

'How very strange that not only your tutor, but Herbert's, should be a
bishop,' remarked the lady, smiling.

'It is very strange,' said his lordship, 'and it only shows that it is
quite useless in this world to lay plans, or reckon on anything. You
know how it happened?'

'Not I, indeed; I have never given a thought to the business; I only
remember being very vexed that that stupid old Bangerford should not
have died when we were in office, and then, at any rate, we should
have got another vote.'

'Well, you know,' said his lordship, 'dear old Masham, that is his
name, was at Weymouth this year; with whom do you think, of all people
in the world?'

'How should I know? Why should I think about it, Henry?'

'Why, with Herbert's wife.'

'What, that horrid woman?'

'Yes, Lady Annabel.'

'And where was his daughter? Was she there?'

'Of course. She has grown up, and a most beautiful creature they say
she is; exactly like her father.'

'Ah! I shall always regret I never saw him,' said her ladyship.

'Well, the daughter is in bad health; and so, after keeping her shut
up all her life, the mother was obliged to take her to Weymouth; and
Masham, who has a living in their neighbourhood, which, by-the-bye,
Herbert gave him, and is their chaplain and counsellor, and friend of
the family, and all that sort of thing, though I really believe he has
always acted for the best, he was with them. Well, the King took the
greatest fancy to these Herberts; and the Queen, too, quite singled
them out; and, in short, they were always with the royal family. It
ended by his Majesty making Masham his chaplain; and now he has made
him a bishop.'

'Very droll indeed,' said her ladyship; 'and the drollest thing of all
is, that he is now coming to dine here.'

'Have you seen Cadurcis to-day?' said Lord Monteagle.

'Of course,' said her ladyship.

'He dines here?'

'To be sure. I am reading his new poem; it will not be published till
to-morrow.'

'Is it good?'

'Good! What crude questions you do always ask, Henry!' exclaimed Lady
Monteagle. 'Good! Of course it is good. It is something better than
good.'

'But I mean is it as good as his other things? Will it make as much
noise as his last thing?'

'Thing! Now, Henry, you know very well that if there be anything I
dislike in the world, it is calling a poem a thing.'

'Well, my dear, you know I am no judge of poetry. But if you are
pleased, I am quite content. There is a knock. Some of your friends.
I am off. I say, Gertrude, be kind to old Masham, that is a dear
creature!'

Her ladyship extended her hand, to which his lordship pressed his
lips, and just effected his escape as the servant announced a visitor,
in the person of Mr. Horace Pole.

'Oh! my dear Mr. Pole, I am quite exhausted,' said her ladyship; 'I am
reading Cadurcis' new poem; it will not he published till to-morrow,
and it really has destroyed my nerves. I have got people to dinner
to-day, and I am sure I shall not be able to encounter them.'

'Something outrageous, I suppose,' said Mr. Pole, with a sneer. 'I
wish Cadurcis would study Pope.'

'Study Pope! My dear Mr. Pole, you have no imagination.'

'No, I have not, thank Heaven!' drawled out Mr. Pole.

'Well, do not let us have a quarrel about Cadurcis,' said Lady
Monteagle. 'All you men are jealous of him.'

'And some of you women, I think, too,' said Mr. Pole.

Lady Monteagle faintly smiled.

'Poor Cadurcis!' she exclaimed; 'he has a very hard life of it. He
complains bitterly that so many women are in love with him. But then
he is such an interesting creature, what can he expect?'

'Interesting!' exclaimed Mr. Pole. 'Now I hold he is the most
conceited, affected fellow that I ever met,' he continued with unusual
energy.

'Ah! you men do not understand him,' said Lady Monteagle, shaking her
head. 'You cannot,' she added, with a look of pity.

'I cannot, certainly,' said Mr. Pole, 'or his writings either. For my
part I think the town has gone mad.'

'Well, you must confess,' said her ladyship, with a glance of triumph,
'that it was very lucky for us that I made him a Whig.'

'I cannot agree with you at all on that head,' said Mr. Pole. 'We
certainly are not very popular at this moment, and I feel convinced
that a connection with a person who attracts so much notice as
Cadurcis unfortunately does, and whose opinions on morals and religion
must be so offensive to the vast majority of the English public, must
ultimately prove anything but advantageous to our party.'

'Oh! my dear Mr. Pole,' said her ladyship, in a tone of affected
deprecation, 'think what a genius he is!'

'We have very different ideas of genius, Lady Monteagle, I suspect,'
said her visitor.

'You cannot deny,' replied her ladyship, rising from her recumbent
posture, with some animation, 'that he is a poet?'

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

'Charles Fox thinks he is the greatest poet that ever existed,' said
her ladyship, as if she were determined to settle the question.

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

'You are a very provoking person,' said Lady Monteagle; 'but you do
not provoke me; do not flatter yourself you do.'

'That I feel to be an achievement alike beyond my power and my
ambition,' replied Mr. Pole, slightly bowing, but with a sneer.

'Well, read this,' said Lady Monteagle, 'and then decide upon the
merits of Cadurcis.'

Mr. Pole took the extended volume, but with no great willingness, and
turned over a page or two and read a passage here and there.

'Much the same as his last effusion, I think' he observed, as far as
I can judge from so cursory a review. Exaggerated passion, bombastic
language, egotism to excess, and, which perhaps is the only portion
that is genuine, mixed with common-place scepticism and impossible
morals, and a sort of vague, dreamy philosophy, which, if it mean
anything, means atheism, borrowed from his idol, Herbert, and which he
himself evidently does not comprehend.'

'Monster!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle, with a mock assumption of
indignation, 'and you are going to dine with him here to-day. You do
not deserve it.'

'It is a reward which is unfortunately too often obtained by me,'
replied Mr. Pole. 'One of the most annoying consequences of your
friend's popularity, Lady Monteagle, is that there is not a dinner
party where one can escape him. I met him yesterday at Fanshawe's. He
amused himself by eating only biscuits, and calling for soda water,
while we quaffed our Burgundy. How very original! What a thing it is
to be a great poet!'

'Perverse, provoking mortal!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle. 'And on what
should a poet live? On coarse food, like you coarse mortals? Cadurcis
is all spirit, and in my opinion his diet only makes him more
interesting.'

'I understand,' said Mr. Pole, 'that he cannot endure a woman to eat
at all. But you are all spirit, Lady Monteagle, and therefore of
course are not in the least inconvenienced. By-the-bye, do you mean to
give us any of those charming little suppers this season?'

'I shall not invite you,' replied her ladyship; 'none but admirers of
Lord Cadurcis enter this house.'

'Your menace effects my instant conversion,' replied Mr. Pole. 'I will
admire him as much as you desire, only do not insist upon my reading
his works.'

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

Mr. Pole smiled, bowed, and disappeared; and Lady Monteagle sat down
to write a billet to Lord Cadurcis, to entreat him to be with her at
five o'clock, which was at least half an hour before the other guests
were expected. The Monteagles were considered to dine ridiculously
late.

CHAPTER II.

Marmion Herbert, sprung from one of the most illustrious families in
England, became at an early age the inheritor of a great estate, to
which, however, he did not succeed with the prejudices or opinions
usually imbibed or professed by the class to which he belonged. While
yet a boy, Marmion Herbert afforded many indications of possessing a
mind alike visionary and inquisitive, and both, although not in an
equal degree, sceptical and creative. Nature had gifted him with
precocious talents; and with a temperament essentially poetic, he
was nevertheless a great student. His early reading, originally by
accident and afterwards by an irresistible inclination, had fallen
among the works of the English freethinkers: with all their errors,
a profound and vigorous race, and much superior to the French
philosophers, who were after all only their pupils and their
imitators. While his juvenile studies, and in some degree the
predisposition of his mind, had thus prepared him to doubt and finally
to challenge the propriety of all that was established and received,
the poetical and stronger bias of his mind enabled him quickly to
supply the place of everything he would remove and destroy; and, far
from being the victim of those frigid and indifferent feelings
which must ever be the portion of the mere doubter, Herbert, on the
contrary, looked forward with ardent and sanguine enthusiasm to a
glorious and ameliorating future, which should amply compensate and
console a misguided and unhappy race for the miserable past and
the painful and dreary present. To those, therefore, who could not
sympathise with his views, it will be seen that Herbert, in attempting
to fulfil them, became not merely passively noxious from his example,
but actively mischievous from his exertions. A mere sceptic, he would
have been perhaps merely pitied; a sceptic with a peculiar faith of
his own, which he was resolved to promulgate, Herbert became odious. A
solitary votary of obnoxious opinions, Herbert would have been looked
upon only as a madman; but the moment he attempted to make proselytes
he rose into a conspirator against society.

Young, irresistibly prepossessing in his appearance, with great
eloquence, crude but considerable knowledge, an ardent imagination
and a subtle mind, and a generous and passionate soul, under any
circumstances he must have obtained and exercised influence, even if
his Creator had not also bestowed upon him a spirit of indomitable
courage; but these great gifts of nature being combined with accidents
of fortune scarcely less qualified to move mankind, high rank, vast
wealth, and a name of traditionary glory, it will not be esteemed
surprising that Marmion Herbert, at an early period, should have
attracted around him many enthusiastic disciples.

At Christchurch, whither he repaired at an unusually early age,
his tutor was Doctor Masham; and the profound respect and singular
affection with which that able, learned, and amiable man early
inspired his pupil, for a time controlled the spirit of Herbert; or
rather confined its workings to so limited a sphere that the results
were neither dangerous to society nor himself. Perfectly comprehending
and appreciating the genius of the youth entrusted to his charge,
deeply interested in his spiritual as well as worldly welfare, and
strongly impressed with the importance of enlisting his pupil's
energies in favour of that existing order, both moral and religious,
in the truth and indispensableness of which he was a sincere believer,
Doctor Masham omitted no opportunity of combating the heresies of the
young inquirer; and as the tutor, equally by talent, experience, and
learning, was a competent champion of the great cause to which he was
devoted, his zeal and ability for a time checked the development of
those opinions of which he witnessed the menacing influence over
Herbert with so much fear and anxiety. The college life of Marmion
Herbert, therefore, passed in ceaseless controversy with his tutor;
and as he possessed, among many other noble qualities, a high and
philosophic sense of justice, he did not consider himself authorised,
while a doubt remained on his own mind, actively to promulgate those
opinions, of the propriety and necessity of which he scarcely ever
ceased to be persuaded. To this cause it must be mainly attributed
that Herbert was not expelled the university; for had he pursued there
the course of which his cruder career at Eton had given promise, there
can be little doubt that some flagrant outrage of the opinions held
sacred in that great seat of orthodoxy would have quickly removed him
from the salutary sphere of their control.

Herbert quitted Oxford in his nineteenth year, yet inferior to
few that he left there, even among the most eminent, in classical
attainments, and with a mind naturally profound, practised in all the
arts of ratiocination. His general knowledge also was considerable,
and he was a proficient in those scientific pursuits which were then
rare. Notwithstanding his great fortune and position, his departure
from the university was not a signal with him for that abandonment to
the world, and that unbounded self-enjoyment naturally so tempting to
youth. On the contrary, Herbert shut himself up in his magnificent
castle, devoted to solitude and study. In his splendid library he
consulted the sages of antiquity, and conferred with them on the
nature of existence and of the social duties; while in his laboratory
or his dissecting-room he occasionally flattered himself he might
discover the great secret which had perplexed generations. The
consequence of a year passed in this severe discipline was
unfortunately a complete recurrence to those opinions that he had
early imbibed, and which now seemed fixed in his conviction beyond the
hope or chance of again faltering. In politics a violent republican,
and an advocate, certainly a disinterested one, of a complete equality
of property and conditions, utterly objecting to the very foundation
of our moral system, and especially a strenuous antagonist of
marriage, which he taught himself to esteem not only as an unnatural
tie, but as eminently unjust towards that softer sex, who had been
so long the victims of man; discarding as a mockery the received
revelation of the divine will; and, if no longer an atheist,
substituting merely for such an outrageous dogma a subtle and shadowy
Platonism; doctrines, however, which Herbert at least had acquired by
a profound study of the works of their great founder; the pupil of
Doctor Masham at length deemed himself qualified to enter that world
which he was resolved to regenerate; prepared for persecution, and
steeled even to martyrdom.

But while the doctrines of the philosopher had been forming, the
spirit of the poet had not been inactive. Loneliness, after all, the
best of Muses, had stimulated the creative faculty of his being.
Wandering amid his solitary woods and glades at all hours and seasons,
the wild and beautiful apparitions of nature had appealed to a
sympathetic soul. The stars and winds, the pensive sunset and the
sanguine break of morn, the sweet solemnity of night, the ancient
trees and the light and evanescent flowers, all signs and sights and
sounds of loveliness and power, fell on a ready eye and a responsive
ear. Gazing on the beautiful, he longed to create it. Then it was that
the two passions which seemed to share the being of Herbert appeared
simultaneously to assert their sway, and he resolved to call in his
Muse to the assistance of his Philosophy.

Herbert celebrated that fond world of his imagination, which he wished
to teach men to love. In stanzas glittering with refined images, and
resonant with subtle symphony, he called into creation that society of
immaculate purity and unbounded enjoyment which he believed was the
natural inheritance of unshackled man. In the hero he pictured a
philosopher, young and gifted as himself; in the heroine, his idea of
a perfect woman. Although all those peculiar doctrines of Herbert,
which, undisguised, must have excited so much odium, were more or
less developed and inculcated in this work; nevertheless they were
necessarily so veiled by the highly spiritual and metaphorical
language of the poet, that it required some previous acquaintance with
the system enforced, to be able to detect and recognise the esoteric
spirit of his Muse. The public read only the history of an ideal world
and of creatures of exquisite beauty, told in language that alike
dazzled their fancy and captivated their ear. They were lost in a
delicious maze of metaphor and music, and were proud to acknowledge
an addition to the glorious catalogue of their poets in a young and
interesting member of their aristocracy.

In the meanwhile Herbert entered that great world that had long
expected him, and hailed his advent with triumph. How long might have
elapsed before they were roused by the conduct of Herbert to the
error under which they were labouring as to his character, it is
not difficult to conjecture; but before he could commence those
philanthropic exertions which apparently absorbed him, he encountered
an individual who most unconsciously put his philosophy not merely to
the test, but partially even to the rout; and this was Lady Annabel
Sidney. Almost as new to the world as himself, and not less admired,
her unrivalled beauty, her unusual accomplishments, and her pure and
dignified mind, combined, it must be confessed, with the flattering
admiration of his genius, entirely captivated the philosophical
antagonist of marriage. It is not surprising that Marmion Herbert,
scarcely of age, and with a heart of extreme susceptibility, resolved,
after a struggle, to be the first exception to his system, and, as he
faintly flattered himself, the last victim of prejudice. He wooed and
won the Lady Annabel.

The marriage ceremony was performed by Doctor Masham, who had read his
pupil's poem, and had been a little frightened by its indications; but
this happy union had dissipated all his fears. He would not believe in
any other than a future career for him alike honourable and happy; and
he trusted that if any wild thoughts still lingered in Herbert's mind,
that they would clear off by the same literary process; so that
the utmost ill consequences of his immature opinions might be an
occasional line that the wise would have liked to blot, and yet which
the unlettered might scarcely be competent to comprehend. Mr. and Lady
Annabel Herbert departed after the ceremony to his castle, and Doctor
Masham to Marringhurst, a valuable living in another county, to which
his pupil had just presented him.

Some months after this memorable event, rumours reached the ear of the
good Doctor that all was not as satisfactory as he could desire in
that establishment, in the welfare of which he naturally took so
lively an interest. Herbert was in the habit of corresponding with the
rector of Marringhurst, and his first letters were full of details as
to his happy life and his perfect consent; but gradually these details
had been considerably abridged, and the correspondence assumed chiefly
a literary or philosophical character. Lady Annabel, however, was
always mentioned with regard, and an intimation had been duly given
to the Doctor that she was in a delicate and promising situation, and
that they were both alike anxious that he should christen their child.
It did not seem very surprising to the good Doctor, who was a man of
the world, that a husband, six months after marriage, should not
speak of the memorable event with all the fulness and fondness of
the honeymoon; and, being one of those happy tempers that always
anticipate the best, he dismissed from his mind, as vain gossip and
idle exaggerations, the ominous whispers that occasionally reached
him.

Immediately after the Christmas ensuing his marriage, the Herberts
returned to London, and the Doctor, who happened to be a short time
in the metropolis, paid them a visit. His observations were far from
unsatisfactory; it was certainly too evident that Marmion was no
longer enamoured of Lady Annabel, but he treated her apparently with
courtesy, and even cordiality. The presence of Dr. Masham tended,
perhaps, a little to revive old feelings, for he was as much a
favourite with the wife as with the husband; but, on the whole,
the Doctor quitted them with an easy heart, and sanguine that the
interesting and impending event would, in all probability, revive
affection on the part of Herbert, or at least afford Lady Annabel the
only substitute for a husband's heart.

In due time the Doctor heard from Herbert that his wife had gone
down into the country, but was sorry to observe that Herbert did not
accompany her. Even this disagreeable impression was removed by a
letter, shortly after received from Herbert, dated from the castle,
and written in high spirits, informing him that Annabel had made him
the happy father of the most beautiful little girl in the world.
During the ensuing three months Mr. Herbert, though he resumed his
residence in London, paid frequent visits to the castle, where Lady
Annabel remained; and his occasional correspondence, though couched
in a careless vein, still on the whole indicated a cheerful spirit;
though ever and anon were sarcastic observations as to the felicity of
the married state, which, he said, was an undoubted blessing, as it
kept a man out of all scrapes, though unfortunately under the penalty
of his total idleness and inutility in life. On the whole, however,
the reader may judge of the astonishment of Doctor Masham when, in
common with the world, very shortly after the receipt of this letter,
Mr. Herbert having previously proceeded to London, and awaiting, as
was said, the daily arrival of his wife and child, his former tutor
learned that Lady Annabel, accompanied only by Pauncefort and Venetia,
had sought her father's roof, declaring that circumstances had
occurred which rendered it quite impossible that she could live with
Mr. Herbert any longer, and entreating his succour and parental
protection.

Never was such a hubbub in the world! In vain Herbert claimed his
wife, and expressed his astonishment, declaring that he had parted
from her with the expression of perfect kind feeling on both sides.
No answer was given to his letter, and no explanation of any kind
conceded him. The world universally declared Lady Annabel an injured
woman, and trusted that she would eventually have the good sense and
kindness to gratify them by revealing the mystery; while Herbert,
on the contrary, was universally abused and shunned, avoided by his
acquaintances, and denounced as the most depraved of men.

In this extraordinary state of affairs Herbert acted in a manner
the best calculated to secure his happiness, and the very worst to
preserve his character. Having ostentatiously shown himself in every
public place, and courted notice and inquiry by every means in his
power, to prove that he was not anxious to conceal himself or avoid
any inquiry, he left the country, free at last to pursue that career
to which he had always aspired, and in which he had been checked by
a blunder, from the consequences of which he little expected that
he should so speedily and strangely emancipate himself. It was in a
beautiful villa on the lake of Geneva that he finally established
himself, and there for many years he employed himself in the
publication of a series of works which, whether they were poetry or
prose, imaginative or investigative, all tended to the same consistent
purpose, namely, the fearless and unqualified promulgation of those
opinions, on the adoption of which he sincerely believed the happiness
of mankind depended; and the opposite principles to which, in his own
case, had been productive of so much mortification and misery.
His works, which were published in England, were little read, and
universally decried. The critics were always hard at work, proving
that he was no poet, and demonstrating in the most logical manner
that he was quite incapable of reasoning on the commonest topic. In
addition to all this, his ignorance was self-evident; and though he
was very fond of quoting Greek, they doubted whether he was capable of
reading the original authors. The general impression of the English
public, after the lapse of some years, was, that Herbert was an
abandoned being, of profligate habits, opposed to all the institutions
of society that kept his infamy in check, and an avowed atheist; and
as scarcely any one but a sympathetic spirit ever read a line he
wrote, for indeed the very sight of his works was pollution, it is not
very wonderful that this opinion was so generally prevalent. A calm
inquirer might, perhaps, have suspected that abandoned profligacy is
not very compatible with severe study, and that an author is seldom
loose in his life, even if he be licentious in his writings. A calm
inquirer might, perhaps, have been of opinion that a solitary sage
may be the antagonist of a priesthood without absolutely denying the
existence of a God; but there never are calm inquirers. The world, on
every subject, however unequally, is divided into parties; and even in
the case of Herbert and his writings, those who admired his genius,
and the generosity of his soul, were not content without advocating,
principally out of pique to his adversaries, his extreme opinions on
every subject, moral, political, and religious.

Besides, it must be confessed, there was another circumstance which
was almost as fatal to Herbert's character in England as his loose and
heretical opinions. The travelling English, during their visits to
Geneva, found out that their countryman solaced or enlivened his
solitude by unhallowed ties. It is a habit to which very young men,
who are separated from or deserted by their wives, occasionally have
recourse. Wrong, no doubt, as most things are, but it is to be hoped
venial; at least in the case of any man who is not also an atheist.
This unfortunate mistress of Herbert was magnified into a seraglio;
the most extraordinary tales of the voluptuous life of one who
generally at his studies out-watched the stars, were rife in English
society; and

Hoary marquises and stripling dukes,

who were either protecting opera dancers, or, still worse, making
love to their neighbours' wives, either looked grave when the name of
Herbert was mentioned in female society, or affectedly confused, as if
they could a tale unfold, were they not convinced that the sense of
propriety among all present was infinitely superior to their sense of
curiosity.

The only person to whom Herbert communicated in England was Doctor
Masham. He wrote to him immediately on his establishment at Geneva, in
a calm yet sincere and serious tone, as if it were useless to dwell
too fully on the past. Yet he declared, although now that it was all
over he avowed his joy at the interposition of his destiny, and the
opportunity which he at length possessed of pursuing the career for
which he was adapted, that he had to his knowledge given his wife
no cause of offence which could authorise her conduct. As for his
daughter, he said he should not be so cruel as to tear her from
her mother's breast; though, if anything could induce him to such
behaviour, it would be the malignant and ungenerous menace of his
wife's relatives, that they would oppose his preferred claim to
the guardianship of his child, on the plea of his immoral life and
atheistical opinions. With reference to pecuniary arrangements, as
his chief seat was entailed on male heirs, he proposed that his wife
should take up her abode at Cherbury, an estate which had been settled
on her and her children at her marriage, and which, therefore, would
descend to Venetia. Finally, he expressed his satisfaction that the
neighbourhood of Marringhurst would permit his good and still faithful
friend to cultivate the society and guard over the welfare of his wife
and daughter.

During the first ten years of Herbert's exile, for such indeed it
might be considered, the Doctor maintained with him a rare yet regular
correspondence; but after that time a public event occurred, and
a revolution took place in Herbert's life which terminated all
communication between them; a termination occasioned, however, by such
a simultaneous conviction of its absolute necessity, that it was not
attended by any of those painful communications which are too often
the harrowing forerunners of a formal disruption of ancient ties.

This event was the revolt of the American colonies; and this
revolution in Herbert's career, his junction with the rebels against
his native country. Doubtless it was not without a struggle, perhaps
a pang, that Herbert resolved upon a line of conduct to which it
must assuredly have required the strongest throb of his cosmopolitan
sympathy, and his amplest definition of philanthropy to have impelled
him. But without any vindictive feelings towards England, for he ever
professed and exercised charity towards his enemies, attributing their
conduct entirely to their ignorance and prejudice, upon this step he
nevertheless felt it his duty to decide. There seemed in the opening
prospects of America, in a world still new, which had borrowed from
the old as it were only so much civilisation as was necessary to
create and to maintain order; there seemed in the circumstances of its
boundless territory, and the total absence of feudal institutions and
prejudices, so fair a field for the practical introduction of those
regenerating principles to which Herbert had devoted all the thought
and labour of his life, that he resolved, after long and perhaps
painful meditation, to sacrifice every feeling and future interest to
its fulfilment. All idea of ever returning to his native country, even
were it only to mix his ashes with the generations of his ancestors;
all hope of reconciliation with his wife, or of pressing to his
heart that daughter, often present to his tender fancy, and to whose
affections he had feelingly appealed in an outburst of passionate
poetry; all these chances, chances which, in spite of his philosophy,
had yet a lingering charm, must be discarded for ever. They were
discarded. Assigning his estate to his heir upon conditions, in order
to prevent its forfeiture, with such resources as he could command,
and which were considerable, Marmion Herbert arrived at Boston, where
his rank, his wealth, his distinguished name, his great talents, and
his undoubted zeal for the cause of liberty, procured him an eminent
and gratifying reception. He offered to raise a regiment for the
republic, and the offer was accepted, and he was enrolled among the
citizens. All this occurred about the time that the Cadurcis family
first settled at the abbey, and this narrative will probably throw
light upon several slight incidents which heretofore may have
attracted the perplexed attention of the reader: such as the newspaper
brought by Dr. Masham at the Christmas visit; the tears shed at a
subsequent period at Marringhurst, when he related to her the last
intelligence that had been received from America. For, indeed, it is
impossible to express the misery and mortification which this last
conduct of her husband occasioned Lady Annabel, brought up, as she had
been, with feelings of romantic loyalty and unswerving patriotism.
To be a traitor seemed the only blot that remained for his sullied
scutcheon, and she had never dreamed of that. An infidel, a
profligate, a deserter from his home, an apostate from his God! one
infamy alone remained, and now he had attained it; a traitor to his
king! Why, every peasant would despise him!

General Herbert, however, for such he speedily became, at the head of
his division, soon arrested the attention, and commanded the respect,
of Europe. To his exertions the successful result of the struggle
was, in a great measure, attributed; and he received the thanks of
Congress, of which he became a member. His military and political
reputation exercised a beneficial influence upon his literary fame.
His works were reprinted in America, and translated into French,
and published at Geneva and Basle, whence they were surreptitiously
introduced into France. The Whigs, who had become very factious, and
nearly revolutionary, during the American war, suddenly became proud
of their countryman, whom a new world hailed as a deliverer, and
Paris declared to be a great poet and an illustrious philosopher. His
writings became fashionable, especially among the young; numerous
editions of them appeared, and in time it was discovered that Herbert
was now not only openly read, and enthusiastically admired, but had
founded a school.

The struggle with America ceased about the time of Lord Cadurcis' last
visit to Cherbury, when, from his indignant lips, Venetia first learnt
the enormities of her father's career. Since that period some three
years had elapsed until we introduced our readers to the boudoir
of Lady Monteagle. During this period, among the Whigs and their
partisans the literary fame of Herbert had arisen and become
established. How they have passed in regard to Lady Annabel Herbert
and her daughter, on the one hand, and Lord Cadurcis himself on the
other, we will endeavour to ascertain in the following chapter.

CHAPTER III.

From the last departure of Lord Cadurcis from Cherbury, the health of
Venetia again declined. The truth is, she brooded in solitude over her
strange lot, until her nerves became relaxed by intense reverie and
suppressed feeling. The attention of a mother so wrapt up in her child
as Lady Annabel, was soon attracted to the increasing languor of
our heroine, whose eye each day seemed to grow less bright, and her
graceful form less lithe and active. No longer, fond of the sun and
breeze as a beautiful bird, was Venetia seen, as heretofore, glancing
in the garden, or bounding over the lawns; too often might she be
found reclining on the couch, in spite of all the temptations of the
spring; while her temper, once so singularly sweet that it seemed
there was not in the world a word that could ruffle it, and which
required so keenly and responded so quickly to sympathy, became
reserved, if not absolutely sullen, or at times even captious and
fretful.

This change in the appearance and demeanour of her daughter filled
Lady Annabel with anxiety and alarm. In vain she expressed to Venetia
her conviction of her indisposition; but Venetia, though her altered
habits confirmed the suspicion, and authorised the inquiry of her
parent, persisted ever in asserting that she had no ailment. Her old
medical attendant was, however, consulted, and, being perplexed with
the case, he recommended change of air. Lady Annabel then consulted
Dr. Masham, and he gave his opinion in favour of change of air for one
reason: and that was, that it would bring with it what he had long
considered Venetia to stand in need of, and that was change of life.

Dr. Masham was right; but then, to guide him in forming his judgment,
he had the advantage of some psychological knowledge of the case,
which, in a greet degree, was a sealed book to the poor puzzled
physician. We laugh very often at the errors of medical men; but if
we would only, when we consult them, have strength of mind enough to
extend to them something better than a half-confidence, we might be
cured the sooner. How often, when the unhappy disciple of Esculapius
is perplexing himself about the state of our bodies, we might throw
light upon his obscure labours by simply detailing to him the state of
our minds!

The result of these consultations in the Herbert family was a final
resolution, on the part of Lady Annabel, to quit Cherbury for a while.
As the sea air was especially recommended to Venetia, and as Lady
Annabel shrank with a morbid apprehension from society, to which
nothing could persuade her she was not an object either of odium or
impertinent curiosity, she finally resolved to visit Weymouth, then a
small and secluded watering-place, and whither she arrived and settled
herself, it not being even the season when its few customary visitors
were in the habit of gathering.

This residence at Weymouth quite repaid Lady Annabel for all the
trouble of her new settlement, and for the change in her life very
painful to her confirmed habits, which she experienced in leaving for
the first time for such a long series of years, her old hall; for the
rose returned to the cheek of her daughter, and the western breezes,
joined with the influence of the new objects that surrounded her, and
especially of that ocean, and its strange and inexhaustible variety,
on which she gazed for the first time, gradually, but surely,
completed the restoration of Venetia to health, and with it to much of
her old vivacity.

When Lady Annabel had resided about a year at Weymouth, in the society
of which she had invariably made the indisposition of Venetia a reason
for not entering, a great revolution suddenly occurred at this little
quiet watering-place, for it was fixed upon as the summer residence of
the English court. The celebrated name, the distinguished appearance,
and the secluded habits of Lady Annabel and her daughter, had rendered
them the objects of general interest. Occasionally they were met in a
seaside walk by some fellow-wanderer over the sands, or toiler over
the shingles; and romantic reports of the dignity of the mother and
the daughter's beauty were repeated by the fortunate observers to the
lounging circle of the public library or the baths.

The moment that Lady Annabel was assured that the royal family had
positively fixed upon Weymouth for their residence, and were even
daily expected, she resolved instantly to retire. Her stern sense of
duty assured her that it was neither delicate nor loyal to obtrude
before the presence of an outraged monarch the wife and daughter of a
traitor; her haughty, though wounded, spirit shrank from the revival
of her husband's history, which must be the consequence of such a
conjunction, and from the startling and painful remarks which might
reach the shrouded ear of her daughter. With her characteristic
decision, and with her usual stern volition, Lady Annabel quitted
Weymouth instantly, but she was in some degree consoled for the regret
and apprehensiveness which she felt at thus leaving a place that had
otherwise so happily fulfilled all her hopes and wishes, and that
seemed to agree so entirely with Venetia, by finding unexpectedly
a marine villa, some few miles further up the coast, which was
untenanted, and which offered to Lady Annabel all the accommodation
she could desire.

It so happened this summer that Dr. Masham paid the Herberts a visit,
and it was his habit occasionally to ride into Weymouth to read the
newspaper, or pass an hour in that easy lounging chat, which is,
perhaps, one of the principal diversions of a watering-place. A great
dignitary of the church, who was about the King, and to whom Dr.
Masham was known not merely by reputation, mentioned his presence to
his Majesty; and the King, who was fond of the society of eminent
divines, desired that Dr. Masham should be presented to him. Now, so
favourable was the impression that the rector of Marringhurst made
upon his sovereign, that from that moment the King was scarcely ever
content unless he was in attendance. His Majesty, who was happy in
asking questions, and much too acute to be baffled when he sought
information, finally elicited from the Doctor all that, in order to
please Lady Annabel, he long struggled to conceal; but when the King
found that the deserted wife and daughter of Herbert were really
living in the neighbourhood, and that they had quitted Weymouth on his
arrival, from a feeling of delicate loyalty, nothing would satisfy the
kind-hearted monarch but personally assuring them of the interest he
took in their welfare; and accordingly, the next day, without giving
Lady Annabel even the preparation of a notice, his Majesty and his
royal consort, attended only by a lord in waiting, called at the
marine villa, and fairly introduced themselves.

An acquaintance, occasioned by a sentiment of generous and
condescending sympathy, was established and strengthened into
intimacy, by the personal qualities of those thus delicately honoured.
The King and Queen were equally delighted with the wife and daughter
of the terrible rebel; and although, of course, not an allusion was
made to his existence, Lady Annabel felt not the less acutely the
cause to which she was indebted for a notice so gratifying, but
which she afterwards ensured by her own merits. How strange are the
accidents of life! Venetia Herbert, who had been bred up in unbroken
solitude, and whose converse had been confined to two or three beings,
suddenly found herself the guest of a king, and the visitor to a
court! She stepped at once from solitude into the most august circle
of society; yet, though she had enjoyed none of that initiatory
experience which is usually held so indispensable to the votaries
of fashion, her happy nature qualified her to play her part without
effort and with success. Serene and graceful, she mingled in the
strange and novel scene, as if it had been for ever her lot to dazzle
and to charm. Ere the royal family returned to London, they extracted
from Lady Annabel a compliance with their earnest wishes, that
she should fix her residence, during the ensuing season, in the
metropolis, and that she should herself present Venetia at St.
James's. The wishes of kings are commands; and Lady Annabel, who thus
unexpectedly perceived some of the most painful anticipations of her
solitude at once dissipated, and that her child, instead of being
subjected on her entrance into life to all the mortifications she had
imagined, would, on the contrary, find her first introduction under
auspices the most flattering and advantageous, bowed a dutiful assent
to the condescending injunctions.

Such were the memorable consequences of this visit to Weymouth! The
return of Lady Annabel to the world, and her intended residence in the
metropolis, while the good Masham preceded their arrival to receive a
mitre. Strange events, and yet not improbable!

In the meantime Lord Cadurcis had repaired to the university, where
his rank and his eccentric qualities quickly gathered round him a
choice circle of intimates, chiefly culled from his old schoolfellows.
Of these the great majority were his seniors, for whose society
the maturity of his mind qualified him. It so happened that these
companions were in general influenced by those liberal opinions which
had become in vogue during the American war, and from which Lord
Cadurcis had hitherto been preserved by the society in which he
had previously mingled in the house of his guardian. With the
characteristic caprice and impetuosity of youth, Cadurcis rapidly
and ardently imbibed all these doctrines, captivated alike by their
boldness and their novelty. Hitherto the child of prejudice, he
flattered himself that he was now the creature of reason, and,
determined to take nothing for granted, he soon learned to question
everything that was received. A friend introduced him to the writings
of Herbert, that very Herbert whom he had been taught to look upon
with so much terror and odium. Their perusal operated a complete
revolution of his mind; and, in little more than a year from his
flight from Cherbury, he had become an enthusiastic votary of the
great master, for his violent abuse of whom he had been banished from
those happy bowers. The courage, the boldness, the eloquence, the
imagination, the strange and romantic career of Herbert, carried the
spirit of Cadurcis captive. The sympathetic companions studied his
works and smiled with scorn at the prejudice of which their great
model had been the victim, and of which they had been so long the
dupes. As for Cadurcis, he resolved to emulate him, and he commenced
his noble rivalship by a systematic neglect of all the duties and
the studies of his college life. His irregular habits procured him
constant reprimands in which he gloried; he revenged himself on the
authorities by writing epigrams, and by keeping a bear, which he
declared should stand for a fellowship. At length, having wilfully
outraged the most important regulations, he was expelled; and he
made his expulsion the subject of a satire equally personal and
philosophic, and which obtained applause for the great talent which it
displayed, even from those who lamented its want of judgment and the
misconduct of its writer. Flushed with success, Cadurcis at length
found, to his astonishment, that Nature had intended him for a poet.
He repaired to London, where he was received with open arms by the
Whigs, whose party he immediately embraced, and where he published a
poem, in which he painted his own character as the hero, and of which,
in spite of all the exaggeration and extravagance of youth, the genius
was undeniable. Society sympathised with a young and a noble poet;
his poem was read by all parties with enthusiasm; Cadurcis became the
fashion. To use his own expression, 'One morning he awoke, and found
himself famous.' Young, singularly handsome, with every gift of nature
and fortune, and with an inordinate vanity that raged in his soul,
Cadurcis soon forgot the high philosophy that had for a moment
attracted him, and delivered himself up to the absorbing egotism which
had ever been latent in his passionate and ambitious mind. Gifted with
energies that few have ever equalled, and fooled to the bent by the
excited sympathies of society, he poured forth his creative and daring
spirit with a license that conquered all obstacles, from the very
audacity with which he assailed them. In a word, the young, the
reserved, and unknown Cadurcis, who, but three years back, was to have
lived in the domestic solitude for which he alone felt himself fitted,
filled every heart and glittered in every eye. The men envied, the
women loved, all admired him. His life was a perpetual triumph; a
brilliant and applauding stage, on which he ever played a dazzling and
heroic part. So sudden and so startling had been his apparition, so
vigorous and unceasing the efforts by which he had maintained his
first overwhelming impression, and not merely by his writings, but by
his unusual manners and eccentric life, that no one had yet found time
to draw his breath, to observe, to inquire, and to criticise. He had
risen, and still flamed, like a comet as wild as it was beautiful, and
strange is it was brilliant.

CHAPTER IV.

We must now return to the dinner party at Lord Monteagle's. When the
Bishop of ---- entered the room, he found nearly all the expected
guests assembled, and was immediately presented by his host to the
lady of the house, who received him with all that fascinating address
for which she was celebrated, expressing the extreme delight which she
felt at thus becoming formally acquainted with one whom her husband
had long taught her to admire and reverence. Utterly unconscious who
had just joined the circle, while Lord Monteagle was introducing his
newly-arrived guest to many present, and to all of whom he was unknown
except by reputation, Lord Cadurcis was standing apart, apparently
wrapt in his own thoughts; but the truth is, in spite of all the
excitement in which he lived, he had difficulty in overcoming the
natural reserve of his disposition.

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

'Show me him,' said the lady, eagerly. 'I have never seen him yet; I
am actually dying to know him. You know we have just come to town.'

'And have caught the raging epidemic, I see,' said Mr. Pole, with a
sneer. 'However, there is the marvellous young gentleman! "Alone in a
crowd," as he says in his last poem. Very interesting!'

'Wonderful creature!' exclaimed the dame.

'Charming!' said Mr. Pole. 'If you ask Lady Monteagle, she will
introduce him to you, and then, perhaps, you will be fortunate enough
to be handed to dinner by him.'

'Oh! how I should like it!'

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

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

'Ah! then you will quite suit him; I dare say he will write a sonnet
to you, and call you Thyrza.'

'I wish I could get him to write some lines in my book, said the lady;
'Charles Fox has written some; he was staying with us in the autumn,
and he has written an ode to my little dog.'

'How amiable!' said Mr. Pole; 'I dare say they are as good as his
elegy on Mrs. Crewe's cat. But you must not talk of cats and dogs to
Cadurcis. He is too exalted to commemorate any animal less sublime
than a tiger or a barb.'

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

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

'He looks unhappy.'

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

'They do whisper very odd things,' said the lady, with great
curiosity. 'Do you think there is anything in them?'

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

'Dear me, how shocking! I think he must be the most interesting person
that ever lived. I should so like to know him! They say he is so very
odd.'

'Very,' said Mr. Pole. 'He must be a man of genius; he is so unlike
everybody; the very tie of his cravat proves it. And his hair, so
savage and dishevelled; none but a man of genius would not wear
powder. Watch him to-day, and you will observe that he will not
condescend to perform the slightest act like an ordinary mortal. I
met him at dinner yesterday at Fanshawe's, and he touched nothing but
biscuits and soda-water. Fanshawe, you know, is famous for his cook.
Complimentary and gratifying, was it not?'

'Dear me!' said the lady, 'I am delighted to see him; and yet I hope I
shall not sit by him at dinner. I am quite afraid of him.'

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

In the meantime the subject of these observations slowly withdrew to
the further end of the saloon, apart from every one, and threw himself
upon a couch with a somewhat discontented air. Lady Monteagle, whose
eye had never left him for a moment, although her attentions had been
necessarily commanded by her guests, and who dreaded the silent rages
in which Cadurcis constantly indulged, and which, when once assumed
for the day, were with difficulty dissipated, seized the first
opportunity to join and soothe him.

'Dear Cadurcis,' she said, 'why do you sit here? You know I am obliged
to speak to all these odious people, and it is very cruel of you.'

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

'Now, Cadurcis, for Heaven's sake do not play with my feelings,'
exclaimed Lady Monteagle, in a deprecating tone. 'Pray be amiable. If
I think you are in one of your dark humours, it is quite impossible
for me to attend to these people; and you know it is the only point on
which Monteagle ever has an opinion; he insists upon my attending to
his guests.'

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

'Now, Cadurcis! I ask you as a favour, a favour to me, only for
to-day. Be kind, be amiable, you can if you like; no person can be
more amiable; now, do!'

'I am amiable,' said his lordship; 'I am perfectly satisfied, if you
are. You made me dine here.'

'Now, Cadurcis!'

'Have I not dined here to satisfy you?'

'Yes! It was very kind.'

'But, really, that I should be wearied with all the common-places of
these creatures who come to eat your husband's cutlets, is too much,'
said his lordship. 'And you, Gertrude, what necessity can there be in
your troubling yourself to amuse people whom you meet every day of
your life, and who, from the vulgar perversity of society, value you
in exact proportion as you neglect them?'

'Yes, but to-day I must be attentive; for Henry, with his usual
thoughtlessness, has asked this new bishop to dine with us.'

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

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

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

'Assuredly.'

Lord Cadurcis changed colour, and even sighed. He rose rather quickly,
and said, 'I must go and speak to him.'

So, quitting Lady Monteagle, he crossed the room, and with all the
simplicity of old days, which instantly returned on him, those
melancholy eyes sparkling with animation, and that languid form quick
with excitement, he caught the Doctor's glance, and shook his extended
hand with a heartiness which astonished the surrounding spectators,
accustomed to the elaborate listlessness of his usual manner.

'My dear Doctor! my dear Lord! I am glad to say,' said Cadurcis, 'this
is the greatest and the most unexpected pleasure I ever received. Of
all persons in the world, you are the one whom I was most anxious to
meet.'

The good Bishop appeared not less gratified with the rencounter than
Cadurcis himself; but, in the midst of their mutual congratulations,
dinner was announced and served; and, in due order, Lord Cadurcis
found himself attending that fine lady, whom Mr. Horace Pole had, in
jest, suggested should be the object of his services; while Mr. Pole
himself was seated opposite to him at table.

The lady, remembering all Mr. Pole's intimations, was really
much frightened; she at first could scarcely reply to the casual
observations of her neighbour, and quite resolved not to eat anything.
But his lively and voluble conversation, his perfectly unaffected
manner, and the nonchalance with which he helped himself to every dish
that was offered him, soon reassured her. Her voice became a little
firmer, her manner less embarrassed, and she even began meditating a
delicate assault upon a fricassee.

'Are you going to Ranelagh to-night?' inquired Lord Cadurcis; 'I think
I shall take a round. There is nothing like amusement; it is the only
thing worth living for; and I thank my destiny I am easily amused. We
must persuade Lady Monteagle to go with us. Let us make a party, and
return and sup. I like a supper; nothing in the world more charming
than a supper,

A lobster salad, and champagne and chat.

That is life, and delightful. Why, really, my dear madam, you eat
nothing. You will never be able to endure the fatigues of a Ranelagh
campaign on the sustenance of a pate. Pole, my good fellow, will you
take a glass of wine? We had a pleasant party yesterday at Fanshawe's,
and apparently a capital dinner. I was sorry that I could not play my
part; but I have led rather a raking life lately. We must go and dine
with him again.'

Lord Cadurcis' neighbour and Mr. Pole exchanged looks; and the lady,
emboldened by the unexpected conduct of her cavalier and the exceeding
good friends which he seemed resolved to be with her and every
one else, began to flatter herself that she might yet obtain the
much-desired inscription in her volume. So, after making the usual
approaches, of having a great favour to request, which, however, she
could not flatter herself would be granted, and which she even was
afraid to mention; encouraged by the ready declaration of Lord
Cadurcis, that he should think it would be quite impossible for any
one to deny her anything, the lady ventured to state, that Mr. Fox had
written something in her book, and she should be the most honoured and
happiest lady in the land if--'

'Oh! I shall be most happy,' said Lord Cadurcis; 'I really esteem your
request quite an honour: you know I am only a literary amateur, and
cannot pretend to vie with your real authors. If you want them, you
must go to Mrs. Montagu. I would not write a line for her, and no the
blues have quite excommunicated me. Never mind; I leave them to Miss
Hannah More; but you, you are quite a different sort of person. What
shall I write?'

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

'Well, then,' said his lordship, 'I dare say you have got a lapdog or
a broken fan; I don't think I could soar above them. I think that is
about my tether.'

This lady, though a great person, was not a beauty, and very little
of a wit, and not calculated in any respect to excite the jealousy of
Lady Monteagle. In the meantime that lady was quite delighted with the
unusual animation of Lord Cadurcis, who was much the most entertaining
member of the party. Every one present would circulate throughout
the world that it was only at the Monteagle's that Lord Cadurcis
condescended to be amusing. As the Bishop was seated on her right
hand, Lady Monteagle seized the opportunity of making inquiries as to
their acquaintance; but she only obtained from the good Masham that he
had once resided in his lordship's neighbourhood, and had known him as
a child, and was greatly attached to him. Her ladyship was anxious to
obtain some juvenile anecdotes of her hero; but the Bishop contrived
to be amusing without degenerating into gossip. She did not glean
much, except that all his early friends were more astonished at his
present career than the Bishop himself, who was about to add, that
he always had some misgivings, but, recollecting where he was, he
converted the word into a more gracious term. But if Lady Monteagle
were not so successful as she could wish in her inquiries, she
contrived still to speak on the, to her, ever-interesting subject, and
consoled herself by the communications which she poured into a guarded
yet not unwilling ear, respecting the present life and conduct of
the Bishop's former pupil. The worthy dignitary had been prepared by
public fame for much that was dazzling and eccentric; but it must be
confessed he was not a little astonished by a great deal to which he
listened. One thing, however, was clear that whatever might be the
demeanour of Cadurcis to the circle in which he now moved, time, and
the strange revolutions of his life, had not affected his carriage
to his old friend. It gratified the Bishop while he listened to Lady
Monteagle's details of the haughty, reserved, and melancholy demeanour
of Cadurcis, which impressed every one with an idea that some superior
being had, as a punishment, been obliged to visit their humble globe,
to recall the apparently heartfelt cordiality with which he had
resumed his old acquaintance with the former rector of Marringhurst.

And indeed, to speak truth, the amiable and unpretending behaviour of
Cadurcis this day was entirely attributable to the unexpected meeting
with this old friend. In the hurry of society he could scarcely dwell
upon the associations which it was calculated to call up; yet
more than once he found himself quite absent, dwelling on sweet
recollections of that Cherbury that he had so loved. And ever and anon
the tones of a familiar voice caught his ear, so that they almost made
him start: they were not the less striking, because, as Masham was
seated on the same side of the table as Cadurcis, his eye had not
become habituated to the Bishop's presence, which sometimes he almost
doubted.

He seized the first opportunity after dinner of engaging his old tutor
in conversation. He took him affectionately by the arm, and led him,
as if unintentionally, to a sofa apart from the rest of the company,
and seated himself by his side. Cadurcis was agitated, for he was
about to inquire of some whom he could not mention without emotion.

'Is it long since you have seen our friends?' said his lordship, 'if
indeed I may call them mine.'

'Lady Annabel Herbert?' said the Bishop.

Cadurcis bowed.

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

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

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

'Indeed!'

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

'I hope neither Lady Annabel nor her daughter needs it?' said Lord
Cadurcis, in a tone of much feeling.

'Neither now, God be praised!' replied Masham; 'but Miss Herbert has
been a great invalid.'

There was a rather awkward silence. At length Lord Cadurcis said, 'We
meet rather unexpectedly, my dear sir.'

'Why, you have become a great man,' said the Bishop, with a smile;
'and one must expect to meet you.'

'Ah! my dear friend,' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, with a sigh, 'I would
willingly give a whole existence of a life like this for one year of
happiness at Cherbury.'

'Nay!' said the Bishop, with a look of good-natured mockery, 'this
melancholy is all very well in poetry; but I always half-suspected,
and I am quite sure now, that Cherbury was not particularly adapted to
you.'

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

'Hitherto I have not been so very wrong in my judgment respecting
Lord Cadurcis, that I am inclined very easily to give up my opinion,'
replied the Bishop.

'I have often thought of the conversation to which you allude,'
replied Lord Cadurcis; 'nevertheless, there is one opinion I never
changed, one sentiment that still reigns paramount in my heart.'

'You think so,' said his companion; but, perhaps, were it more than a
sentiment, it would cease to flourish.'

'No,' said Lord Cadurcis firmly; 'the only circumstance in the world
of which I venture to feel certain is my love for Venetia.'

'It raged certainly during your last visit to Cherbury,' said the
Bishop, 'after an interval of five years; it has been revived slightly
to-day, after an interval of three more, by the sight of a mutual
acquaintance, who has reminded you of her. But what have been your
feelings in the meantime? Confess the truth, and admit you have very
rarely spared a thought to the person to whom you fancy yourself at
this moment so passionately devoted.'

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

'Nay! prejudice is not my humour, my good lord. I decide only from
what I myself observe; I give my opinion to you at this moment as
freely as I did when you last conversed with me at the abbey, and when
I a little displeased you by speaking w