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 haveentered into some details as to the principles which had guided me inits composition, and the feelings with which I had attempted to shadowforth, though as 'in in a glass darkly, ' two of the most renowned andrefined spirits that have adorned these our latter days. But now Iwill only express a hope that the time may come when, in these pages, you may find some relaxation from the cares, and some distractionfrom the sorrows, of existence, and that you will then receive thisdedication 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 wassituate in one of our midland counties, on the borders of an extensiveforest, an ancient hall that belonged to the Herberts, but which, though ever well preserved, had not until that period been visited byany member of the family, since the exile of the Stuarts. It was anedifice of considerable size, built of grey stone, much covered withivy, and placed upon the last gentle elevation of a long ridge ofhills, in the centre of a crescent of woods, that far overtopped itsclusters of tall chimneys and turreted gables. Although the principalchambers were on the first story, you could nevertheless step forthfrom their windows on a broad terrace, whence you descended into thegardens by a double flight of stone steps, exactly in the middleof its length. These gardens were of some extent, and filled withevergreen shrubberies of remarkable overgrowth, while occasionallyturfy vistas, cut in the distant woods, came sloping down to thesouth, as if they opened to receive the sunbeam that greeted thegenial aspect of the mansion, The ground-floor was principallyoccupied by the hall itself, which was of great dimensions, hung roundwith many a family portrait and rural picture, furnished with longoaken seats covered with scarlet cushions, and ornamented with aparti-coloured floor of alternate diamonds of black and white marble. From the centre of the roof of the mansion, which was always coveredwith pigeons, rose the clock-tower of the chapel, surmounted by avane; and before the mansion itself was a large plot of grass, with afountain in the centre, surrounded by a hedge of honeysuckle. 

This plot of grass was separated from an extensive park, that openedin front of the hall, by tall iron gates, on each of the pillars ofwhich was a lion rampant supporting the escutcheon of the family. Thedeer wandered in this enclosed and well-wooded demesne, and about amile from the mansion, in a direct line with the iron gates, was anold-fashioned lodge, which marked the limit of the park, and fromwhich you emerged into a fine avenue of limes bounded on both sidesby fields. At the termination of this avenue was a strong but simplegate, and a woodman's cottage; and then spread before you a vastlandscape of open, wild lands, which seemed on one side interminable, while on the other the eye rested on the dark heights of theneighbouring forest. 

This picturesque and secluded abode was the residence of Lady AnnabelHerbert and her daughter, the young and beautiful Venetia, a child, atthe time when our history commences, of very tender age. It was nearlyseven years since Lady Annabel and her infant daughter had sought theretired shades of Cherbury, which they had never since quitted. Theylived alone and for each other; the mother educated her child, andthe child interested her mother by her affectionate disposition, the development of a mind of no ordinary promise, and a sort ofcaptivating grace and charming playfulness of temper, which wereextremely delightful. Lady Annabel was still young and lovely. Thatshe was wealthy her establishment clearly denoted, and she was adaughter of one of the haughtiest houses in the kingdom. It wasstrange then that, with all the brilliant accidents of birth, andbeauty, and fortune, she should still, as it were in the morning ofher life, have withdrawn to this secluded mansion, in a county whereshe was personally unknown, distant from the metropolis, estrangedfrom all her own relatives and connexions, and without resource ofeven a single neighbour, for the only place of importance in hervicinity was uninhabited. The general impression of the villagers wasthat Lady Annabel was a widow; and yet there were some speculatorswho would shrewdly remark, that her ladyship had never worn weeds, although her husband could not have been long dead when she firstarrived at Cherbury. On the whole, however, these good people were notvery inquisitive; and it was fortunate for them, for there was littlechance and slight means of gratifying their curiosity. The whole ofthe establishment had been formed at Cherbury, with the exception ofher ladyship's waiting-woman, Mistress Pauncefort, and she was by fartoo great a personage to condescend to reply to any question which wasnot made to her by Lady Annabel herself. 

The beauty of the young Venetia was not the hereditary gift of herbeautiful mother. It was not from Lady Annabel that Venetia Herberthad derived those seraphic locks that fell over her shoulders anddown her neck in golden streams, nor that clear grey eye even, whosechildish glance might perplex the gaze of manhood, nor that littleaquiline nose, that gave a haughty expression to a countenance thathad never yet dreamed of pride, nor that radiant complexion, thatdazzled with its brilliancy, like some winged minister of Raffael orCorreggio. The peasants that passed the lady and her daughter in theirwalks, and who blessed her as they passed, for all her grace andgoodness, often marvelled why so fair a mother and so fair a childshould be so dissimilar, that one indeed might be compared to a starrynight, and the other to a sunny day. 

CHAPTER II. 

It was a bright and soft spring morning: the dewy vistas of Cherburysparkled in the sun, the cooing of the pigeons sounded around, thepeacocks strutted about the terrace and spread their tails withinfinite enjoyment and conscious pride, and Lady Annabel came forthwith her little daughter, to breathe the renovating odours of theseason. The air was scented with the violet, tufts of daffodils werescattered all about, and though the snowdrop had vanished, and theprimroses were fast disappearing, their wild and shaggy leaves stilllooked 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 thechild; 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, lookingdown with fondness on her little companion, 'and, I fear, not quite sohappy. '

'But it is as beautiful, ' said Venetia. 

'It is not beauty that makes us happy, ' said Lady Annabel; 'to behappy, 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 alwaysgood, I shall always be happy?'

'You cannot be happy without being good, my love; but happinessdepends 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 longwalk, and Venetia shall walk with her. '

So saying, the Lady Annabel summoned Mistress Pauncefort, agentlewoman of not more discreet years than might have been expectedin the attendant of so young a mistress; but one well qualified forher office, very zealous and devoted, somewhat consequential, full ofenergy and decision, capable of directing, fond of giving advice, andhabituated to command. The Lady Annabel, leading her daughter, andaccompanied by her faithful bloodhound, Marmion, ascended one of thosesloping vistas that we have noticed, Mistress Pauncefort followingthem about a pace behind, and after her a groom, at a respectfuldistance, leading Miss Herbert's donkey. 

They soon entered a winding path through the wood which was thebackground of their dwelling. Lady Annabel was silent, and lost in herreflections; Venetia plucked the beautiful wild hyacinths that thenabounded in the wood in such profusion, that their beds spread likepatches of blue enamel, and gave them to Mistress Pauncefort, who, asthe collection increased, handed them over to the groom; who, in turn, deposited them in the wicker seat prepared for his young mistress. Thebright sun bursting through the tender foliage of the year, the clearand genial air, the singing of the birds, and the wild and joyousexclamations of Venetia, as she gathered her flowers, made it acheerful party, notwithstanding the silence of its mistress. 

When they emerged from the wood, they found themselves on the browof the hill, a small down, over which Venetia ran, exulting in thehealthy breeze which, at this exposed height, was strong and fresh. As they advanced to the opposite declivity to that which they hadascended, a wide and peculiar landscape opened before them. Theextreme distance was formed by an undulating ridge of lofty and savagehills; nearer than these were gentler elevations, partially wooded;and at their base was a rich valley, its green meads fed by a clearand rapid stream, which glittered in the sun as it coursed on, losingitself at length in a wild and sedgy lake that formed the furthestlimit of a widely-spreading park. In the centre of this park, andnot very remote from the banks of the rivulet, was an ancient gothicbuilding, that had once been an abbey of great repute and wealth, andhad not much suffered in its external character, by having served fornearly two centuries and a half as the principal dwelling of an oldbaronial family. 

Descending the downy hill, that here and there was studded with fineold trees, enriching by their presence the view from the abbey, LadyAnnabel 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 occasionalcawing of a rook. Advancing towards the abbey, they passed a pile ofbuildings that, in the summer, might be screened from sight by thefoliage of a group of elms, too scanty at present to veil theirdesolation. Wide gaps in the roof proved that the vast and drearystables were no longer used; there were empty granaries, whose doorshad fallen from their hinges; the gate of the courtyard was prostrateon the ground; and the silent clock that once adorned the cupola overthe noble entrance arch, had long lost its index. Even the litter ofthe yard appeared dusty and grey with age. You felt sure no human footcould have disturbed it for years. At the back of these buildings werenailed the trophies of the gamekeeper: hundreds of wild cats, dried toblackness, stretched their downward heads and legs from the moulderingwall; hawks, magpies, and jays hung in tattered remnants! but allgrey, and even green, with age; and the heads of birds in plenteousrows, nailed beak upward, and so dried and shrivelled by the suns andwinds and frosts of many seasons, that their distinctive characterswere lost. 

'Do you know, my good Pauncefort, ' said Lady Annabel, 'that I havean odd fancy to-day to force an entrance into the old abbey. It isstrange, 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 fortunatethis time, think you?'

Mistress Pauncefort smiled and smirked, and, advancing to the oldgloomy porch, gave a determined ring at the bell. Its sound mightbe heard echoing through the old cloisters, but a considerable timeelapsed without any other effect being produced. Perhaps Lady Annabelwould have now given up the attempt, but the little Venetia expressedso much regret at the disappointment, that her mother directed thegroom to reconnoitre in the neighbourhood, and see if it were possibleto discover any person connected with the mansion. 

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

''Tis a pity, ' said Lady Annabel, 'for, with all its desolation, thereis 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 ahushed and solemn tone; 'it is not pretty. ' Lady Annabel had movedaway. 

The groom returned, and said he had met an old man, pickingwater-cresses, and he was the only person who lived in the abbey, except his wife, and she was bedridden. The old man had promised toadmit them when he had completed his task, but not before, and thegroom 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 tome. '

'Mamma, ' said Venetia, 'what is the name of the gentleman to whom thisabbey 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 nativecountry, and dwell in another, my love, ' said Lady Annabel, veryquietly; '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 heis a very old man, and has no family. '

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

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

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

The staircase led Lady Annabel and her party through several smallrooms, scantily garnished with ancient furniture, in some of whichwere portraits of the family, until they at length entered a noblesaloon, once the refectory of the abbey, and not deficient insplendour, though sadly soiled and worm-eaten. It was hung withtapestry representing the Cartoons of Raffael, and their still vividcolours contrasted with the faded hangings and the dingy damask of thechairs and sofas. A mass of Cromwellian armour was huddled together ina corner of a long monkish gallery, with a standard, encrusted withdust, and a couple of old drums, one broken. From one of the windowsthey had a good view of the old walled garden, which did nottempt them to enter it; it was a wilderness, the walks no longerdistinguishable from the rank vegetation of the once cultivated lawns;the terraces choked up with the unchecked shrubberies; and here andthere a leaden statue, a goddess or a satyr, prostrate, and coveredwith 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 aspell-bound place. But, Venetia, I have often told you there are nosuch things as ghosts. '

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

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

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

CHAPTER III. 

Two serene and innocent years had glided away at Cherbury since thismorning ramble to Cadurcis Abbey, and Venetia had grown in loveliness, in goodness, and intelligence. Her lively and somewhat precocious mindhad become greatly developed; and, though she was only nine years ofage, it scarcely needed the affection of a mother to find in her aninteresting and engaging companion. Although feminine education waslittle regarded in those days, that of Lady Annabel had been anexception to the general practice of society. She had been broughtup with the consciousness of other objects of female attainment andaccomplishment 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 unfruitfulpains upon no ordinary capacity. She was a good linguist, a finemusician, was well read in our elder poets and their Italianoriginals, was no unskilful artist, and had acquired some knowledgeof botany when wandering, as a girl, in her native woods. Since herretirement to Cherbury, reading had been her chief resource. The hallcontained a library whose shelves, indeed, were more full than choice;but, amid folios of theological controversy and civil law, there mightbe found the first editions of most of the celebrated writers of thereign of Anne, which the contemporary proprietor of Cherbury, a man ofwit and fashion in his day, had duly collected in his yearly visits tothe metropolis, and finally deposited in the family book-room. 

The education of her daughter was not only the principal duty of LadyAnnabel, but her chief delight. To cultivate the nascent intelligenceof a child, in those days, was not the mere piece of scientificmechanism that the admirable labours of so many ingenious writers havesince permitted it comparatively to become. In those days there was noMrs. Barbauld, no Madame de Genlis, no Miss Edgeworth; no 'Evenings atHome, ' no 'Children's Friend, ' no 'Parent's Assistant. ' Venetia lovedher book; indeed, she was never happier than when reading; but shesoon 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' wasa great resource and a great favourite; but it required all thevigilance of a mother to eradicate the false impressions which suchstudies were continually making on so tender a student; and todisenchant, by rational discussion, the fascinated imagination of herchild. Lady Annabel endeavoured to find some substitute in the essaysof Addison and Steele; but they required more knowledge of theevery-day world for their enjoyment than an infant, bred in suchseclusion, could at present afford; and at last Venetia lost herselfin the wildering pages of Clelia and the Arcadia, which she pored overwith a rapt and ecstatic spirit, that would not comprehend the warningscepticism of her parent. Let us picture to ourselves the high-bredLady Annabel in the terrace-room of her ancient hall, working ather tapestry, and, seated at her feet, her little daughter Venetia, reading aloud the Arcadia! The peacocks have jumped up on thewindow-sill, to look at their friends, who love to feed them, and bytheir pecking have aroused the bloodhound crouching at Lady Annabel'sfeet. And Venetia looks up from her folio with a flushed and smilingface to catch the sympathy of her mother, who rewards her daughter'sstudy with a kiss. Ah! there are no such mothers and no such daughtersnow!

Thus it will be seen that the life and studies of Venetia tendedrather dangerously, in spite of all the care of her mother, to thedevelopment of her imagination, in case indeed she possessed thatterrible and fatal gift. She passed her days in unbroken solitude, orbroken only by affections which softened her heart, and in a scenewhich itself might well promote any predisposition of the kind;beautiful and picturesque objects surrounded her on all sides; shewandered, at it were, in an enchanted wilderness, and watched the deerreposing under the green shadow of stately trees; the old hallitself was calculated to excite mysterious curiosity; one wing wasuninhabited and shut up; each morning and evening she repaired withher mother and the household through long galleries to the chapel, where she knelt to her devotions, illumined by a window blazoned withthe arms of that illustrious family of which she was a member, andof which she knew nothing. She had an indefinite and painfulconsciousness that she had been early checked in the natural inquirieswhich occur to every child; she had insensibly been trained to speakonly of what she saw; and when she listened, at night, to the longivy rustling about the windows, and the wild owls hooting about themansion, with their pining, melancholy voices, she might have beenexcused for believing in those spirits, which her mother warned her todiscredit; or she forgot these mournful impressions in dreams, caughtfrom her romantic volumes, of bright knights and beautiful damsels. 

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

CHAPTER IV. 

Every Sunday afternoon, the rector of a neighbouring though stillsomewhat distant parish, of which the rich living was in the gift ofthe Herberts, came to perform divine service at Cherbury. It was asubject of deep regret to Lady Annabel that herself and her familywere debarred from the advantage of more frequent and convenientspiritual consolation; but, at this time, the parochial disciplineof the Church of England was not so strict as it fortunately is atpresent. Cherbury, though a vicarage, possessed neither parish church, nor a residence for the clergyman; nor was there indeed a village. Thepeasants on the estate, or labourers as they are now styled, a termwhose introduction into our rural world is much to be lamented, livedin the respective farmhouses on the lands which they cultivated. Thesewere scattered about at considerable distances, and many of theirinmates found it more convenient to attend the church of thecontiguous parish than to repair to the hall chapel, where thehousehold and the dwellers in the few cottages scattered about thepark and woods always assembled. The Lady Annabel, whose lot it hadbeen in life to find her best consolation in religion, and who wasinfluenced by not only a sincere but even a severe piety, had no otheralternative, therefore, but engaging a chaplain; but this, after muchconsideration, she had resolved not to do. She was indeed her ownchaplain, herself performing each day such parts of our morning andevening service whose celebration becomes a laic, and reading portionsfrom the writings of those eminent divines who, from the Restorationto the conclusion of the last reign, have so eminently distinguishedthe 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 CherburyVenetia ever remembered seeing. The Doctor was a regular orthodoxdivine 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 notenthusiastic; not forgetful of his tithes, but generous and charitablewhen they were once paid; never neglecting the sick, yet occasionallyfollowing a fox; a fine scholar, an active magistrate, and a goodshot; dreading the Pope, and hating the Presbyterians. 

The Doctor was attached to the Herbert family not merely because theyhad given him a good living. He had a great reverence for an oldEnglish race, and turned up his nose at the Walpolian loanmongers. Lady Annabel, too, so beautiful, so dignified, so amiable, and highlybred, and, above all, so pious, had won his regard. He was not alittle proud, too, that he was the only person in the county who hadthe honour of her acquaintance, and yet was disinterested enough toregret that he led so secluded a life, and often lamented that nothingwould induce her to show her elegant person on a racecourse, or toattend an assize ball, an assembly which was then becoming much thefashion. The little Venetia was a charming child, and the kind-heartedDoctor, though a bachelor, loved children. 

 O! matre pulchrâ, filia pulchrior, was the Rev. Dr. Masham's apposite and favourite quotation after hisweekly visit to Cherbury. 

Divine service was concluded; the Doctor had preached a capitalsermon; for he had been one of the shining lights of his universityuntil his rich but isolating preferment had apparently closed thegreat career which it was once supposed awaited him. The accustomedwalk on the terrace was completed, and dinner was announced. This mealwas always celebrated at Cherbury, where new fashions stole down witha lingering pace, in the great hall itself. An ample table was placedin the centre on a mat of rushes, sheltered by a large screen coveredwith huge maps of the shire and the neighbouring counties. The LadyAnnabel and her good pastor seated themselves at each end of thetable, while Venetia, mounted on a high chair, was waited on byMistress Pauncefort, who never condescended by any chance attention tonotice the presence of any other individual but her little charge, onwhose chair she just leaned with an air of condescending devotion. The butler stood behind his lady, and two other servants watched theDoctor; rural bodies all, but decked on this day in gorgeous liverycoats of blue and silver, which had been made originally for men ofvery different size and bearing. Simple as was the usual diet atCherbury the cook was permitted on Sunday full play to her art, which, in the eighteenth century, indulged in the production of dishes morenumerous and substantial than our refined tastes could at presenttolerate. The Doctor appreciated a good dinner, and his countenanceglistened with approbation as he surveyed the ample tureen of potageroyal, with a boned duck swimming in its centre. Before him stillscowled in death the grim countenance of a huge roast pike, flankedon one side by a leg of mutton _à-la-daube_, and on the other bythe tempting delicacies of bombarded veal. To these succeeded thatmasterpiece of the culinary art, a grand battalia pie, in which thebodies of chickens, pigeons, and rabbits were embalmed in spices, cocks' combs, and savoury balls, and well bedewed with one of thoserich sauces of claret, anchovy, and sweet herbs, in which ourgreat-grandfathers delighted, and which was technically termed a Lear. But the grand essay of skill was the cover of this pasty, whereon thecurious cook had contrived to represent all the once-living forms thatwere now entombed in that gorgeous sepulchre. A Florentine tourte, ortansy, an old English custard, a more refined blamango, and a ribandjelly of many colours, offered a pleasant relief after these vasterinventions, and the repast closed with a dish of oyster loaves and apompetone of larks. 

Notwithstanding the abstemiousness of his hostess, the Doctor wasnever deterred from doing justice to her hospitality. Few were thedishes that ever escaped him. The demon dyspepsia had not waved itsfell wings over the eighteenth century, and wonderful were the featsthen achieved by a country gentleman with the united aid of a gooddigestion and a good conscience. 

The servants had retired, and Dr. Masham had taken his last glassof port, and then he rang a bell on the table, and, I trust my fairreaders will not be frightened from proceeding with this history, aservant 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 quicklysatisfying her natural curiosity. Another puff or two, and he thencontinued. 

'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 ofpeople are they?'

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

Lady Annabel bowed assent. 

'The late lord, ' continued the Doctor, 'who was as strange andwrong-headed a man as ever breathed, though I trust he is in thekingdom of heaven for all that, left all his property to his unlawfulchildren, with the exception of this estate entailed on the title, asall estates should be, 'Tis a fine place, but no great rental. I doubtwhether '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 aspendrift. He was a bad manager, and, worse, a bad husband. Providencewas pleased to summon him suddenly from this mortal scene, but notbefore he had dissipated the greater part of his wife's means. Mrs. Cadurcis, since she was a widow, has lived in strict seclusion withher 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 notbeen in the habit of dining so well as we have to-day. A verylimited income, my dear madam; a very limited income indeed. Andthe guardians, I am told, will only allow the little lord a hundreda-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 shehas it rent-free; but I don't know. '

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

Venetia had not spoken during this conversation, but she had listenedto it very attentively. At length she said, 'Mamma, is not a widow awife 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 awidow?'

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

Lady Annabel and the Doctor rose from the table with Venetia, and tooka 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 ofChristian charity to call upon Mrs. Cadurcis. '

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

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

The Doctor's horses now appeared. Both master and groom wore theirpistols in their holsters. The Doctor shook hands warmly with LadyAnnabel, and patted Venetia on her head, as she ran up from a littledistance, with an eager countenance, to receive her accustomedblessing. Then mounting his stout mare, he once more waived his handwith 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 Annabelcommunicated to her faithful attendant, at night, the news of thearrival of the Cadurcis family at the abbey, and her intention ofpaying Mrs. Cadurcis a visit; 'and so I would, my lady, ' said MistressPauncefort, 'and it would be but an act of Christian charity afterall, as the Doctor says; for although it is not for me to complainwhen my betters are satisfied, and after all I am always content, ifyour ladyship be; still there is no denying the fact, that this isa terrible lonesome life after all. And I cannot help thinking yourladyship has not been looking so well of late, and a little societywould do your ladyship good; and Miss Venetia too, after all, shewants a playfellow; I am certain sure that I was as tired of playingat ball with her this morning as if I had never sat down in my borndays; 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 theword society, my good Pauncefort, I certainly should refrain frompaying it, ' said Lady Annabel, very quietly. 

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

'I believe there is as little chance of the abbey being full atChristmas, or any other time, as there is of Cherbury. ' said LadyAnnabel. 'Mrs. Cadurcis is a widow, with a very slender fortune. Herson will not enjoy his estate until he is of age, and its rental issmall. I am led to believe that they will live quite as quietly asourselves; and when I spoke of Christian charity, I was thinking onlyof 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 visionsof 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 alord to be so poor. I never heard of such a thing. I think they willturn 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 usedsince Lady Annabel's arrival at Cherbury, and four black long-tailedcoach-horses, that from absolute necessity had been degraded, inthe interval, to the service of the cart and the plough, made theirappearance, after much bustle and effort, before the hall-door. Although a morning's stroll from Cherbury through the woods, Cadurciswas distant nearly ten miles by the road, and that road was in greatpart 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 neverbeen separated one hour in her life. Venetia could not refrain fromshedding a tear when her mother embraced and quitted her, and begged, as a last favour, that she might accompany her through the park tothe avenue lodge. So Pauncefort and herself entered the chariot, thatrocked like a ship, in spite of all the skill of the coachman and thepostilion. 

Venetia walked home with Mistress Pauncefort, but Lady Annabel'slittle daughter was not in her usual lively spirits; many a butterflyglanced around without attracting her pursuit, and the deer troopedby without eliciting a single observation. At length she said, in athoughtful tone, 'Mistress Pauncefort, I should have liked to havegone 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 aman, she would almost have supposed he was going to be very rude. Shewas indeed much surprised. 

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

'Do widows change their names?' said Venetia. 

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

'Is mamma married?' inquired Venetia. 

'La! Miss Venetia. Well, to be sure, you do ask the strangestquestions. Married! to be sure she is married, ' said MistressPauncefort, exceedingly flustered. 

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

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

'Why is it not pretty?' said Venetia. 

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

'I tell you what, Mistress Pauncefort, ' said Venetia, 'I think mammais 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 liketo talk about widows. '

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

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

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

'There never were such persons, perhaps, ' said Venetia, 'but it is nottrue that there never were such things as papas and husbands, for allpeople 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 herhusband, and that, mamma told me at dinner yesterday, was a widow. '

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

'It seems to me so odd that only two people should live here, and bothbe widows, ' said Venetia, 'and both have a little child; the onlydifference 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 namesmentioned, ' said Mistress Pauncefort; 'and so you must never talk ofyour papa to my lady, and that is the truth. '

'I will not now, ' said Venetia. 

When they returned home, Mistress Pauncefort brought her work, andseated herself on the terrace, that she might not lose sight of hercharge. Venetia played about for some little time; she made a castlebehind a tree, and fancied she was a knight, and then a lady, andconjured up an ogre in the neighbouring shrubbery; but these daydreamsdid not amuse her as much as usual. She went and fetched her book, buteven 'The Seven Champions' could not interest her. Her eye was fixedupon the page, and apparently she was absorbed in her pursuit, buther mind wandered, and the page was never turned. She indulged in anunconscious reverie; her fancy was with her mother on her visit; theold abbey rose up before her: she painted the scene without an effort:the court, with the fountain; the grand room, with the tapestryhangings; that desolate garden, with the fallen statues; and thatlong, gloomy gallery. And in all these scenes appeared that littleboy, who, somehow or other, seemed wonderfully blended with herimaginings. It was a very long day this; Venetia dined along withMistress Pauncefort; the time hung very heavy; at length she fellasleep in Mistress Pauncefort's lap. A sound roused her: the carriagehad 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 somefurniture; 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 sittingalone, a postchaise drove up to the hall, whence issued a short andstout woman with a rubicund countenance, and dressed in a style whichremarkably blended the shabby with the tawdry. She was accompaniedby a boy between eleven and twelve years of age, whose appearance, however, much contrasted with that of his mother, for he was pale andslender, with long curling black hair and large black eyes, whichoccasionally, by their transient flashes, agreeably relieved a facethe general expression of which might be esteemed somewhat shy andsullen. The lady, of course, was Mrs. Cadurcis, who was received byLady Annabel with the greatest courtesy. 

'A terrible journey, ' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, fanning herself as shetook her seat, 'and so very hot! Plantagenet, my love, make yourbow! 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 sograciously and expressed herself so kindly to him that his featuresrelaxed a little, though he was quite silent and sat on the edge ofhis chair, the picture of dogged indifference. 

'Charming country, Lady Annabel, ' said Mrs. Cadurcis, 'but worseroads, if possible, than we had in Northumberland, where, indeed, there were no roads at all. Cherbury a delightful place, very unlikethe 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, thatis very ungrateful, with so many kind friends as we always found. Besides, Plantagenet, have I not always told you that you are to hatenothing? It is very wicked. The trouble it costs me, Lady Annabel, toeducate this dear child!' continued Mrs. Cadurcis, turning to LadyAnnabel, and speaking in a semi-tone. 'I have done it all myself, Iassure you; and, when he likes, he can be as good as any one. Can'tyou, Plantagenet?'

Lord Cadurcis gave a grim smile; seated himself at the very back ofthe 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 behavewell. Now mind, never give her ladyship cause to change her opinion. '

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

'I regretted so much that I was not at home when you did me the honourto call, ' resumed Mrs. Cadurcis; 'but I had gone over for the day toSouthport, 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, surveyingthe pretty apartment. 'What a difference between Cherbury and theabbey! 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 throughthe house. '

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

'I am sure Lord Cadurcis will do everything to make the abbeycomfortable to you. Besides, it is but a short walk from Cherbury, andyou 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 paya visit, that you should open your mouth now and then. I don't likechattering children, ' added Mrs. Cadurcis, 'but I like them to answerwhen 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 lookat pictures?'

'Thank you, ' replied the little lord, in a more courteous tone; 'Ilike 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 youhe 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 notalways 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, fromthe way he sits upon that chair. Plantagenet, my dear, I do insistupon 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 youare never to answer me? It is not proper for children to answer! OLady Annabel, if you knew what it cost me to educate my son. He neverdoes anything I wish, and it is so provoking, because I know that hecan behave as properly as possible if he likes. He does it to provokeme. You know you do it to provoke me, you little brat; now, sitproperly, sir; I do desire you to sit properly. How vexatious that youshould call at Cherbury for the first time, and behave in this manner!Plantagenet, do you hear me?' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, with a facereddening 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 dreadfulrage. 'That is not the way to speak to your mother; I will not becalled Mrs. Cadurcis by you. Don't answer me, sir; I desire you notto 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 teartrickled down her cheek, 'if you only knew the life I lead, and whattrouble it costs me to educate that child!'

'My dear madam, ' said Lady Annabel, 'I am sure that Lord Cadurcis hasno other wish but to please you. Indeed you have misunderstood him. '

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

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

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

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

Lady Annabel sounded her silver hand-bell, and the butler brought somecakes and the Mountain. Mrs. Cadurcis revived by virtue of her singleglass, and the providential co-operation of a subsequent one or two. Even the cakes and the Mountain, however, would not tempt her son toopen his mouth; and this, in spite of her returning composure, droveher to desperation. A conviction that the Mountain and the cakes weredelicious, an amiable desire that the palate of her spoiled childshould be gratified, some reasonable maternal anxiety that after solong and fatiguing a drive he in fact needed some refreshment, andthe agonising consciousness that all her own physical pleasure at themoment was destroyed by the mental sufferings she endured at havingquarrelled with her son, and that he was depriving himself of what wasso agreeable only to pique her, quite overwhelmed the ill-regulatedmind of this fond mother. Between each sip and each mouthful, sheappealed to him to follow her example, now with cajolery, now withmenace, till at length, worked up by the united stimulus of theMountain and her own ungovernable rage, she dashed down the glass andunfinished slice of cake, and, before the astonished Lady Annabel, rushed forward to give him what she had long threatened, and what shein general ultimately had recourse to, a good shake. 

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

At this moment the door opened, and Mistress Pauncefort ushered in thelittle Venetia. She really looked like an angel of peace sent fromheaven on a mission of concord, with her long golden hair, her brightface, 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, andstared at her with a feeling of wonder. 'O Lady Annabel, ' she faintlyexclaimed, 'what must you think of me? But was there ever such anunfortunate mother? and I have not a thought in the world but for thatboy. I have devoted my life to him, and never would have buried myselfin 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 mostunfortunate woman you ever knew?'

'My dear madam, ' said the kind Lady Annabel, in a soothing tone, 'youwill 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 toMrs. Cadurcis. '

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

'The angel!' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis. 'The sweet seraph! Oh! why didnot 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 somortified me; it was his silence that led to all. I am so proud ofhim! and then he comes here, and never speaks a word. O Plantagenet, Iam sure you will break my heart. '

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

Cadurcis looked at her; at first the glance was rather fierce, butit instantly relaxed. 'What is your name?' he said in a low, but notunkind, 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 goldhair. '

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

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

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

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

'What is your name?'

'Lord Cadurcis; but you may call me by my Christian name, because Ilike 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 sorrynow has happened here, for I like this place, and should like to comeoften. 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 thatPlantagenet wanted her. Her mother came forward and invited LordCadurcis to walk on the terrace with her, leaving Venetia to amuse herother guest. 

Lady Annabel, though kind, was frank and firm in her unexpectedconfidential interview with her new friend. She placed before himclearly the enormity of his conduct, which no provocation couldjustify; 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 ingeniousand intelligent. His observations, indeed, were distinguished byremarkable acuteness; and though he could not, and indeed did not evenattempt to vindicate his conduct, he incidentally introduced muchthat might be urged in its extenuation. There was indeed in this, his milder moment, something very winning in his demeanour, and LadyAnnabel deeply regretted that a nature of so much promise and capacityshould, by the injudicious treatment of a parent, at once fond andviolent, afford such slight hopes of future happiness. It was arrangedbetween Lord Cadurcis and Lady Annabel that she should lead him to hismother, and that he should lament the past, and ask her forgiveness;so they re-entered the room. Venetia was listening to a long storyfrom Mrs. Cadurcis, who appeared to have entirely recovered herself;but her countenance assumed a befitting expression of grief andgravity when she observed her son. 

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

Mrs. Cadurcis began crying. 

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

'No, yours was not the fault, ' said poor Mrs. Cadurcis, cryingbitterly. 'Oh! no, it was not! I was in fault, only I. There, LadyAnnabel, did I not tell you he was the sweetest, dearest, mostgenerous-hearted creature that ever lived? Oh! if he would only alwaysspeak 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 anangel upon earth; he was indeed, when he was not vexed. O mydear Plantagenet! my only hope and joy! you are the treasure andconsolation of my life, and always will be. God bless you, my darlingchild! 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 sonshould not be immediately thrown together after this storm, she kindlyproposed that they should remain, and pass the day at Cherbury; and, as Plantagenet's eyes brightened at the proposal, it did not requiremuch trouble to persuade his mother to accede to it. The day, that hadcommenced so inauspiciously, turned out one of the most agreeable, both to Mrs. Cadurcis and her child. The two mothers conversedtogether, and, as Mrs. Cadurcis was a great workwoman, there wasat least one bond of sympathy between her and the tapestry of herhostess. Then they all took a stroll in the park; and as Mrs. Cadurciswas not able to walk for any length of time, the children werepermitted to stroll about together, attended by Mistress Pauncefort, while Mrs. Cadurcis, chatting without ceasing, detailed to LadyAnnabel all the history of her life, all the details of her variouscomplaints and her economical arrangements, and all the secrets of herhusband's treatment of her, that favourite subject on which she everwaxed most eloquent. Plantagenet, equally indulging in confidence, which with him, however, was unusual, poured all his soul into thecharmed ear of Venetia. He told her how he and his mother had lived atMorpeth, and how he hated it; how poor they had been, and how rich heshould be; how he loved the abbey, and especially the old gallery, andthe drums and armour; how he had been a day-scholar at a little schoolwhich he abhorred, and how he was to go some day to Eton, of which hewas very proud. 

At length they were obliged to return, and when dinner was over thepostchaise was announced. Mrs. Cadurcis parted from Lady Annabel withall the warm expressions of a heart naturally kind and generous; andPlantagenet embraced Venetia, and promised that the next day he wouldfind his way alone from Cadurcis, through the wood, and come and takeanother walk with her. 

CHAPTER VII. 

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

Yet Lady Annabel was too sensible of the paramount claims of amother; herself, indeed, too jealous of any encroachment on the fullprivileges of maternal love, to sanction in the slightest degree, byher behaviour, any neglect of Mrs. Cadurcis by her son. For his sake, therefore, she courted the society of her new neighbour; and althoughMrs. Cadurcis offered little to engage Lady Annabel's attention asa companion, though she was violent in her temper, far from wellinformed, and, from the society in which, in spite of her originalgood birth, her later years had passed, very far from beingrefined, 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 thosewho always judged individuals rather by their good qualities thantheir bad. With the exception of her violent temper, which, under thecontrol of Lady Annabel's presence, and by the aid of all that kindperson's skilful management, Mrs. Cadurcis generally contrived tobridle, her principal faults were those of manner, which, from theforce of habit, every day became less painful. Mrs. Cadurcis, who, indeed, was only a child of a larger growth, became scarcely lessattached to the Herbert family than her son; she felt that her life, under their influence, was happier and serener than of yore; thatthere were less domestic broils than in old days; that her son wasmore dutiful; and, as she could not help suspecting, though she foundit difficult to analyse the cause, herself more amiable. The truthwas, 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 moregratified, than before; and this was the secret of her happiness. Forno one was more mortified by her rages, when they were past, than Mrs. Cadurcis herself; she felt they compromised her dignity, and had losther all moral command over a child whom she loved at the bottom of herheart with a kind of wild passion, though she would menace and strikehim, and who often precipitated these paroxysms by denying his motherthat duty and affection which were, after all, the great charm andpride of her existence. 

As Mrs. Cadurcis was unable to walk to Cherbury, and as Plantagenetsoon fell into the habit of passing every morning at the hall, LadyAnnabel was frequent in her visits to the mother, and soon shepersuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to order the old postchaise regularly onSaturday, and remain at Cherbury until the following Monday; by thesemeans both families united together in the chapel at divine service, while the presence of Dr. Masham, at their now increased Sundaydinner, was an incident in the monotonous life of Mrs. Cadurcis farfrom displeasing to her. The Doctor gave her a little news of theneighbourhood, and of the country in general; amused her with anoccasional anecdote of the Queen and the young Princesses, and alwayslent her the last number of 'Sylvanus Urban. '

This weekly visit to Cherbury, the great personal attention which shealways received there, and the frequent morning walks of Lady Annabelto the abbey, effectually repressed on the whole the jealousy whichwas a characteristic of Mrs. Cadurcis' nature, and which the constantabsence of her son from her in the mornings might otherwise havefatally developed. But Mrs. Cadurcis could not resist the convictionthat the Herberts were as much her friends as her child's; herjealousy was balanced by her gratitude; she was daily, almost hourly, sensible of some kindness of Lady Annabel, for there were a thousandservices in the power of the opulent and ample establishment ofCherbury to afford the limited and desolate household at the abbey. Living in seclusion, it is difficult to refrain from imbibing even astrong regard for our almost solitary companion, however incompatiblemay be our pursuits, and however our tastes may vary, especially whenthat companion is grateful, and duly sensible of the condescension ofour intimacy. And so it happened that, before a year had elapsed, thatvery Mrs. Cadurcis, whose first introduction at Cherbury had been sounfavourable to her, and from whose temper and manners the elegantdemeanour and the disciplined mind of Lady Annabel Herbert might havebeen excused for a moment recoiling, had succeeded in establishing astrong hold upon the affections of her refined neighbour, who sought, on every occasion, her society, and omitted few opportunities ofcontributing to her comfort and welfare. 

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

It was by degrees that Lord Cadurcis became the partner of Venetiain her studies. Lady Annabel had consulted Dr. Masham about the poorlittle boy, whose neglected state she deplored; and the good Doctorhad offered to ride over to Cherbury at least once a week, besidesSunday, provided Lady Annabel would undertake that his directions, in his absence, should be attended to. This her ladyship promisedcheerfully; nor had she any difficulty in persuading Cadurcis toconsent to the arrangement. He listened with docility and patience toher representation of the fatal effects, in his after-life, of hisneglected education; of the generous and advantageous offer of Dr. Masham; and how cheerfully she would exert herself to assist hisendeavours, if Plantagenet would willingly submit to her supervision. The little lord expressed to her his determination to do all that shedesired, and voluntarily promised her that she should never repenther goodness. And he kept his word. So every morning, with the fullconcurrence of Mrs. Cadurcis, whose advice and opinion on the affairwere most formally solicited by Lady Annabel, Plantagenet arrivedearly at the hall, and took his writing and French lessons withVenetia, and then they alternately read aloud to Lady Annabel from thehistories of Hooke and Echard. When Venetia repaired to her drawing, Cadurcis sat down to his Latin exercise, and, in encouraging andassisting him, Lady Annabel, a proficient in Italian, began herselfto learn the ancient language of the Romans. With such a charmingmistress even these Latin exercises were achieved. In vain Cadurcis, after turning leaf over leaf, would look round with a piteous air tohis fair assistant, 'O Lady Annabel, I am sure the word is not in thedictionary;' Lady Annabel was in a moment at his side, and, by somemagic of her fair fingers, the word would somehow or other make itsappearance. After a little exposure of this kind, Plantagenet wouldlabour with double energy, until, heaving a deep sigh of exhaustionand vexation, he would burst forth, 'O Lady Annabel, indeed there isnot a nominative case in this sentence. ' And then Lady Annabelwould quit her easel, with her pencil in her hand, and give all herintellect to the puzzling construction; at length, she would say, 'I think, Plantagenet, this must be our nominative case;' and so italways was. 

Thus, when Wednesday came, the longest and most laborious morning ofall Lord Cadurcis' studies, and when he neither wrote, nor read, norlearnt French with Venetia, but gave up all his soul to Dr. Masham, heusually acquitted himself to that good person's satisfaction, who lefthim, in general, with commendations that were not lost on the pupil, and plenty of fresh exercises to occupy him and Lady Annabel until thenext week. When a year had thus passed away, the happiest year yetin Lord Cadurcis' life, in spite of all his disadvantages, he hadcontrived to make no inconsiderable progress. Almost deprived of atutor, he had advanced in classical acquirement more than during thewhole of his preceding years of scholarship, while his handwritingbegan to become intelligible, he could read French with comparativefacility, and had turned over many a volume in the well-stored libraryat Cherbury. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

When the hours of study were past, the children, with that zest forplay which occupation can alone secure, would go forth together, andwander in the park. Here they had made a little world for themselves, of which no one dreamed; for Venetia had poured forth all her Arcadianlore into the ear of Plantagenet; and they acted together many ofthe adventures of the romance, under the fond names of Musidorus andPhiloclea. Cherbury was Arcadia, and Cadurcis Macedon; while theintervening woods figured as the forests of Thessaly, and the breezydowns were the heights of Pindus. Unwearied was the innocent sportof their virgin imaginations; and it was a great treat if Venetia, attended by Mistress Pauncefort, were permitted to accompanyPlantagenet some way on his return. Then they parted with an embracein the woods of Thessaly, and Musidorus strolled home with a heavyheart to his Macedonian realm. 

Parted from Venetia, the magic suddenly seemed to cease, and Musidoruswas instantly transformed into the little Lord Cadurcis, exhausted bythe unconscious efforts of his fancy, depressed by the separation fromhis sweet companion, and shrinking from the unpoetical reception whichat 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 watchthe setting sun, as its dying glory illumined the turrets of hisancient house, and burnished the waters of the lake, until the tearsstole down his cheek; and yet he knew not why. No thoughts of sorrowhad flitted through his mind, nor indeed had ideas of any descriptionoccurred to him. It was a trance of unmeaning abstraction; all that hefelt was a mystical pleasure in watching the sunset, and a convictionthat, if he were not with Venetia, that which he loved next best, wasto be alone. 

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

Bedtime was always a great relief to Plantagenet, for it securedhim solitude. He would lie awake for hours, indulging in sweet andunconscious reveries, and brooding over the future morn, that alwaysbrought happiness. All that he used to sigh for, was to be LadyAnnabel's son; were he Venetia's brother, then he was sure he nevershould be for a moment unhappy; that parting from Cherbury, and thegloomy evenings at Cadurcis, would then be avoided. In such a mood, and lying awake upon his pillow, he sought refuge from the painfulreality that surrounded him in the creative solace of his imagination. Alone, in his little bed, Cadurcis was Venetia's brother, and heconjured up a thousand scenes in which they were never separated, andwherein he always played an amiable and graceful part. Yet he lovedthe abbey; his painful infancy was not associated with that scene; itwas not connected with any of those grovelling common-places of hislife, from which he had shrunk back with instinctive disgust, evenat a very tender age. Cadurcis was the spot to which, in his mostmiserable moments at Morpeth, he had always looked forward, as theonly chance of emancipation from the distressing scene that surroundedhim. He had been brought up with a due sense of his future position, and although he had ever affected a haughty indifference on thesubject, from his disrelish for the coarse acquaintances who wereperpetually reminding him, with chuckling self-complacency, of hisfuture greatness, in secret he had ever brooded over his destiny ashis only consolation. He had imbibed from his own reflections, at avery early period of life, a due sense of the importance of his lot;he was proud of his hereditary honours, blended, as they were, withsome glorious passages in the history of his country, and prouder ofhis still more ancient line. The eccentric exploits and the violentpassions, by which his race had been ever characterised, were to him asource of secret exultation. Even the late lord, who certainly hadno claims to his gratitude, for he had robbed the inheritance to theutmost of his power, commanded, from the wild decision of his life, the savage respect of his successor. In vain Mrs. Cadurcis wouldpour forth upon this, the favourite theme for her wrath and herlamentations, all the bitter expressions of her rage and woe. Plantagenet had never imbibed her prejudices against the departed, andhad often irritated his mother by maintaining that the late lord wasperfectly 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 theconfidante of all his domestic sorrows, and often he had requestedher to exert her influence to obtain some pacifying missive from LadyAnnabel, which might secure him a quiet evening at Cadurcis; andwhenever this had not been obtained, the last words of Venetia wereever not to loiter, and to remember to speak to his mother as much ashe possibly could. Venetia returned to a happy home, welcomed by thesmile of a soft and beautiful parent, and with words of affectionsweeter than music. She found an engaging companion, who had nothought but for her welfare, her amusement, and her instruction: andoften, when the curtains were drawn, the candles lit, and Venetia, holding her mother's hand, opened her book, she thought of poorPlantagenet, so differently situated, with no one to be kind to him, with no one to sympathise with his thoughts, and perhaps at the verymoment goaded into some unhappy quarrel with his mother. 

CHAPTER IX. 

The appearance of the Cadurcis family on the limited stage of herlife, and the engrossing society of her companion, had entirelydistracted the thoughts of Venetia from a subject to which in old daysthey were constantly recurring, and that was her father. By a processwhich had often perplexed her, and which she could never succeed inanalysing, there had arisen in her mind, without any ostensibleagency on the part of her mother which she could distinctly recall, aconviction that this was a topic on which she was never to speak. Thisidea had once haunted her, and she had seldom found herself alonewithout almost unconsciously musing over it. Notwithstanding theunvarying kindness of Lady Annabel, she exercised over her childa complete and unquestioned control. Venetia was brought up withstrictness, which was only not felt to be severe, because the systemwas founded on the most entire affection, but, fervent as her love wasfor her mother, it was equalled by her profound respect, which everyword and action of Lady Annabel tended to maintain. 

In all the confidential effusions with Plantagenet, Venetia had neverdwelt upon this mysterious subject; indeed, in these conversations, when they treated of their real and not ideal life, Venetia was a mererecipient: all that she could communicate, Plantagenet could observe;he it was who avenged himself at these moments for his habitualsilence before third persons; it was to Venetia that he poured forthall his soul, and she was never weary of hearing his stories aboutMorpeth, and all his sorrows, disgusts, and afflictions. There wasscarcely an individual in that little town with whom, from his livelynarratives, she was not familiar; and it was to her sympathising heartthat he confided all his future hopes and prospects, and confessed thestrong pride he experienced in being a Cadurcis, which from all otherswas studiously concealed. 

It had happened that the first Christmas Day after the settlement ofthe Cadurcis family at the abbey occurred in the middle of the week;and as the weather was severe, in order to prevent two journeys atsuch an inclement season, Lady Annabel persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to passthe whole week at the hall. This arrangement gave such pleasure toPlantagenet that the walls of the abbey, as the old postchaise waspreparing for their journey, quite resounded with his merriment. Invain his mother, harassed with all the mysteries of packing, indulgedin a thousand irritable expressions, which at any other time mighthave 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 habitualgravity and reserve, a fund of humour which would occasionally breakout, and which nothing could withstand. When he was alone withVenetia, he would imitate the old maids of Morpeth, and all theceremonies of a provincial tea party, with so much life and genuinefun, that Venetia was often obliged to stop in their rambles toindulge her overwhelming mirth. When they were alone, and he wasgloomy, she was often accustomed to say, 'Now, dear Plantagenet, tellme how the old ladies at Morpeth drink tea. '

This morning at the abbey, Cadurcis was irresistible, and the moreexcited his mother became with the difficulties which beset her, themore gay and fluent were his quips and cranks. Puffing, panting, and perspiring, now directing her waiting-woman, now scolding herman-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, andstamping with rage, 'is that the place for my cap-box? You do it onpurpose, 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 ownhand 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 shepursued her agile child, who dodged her on the other side of thepostchaise, which he persisted in calling the family carriage. 

'Oh! ma'am, my lady, ' exclaimed the waiting-woman, sallying forth fromthe 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, rushedinto the kitchen, seized the surprised Mrs. Brown by the shoulder, andgave 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 withme, ' said Mrs. Cadurcis. 

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

Mrs. Cadurcis threw the cage at her son's head, who, for the sake ofthe bird, dexterously caught it, but declared at the same time hewould immediately throw it into the lake. Then Mrs. Cadurcis began tocry with rage, and, seating herself on the open steps of the chaise, sobbed hysterically. Plantagenet stole round on tip-toe, and peepedin 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 whomyou use in this manner! Go to Cherbury. Go by all means, but go byyourself; I shall not go: go to your friends, Lord Cadurcis; they areyour friends, not mine, and I hope they are satisfied, now that theyhave robbed me of the affections of my child. I have seen what theyhave 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 youup, and educated you, is nobody. This is the end of all your Latin andFrench, 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 inan instant the injudiciousness of fostering by his conduct the latentjealousy which always lurked at the bottom of his mother's heart, andwhich nothing but the united talent and goodness of Lady Annabel couldhave hitherto baffled. So he rejoined in a kind yet playful tone, 'Ifyou 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 cannotbear quarrelling; it is not my temper, you naughty, very naughty boy. '

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

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

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

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

At length the postchaise was packed; they had a long journey beforethem, because Cadurcis would go round by Southport, to call upon atradesman whom a month before he had commissioned to get a trinketmade for him in London, according to the newest fashion, as a presentfor Venetia. The commission was executed; Mrs. Cadurcis, who had beenconsulted in confidence by her son on the subject, was charmed withthe result of their united taste. She had good-naturedly contributedone of her own few, but fine, emeralds to the gift; upon the back ofthe brooch was engraved:--

 TO VENETIA, FROM HER AFFECTIONATE BROTHER, PLANTAGENET. 

'I hope she will be a sister, and more than a sister, to you, ' saidMrs. 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 understoodhis mother, but he could not pursue the conversation; his heartfluttered. 

A most cordial greeting awaited them at Cherbury; Dr. Masham wasthere, and was to remain until Monday. Mrs. Cadurcis would have openedabout the present immediately, but her son warned her on the thresholdthat if she said a word about it, or seemed to be aware of itsprevious existence, even when it was shown, he would fling itinstantly away into the snow; and her horror of this catastrophebridled her tongue. Mrs. Cadurcis, however, was happy, and LadyAnnabel was glad to see her so; the Doctor, too, paid her somecharming compliments; the good lady was in the highest spirits, forshe was always in extremes, and at this moment she would willinglyhave laid down her life if she had thought the sacrifice could havecontributed to the welfare of the Herberts. 

Cadurcis himself drew Venetia aside, and then, holding the broochreversed, 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, alittle pale. 

'No, it is not, ' said Plantagenet, firmly; 'besides, you will notalways be a little girl; and then, if ever we do not live together aswe 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. Shehad not courage to speak before that lady and Dr. Masham, so shecalled her mother aside. 

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

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

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

Lady Annabel looked at the jewel, and read the inscription. It wasa more precious offering than the mother would willingly havesanctioned, but she was too highly bred, and too thoughtful of thefeelings of others, to hesitate for a moment to admire it herself, andauthorise its acceptance by her daughter. So she walked up to Cadurcisand gave him a mother's embrace for his magnificent present to hissister, placed the brooch itself near Venetia's heart, and then ledher daughter to Mrs. Cadurcis, that the gratified mother mightadmire the testimony of her son's taste and affection. It was a mostsuccessful present, and Cadurcis felt grateful to his mother for hershare in its production, and the very proper manner in which shereceived the announcement of its offering. 

CHAPTER X. 

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

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

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

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

In the night there was a violent snowstorm; not only was the fallextremely heavy, but the wind was so high, that it carried the snowoff the hills, and all the roads were blocked up, in many placesten or twelve feet deep. All communication was stopped. This was anadventure that amused the children, though the rest looked rathergrave. Plantagenet expressed to Venetia his wish that the snow wouldnever melt, and that they might remain at Cherbury for ever. 

The children were to have a holiday this week, and they had plannedsome excursions in the park and neighbourhood, but now they were allprisoners to the house. They wandered about, turning the staircaseinto mountains, the great hall into an ocean, and the different roomsinto so many various regions. They amused themselves with theiradventures, and went on endless voyages of discovery. Every momentPlantagenet longed still more for the opportunity of exploring theuninhabited chambers; but Venetia shook her head, because she was sureLady Annabel would not grant them permission. 

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

'I know I was not born here, ' said Venetia; 'but I was so young that Ihave 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 LordCadurcis. 

'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; 'mymother 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 LadyAnnabel 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 asermon; Dr. Masham was standing with Lady Annabel in the recess ofa distant window. Her ladyship's countenance was averted; she wasreading a newspaper, which the Doctor had given her. As the dooropened, Lady Annabel glanced round; her countenance was agitated; shefolded up the newspaper rather hastily, and gave it to the Doctor. 

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

'We have been playing at the history of Rome, ' said Venetia, 'and nowthat 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 anotheropportunity. '

'We could amuse ourselves very well, ' said Plantagenet, 'if LadyAnnabel would be so kind as to permit us to explore the part of thehouse 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 cannotbe much amusement in roaming over a number of dusty unfurnishedrooms. '

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

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

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

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

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

'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 headto walk up and down the gallery. I often do so at the abbey. I like towalk up and down an old gallery alone at night. I do not know why; butI like it very much. Everything is so still, and then you hear theowls. I cannot make out why it is; but nothing gives me more pleasurethan to get up when everybody is asleep. It seems as if one were theonly living person in the world. I sometimes think, when I am a man, Iwill always get up in the night, and go to bed in the daytime. Is notthat 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, Iwas rather frightened at first; only I thought it would not do for aCadurcis to be afraid, so I stood against the wall, in the shade, andI 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; pastmidnight, a tall white figure, and a light! However, there is nothingto be alarmed about; it was Lady Annabel, nobody else. I saw her asclearly as I see you now. She walked along the gallery, and went tothe very door you showed me the other morning. I marked the door; Icould 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. 'Ithought it would seem so silly if I were caught, and I might not havehad the good fortune to escape twice. I know no more. '

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

In the evening, as they sat round the fire, Mrs. Cadurcis begantelling Venetia a long rambling ghost story, which she declared wasa real ghost story, and had happened in her own family. Suchcommunications were not very pleasing to Lady Annabel, but she was toowell bred to interrupt her guest. When, however, the narrative wasfinished, and Venetia, by her observations, evidently indicatedthe effect that it had produced upon her mind, her mother took theoccasion of impressing upon her the little credibility which shouldbe attached to such legends, and the rational process by which manyunquestionable apparitions might be accounted for. Dr. Masham, following this train, recounted a story of a ghost which had beengenerally received in a neighbouring village for a considerableperiod, and attested by the most veracious witnesses, but which wasexplained afterwards by turning out to be an instance of somnambulism. Venetia appeared to be extremely interested in the subject; sheinquired much about sleep-walkers and sleepwalking; and a great manyexamples of the habit were cited. At length she said, 'Mamma, did youever walk in your sleep?'

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

'Well, do you know, ' said Plantagenet, who had hitherto listened insilence, 'it is very curious, but I once dreamt that you did, LadyAnnabel. '

'Indeed!' said the lady. 

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

'No! Plantagenet, ' said Venetia, who was seated by him, and who spokein 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 theDoctor; 'and it is quite a true one, for it happened to myself. '

The Doctor was soon embarked in his tale, and his audience speedilybecame interested in the narrative; but Lady Annabel for some timemaintained complete silence. 

CHAPTER XI. 

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

Lady Annabel had promised the children that they should some dayride together to Marringhurst, the rectory of Dr. Masham, to eatstrawberries and cream. This was to be a great festival, and waslooked forward to with corresponding interest. Her ladyship had kindlyoffered to accompany Mrs. Cadurcis in the carriage, but that lady wasan invalid and declined the journey; so Lady Annabel, who was herselfa 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 asubstantial, square-built, red brick mansion, shaded by gigantic elms, but the southern front covered with a famous vine, trained over itwith elaborate care, and of which, and his espaliers, the Doctor wasvery proud. The garden was thickly stocked with choice fruit-trees;there was not the slightest pretence to pleasure grounds; but therewas a capital bowling-green, and, above all, a grotto, where theDoctor smoked his evening pipe, and moralised in the midst of hiscucumbers and cabbages. On each side extended the meadows of hisglebe, where his kine ruminated at will. It was altogether a scene asdevoid 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 friendmight be expected to afford. Dr. Masham was scarcely less delighted atthe excursion than the children themselves, and rejoiced in the sunnyday that made everything more glad and bright. The garden, the grotto, the bowling-green, and all the novelty of the spot, greatly divertedhis young companions; they visited his farmyard, were introduced tohis poultry, rambled over his meadows, and admired his cows, which hehad collected with equal care and knowledge. Nor was the interior ofthis bachelor's residence devoid of amusement. Every nook and cornerwas filled with objects of interest; and everything was in admirableorder. The goddess of neatness and precision reigned supreme, especially in his hall, which, though barely ten feet square, was acabinet of rural curiosities. His guns, his fishing-tackle, a cabinetof birds stuffed by himself, a fox in a glass-case that seemedabsolutely running, and an otter with a real fish in its mouth, inturn delighted them; but chiefly, perhaps, his chimney-corner of Dutchtiles, all Scriptural subjects, which Venetia and Plantagenet emulatedeach other in discovering. 

Then his library, which was rare and splendid, for the Doctor was oneof the most renowned scholars in the kingdom, and his pictures, hisprints, and his gold fish, and his canary birds; it seemed they nevercould exhaust such sources of endless amusement; to say nothing ofevery other room in the house, for, from the garret to the dairy, his guests encouraged him in introducing them to every thing, everyperson, 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 giveus some dinner. '

The Doctor's repast was a substantial one; he seemed resolved, at oneample swoop, to repay Lady Annabel for all her hospitality; and hereally took such delight in their participation of it, that hisprincipal guest was constrained to check herself in more than onewarning intimation that moderation was desirable, were it only for thesake of the strawberries and cream. All this time his housekeeper, Goody Blount, as he called her, in her lace cap and ruffles, asprecise and starch as an old picture, stood behind his chair withpleased solemnity, directing, with unruffled composure, the movementsof 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 forone toast, Lady Annabel: "Church and State. "'

'What is Church and State?' said Venetia. 

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

After their repast, the children went into the garden to amusethemselves. They strolled about some time, until Plantagenet at lengthtook 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 weretalking, he would run back and ask the Doctor if the servant mightteach him. He was not long absent; but appeared, on his return, alittle agitated. Venetia inquired if he had been successful, but heshook his head, and said he had not asked. 

'Why did you not?' said Venetia. 

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

'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 herdirectly. '

'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 notwant 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 amanly air; 'listen to what I say. '

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

'Why, I came to the room by the open windows, and your mamma wasstanding 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 asign 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 mammaknow 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 notwant to play at bowls now, ' added Plantagenet; 'let us go and see thecows. '

In the course of half an hour the servant summoned the children tothe house. The horses were ready, and they were now to return. LadyAnnabel 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 unusualfondness. She was mindful of Plantagenet's injunctions, and wasresolved not to revive her mother's grief by any allusion that couldrecall the past; but her heart was, nevertheless, full of sympathy, and she could not have rode home, had she not thus expressed her lovefor her mother. 

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

CHAPTER XII. 

This happy summer was succeeded by a singularly wet autumn. Weeks ofcontinuous rain rendered it difficult even for the little Cadurcis, who defied the elements, to be so constant as heretofore in his dailyvisits to Cherbury. His mother, too, grew daily a greater invalid, and, with increasing sufferings and infirmities, the naturalcaptiousness of her temper proportionally exhibited itself. Sheinsisted upon the companionship of her son, and that he should notleave the house in such unseasonable weather. If he resisted, she fellinto one of her jealous rages, and taunted him with loving strangersbetter 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 effortto render their joint society agreeable, or even endurable. She wasrarely in an amiable mood, and generally either irritable or sullen. If the weather held up a little, and he ventured to pay a visit toCherbury, he was sure to be welcomed back with a fit of passion;either Mrs. Cadurcis was angered for being left alone, or hadfermented 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 motherwould indulge in that charming monologue, so conducive to domesticserenity, termed 'talking at a person, ' and was continuallyinsinuating that she supposed he found it very dull to pass his daywith her, and that she dared say that somebody could be lively enoughif 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 beingexchanged between this parent and child. Cadurcis had found someopportunities of pouring forth his griefs and mortification into theear of Venetia, and they had reached her mother; but Lady Annabel, though she sympathised with this interesting boy, invariablycounselled duty. The morning studies were abandoned, but a quantity ofbooks were sent over from Cherbury for Plantagenet, and Lady Annabelseized every opportunity of conciliating Mrs. Cadurcis' temper infavour of her child, by the attention which she paid the mother. Theweather, however, prevented either herself or Venetia from visitingthe abbey; and, on the whole, the communications between the twoestablishments and their inmates had become rare. 

Though now a continual inmate of the abbey, Cadurcis was seldom thecompanion of his mother. They met at their meals, and that was all. Heentered the room every day with an intention of conciliating; but themutual tempers of the mother and the son were so quick and sensitive, that he always failed in his purpose, and could only avoid a stormby dogged silence. This enraged Mrs. Cadurcis more even than hisimpertinence; she had no conduct; she lost all command over herself, and did not hesitate to address to her child terms of reproach andabuse, which a vulgar mind could only conceive, and a coarse tonguealone express. What a contrast to Cherbury, to the mild maternalelegance and provident kindness of Lady Annabel, and the sweet tonesof Venetia's ever-sympathising voice. Cadurcis, though so young, wasgifted with an innate fastidiousness, that made him shrink from a rudewoman. His feelings were different in regard to men; he sympathised ata very early age with the bold and the energetic; his favourites amongthe peasantry were ever those who excelled in athletic sports; and, though he never expressed the opinion, he did not look upon thepoacher with the evil eye of his class. But a coarse and violent womanjarred even his young nerves; and this woman was his mother, his onlyparent, almost his only relation; for he had no near relative excepta cousin whom he had never even seen, the penniless orphan of apenniless brother of his father, and who had been sent to sea; sothat, after all, his mother was the only natural friend he had. Thispoor little boy would fly from that mother with a sullen brow, or, perhaps, even with a harsh and cutting repartee; and then he wouldlock himself up in his room, and weep. But he allowed no witnesses ofthis weakness. The lad was very proud. If any of the household passedby as he quitted the saloon, and stared for a moment at his pale andagitated face, he would coin a smile for the instant, and say even akind word, for he was very courteous to his inferiors, and all theservants loved him, and then take refuge in his solitary woe. 

Relieved by this indulgence of his mortified heart, Cadurcis lookedabout him for resources. The rain was pouring in torrents, and theplash of the troubled and swollen lake might be heard even at theabbey. At night the rising gusts of wind, for the nights were alwaysclear and stormy, echoed down the cloisters with a wild moan to whichhe loved to listen. In the morning he beheld with interest the savagespoils 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, ifhe were alone in this old abbey, with no mother to break that strangefountain of fancies that seemed always to bubble up in his solitude, he might be happy. He wanted no companions; he loved to be alone, tolisten to the winds, and gaze upon the trees and waters, and wander inthose dim cloisters and that gloomy gallery. 

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

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

Under the influence of such feelings, even Cherbury figured to hisfancy in somewhat faded colours. There, indeed, he was loved andcherished; 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 influenceof daily intercourse, his tender heart had balanced, perhaps evenoutweighed, his fiery imagination. That constant yet delicateaffection had softened all his soul: he had no time but to be gratefuland to love. He returned home only to muse over their sweet society, and contrast their refined and gentle life with the harsh rude hearththat awaited him. Whatever might be his reception at home, he wasthrown, back for solace on their memory, not upon his own heart; andhe felt the delightful conviction that to-morrow would renew the spellwhose enchantment had enabled him to endure the present vexation. Butnow the magic of that intercourse had ceased; after a few days ofrestlessness and repining, he discovered that he must find in hisdesolation sterner sources of support than the memory of Venetia, andthe recollections of the domestic joys of Cherbury. It astonishingwith what rapidity the character of Cadurcis developed itself insolitude; and strange was the contrast between the gentle child who, a few weeks before, had looked forward with so much interest toaccompanying Venetia to a childish festival, and the stern and moodybeing who paced the solitary cloisters of Cadurcis, and then wouldwithdraw to his lonely chamber and the amusement of a book. He was atthis time deeply interested in Purchas's Pilgrimage, one of the fewbooks of which the late lord had not despoiled him. Narratives oftravels and voyages always particularly pleased him; he had an ideathat he was laying up information which might be useful to himhereafter; 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 visitsof Plantagenet to Cherbury were very few. Sometimes, if the weathercleared for an hour during the morning, he would mount his pony, andgallop, without stopping, to the hall. The rapidity of the motionexcited his mind; he fancied himself, as he embraced Venetia, somechieftain who had escaped for a moment from his castle to visit hismistress; his imagination conjured up a war between the opposingtowers of Cadurcis and Cherbury; and when his mother fell into apassion on his return, it passed with him only, according to itslength and spirit, as a brisk skirmish or a general engagement. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

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

Dinner was now served, a short and silent meal. Lord Cadurcis did notchoose to speak because he felt aggrieved, and his mother becauseshe was husbanding her energies for the contest which she believedimpending. At length, when the table was cleared, and the servantdeparted, Cadurcis said in a quiet tone, 'I think I shall write to myguardian to-morrow about my going to Eton. '

'You shall do no such thing, ' said Mrs. Cadurcis, bristling up; 'Inever heard such a ridiculous idea in my life as a boy like youwriting 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, ratherfiercely; 'and, as for your own room, I never wish to enter it. IndeedI should not be here at this moment, had you not ordered my fire to beput 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 myrequests received such particular attention? Pooh!'

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

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

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

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

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

'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 goingson, 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 talkingnonsense, and you never open your mouth about Lady Annabel withouttalking nonsense. '

'If I was not very ill I would give it you, ' said his mother, grindingher teeth. 'O you brat! You wicked brat, you! Is this the way toaddress 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 withrage. 

'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 hadsomething 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 behindthe table, but the sportive and mocking air which he generallyinstinctively assumed on these occasions, and which, while itirritated his mother more, was in reality affected by the boy from asort of nervous desire of preventing these dreadful exposures fromassuming a too tragic tone, did not characterise his countenance onthe present occasion; on the contrary, it was pale, but composed andvery serious. Mrs. Cadurcis, after one or two ineffectual attempts tocatch him, paused and panted for breath. He took advantage of thismomentary cessation, and spoke thus, 'Mother, I am in no humour forfrolics. I moved out of your way that you might not strike me, becauseI have made up my mind that, if you ever strike me again, I will livewith 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, youknow the consequences. ' So saying, his lordship resumed his chair. 

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

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

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

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

'Mrs. Cadurcis sprang up, rushed to her son's chamber, found the doorstill locked, ordered it to be burst open, and then it turned out thathis lordship had never been there at all, for the bed was unused. Mrs. Cadurcis was frightened out of her life; the servants, to consoleher, assured her that Plantagenet must be at Cherbury; and while shebelieved their representations, which were probable, she became notonly more composed, but resumed her jealousy and sullenness. 'Goneto Cherbury, indeed! No doubt of it! Let him remain at Cherbury. 'Execrating Lady Annabel, she flung herself into an easy chair, anddined alone, preparing herself to speak her mind on her son's return. 

The night, however, did not bring him, and Mrs. Cadurcis began torecur to her alarm. Much as she now disliked Lady Annabel, shecould not resist the conviction that her ladyship would not permitPlantagenet to remain at Cherbury. Nevertheless, jealous, passionate, and obstinate, she stifled her fears, vented her spleen on her unhappydomestics, and, finally, exhausting herself by a storm of passionabout 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, sentmessengers throughout the demesne, and directed all the offices tobe searched. At first she thought he must have returned, and slept, perhaps in a barn; then she adopted the more probable conclusion, thathe had drowned himself in the lake. Then she went into hysterics;called Plantagenet her lost darling; declared he was the best and mostdutiful of sons, and the image of his poor father, then abused all theservants, and then abused herself. 

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

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

CHAPTER XIV. 

Towards evening Dr. Masham arrived at Cadurcis. He could give nointelligence of Plantagenet, who had not called at Marringhurst; buthe offered, and was prepared, to undertake his pursuit. The goodDoctor had his saddle-bags well stocked, and was now on his way toSouthport, that being the nearest town, and where he doubted notto gain some tidings of the fugitive. Mrs. Cadurcis he found soindisposed, that he anticipated the charitable intentions of LadyAnnabel not to quit her; and after having bid them place theirconfidence in Providence and his humble exertions, he at once departedon his researches. 

In the meantime let us return to the little lord himself. Havingsecured the advantage of a long start, by the device of turning thekey of his chamber, he repaired to the stables, and finding no oneto observe him, saddled his pony and galloped away without plan orpurpose. An instinctive love of novelty and adventure induced him todirect his course by a road which he had never before pursued; and, after two or three miles progress through a wild open country ofbrushwood, he found that he had entered that considerable forest whichformed the boundary of many of the views from Cadurcis. The afternoonwas clear and still, the sun shining in the light blue sky, and thewind altogether hushed. On each side of the winding road spread thebright green turf, occasionally shaded by picturesque groups ofdoddered oaks. The calm beauty of the sylvan scene wonderfully touchedthe fancy of the youthful fugitive; it soothed and gratified him. Hepulled up his pony; patted its lively neck, as if in gratitude forits good service, and, confident that he could not be successfullypursued, indulged in a thousand dreams of Robin Hood and his merrymen. As for his own position and prospects, he gave himself no anxietyabout them: satisfied with his escape from a revolting thraldom, hismind seemed to take a bound from the difficulty of his situation andthe 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 completeturfy track; but the continuing marks of cartwheels assured him thatit was a thoroughfare, although he was now indeed journeying in theheart of a forest of oaks and he doubted not it would lead to sometown or village, or at any rate to some farmhouse. Towards sunset, hedetermined to make use of the remaining light, and pushed on apace;but it soon grew so dark, that he found it necessary to resume hiswalking pace, from fear of the overhanging branches and the trunks offelled trees which occasionally crossed his way. 

Notwithstanding the probable prospect of passing his night in theforest, our little adventurer did not lose heart. Cadurcis was anintrepid child, and when in the company of those with whom he was notfamiliar, and free from those puerile associations to which those whohad known and lived with him long were necessarily subject, he wouldassume a staid and firm demeanour unusual with one of such tenderyears. A light in the distance was now not only a signal thatthe shelter he desired was at hand, but reminded him that it wasnecessary, by his assured port, to prove that he was not unused totravel alone, and that he was perfectly competent and qualified to behis own master. 

As he drew nearer, the lights multiplied, and the moon, which now roseover the forest, showed to him that the trees, retiring on both sidesto some little distance, left a circular plot of ground, on which werenot only the lights which had at first attracted his attention, butthe red flames of a watch-fire, round which some dark figures hadhitherto been clustered. The sound of horses' feet had disturbed them, and the fire was now more and more visible. As Cadurcis approached, heobserved some low tents, and in a few minutes he was in the centre ofan encampment of gipsies. He was for a moment somewhat dismayed, forhe had been brought up with the usual terror of these wild people;nevertheless, he was not unequal to the occasion. He was surrounded inan instant, but only with women and children; for the gipsy-men neverimmediately appear. They smiled with their bright eyes, and the flamesof the watch-fire threw a lurid glow over their dark and flashingcountenances; they held out their practised hands; they utteredunintelligible, but not unfriendly sounds. The heart of Cadurcisfaltered, but his voice did not betray him. 

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

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

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

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

The gipsy-man made a sign to the women, and Plantagenet was liftedby them off his pony, before he could be aware of their purpose; thechildren led the pony away, and the gipsy-man conducted Plantagenet tothe fire, where an old woman sat, presiding over the mysteries of anenormous flesh-pot. Immediately his fellows, who had originally beenclustered around it, re-appeared; fresh blocks and branches werethrown on, the flames crackled and rose, the men seated themselvesaround, and Plantagenet, excited by the adventure, rubbed his handsbefore 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 acompanion. 

[Footnote A: 'Tis a lively lad. ]

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

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

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

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

Upon this, that beautiful girl, who had at first attracted the noticeof 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 wasthen passed round, and the old woman, opening the pot, drew out, witha huge iron fork, a fine turkey, which she tossed into a large woodenplatter, and cut up with great quickness. First she helped Morgana, but only gained a reproof for her pains, who immediately yielded hisportion to Plantagenet. Each man was provided with his knife, but theguest 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 toPlantagenet 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 evermade in his life. The flesh-pot held something besides turkeys. Roughas was the fare, it was good and plentiful. As for beverage, theydrank humpty-dumpty, which is ale boiled with brandy, and which isnot one of the slightest charms of a gipsy's life. When the men weresatisfied, their platters were filled, and given to the women andchildren; and Beruna, with her portion, came and seated herself byPlantagenet, looking at him with a blended glance of delight andastonishment, like a beautiful young savage, and then turning to herfemale companions to stifle a laugh. The flesh-pot was carried away, the men lit their pipes, the fire was replenished, its red shadowmingled with the silver beams of the moon; around were the glitteringtents and the silent woods; on all sides flashing eyes and picturesqueforms. Cadurcis glanced at his companions, and gazed upon the scenewith feelings of ravishing excitement; and then, almost unconscious ofwhat he was saying, exclaimed, 'At length I have found the life thatsuits 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 meto 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 willnever be still. And what was the purpose of your present travel?' hecontinued 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 gentlemanyet; 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, ' saidMorgana, thoughtfully, and turning the conversation. 'Beruna. '

'Ay! ay! Morgana!'

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV. 

Dr. Masham could gain no tidings of the object of his pursuit atSouthport: here, however, he ascertained that Plantagenet could nothave 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; whilethe innkeeper was confident that so far as Southport was concerned, his little lordship had not sought refuge in the waggon, whichwas more frequent, though somewhat slower, in its progress to themetropolis. Unwilling to return home, although the evening was nowdrawing in, the Doctor resolved to proceed to a considerable townabout twelve miles further, which Cadurcis might have reached by across road; so drawing his cloak around him, looking to his pistols, and desiring his servant to follow his example, the stout-heartedRector of Marringhurst pursued his way. 

It was dark when the Doctor entered the town, and he proceededimmediately to the inn where the coach was expected, with some fainthope that the fugitive might be discovered abiding within its walls;but, to all his inquiries about young gentlemen and ponies, hereceived very unsatisfactory answers; so, reconciling himself as wellas he could to the disagreeable posture of affairs, he settled himselfin 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 ofthe stage, an unwieldy machine, carrying six inside, and dragged by asmany horses. The Doctor, opening the door of his apartment, whichled on to a gallery that ran round the inn-yard, leaned over thebalustrade with his pipe in his mouth, and watched proceedings. It sohappened that the stage was to discharge one of its passengers at thistown, who had come from the north, and the Doctor recognised in him aneighbour and brother magistrate, one Squire Mountmeadow, an importantpersonage in his way, the terror of poachers, and somewhat of anoracle on the bench, as it was said that he could take a depositionwithout the assistance of his clerk. Although, in spite of theostler's lanterns, it was very dark, it was impossible ever to beunaware of the arrival of Squire Mountmeadow; for he was one of thosegreat men who take care to remind the world of their dignity by theattention which they require on every occasion. 

'Coachman!' said the authoritative voice of the Squire. 'Where is thecoachman? Oh! you are there, sir, are you? Postilion! Where is thepostilion? 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 saywhere 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 toassist this very great man; but Squire Mountmeadow, scarcely deigningto avail himself of their proffered assistance, and pausing on eachstep, looking around him with his long, lean, solemn visage, finallyreached terra firma in safety, and slowly stretched his tall, ungainlyfigure. It was at this moment that Dr. Masham's servant approachedhim, and informed his worship that his master was at the inn, andwould be happy to see him. The countenance of the great Mountmeadowrelaxed at the mention of the name of a brother magistrate, and in anaudible voice he bade the groom 'tell my worthy friend, his worship, your worthy master, that I shall be rejoiced to pay my respects to anesteemed neighbour and a brother magistrate. '

With slow and solemn steps, preceded by the host, and followed by thewaiter, Squire Mountmeadow ascended the staircase of the externalgallery, pausing occasionally, and looking around him with thoughtfulimportance, and making an occasional inquiry as to the state of thetown 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 onlyfour-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 daresay; 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, wherethe Doctor was ready to receive him. 

'It always gives me pleasure to meet a brother magistrate, ' saidSquire Mountmeadow, bowing with cordial condescension; 'and agentleman of your cloth, too. The clergy must be respected; I stand orfall by the Church. After you, Doctor, after you. ' So saying, the twomagistrates entered the room. 

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

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

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

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

'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. Thebrother magistrates despatched their rump-steak; the foaming tankardwas replenished; the fire renovated. At length, the table and the roombeing alike clear, Squire Mountmeadow drew a long puff, and said, 'Nowfor business, Doctor. '

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

'I question, Doctor, ' said the Squire, 'whether we should notcommunicate 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 hardlymake a truant boy a Cabinet question. '

The Squire glanced a look of pity at his companion. 'Prove thetruancy, Doctor; prove it. 'Tis a case of disappearance; and how do weknow 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 mustoffer rewards; we must raise the posse comitatus. '

'For the sake of the family, I would make as little stir asnecessary, ' 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 generalwarrant. '

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

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

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

'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, ' saidDr. 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 ahabeas 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 gainedsuch a start upon us; and yet he can hardly have gone to London; hewould 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 youhave to deal with!'

'We must hope, ' said Dr. Masham. 'To-morrow we must organise somegeneral 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 breakit to his mother the better. You asked me for my advice, and I give ityou. '

CHAPTER XVI. 

It was on the following morning, as the Doctor was under the operationof the barber, that his groom ran into the room with a pale face andagitated air, and exclaimed, 'Oh! master, master, what do you think? Here is a man in the yard withmy 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 isno time for appearances. Here is a robbery, at least; God grant noworse. Peter, my boots!' So saying, the Doctor, half equipped, andfollowed by Peter and the barber, went forth on the gallery. 'Where ishe?' said the Doctor. 

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

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

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

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

The man seemed very much astonished; but he was composed, and offeredno resistance. He was dressed like a small farmer, in top-boots and asmock-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 strictcustody until further orders. '

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

Peter and the barber, to whom he had communicated everything, werewell qualified to do justice to the important information of whichthey were the sole depositaries; the tale lost nothing by theirtelling; and a circumstantial narrative of the robbery and murder ofno less a personage than Lord Cadurcis, of Cadurcis Abbey, was soongenerally prevalent. 

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

In the meantime Dr. Masham, really agitated, roused his brothermagistrate, and communicated to his worship the important discovery. The Squire fell into a solemn flutter. 'We must be regular, brotherMasham; we must proceed by rule; we are a bench in ourselves. Wouldthat my clerk were here! We must send for Signsealer forthwith. I willnot decide without the statutes. The law must be consulted, and itmust be obeyed. The fellow hath not brought my wig. 'Tis a case ofmurder no doubt. A Peer of the realm murdered! You must break theintelligence to his surviving parent, and I will communicate to theSecretary of State. Can the body be found? That will prove the murder. Unless the body be found, the murder will not be proved, savethe villain confess, which he will not do unless he hath suddencompunctions. I have known sudden compunctions go a great way. We hada case before our bench last month; there was no evidence. It was nota case of murder; it was of woodcutting; there was no evidence; butthe defendant had compunctions. Oh! here is my wig. We must send forSignsealer. 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 hiscolleague took their way to the parlour they had inhabited thepreceding evening. Mr. Signsealer was in attendance, much to the real, though concealed, satisfaction of Squire Mountmeadow. Their worshipswere seated like two consuls before the table, which Mr. Signsealerhad duly arranged with writing materials and various piles ofcalf-bound volumes. Squire Mountmeadow then, arranging hiscountenance, announced that the bench was prepared, and mine host wasinstructed forthwith to summon the constable and his charge, togetherwith Peter and the ostler as witnesses. There was a rush among some ofthe crowd who were nighest the scene to follow the prisoner into theroom; and, sooth to say, the great Mountmeadow was much too enamouredof his own self-importance to be by any means a patron of close courtsand private hearings; but then, though he loved his power to bewitnessed, he was equally desirous that his person should bereverenced. It was his boast that he could keep a court of quartersessions as quiet as a church; and now, when the crowd rushed in withall those sounds of tumult incidental to such a movement, it requiredonly Mountmeadow slowly to rise, and drawing himself up to the fullheight of his gaunt figure, to knit his severe brow, and throw oneof his peculiar looks around the chamber, to insure a most awfulstillness. Instantly everything was so hushed, that you might haveheard Signsealer nib his pen. 

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

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

'There is enough evidence to keep this fellow in custody, ' said theDoctor. '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 shouldscarcely take him for a native. '

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

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

'True, true, Mr. Clerk, ' said Squire Mountmeadow, 'I am coming tothat. 'Tis a sound practice; I have known such a circumstance lead togreat 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 aprofusion of long plaited hair, which had been adroitly twisted underthe wig, more in character with the countenance than its previouscovering. 

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

When Morgana, for it was indeed he, observed the course affairs weretaking, and ascertained that his detention under present circumstanceswas inevitable, he relaxed from his doggedness, and expressed awillingness to make a communication to the bench. Squire Mountmeadowlifted up his eyes to Heaven, as if entreating the interposition ofProvidence to guide him in his course; then turned to his brothermagistrate, and then nodded to the clerk. 

'He has compunctions, brother Masham, ' said his worship: 'I told youso; he has compunctions. Trust me to deal with these fellows. He knewnot his perilous situation; the hint of petty treason staggered him. Mr. Clerk, take down the prisoner's confession; the Court must becleared; constable, clear the Court. Let a stout man stand on eachside of the prisoner, to protect the bench. The magistracy of Englandwill never shrink from doing their duty, but they must be protected. Now, prisoner, the bench is ready to hear your confession. Concealnothing, and if you were not a principal in the murder, or anaccessory before the fact; eh, Mr. Clerk, thus runs the law, as I takeit? there may be mercy; at any rate, if you be hanged, you will havethe satisfaction of having cheerfully made the only atonement tosociety in your power. '

'Hanging be damned!' said Morgana. 

Squire Mountmeadow started from his seat, his cheeks distended withrage, his dull eyes for once flashing fire. 'Did you ever witness suchatrocity, brother Masham?' exclaimed his worship. 'Did you hear thevillain? I'll teach him to respect the bench. I'll fine him before heis 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 nevertold it me; but he sought hospitality of me and my people, and we gaveit him, and he lives with us, of his own free choice. The pony is ofno 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 verylikely tale! I'll teach you to come here and tell your cock-and-bullstories to two of his majesty's justices of the peace. 'Tis a flatcase of robbery and murder, and I venture to say something else. Youshall go to gaol directly, and the Lord have mercy on your soul!'

'Nay, ' said the gipsy, appealing to Dr. Marsham; 'you, sir, appear tobe a friend of this youth. You will not regain him by sending me togaol. 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 Isay. I offer in two hours to produce to you the youth, and you shallfind 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 hiscolleague, 'I have private duties to perform to this family. Pardonme if, with all deference to your sounder judgment and greaterexperience, 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; youowe a duty to your country, and you owe a duty to yourself. Is itwise, is it decorous, that one of the Quorum should go a-gipsying?Is it possible that you can credit this preposterous tale? BrotherMasham, there will be a rescue, or my name is not Mountmeadow. '

In spite, however, of all these solemn warnings, the good Doctor, whowas not altogether unaware of the character of his pupil, and couldcomprehend that it was very possible the statement of the gipsy mightbe genuine, continued without very much offending his colleague, wholooked upon, his conduct indeed rather with pity than resentment, to accept the offer of Morgana; and consequently, well-secured andguarded, and preceding the Doctor, who rode behind the cart with hisservant, the gipsy soon sallied forth from the inn-yard, and requestedthe 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 atthe gipsy encampment, and nothing had yet occurred to make him repenthis flight from the abbey, and the choice of life he had made. He hadexperienced nothing but kindness and hospitality, while the beautifulBeruna seemed quite content to pass her life in studying hisamusement. The weather, too, had been extremely favourable to his newmode 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 forestfoliage glowing in the autumnal sunset, Plantagenet only wonderedthat he could have endured for so many years the shackles of hiscommon-place home. 

His companions were awaiting the return of their leader, Morgana, who had been absent since the preceding day, and who had departed onPlantagenet's pony. Most of them were lounging or strolling in thevicinity of their tents; the children were playing; the old woman wascooking at the fire; and altogether, save that the hour was not solate, the scene presented much the same aspect as when Cadurcis hadfirst beheld it. As for his present occupation, Beruna was giving hima lesson in the gipsy language, which he was acquiring with a rapidfacility, which quite exceeded all his previous efforts in suchacquisitions. 

Suddenly a scout sang out that a party was in sight. The men instantlydisappeared; the women were on the alert; and one ran forward as aspy, on pretence of telling fortunes. This bright-eyed professor ofpalmistry soon, however, returned running, and out of breath, yetchatting all the time with inconceivable rapidity, and accompanyingthe startling communication she was evidently making with the mostanimated gestures. Beruna started up, and, leaving the astonishedCadurcis, joined them. She seemed alarmed. Cadurcis was soon convincedthere was consternation in the camp. 

Suddenly a horseman galloped up, and was immediately followed by acompanion. They called out, as if encouraging followers, and one ofthem immediately galloped away again, as if to detail the resultsof their reconnaissance. Before Cadurcis could well rise and makeinquiries as to what was going on, a light cart, containing severalmen, drove up, and in it, a prisoner, he detected Morgana. Thebranches of the trees concealed for a moment two other horsemenwho followed the cart; but Cadurcis, to his infinite alarm andmortification, soon recognised Dr. Masham and Peter. 

When the gipsies found their leader was captive, they no longerattempted to conceal themselves; they all came forward, and would haveclustered round the cart, had not the riders, as well as those whomore immediately guarded the prisoner, prevented them. Morgana spokesome words in a loud voice to the gipsies, and they immediatelyappeared less agitated; then turning to Dr. Masham, he said inEnglish, '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 thisyour 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 theDoctor. 'This person, no longer a prisoner, has been arrested onsuspicion of robbery, and even murder, through your freak. Morgana, orwhatever your name may be, here is some reward for your treatment ofthis 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 alreadyendangered 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 leantagainst 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 herewill only endanger and disturb us. Fortunately we have nothing to fearfrom laws we have never outraged; but had there been a judge less wiseand gentle than the master here, our peaceful family might have beenall harassed and hunted to the very death. '

He waved his hand, and addressed some words to his tribe, whereupontwo brawny fellows seized Cadurcis, and placed him again, in spite ofhis struggling, upon his pony, with the same irresistible facilitywith which they had a few nights before dismounted him. The littlelord looked very sulky, but his position was beginning to getludicrous. Morgana, pocketing his five guineas, leaped over the sideof the cart, and offered to guide the Doctor and his attendantsthrough the forest. They moved on accordingly. It was the work of aninstant, and Cadurcis suddenly found himself returning home betweenthe Rector and Peter. Not a word, however, escaped his lips; once onlyhe moved; the light branch of a tree, aimed with delicate precision, touched his back; he looked round; it was Beruna. She kissed her handto him, and a tear stole down his pale, sullen cheek, as, taking fromhis breast his handkerchief, he threw it behind him, unperceived, thatshe might pick it up, and keep it for his sake. 

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

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

Cadurcis immediately, but slowly, repaired to the saloon. Lady Annabelwas walking up and down in it. She seemed greatly disturbed. When shesaw him, she put her arm round his neck affectionately, and said ina low voice, 'My dearest Plantagenet, it has devolved upon me tocommunicate 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 butsoftened tone. 

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

Cadurcis looked about him wildly, and then with an inquiring glance atLady 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 distinctvoice, '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 theapartment. 

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

In the adjoining room, Lady Annabel was seated with Doctor Masham, and giving him the details of the fatal event. It had occurred thatmorning. Mrs. Cadurcis, who had never slept a wink since her knowledgeof her son's undoubted departure, and scarcely for an hour been freefrom violent epileptic fits, had fallen early in the morning into adoze, which lasted about half an hour, and from which her medicalattendant, who with Pauncefort had sat up with her during the night, augured the most favourable consequences. About half-past six o'clockshe woke, and inquired whether Plantagenet had returned. They answeredher that Doctor Masham had not yet arrived, but would probably be atthe 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. WhenMrs. Cadurcis recognised her, she held out her hand, and said in adying tone, 'It was my fault; it was ever my fault; it is too latenow; let him find a mother in you. ' She never spoke again, and in thecourse of an hour expired. 

While Lady Annabel and the Doctor were dwelling on these sadcircumstances, and debating whether he should venture to approachPlantagenet, and attempt to console him, for the evening was nowfar advanced, and nearly three hours had elapsed since the fatalcommunication had been made to him, it happened that MistressPauncefort chanced to pass Mrs. Cadurcis' room, and as she did so sheheard some one violently sobbing. She listened, and hearing the soundsfrequently repeated, she entered the room, which, but for her candle, would have been quite dark, and there she found Lord Cadurcis kneelingand weeping by his mother's bedside. He seemed annoyed at being seenand disturbed, but his spirit was too broken to murmur. 'La! my lord, 'said Mistress Pauncefort, 'you must not take on so; you must notindeed. I am sure this dark room is enough to put any one in lowspirits. 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 wishMiss Venetia were here, and then she would amuse you. But you must nottake on, because there is no use in it. You must exert yourself, forwhat 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 goodconscience, because she had a good heart, and I never heard any onesay the contrary. Now do exert yourself, my dear lord, and try to becheerful, do; for there is nothing like a little exertion in thesecases, for God's will must be done, and it is not for us to say yea ornay, and taking on is a murmuring against God's providence. ' And soMistress Pauncefort would have continued urging the usual topics ofcoarse and common-place consolation; but Cadurcis only answered with asigh that came from the bottom of his heart, and said with streamingeyes, 'Ah! Mrs. Pauncefort, God had only given me one friend in thisworld, and there she lies. '

CHAPTER XVIII. 

The first conviction that there is death in the house is perhaps themost awful moment of youth. When we are young, we think that not onlyourselves, but that all about us, are immortal. Until the arrow hasstruck a victim round our own hearth, death is merely an unmeaningword; until then, its casual mention has stamped no idea upon ourbrain. There are few, even among those least susceptible of thoughtand emotion, in whose hearts and minds the first death in the familydoes not act as a powerful revelation of the mysteries of life, and oftheir own being; there are few who, after such a catastrophe, do notlook upon the world and the world's ways, at least for a time, withchanged and tempered feelings. It recalls the past; it makes us ponderover 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 strangeand yet undeveloped character there was, amid lighter elements, aconstitutional principle of melancholy, the sudden decease of hismother produced a profound effect. All was forgotten of his parent, except the intimate and natural tie, and her warm and genuineaffection. He was now alone in the world; for reflection impressedupon him at this moment what the course of existence too generallyteaches to us all, that mournful truth, that, after all, we have nofriends that we can depend upon in this life but our parents. Allother intimacies, however ardent, are liable to cool; all otherconfidence, however unlimited, to be violated. In the phantasmagoriaof life, the friend with whom we have cultivated mutual trust foryears 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 learntthat the links of passion are fragile as they are glittering; andthat the bosom on which we have reposed with idolatry all our secretsorrows and sanguine hopes, eventually becomes the very heart thatexults in our misery and baffles our welfare? Where is the enamouredface that smiled upon our early love, and was to shed tears over ourgrave? Where are the choice companions of our youth, with whom we wereto breast the difficulties and share the triumphs of existence? Evenin this inconstant world, what changes like the heart? Love is adream, and friendship a delusion. No wonder we grow callous; for howfew have the opportunity of returning to the hearth which they quittedin levity or thoughtless weariness, yet which alone is faithful tothem; whose sweet affections require not the stimulus of prosperityor fame, the lure of accomplishments, or the tribute of flattery; butwhich are constant to us in distress, and console us even in disgrace!

Before she retired for the night, Lady Annabel was anxious to seePlantagenet. Mistress Pauncefort had informed her of his visit tohis mother's room. Lady Annabel found Cadurcis in the gallery, nowpartially lighted by the moon which had recently risen. She enteredwith her light, as if she were on her way to her own room, and notseeking 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 withdrawfrom her, and they walked together once or twice up and down thegallery. 

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

'I like to be alone, ' was his answer; but not in a sullen voice, lowand 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 shallfind me one if you like. And Venetia, have you forgotten your sister?Is she not your friend? And Dr. Masham, surely you cannot doubt hisfriendship?'

Cadurcis tried to stifle a sob. 'Ay, Lady Annabel, ' he said, 'you aremy friend now, and so are you all; and you know I love you much. Butyou 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; shecannot help being your friend. '

'You shall come to Cherbury and live with us, ' said Lady Annabel. ' Youknow 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 herewill 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'spause, 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 tohim; come, my own child. '

He permitted himself to be led away. They descended to the smallapartment where Lady Annabel had been previously sitting. They foundthe Doctor there; he rose and pressed Plantagenet's hand with greatemotion. They made room for him at the fire between them; he sat insilence, with his gaze intently fixed upon the decaying embers, yet did not quit his hold of Lady Annabel's hand. He found it aconsolation 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 somedegree solaced; and she thought it unwise to interrupt the morecomposed train of his thoughts. It was, indeed, Plantagenet himselfwho first broke silence. 

'I do not think I can go to bed, Lady Annabel, ' he said. 'The thoughtof this night is terrible to me. I do not think it ever can end. Iwould 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, andthen, 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 sofabed made up in the Doctor's room for you. Indeed that will be the verybest plan. '

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

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

The meeting between himself and Venetia was a very sad one, and yether companionship was a great solace. Venetia urged every topic thatshe fancied could reassure his spirits, and upon the happy home hewould 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 couldtake place, Cadurcis had recovered somewhat of his usual cheerfulness, and would indulge with Venetia in plans of their future life. Andliving, as they all were, under the same roof, sharing the samesorrows, participating in the same cares, and all about to wear thesame mournful emblems of their domestic calamity, it was difficult forhim to believe that he was indeed that desolate being he had at firstcorrectly estimated himself. Here were true friends, if such couldexist; here were fine sympathies, pure affections, innocent anddisinterested hearts! Every domestic tie yet remained perfect, exceptthe spell-bound tie of blood. That wanting, all was a bright and happyvision, that might vanish in an instant, and for ever; that perfect, even the least graceful, the most repulsive home, had its irresistiblecharms; and its loss, when once experienced, might be mourned forever, and could never be restored. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

After the funeral of Mrs. Cadurcis, the family returned to Cherburywith Plantagenet, who was hereafter to consider it his home. All thatthe most tender solicitude could devise to reconcile him to the changein his life was fulfilled by Lady Annabel and her daughter, and, undertheir benignant influence, he soon regained his usual demeanour. Hisdays were now spent as in the earlier period of their acquaintance, with the exception of those painful returns to home, which had oncebeen a source to him of so much gloom and unhappiness. He pursued hisstudies as of old, and shared the amusements of Venetia. His allottedroom was ornamented by her drawings, and in the evenings they readaloud by turns to Lady Annabel the volume which she selected. Theabbey he never visited again after his mother's funeral. 

Some weeks had passed in this quiet and contented manner, when oneday Doctor Masham, who, since the death of his mother, had beenin correspondence with his guardian, received a letter from thatnobleman, to announce that he had made arrangements for sending hisward to Eton, and to request that he would accordingly instantlyproceed to the metropolis. This announcement occasioned both Cadurcisand Venetia poignant affliction. The idea of separation was to bothof them most painful; and although Lady Annabel herself was insome degree prepared for an arrangement, which sooner or later sheconsidered 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 personallydelivering the charge, in whose welfare they were so much interested, to his guardian. Nevertheless, it was a very sad affair, and the weekwhich was to intervene before his departure found both himself andVenetia often in tears. They no longer took any delight in theirmutual studies but passed the day walking about and visiting oldhaunts, and endeavouring to console each other for what they bothdeemed a great calamity, and which was indeed, the only seriousmisfortune Venetia had herself experienced in the whole course of herserene career. 

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

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

It was impossible for a moment to forget the sorrow that was impendingover them. There were so many preparations to be made for hisdeparture, that every instant something occurred to remind them oftheir sorrow. Venetia sat with tears in her eyes marking his newpocket-handkerchiefs which they had all gone to Southport to purchase, for Plantagenet asked, as a particular favour, that no one should markthem but Venetia. Then Lady Annabel gave Plantagenet a writing-case, and Venetia filled it with pens and paper, that he might never wantmeans to communicate with them; and her evenings were passed inworking him a purse, which Lady Annabel took care should be wellstocked. All day long there seemed something going on to remind themof what was about to happen; and as for Pauncefort, she flounced inand out the room fifty times a day, with 'What is to be done about mylord's shirts, my lady? I think his lordship had better have anotherdozen, 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 mylord's stockings are in, my lady. I think I had better go over toSouthport with John, my lady, and buy him some;' or, 'Please, my lady, did I understand your la'ship spoke to the tailor on Thursday aboutmy lord's things? I suppose your la'ship knows my lord has got nogreat-coat?'

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

Plantagenet and Venetia both rose very early, that they might make itas long as possible. They sighed involuntarily when they met, and thenthey went about to pay last visits to every creature and object ofwhich they had been so long fond. Plantagenet went to bid farewellto the horses and adieu to the cows, and then walked down to thewoodman's cottage, and then to shake hands with the keeper. He wouldnot say 'Good-bye' to the household until the very last moment; and asfor Marmion, the bloodhound, he accompanied both of them so faithfullyin this melancholy ramble, and kept so close to both, that it wasuseless to break the sad intelligence to him yet. 

'I think now, Venetia, we have been to see everything, ' saidPlantagenet, 'I shall see the peacocks at breakfast time. I wish Etonwas near Cherbury, and then I could come home on Sunday. I cannot beargoing to Cadurcis again, but I should like you to go once a week, andtry to keep up our garden, and look after everything, though there isnot much that will not take care of itself, except the garden. We madethat 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 ofCherbury, and we can talk together of Lady Annabel and you. Hark! thebell rings; we must go to breakfast, the last breakfast but one. '

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

Although it was the last day, time hung heavily on their hands. Afterbreakfast they went over the house together; and Cadurcis, half withgenuine feeling, and half in a spirit of mockery of their sorrow, madea speech to the inanimate walls, as if they were aware of his intendeddeparture. At length, in their progress, they passed the door of theclosed 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 upin you!'

Dr. Masham arrived for dinner, and in a postchaise. The unusualconveyance reminded them of the morrow very keenly. Venetia could notbear to see the Doctor's portmanteau taken out and carried into thehall. She had hopes, until then, that something would happen andprevent all this misery. Cadurcis whispered her, 'I say, Venetia, donot you wish this was winter?'

'Why, Plantagenet?'

'Because then we might have a good snowstorm, and be blocked up againfor 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 afresh 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 Doctorwas jocular, Lady Annabel lively, and Plantagenet excited by anextraordinary glass of wine. Venetia alone remained dispirited. TheDoctor made mock speeches and proposed toasts, and told Plantagenetthat he must learn to make speeches too, or what would he do whenhe was in the House of Lords? And then Plantagenet tried to make aspeech, and proposed Venetia's health; and then Venetia, who could notbear to hear herself praised by him on such a day, the last day, burstinto tears. Her mother called her to her side and consoled her, andPlantagenet jumped up and wiped her eyes with one of those verypocket-handkerchiefs on which she had embroidered his cipher andcoronet with her own beautiful hair. Towards evening Plantagenet beganto experience the reaction of his artificial spirits. The Doctor hadfallen 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, Iwish I were your real sister! Perhaps, when I see you again, you willforget this, ' and she turned the jewel that was suspended round herneck, and showed him the inscription. 

'I am sure when I see you-again, Venetia, ' he replied, 'the onlydifference 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 meetagain, 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. Asfor 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. Mashamto go and see you, and they will attend to him; and I would ask himtoo. I wonder, ' she continued after a moment's pause, 'if you haveeverything you want. I am quite sure the instant you are gone, weshall remember something you ought to have; and then I shall be quitebrokenhearted. '

'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 willtake me to a place where the finest knives in the world are to bebought. 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 willdo it this evening. '

'Lady Annabel is to write it in the Bible, and you are to write it inthe 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 servantmade up the fire, and the room looked cheerful again. After tea, the names were duly written in the Bible and Prayer-book; the lastarrangements were made, all the baggage was brought down into thehall, all ransacked their memory and fancy, to see if it were possiblethat anything that Plantagenet could require was either forgottenor had been omitted. The clock struck ten; Lady Annabel rose. Thetravellers were to part at an early hour: she shook hands with Dr. Masham, but Cadurcis was to bid her farewell in her dressing-room, andthen, with heavy hearts and glistening eyes, they all separated. Andthus ended the last day!

CHAPTER XX. 

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

'You are in good time, ' said Lady Annabel, who was seated in an easychair 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, oneword. When you arrive in London, you will go to your guardian's. Heis a great man, and I believe a very good one, and the law and yourfather's will have placed him in the position of a parent to you. Youmust therefore love, honour, and obey him; and I doubt not he willdeserve all your affection, respect, and duty. Whatever he desires orcounsels you will perform, and follow. So long as you act according tohis wishes, you cannot be wrong. But, my dear Plantagenet, if by anychance it ever happens, for strange things sometimes happen in thisworld, that you are in trouble and require a friend, remember thatCherbury 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 promisedyour poor mother on her death-bed, I esteem myself morally, althoughnot legally, in the light of a parent to you. You will find Eton agreat change; you will experience many trials and temptations; but youwill triumph over and withstand them all, if you will attend to thesefew directions. Fear God; morning and night let nothing induce youever to omit your prayers to Him; you will find that praying willmake you happy. Obey your superiors; always treat your masters withrespect. Ever speak the truth. So long as you adhere to this rule, you never can be involved in any serious misfortune. A deviation fromtruth is, in general, the foundation of all misery. Be kind to yourcompanions, but be firm. Do not be laughed into doing that which youknow 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 toperform great duties. 

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

Plantagenet leant upon her bosom. He had entered the room resolved tobe composed, with an air even of cheerfulness, but his tender heartyielded to the first appeal to his affections. He could only murmurout some broken syllables of devotion, and almost unconsciously foundthat he had quitted the chamber. 

With streaming eyes and hesitating steps he was proceeding along thevestibule, when he heard his name called by a low sweet voice. Helooked around; it was Venetia. Never had he beheld such a beautifulvision. She was muffled up in her dressing-gown, her small white feetonly guarded from the cold by her slippers. Her golden hair seemed toreach her waist, her cheek was flushed, her large blue eyes glitteredwith tears. 

'Plantagenet, ' she said--

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

Cadurcis lingered on the stairs a moment to compose himself. He wipedhis eyes; he tried to look undisturbed. All the servants were in thehall; from Mistress Pauncefort to the scullion there was not a dryeye. 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 tosmile and say something kind to all. He recognised the gamekeeper, and told him to do what he liked at Cadurcis; said something to thecoachman about his pony; and begged Mistress Pauncefort, quite aloud, to take great care of her young mistress. As he was speaking, hefelt something rubbing against his hand: it was Marmion, the oldbloodhound. He also came to bid his adieus. Cadurcis patted him withaffection, and said, 'Ah! my old fellow, we shall yet meet again. '

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

BOOK II. 

CHAPTER I. 

Life is not dated merely by years. Events are sometimes the bestcalendars. There are epochs in our existence which cannot beascertained by a formal appeal to the registry. The arrival of theCadurcis family at their old abbey, their consequent intimacy atCherbury, the death of the mother, and the departure of the son: thesewere events which had been crowded into a space of less than twoyears; but those two years were not only the most eventful in the lifeof Venetia Herbert, but in their influence upon the development of hermind, and the formation of her character, far exceeded the effects ofall 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 beforeexperienced under such circumstances, and to revert to the resourcesshe had before commanded. No longer could she wander in imaginarykingdoms, or transform the limited world of her experience into aboundless region of enchanted amusement. Her play-pleasure hours werefled for ever. She sighed for her faithful and sympathising companion. The empire of fancy yielded without a struggle to the conquering swayof memory. 

For the first few weeks Venetia was restless and dispirited, and whenshe was alone she often wept. A mysterious instinct prompted her, however, not to exhibit such emotion before her mother. Yet she lovedto hear Lady Annabel talk of Plantagenet, and a visit to the abbey wasever her favourite walk. Sometimes, too, a letter arrived from LordCadurcis, and this was great joy; but such communications were rare. Nothing is more difficult than for a junior boy at a public school tomaintain a correspondence; yet his letters were most affectionate, and always dwelt upon the prospect of his return. The period for thishoped-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 flewon, it seemed destined he never was to return. Vacation followedvacation, alike passed with his guardian, either in London, or ata country seat still more remote from Cherbury, until at length itbecame so much a matter of course that his guardian's house shouldbe esteemed his home, that Plantagenet ceased to allude even to theprospect of return. In time his letters became rarer and rarer, until, at length, they altogether ceased. Meanwhile Venetia had overcome theoriginal pang of separation; if not as gay as in old days, she wasserene and very studious; delighting less in her flowers and birds, but much more in her books, and pursuing her studies with anearnestness and assiduity which her mother was rather fain to checkthan to encourage. Venetia Herbert, indeed, promised to become a mostaccomplished woman. She had a fine ear for music, a ready tongue forlanguages; already she emulated her mother's skill in the arts; whilethe library of Cherbury afforded welcome and inexhaustible resourcesto a girl whose genius deserved the richest and most sedulouscultivation, and whose peculiar situation, independent of her studiouspredisposition, rendered reading a pastime to her rather than atask. Lady Annabel watched the progress of her daughter with livelyinterest, and spared no efforts to assist the formation of herprinciples and her taste. That deep religious feeling which was thecharacteristic of the mother had been carefully and early cherishedin the heart of the child, and in time the unrivalled writings of thegreat divines of our Church became a principal portion of her reading. Order, method, severe study, strict religious exercise, with noamusement or relaxation but of the most simple and natural character, and with a complete seclusion from society, altogether formed asystem, which, acting upon a singularly susceptible and gifted nature, secured the promise in Venetia Herbert, at fourteen years of age, ofan extraordinary woman; a system, however, against which her livelyand somewhat restless mind might probably have rebelled, had notthat system been so thoroughly imbued with all the melting spell ofmaternal affection. It was the inspiration of this sacred love thathovered like a guardian angel over the life of Venetia. It roused herfrom her morning slumbers with an embrace, it sanctified her eveningpillow with a blessing; it anticipated the difficulty of the student'spage, and guided the faltering hand of the hesitating artist; itrefreshed her memory, it modulated her voice; it accompanied her inthe cottage, and knelt by her at the altar. Marvellous and beautifulis a mother's love. And when Venetia, with her strong feelings andenthusiastic spirit, would look around and mark that a graceful formand a bright eye were for ever watching over her wants and wishes, instructing with sweetness, and soft even with advice, her whole soulrose to her mother, all thoughts and feelings were concentrated inthat sole existence, and she desired no happier destiny than to passthrough life living in the light of her mother's smiles, and clingingwith passionate trust to that beneficent and guardian form. 

But with all her quick and profound feelings Venetia was thoughtfuland even shrewd, and when she was alone her very love for hermother, and her gratitude for such an ineffable treasure as parentalaffection, would force her mind to a subject which at intervals hadhaunted her even from her earliest childhood. Why had she only oneparent? What mystery was this that enveloped that great tie? Forthat there was a mystery Venetia felt as assured as that she was adaughter. By a process which she could not analyse, her father hadbecome a forbidden subject. True, Lady Annabel had placed no formalprohibition upon its mention; nor at her present age was Venetia onewho would be influenced in her conduct by the bygone and arbitraryintimations of a menial; nevertheless, that the mention of her fatherwould afford pain to the being she loved best in the world, was aconviction which had grown with her years and strengthened with herstrength. Pardonable, natural, even laudable as was the anxiety of thedaughter upon such a subject, an instinct with which she could notstruggle closed the lips of Venetia for ever upon this topic. His namewas never mentioned, his past existence was never alluded to. Who washe? 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, sokeen, so overwhelming, that after fourteen long years his name mightnot be permitted, even for an instant, to pass the lips of hisbereaved wife? Was his child to be deprived of the only solace forhis loss, the consolation of cherishing his memory? Strange, passingstrange indeed, and bitter! At Cherbury the family of Herbert werehonoured only from tradition. Until the arrival of Lady Annabel, as wehave before mentioned, they had not resided at the hall for more thanhalf a century. There were no old retainers there from whom Venetiamight glean, without suspicion, the information for which she panted. Slight, too, as was Venetia's experience of society, there were timeswhen she could not resist the impression that her mother was nothappy; that there was some secret sorrow that weighed upon herspirit, some grief that gnawed at her heart. Could it be still therecollection of her lost sire? Could one so religious, so resigned, so assured of meeting the lost one in a better world, brood with arepining soul over the will of her Creator? Such conduct was entirelyat variance with all the tenets of Lady Annabel. It was not thus sheconsoled the bereaved, that she comforted the widow, and solaced theorphan. Venetia, too, observed everything and forgot nothing. Not anincident of her earliest childhood that was not as fresh in her memoryas if it had occurred yesterday. Her memory was naturally keen; livingin solitude, with nothing to distract it, its impressions never fadedaway. She had never forgotten her mother's tears the day that she andPlantagenet had visited Marringhurst. Somehow or other Dr. Mashamseemed connected with this sorrow. Whenever Lady Annabel was mostdispirited it was after an interview with that gentleman; yet thepresence of the Doctor always gave her pleasure, and he was the mostkind-hearted and cheerful of men. Perhaps, after all, it was only herillusion; perhaps, after all, it was the memory of her father to whichher mother was devoted, and which occasionally overcame her; perhapsshe ventured to speak of him to Dr. Masham, though not to herdaughter, and this might account for that occasional agitation whichVenetia had observed at his visits. And yet, and yet, and yet; in vainshe reasoned. There is a strange sympathy which whispers convictionsthat no evidence can authorise, and no arguments dispel. VenetiaHerbert, particularly as she grew older, could not refrain at timesfrom yielding to the irresistible belief that her existence wasenveloped in some mystery. Mystery too often presupposes the idea ofguilt. Guilt! Who was guilty? Venetia shuddered at the current of herown thoughts. She started from the garden seat in which she had falleninto this dangerous and painful reverie; flew to her mother, whoreceived her with smiles; and buried her face in the bosom of LadyAnnabel. 

CHAPTER II. 

We have indicated in a few pages the progress of three years. Howdifferently passed to the two preceding ones, when the Cadurcis familywere settled at the abbey! For during this latter period it seemedthat not a single incident had occurred. They had glided away in oneunbroken course of study, religion, and domestic love, the enjoymentof nature, and the pursuits of charity; like a long summersabbath-day, sweet and serene and still, undisturbed by a singlepassion, hallowed and hallowing. 

If the Cadurcis family were now not absolutely forgotten at Cherbury, they were at least only occasionally remembered. These last threeyears so completely harmonised with the life of Venetia before theirarrival, that, taking a general view of her existence, their residenceat the abbey figured only as an episode in her career; active indeedand stirring, and one that had left some impressions not easilydiscarded; but, on the whole, mellowed by the magic of time, Venetialooked back to her youthful friendship as an event that was only anexception in her lot, and she viewed herself as a being born and bredup in a seclusion which she was never to quit, with no aspirationsbeyond the little world in which she moved, and where she was to diein 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 someinquiries about their friend of old days. The information he hadobtained was not very satisfactory. It seemed that Cadurcis was a morepopular boy with his companions than his tutors; he had been ratherunruly, and had only escaped expulsion by the influence of hisguardian, who was not only a great noble, but a powerful minister. 

This conversation recalled old times. They talked over the arrival ofMrs. Cadurcis at the abbey, her strange character, her untimely end. Lady Annabel expressed her conviction of the natural excellence ofPlantagenet's disposition, and her regret of the many disadvantagesunder 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 tenderan age. He lives now in a busy world. '

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

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

'Poor Plantagenet!' said Venetia, 'how I pity him. His was a terriblelot, to lose both his parents! Whatever were the errors of Mrs. Cadurcis, she was his mother, and, in spite of every mortification, heclung to her. Ah! I shall never forget when Pauncefort met him comingout of her room the night before the burial, when he said, withstreaming eyes, "I only had one friend in the world, and now she isgone. " I could not love Mrs. Cadurcis, and yet, when I heard of thesewords, 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, ''tisan orphan. Oh! what should I be without mamma? And Plantagenet, poorPlantagenet! he has no mother, no father. ' Venetia added, with afaltering voice: 'I can sympathise with him in some degree; I, I, Iknow, I feel the misfortune, the misery;' her face became crimson, yetshe could not restrain the irresistible words, 'the misery of neverhaving known a father, ' she added. 

There was a dead pause, a most solemn silence. In vain Venetiastruggled to look calm and unconcerned; every instant she feltthe blood mantling in her cheek with a more lively and spreadingagitation. She dared not look up; it was not possible to utter a wordto turn the conversation. She felt utterly confounded and absolutelymute. 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 aparent's love, ' said her ladyship. 

What would not Venetia have given for the power or speech! butit seemed to have deserted her for ever. There she sat mute andmotionless, with her eyes fixed on the table, and with a burningcheek, 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, whathad she done? A daughter had delicately alluded to her grief at theloss 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 thenrequested permission to order his horses, as the evening came onapace, and he had some distance to ride. Lady Annabel rose; theDoctor, with a countenance unusually serious, offered her his arm; andVenetia followed them like a criminal. In a few minutes the horsesappeared; 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 foran instant without some sign and symbol of affection, some playfulword of love, a winning smile, a passing embrace, that seemed toacknowledge that the pang of even momentary separation could only bealleviated 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, wasblended with a strange curiosity as to the cause, and some hesitatingindignation at her treatment. Venetia remained anxiously awaitingthe return of Lady Annabel; but her ladyship did not reappear. Everyinstant, the astonishment and the grief of Venetia increased. It wasthe first domestic difference that had occurred between them. Itshocked her much. She thought of Plantagenet and Mrs. Cadurcis. Therewas a mortifying resemblance, however slight, between the respectivesituations of the two families. Venetia, too, had quarrelled with hermother; that mother who, for fourteen years, had only looked upon herwith fondness and joy; who had been ever kind, without being everweak, and had rendered her child happy by making her good; that motherwhose beneficent wisdom had transformed duty into delight; thatsuperior, yet gentle being, so indulgent yet so just, so gifted yet socondescending, 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 tearsof unmixed pain that she had ever shed. It was said by the householdof Venetia when a child, that she had never cried; not a single tearhad ever sullied that sunny face. Surrounded by scenes of innocence, and images of happiness and content, Venetia smiled on a world thatsmiled on her, the radiant heroine of a golden age. She had, indeed, wept over the sorrows and the departure of Cadurcis; but those weresoft showers of sympathy and affection sent from a warm heart, likedrops from a summer sky. But now this grief was agony: her browthrobbed, her hand was clenched, her heart beat with tumultuouspalpitation; the streaming torrent came scalding down her cheek likefire 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 shadowsof night were brooding over the halls of Cherbury. The moan of therising wind might be distinctly heard, and ever and anon the branchesof neighbouring trees swung with a sudden yet melancholy sound againstthe windows of the apartment, of which the curtains had remainedundrawn. Venetia looked up; the room would have been in perfectdarkness but for a glimmer which just indicated the site of theexpiring fire, and an uncertain light, or rather modified darkness, that seemed the sky. Alone and desolate! Alone and desolate andunhappy! Alone and desolate and unhappy, and for the first time! Wasit a sigh, or a groan, that issued from the stifling heart of VenetiaHerbert? That child of innocence, that bright emanation of love andbeauty, that airy creature of grace and gentleness, who had never saidan unkind word or done an unkind thing in her whole career, but hadglanced and glided through existence, scattering happiness andjoy, and receiving the pleasure which she herself imparted, howoverwhelming was her first struggle with that dark stranger, Sorrow!

Some one entered the room; it was Mistress Pauncefort. She held ataper in her hand, and came tripping gingerly in, with a new capstreaming with ribands, and scarcely, as it were, condescending toexecute the mission with which she was intrusted, which was no greaterthan fetching her lady's reticule. She glanced at the table, but itwas not there; she turned up her nose at a chair or two, which sheeven condescended to propel a little with a saucy foot, as if thereticule might be hid under the hanging drapery, and then, unable tofind the object of her search, Mistress Pauncefort settled herselfbefore the glass, elevating the taper above her head, that she mightobserve what indeed she had been examining the whole day, the effectof her new cap. With a complacent simper, Mistress Pauncefort thenturned from pleasure to business, and, approaching the couch, gavea faint shriek, half genuine, half affected, as she recognised therecumbent form of her young mistress. 'Well to be sure, ' exclaimedMistress 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 apalpitation. '

Venetia, affecting composure, said she was rather unwell; that shehad a headache, and, rising, murmured that she would go to bed. 'Aheadache!' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, 'I hope no worse, for thereis my lady, and she is as out of sorts as possible. She has a headachetoo; 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 ifit 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 headachemyself, I don't like to be answered. " But, to be sure, if you have aheadache, and my lady has a headache too, I only hope we have not gotthe epidemy. I vow, Miss Venetia, that your eyes are as red as if youhad been running against the wind. Well, to be sure, if you have notbeen crying! I must go and tell my lady immediately. '

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

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

To sleep, it was impossible; it seemed to Venetia that she could neverrest again. She wept no more, but her distress was very great. Shefelt it impossible to exist through the night without being reconciledto her mother; but she refrained from going to her room, from the fearof again meeting her troublesome attendant. She resolved, therefore, to wait until she heard Mistress Pauncefort retire for the night, andshe listened with restless anxiety for the sign of her departure inthe sound of her footsteps along the vestibule on which the doors ofLady Annabel's and her daughter's apartments opened. 

An hour elapsed, and at length the sound was heard. Convinced thatPauncefort had now quitted her mother for the night, Venetia venturedforth, and stopping before the door of her mother's room, she knockedgently. There was no reply, and in a few minutes Venetia knockedagain, and rather louder. Still no answer. 'Mamma, ' said Venetia, in afaltering tone, but no sound replied. Venetia then tried the door, and found it fastened. Then she gave up the effort in despair, andretreating to her own chamber, she threw herself on her bed, and weptbitterly. 

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

'Mother, ' she said, but no one answered; she heard the tick of theclock; it was the only sound. 'Mother, ' she repeated, and she dared tolook up, but the bed was empty. There was no mother. Lady Annabel wasnot in the room. Following an irresistible impulse, Venetia knelt bythe side of her mother's bed and prayed. She addressed, in audible andagitated tones, that Almighty and Beneficent Being of whom she wasso faithful and pure a follower. With sanctified simplicity, shecommunicated to her Creator and her Saviour all her distress, all hersorrow, all the agony of her perplexed and wounded spirit. If she hadsinned, she prayed for forgiveness, and declared in solitude, to Onewhom she could not deceive, how unintentional was the trespass; if shewere only misapprehended, she supplicated for comfort and consolation, for support under the heaviest visitation she had yet experienced, thedispleasure of that earthly parent whom she revered only second to herheavenly Father. 

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

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

CHAPTER III. 

If the love of Lady Annabel for her child were capable of increase, itmight have been believed that it absolutely became more profound andardent after that short-lived but painful estrangement which we haverelated in the last chapter. With all Lady Annabel's fascinatingqualities and noble virtues, a fine observer of human nature enjoyingopportunities of intimately studying her character, might havesuspected that an occasion only was wanted to display or develop inthat lady's conduct no trifling evidence of a haughty, proud, and eveninexorable spirit. Circumstanced as she was at Cherbury, with no onecapable or desirous of disputing her will, the more gracious andexalted qualities of her nature were alone apparent. Entertaining asevere, even a sublime sense of the paramount claims of duty in allconditions and circumstances of life, her own conduct afforded aninvariable and consistent example of her tenet; from those around hershe required little, and that was cheerfully granted; while, on theother hand, her more eminent situation alike multiplied her ownobligations 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 thancourteous to her inferiors, and gifted at the same time with greatself-control and great decision, she was looked up to by all withinher sphere with a sentiment of affectionate veneration. Perhaps therewas only one person within her little world who, both by dispositionand relative situation, was qualified in any way to question herundoubted sway, or to cross by independence of opinion the tenour ofthe 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 andfeeling at command to gauge their worth. But to gain an influence overthis child had been the sole object of Lady Annabel's life, and shehad hitherto met that success which usually awaits in this world thestrong purpose of a determined spirit. Lady Annabel herself was fartoo acute a person not to have detected early in life the talents ofher child, and she was proud of them. She had cultivated them withexemplary devotion and with admirable profit. But Lady Annabel had notless discovered that, in the ardent and susceptible temperament ofVenetia, means were offered by which the heart might be trained notonly to cope with but overpower the intellect. With great powers ofpleasing, beauty, accomplishments, a sweet voice, a soft manner, asympathetic heart, Lady Annabel was qualified to charm the world; shehad contrived to fascinate her daughter. She had inspired Venetia withthe most romantic attachment for her: such as rather subsistsbetween two female friends of the same age and hearts, than betweenindividuals in the relative situations which they bore to each other. Yet while Venetia thus loved her mother, she could not but alsorespect and revere the superior being whose knowledge was her guide onall subjects, and whose various accomplishments deprived her secludededucation of all its disadvantages; and when she felt that one sogifted had devoted her life to the benefit of her child, and thatthis beautiful and peerless lady had no other ambition but to beher guardian and attendant spirit; gratitude, fervent and profound, mingled with admiring reverence and passionate affection, and togetherformed a spell that encircled the mind of Venetia with talismanicsway. 

Under the despotic influence of these enchanted feelings, Venetiawas fast growing into womanhood, without a single cloud having everdisturbed or sullied the pure and splendid heaven of her domesticlife. Suddenly the horizon had become clouded, a storm had gatheredand burst, and an eclipse could scarcely have occasioned more terrorto the untutored roamer of the wilderness, than this unexpectedcatastrophe to one so inexperienced in the power of the passions asour heroine. Her heaven was again serene; but such was the effectof this ebullition on her character, so keen was her dread of againencountering the agony of another misunderstanding with her mother, that she recoiled with trembling from that subject which had so oftenand so deeply engaged her secret thoughts; and the idea of her father, associated as it now was with pain, mortification, and misery, neverrose to her imagination but instantly to be shunned as some unhallowedimage, of which the bitter contemplation was fraught with not lessdisastrous consequences than the denounced idolatry of the holypeople. 

Whatever, therefore, might be the secret reasons which impelled LadyAnnabel to shroud the memory of the lost parent of her child in suchinviolate gloom, it is certain that the hitherto restless thoughconcealed curiosity of Venetia upon the subject, the rashdemonstration to which it led, and the consequence of her boldness, instead of threatening to destroy in an instant the deep and maturedsystem of her mother, had, on the whole, greatly contributed to thefulfilment of the very purpose for which Lady Annabel had so longlaboured. That lady spared no pains in following up the advantagewhich her acuteness and knowledge of her daughter's character assuredher that she had secured. She hovered round her child more like anenamoured lover than a fond mother; she hung upon her looks, she readher thoughts, she anticipated every want and wish; her dulcet tonesseemed even sweeter than before; her soft and elegant manners evenmore tender and refined. Though even in her childhood Lady Annabel hadrather guided than commanded Venetia; now she rather consulted thanguided her. She seized advantage of the advanced character and matureappearance of Venetia to treat her as a woman rather than a child, andas a friend rather than a daughter. Venetia yielded herself up to thisflattering and fascinating condescension. Her love for her motheramounted to passion; she had no other earthly object or desire but topass her entire life in her sole and sweet society; she could conceiveno sympathy deeper or more delightful; the only unhappiness shehad ever known had been occasioned by a moment trenching upon itsexclusive privilege; Venetia could not picture to herself that such apure and entrancing existence could ever experience a change. 

And this mother, this devoted yet mysterious mother, jealous of herchild's regret for a father that she had lost, and whom she had neverknown! 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 theHerberts. Venetia grew in years, and grace, and loveliness; each dayapparently more her mother's joy, and each day bound to that motherby, if possible, more ardent love. She had never again experiencedthose uneasy thoughts which at times had haunted her from her infancy;separated from her mother, indeed, scarcely for an hour together, shehad no time to muse. Her studies each day becoming more various andinteresting, and pursued with so gifted and charming a companion, entirely engrossed her; even the exercise that was her relaxation wasparticipated by Lady Annabel; and the mother and daughter, boundingtogether on their steeds, were fanned by the same breeze, andfreshened by the same graceful and healthy exertion. 

One day the post, that seldom arrived at Cherbury, brought a letter toLady Annabel, the perusal of which evidently greatly agitated her. Her countenance changed as her eye glanced over the pages; her handtrembled as she held it. But she made no remark; and succeeded insubduing her emotion so quickly that Venetia, although she watchedher mother with anxiety, did not feel justified in interfering withinquiring sympathy. But while Lady Annabel resumed her usual calmdemeanour, she relapsed into unaccustomed silence, and, soon risingfrom the breakfast table, moved to the window, and continuedapparently gazing on the garden, with her face averted from Venetiafor 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 Iwish to consult him, but I will not trouble you, dearest, to accompanyme. I must take the carriage, and it is a long and tiring drive. '

There was a tone of decision even in the slightest observations ofLady Annabel, which, however sweet might be the voice in which theywere uttered, scarcely encouraged their propriety to be canvassed. NowVenetia was far from desirous of being separated from her mother thismorning. It was not a vain and idle curiosity, prompted by the receiptof the letter and its consequent effects, both in the emotion of hermother and the visit which it had rendered necessary, that swayed herbreast. The native dignity of a well-disciplined mind exempted Venetiafrom such feminine weakness. But some consideration might be due tothe quick sympathy of an affectionate spirit that had witnessed, withcorresponding feeling, the disturbance of the being to whom she wasdevoted. Why this occasional and painful mystery that ever and anonclouded the heaven of their love, and flung a frigid shadow over thepath of a sunshiny life? Why was not Venetia to share the sorrow orthe care of her only friend, as well as participate in her joy and hercontent? There were other claims, too, to this confidence, besidesthose of the heart. Lady Annabel was not merely her only friend; shewas her parent, her only parent, almost, for aught she had ever heardor learnt, her only relative. For her mother's family, though she wasaware of their existence by the freedom with which Lady Annabel evermentioned them, and though Venetia was conscious that an occasionalcorrespondence was maintained between them and Cherbury, occupied nostation in Venetia's heart, scarcely in her memory. That noble familywere nullities to her; far distant, apparently estranged from herhearth, except in form she had never seen them; they were associatedin her recollection with none of the sweet ties of kindred. Hergrandfather was dead without her ever having received his blessing;his successor, her uncle, was an ambassador, long absent from hiscountry; her only aunt married to a soldier, and established at aforeign station. Venetia envied Dr. Masham the confidence which wasextended to him; it seemed to her, even leaving out of sight theintimate feelings that subsisted between her and her mother, that theclaims of blood to this confidence were at least as strong as those offriendship. But Venetia stifled these emotions; she parted from hermother with a kind, yet somewhat mournful expression. Lady Annabelmight have read a slight sentiment of affectionate reproach in thedemeanour of her daughter when she bade her farewell. Whatever mightbe the consciousness of the mother, she was successful in concealingher impression. Very kind, but calm and inscrutable, Lady Annabel, having given directions for postponing the dinner-hour, embraced herchild and entered the chariot. 

Venetia, from the terrace, watched her mother's progress through thepark. After gazing for some minutes, a tear stole down her cheek. Shestarted, as if surprised at her own emotion. And now the carriagewas out of sight, and Venetia would have recurred to some of thoseresources which were ever at hand for the employment or amusement ofher secluded life. But the favourite volume ceased to interest thismorning, and almost fell from her hand. She tried her spinet, but herear seemed to have lost its music; she looked at her easel, but thecunning had fled from her touch. 

Restless and disquieted, she knew not why, Venetia went forth againinto the garden. All nature smiled around her; the flitting birds werethrowing their soft shadows over the sunny lawns, and rustling amidthe blossoms of the variegated groves. The golden wreaths of thelaburnum and the silver knots of the chestnut streamed and glitteredaround; the bees were as busy as the birds, and the whole scene wassuffused and penetrated with brilliancy and odour. It still wasspring, and yet the gorgeous approach of summer, like the advancingprocession of some triumphant king, might almost be detected amid thelingering freshness of the year; a lively and yet magnificent period, blending, as it were, Attic grace with Roman splendour; a time whenhope and fruition for once meet, when existence is most full ofdelight, alike delicate and voluptuous, and when the human frame ismost sensible to the gaiety and grandeur of nature. 

And why was not the spirit of the beautiful and innocent Venetia asbright as the surrounding scene? There are moods of mind that baffleanalysis, that arise from a mysterious sympathy we cannot penetrate. At this moment the idea of her father irresistibly recurred to theimagination of Venetia. She could not withstand the conviction thatthe receipt of the mysterious letter and her mother's agitation wereby some inexplicable connexion linked with that forbidden subject. Strange incidents of her life flitted across her memory: her motherweeping on the day they visited Marringhurst; the mysterious chambers;the nocturnal visit of Lady Annabel that Cadurcis had witnessed; herunexpected absence from her apartment when Venetia, in her despair, had visited her some months ago. What was the secret that envelopedher existence? Alone, which was unusual; dispirited, she knew notwhy; and brooding over thoughts which haunted her like evil spirits, Venetia at length yielded to a degree of nervous excitement whichamazed her. She looked up to the uninhabited wing of the mansion withan almost fierce desire to penetrate its mysteries. It seemed to herthat a strange voice came whispering on the breeze, urging her to thefulfilment of a mystical mission. With a vague, yet wild, purpose sheentered the house, and took her way to her mother's chamber. MistressPauncefort was there. Venetia endeavoured to assume her accustomedserenity. The waiting-woman bustled about, arranging the toilet-table, which had been for a moment discomposed, putting away a cap, foldingup a shawl, and indulging in a multitude of inane observations whichlittle harmonised with the high-strung tension of Venetia's mind. Mistress Pauncefort opened a casket with a spring lock, in which sheplaced 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 greatlyagitated her, for Venetia turned pale, and in a moment left thechamber and retired to her own room. 

She locked her door, threw herself in a chair; almost gasping forbreath, she covered her face with her hands. It was some minutesbefore she recovered comparative composure; she rose and looked inthe mirror; her face was quite white, but her eyes glittering withexcitement. She walked up and down her room with a troubled step, anda scarlet flush alternately returned to and retired from her changingcheek. Then she leaned against a cabinet in thought. She was disturbedfrom her musings by the sound of Pauncefort's step along thevestibule, as she quitted her mother's chamber. In a few minutesVenetia herself stepped forth into the vestibule and listened. All wassilent. The golden morning had summoned the whole household to itsenjoyment. Not a voice, not a domestic sound, broke the completestillness. Venetia again repaired to the apartment of Lady Annabel. Her step was light, but agitated; it seemed that she scarcely daredto breathe. She opened the door, rushed to the cabinet, pressed thespring lock, caught at something that it contained, and hurried againto her own chamber. 

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

On that tempestuous night of passionate sorrow which succeeded thefirst misunderstanding between Venetia and her mother, when the voiceof Lady Annabel had suddenly blended with that of her kneelingchild, and had ratified with her devotional concurrence her wailingsupplications; even at the moment when Venetia, in a rapture of loveand duty, felt herself pressed to her mother's reconciled heart, ithad not escaped her that Lady Annabel held in her hand a key; andthough the feelings which that night had so forcibly developed, andwhich the subsequent conduct of Lady Annabel had so carefully andskilfully cherished, had impelled Venetia to banish and erase from herthought and memory all the associations which that spectacle, howeverslight, was calculated to awaken, still, in her present mood, theunexpected vision of the same instrument, identical she could notdoubt, had triumphed in an instant over all the long discipline ofher mind and conduct, in an instant had baffled and dispersed herself-control, and been hailed as the providential means by which shemight at length penetrate that mystery which she now felt no longersupportable. 

The clock of the belfry of Cherbury at this moment struck, and Venetiainstantly sprang from her seat. It reminded her of the preciousnessof the present morning. Her mother was indeed absent, but her motherwould return. Before that event a great fulfilment was to occur. Venetia, still grasping the key, as if it were the talisman of herexistence, looked up to Heaven as if she required for her allottedtask an immediate and special protection; her lips seemed to move, andthen she again quitted her apartment. As she passed through an orielin her way towards the gallery, she observed Pauncefort in the avenueof the park, moving in the direction of the keeper's lodge. Thisemboldened her. With a hurried step she advanced along the gallery, and at length stood before the long-sealed door that had so oftenexcited her strange curiosity. Once she looked around; but no one wasnear, not a sound was heard. With a faltering hand she touched thelock; but her powers deserted her: for a minute she believed that thekey, after all, would not solve the mystery. And yet the difficultyarose only from her own agitation. She rallied her courage; once moreshe made the trial; the key fitted with completeness, and thelock opened with ease, and Venetia found herself in a small andscantily-furnished ante-chamber. Closing the door with noiseless care, Venetia stood trembling in the mysterious chamber, where apparentlythere was nothing to excite wonder. The chamber into which theante-room opened was still closed, and it was some minutes before theadventurous daughter of Lady Annabel could summon courage for theenterprise which awaited her. 

The door yielded without an effort. Venetia stepped into a spaciousand lofty chamber. For a moment she paused almost upon the threshold, and looked around her with a vague and misty vision. Anon shedistinguished something of the character of the apartment. In therecess of a large oriel window that looked upon the park, and of whichthe blinds were nearly drawn, was an old-fashioned yet sumptuoustoilet-table of considerable size, arranged as if for use. Oppositethis window, in a corresponding recess, was what might be deemed abridal bed, its furniture being of white satin richly embroidered; thecurtains half closed; and suspended from the canopy was a wreath ofroses that had once emulated, or rather excelled, the lustrous purityof the hangings, but now were wan and withered. The centre of theinlaid and polished floor of the apartment was covered with a Tournaycarpet of brilliant yet tasteful decoration. An old cabinet offanciful workmanship, some chairs of ebony, and some girandoles ofsilver completed the furniture of the room, save that at its extremeend, exactly opposite to the door by which Venetia entered, coveredwith a curtain of green velvet, was what she concluded must be apicture. 

An awful stillness pervaded the apartment: Venetia herself, witha face paler even than the hangings of the mysterious bed, stoodmotionless with suppressed breath, gazing on the distant curtain witha painful glance of agitated fascination. At length, summoning herenergies as if for the achievement of some terrible yet inevitableenterprise, she crossed the room, and averting her face, and closingher eyes in a paroxysm of nervous excitement, she stretched forth herarm, and with a rapid motion withdrew the curtain. The harsh sound ofthe brass rings drawn quickly over the rod, the only noise that hadyet 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-lengthportrait of a man. 

A man in the very spring of sunny youth, and of radiant beauty. Abovethe middle height, yet with a form that displayed exquisite grace, hewas 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 inthe distance; while a groom at hand held a noble steed, that seemedimpatient for the chase. The countenance of its intended rider metfully the gaze of the spectator. It was a countenance of singularloveliness and power. The lips and the moulding of the chin resembledthe eager and impassioned tenderness of the shape of Antinous; butinstead of the effeminate sullenness of the eye, and the narrowsmoothness of the forehead, shone an expression of profound andpiercing thought. On each side of the clear and open brow descended, even to the shoulders, the clustering locks of golden hair; while theeyes, large and yet deep, beamed with a spiritual energy, and shonelike two wells of crystalline water that reflect the all-beholdingheavens. 

Now when Venetia Herbert beheld this countenance a change came overher. It seemed that when her eyes met the eyes of the portrait, somemutual interchange of sympathy occurred between them. She freedherself in an instant from the apprehension and timidity that beforeoppressed her. Whatever might ensue, a vague conviction of havingachieved a great object pervaded, as it were, her being. Some greatend, vast though indefinite, had been fulfilled. Abstract andfearless, she gazed upon the dazzling visage with a prophetic heart. Her soul was in a tumult, oppressed with thick-coming fancies too bigfor words, panting for expression. There was a word which must bespoken: it trembled on her convulsive lip, and would not sound. Shelooked around her with an eye glittering with unnatural fire, as if tosupplicate some invisible and hovering spirit to her rescue, or thatsome floating and angelic chorus might warble the thrilling word whoseexpression seemed absolutely necessary to her existence. Her cheekis flushed, her eye wild and tremulous, the broad blue veins of herimmaculate brow quivering and distended; her waving hair falls backover her forehead, and rustles like a wood before the storm. She seemsa priestess in the convulsive throes of inspiration, and about tobreathe the oracle. The picture, as we have mentioned, was hung ina broad and massy frame. In the centre of its base was worked anescutcheon, and beneath the shield this inscription:

 MARMION HERBERT, AET. XX. 

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

CHAPTER V. 

The daughter still kneels before the form of the father, of whom shehad heard for the first time in her life. He is at length discovered. It was, then, an irresistible destiny that, after the wild musings andbaffled aspirations of so many years, had guided her to this chamber. She is the child of Marmion Herbert; she beholds her lost parent. Thatbeing of supernatural beauty, on whom she gazes with a look of blendedreverence and love, is her father. What a revelation! Its realityexceeded the wildest dreams of her romance; her brightest visions ofgrace and loveliness and genius seemed personified in this form; theform of one to whom she was bound by the strongest of all earthlyties, of one on whose heart she had a claim second only to that of thebeing by whose lips his name was never mentioned. Was he, then, nomore? Ah! could she doubt that bitterest calamity? Ah! was it, wasit any longer a marvel, that one who had lived in the light of thoseseraphic eyes, and had watched them until their terrestrial splendourhad been for ever extinguished, should shrink from the converse thatcould remind her of the catastrophe of all her earthly hopes! Thischamber, then, was the temple of her mother's woe, the tomb of herbaffled affections and bleeding heart. No wonder that Lady Annabel, the desolate Lady Annabel, that almost the same spring must havewitnessed the most favoured and the most disconsolate of women, shouldhave fled from the world that had awarded her at the same time a lotso dazzling and so full of despair. Venetia felt that the existenceof her mother's child, her own fragile being, could have been thatmother's sole link to life. The heart of the young widow of MarmionHerbert must have broken but for Venetia; and the consciousness ofthat remaining tie, and the duties that it involved, could alone havesustained the victim under a lot of such unparalleled bitterness. Thetears 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 cautiousher child should never share; the vigilant affection that, with allher own hopes blighted, had still laboured to compensate to herchild for a deprivation the fulness of which Venetia could only nowcomprehend. 

When, where, why did he die? Oh that she might talk of him to hermother for ever! It seemed that life might pass away in listening tohis praises. Marmion Herbert! and who was Marmion Herbert? Young as hewas, command and genius, the pride of noble passions, all the glory ofa creative mind, seemed stamped upon his brow. With all his marvellousbeauty, he seemed a being born for greatness. Dead! in the very burstof 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 couldnot die without leaving mankind a prodigal legacy of fame. 

Venetia turned and looked upon her parents' bridal bed. Now thatshe had discovered her father's portrait, every article in the roominterested her, for her imagination connected everything with him. Shetouched the wreath of withered roses, and one instantly broke awayfrom the circle, and fell; she knelt down, and gathered up thescattered leaves, and placed them in her bosom. She approached thetable in the oriel: in its centre was a volume, on which reposed adagger of curious workmanship; the volume bound in velvet, and theword 'ANNABEL' embroidered upon it in gold. Venetia unclasped it. Thevolume 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 thecontents of this volume. Leaning on her right hand, which shaded heragitated brow, she turned a page of the volume with a trembling hand. It contained a sonnet, delineating the feelings of a lover at thefirst sight of his beloved, a being to him yet unknown. Venetiaperused with breathless interest the graceful and passionate pictureof her mother's beauty. A series of similar compositions detailed thehistory of the poet's heart, and all the thrilling adventures of hisenchanted life. Not an incident, not a word, not a glance, in thatspell-bound prime of existence, that was not commemorated by his lyrein 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 wasfirst assured of his felicity; the next page celebrated her visit tothe castle of his fathers; and another led her to the altar. 

With a flushed cheek and an excited eye, Venetia had rapidly poredover 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 convulsiveenergy; she sinks back in her chair. In a few moments she extends onehand, as if fearful again to touch the book that had excited so muchemotion, raises herself in her seat, looks around her with a vacantand perplexed gaze, apparently succeeds in collecting herself, andthen seizes, with an eager grasp, the volume, and throwing herself onher, knees before the chair, her long locks hanging on each side overa cheek crimson as the sunset, loses her whole soul in the lines whichthe 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 sheconned the only address from the lips of her father that had everreached her ear. A strange inspiration seconded the exertion of anexercised memory. The duty was fulfilled, the task completed. Thena sound was heard without. The thought that her mother had returnedoccurred to her; she looked up, the big tears streaming down her face;she listened, like a young hind just roused by the still-distanthuntsman, 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, hesitatedone moment in the ante-chamber; opened, as all was silent, the nolonger mysterious door, turned the noiseless lock, tripped lightlyalong 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 aparoxysm of contending emotions, that left her no power of ponderingover the strange discovery that had already given a new colour to herexistence. 

CHAPTER VI. 

Her mother had not returned; it was a false alarm; but Venetia couldnot quit her bed. There she remained, repeating to herself herfather's verses. Then one thought alone filled her being. Was he dead?Was this fond father, who had breathed this fervent blessing over herbirth, and invoked on his own head all the woe and misfortunes of herdestiny, was he, indeed, no more? How swiftly must the arrow have spedafter 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 hehad offered his prayer, summoned him to his presence! Of that fathershe had not the slightest recollection; she had ascertained that shehad reached Cherbury a child, even in arms, and she knew that herfather had never lived under the roof. What an awful bereavement! Wasit wonderful that her mother was inconsolable? Was it wonderful thatshe could not endure even his name to be mentioned in her presence;that not the slightest allusion to his existence could be tolerated bya wife who had been united to such a peerless being, only to beholdhim torn away from her embraces? Oh! could he, indeed, be dead? Thatinspired countenance that seemed immortal, had it in a moment beendimmed? and all the symmetry of that matchless form, had it indeedbeen 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 ofher excited mind, came there an unearthly whisper to her ear, mockingher with the belief that he still lived? But he was dead; he must bedead; and why did she live? Could she survive what she had seen andlearnt this day? Did she wish to survive it? But her mother, hermother with all her sealed-up sorrows, had survived him. Why? For hersake; for her child; for 'his own Venetia!' His own!

She clenched her feverish hand, her temples beat with violentpalpitations, her brow was burning hot. Time flew on, and every minuteVenetia was more sensible of the impossibility of rising to welcomeher mother. That mother at length returned; Venetia could not againmistake the wheels of the returning carriage. Some minutes passed, andthere was a knock at her door. With a choking voice Venetia bade thementer. It was Pauncefort. 

'Well, Miss, ' she exclaimed, 'if you ayn't here, after all! I told mylady, "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 matterwith you? I am afraid you have walked too much; overdone it, I daresay; or, mayhap, you have caught cold; it is an easterly wind: for Iwas saying to John this morning, "John, " says I, "if Miss Venetia willwalk about with only a handkerchief tied round her head, why, what canbe expected?"'

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

Pauncefort left the room accordingly, and straightway proceeded toLady Annabel, when she communicated the information that Miss Venetiawas 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. LadyAnnabel, of course, did not lose a moment in visiting her darling. Sheentered the room softly, so softly that she was not heard; Venetia waslying on her bed, with her back to the door. Lady Annabel stood by herbedside for some moments unnoticed. At length Venetia heaved adeep 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 ishot; you are feverish. How long has my Venetia felt ill?'

Venetia could not answer; she did nothing but sigh. Her strange mannerexcited her mother's wonder. Lady Annabel sat by the bedside, stillholding her daughter's hand in hers, watching her with a glance ofgreat anxiety. 

'Answer me, my love, ' she repeated in a voice of tenderness. 'What doyou 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 withoutpermitting her to enter the room. 

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

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

Once, by way of experiment, Lady Annabel again addressed her, butVenetia gave no answer. Then the mother concluded what, indeed, hadbefore attracted her suspicion, that Venetia's head was affected. Butthen, what was this strange, this sudden attack, which appeared tohave prostrated her daughter's faculties in an instant? A few hoursback, and Lady Annabel had parted from Venetia in all the glow ofhealth and beauty. The season was most genial; her exercise haddoubtless been moderate; as for her general health, so complete washer constitution, and so calm the tenour of her life, that Venetiahad scarcely experienced in her whole career a single hour ofindisposition. It was an anxious period of suspense until the medicalattendant arrived from Southport. Fortunately he was one in whom, fromreputation, Lady Annabel was disposed to place great trust; and hismatured years, his thoughtful manner, and acute inquiries, confirmedher favourable opinion of him. All that Mr. Hawkins could say, however, was, that Miss Herbert had a great deal of fever, but thecause was concealed, and the suddenness of the attack perplexed him. He administered one of the usual remedies; and after an hour hadelapsed, and no favourable change occurring, he blooded her. Hequitted 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 Annabelnever quitted it. She sat reading, removed from her daughter, that herpresence 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 grewvery pale. Quite breathless, she listened, and again Venetia spoke, and again called upon her father. Now, with a great effort, LadyAnnabel stole on tiptoe to the bedside of her daughter. Venetia waslying on her back, her eyes were closed, her lips still as it werequivering with the strange word they had dared to pronounce. Againher voice sounded; she chanted, in an unearthly voice, verses. Theperspiration stood in large drops on the pallid forehead of the motheras she listened. Still Venetia proceeded; and Lady Annabel, throwingherself on her knees, held up her hands to Heaven in an agony ofastonishment, terror, and devotion. 

Now there was again silence; but her mother remained apparently buriedin prayer. Again Venetia spoke; again she repeated the mysteriousstanzas. With convulsive agony her mother listened to every fatal linethat she unconsciously pronounced. 

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

At this moment the surgeon returned. It was absolutely necessary thatLady Annabel should compose herself. She exerted all that strength ofcharacter for which she was remarkable. From this moment she resolved, if her life were the forfeit, not to quit for an instant the bedsideof Venetia until she was declared out of danger; and feeling consciousthat if she once indulged her own feelings, she might herself soonbe in a situation scarcely less hazardous than her daughter's, shecontrolled herself with a mighty effort. Calm as a statue, shereceived the medical attendant, who took the hand of the unconsciousVenetia with apprehension too visibly impressed upon his gravecountenance. As he took her hand, Venetia opened her eyes, stared ather 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 feverishtrance that brings her no refreshment. ' He took out his watch, andmarked her pulse with great attention; then he placed his hand on herbrow, and shook his head. 'These beautiful curls must come off, ' hesaid. Lady Annabel glided to the table, and instantly brought thescissors, as if the delay of an instant might be fatal. The surgeoncut 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 leantupon 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, LadyAnnabel?' 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 shereplied, in a low but firm voice, 'Yes. '

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

'My daughter has suddenly become acquainted, sir, with some familyincidents of a painful nature, and the knowledge of which I havehitherto spared her. They are events long past, and their consequencesare 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 cannotanswer for her life. '

'O God!' exclaimed Lady Annabel. 

'Yet you must compose yourself, my dear lady. Her chance of recoverygreatly depends upon the vigilance of her attendants. I shall bleedher again, and place leeches on her temples. There is inflammation onthe brain. There are other remedies also not less powerful. We mustnot despair; we have no cause to despair until we find these fail. Ishall 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 herbed, for hitherto they had refrained from this exertion. At thismoment 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 didnot avail herself. The whole night she sat by her daughter's side, watching every movement of Venetia, refreshing her hot brow andparched lips, or arranging, at every opportunity, her disorderedpillows. About an hour past midnight the surgeon retired to rest, fora few hours, in the apartment prepared for him, and Pauncefort, by thedesire of her mistress, also withdrew: Lady Annabel was alone with herchild, and with those agitated thoughts which the strange occurrencesof the day were well calculated to excite. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Early in the morning the physician arrived at Cherbury. It remainedfor him only to approve of the remedies which had been pursued. Nomaterial change, however, had occurred in the state of Venetia: shehad not slept, and still she seemed unconscious of what was occurring. The gracious interposition of Nature seemed the only hope. When themedical men had withdrawn to consult in the terrace-room, Lady Annabelbeckoned to Pauncefort, and led her to the window of Venetia'sapartment, which she would not quit. 

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

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

'But, my lady, ' said Pauncefort, 'how could it be? For I scarcely leftyour la'ship's room a second, and Miss Venetia, I am sure, never wasnear it. And the key, my lady, the key is in the casket. I saw it halfan 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 tocommence at Cherbury. '

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

'I fear more than I know, ' said Lady Annabel; 'but I do fear much. Atpresent 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 fifteenyears; and the many questions I have been asked too! I am sure thereis not a servant in the house--'

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

On the fourth day of her attack the medical attendants observed afavourable change in their patient, and were not, of course, slow incommunicating this joyful intelligence to her mother. The crisis hadoccurred and was past: Venetia had at length sunk into slumber. Howdifferent was her countenance from the still yet settled featuresthey had before watched with such anxiety! She breathed lightly, thetension of the eyelids had disappeared, her mouth was slightly open. The physician and his colleague declared that immediate danger waspast, and they counselled Lady Annabel to take repose. On conditionthat one of them should remain by the side of her daughter, thedevoted yet miserable mother quitted, for the first time her child'sapartment. Pauncefort followed her to her room. 

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

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

And Lady Annabel proceeded alone to the forbidden chamber, thatchamber which, after what has occurred, we may now enter with her, andwhere, with so much labour, she had created a room exactly imitativeof their bridal apartment at her husband's castle. With a slow butresolved step she entered the apartment, and proceeding immediately tothe table, took up the book; it opened at the stanzas to Venetia. Thepages had recently been bedewed with tears. Lady Annabel then lookedat the bridal bed, and marked the missing rose in the garland: it wasas she expected. She seated herself then in the chair opposite theportrait, 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, theinevitable past. The daughter of our love has found her way, perhapsby an irresistible destiny, to a spot sacred to my long-concealedsorrows. At length she knows her father. May she never know more! Mayshe never learn that the being, whose pictured form has commanded heradoration, is unworthy of those glorious gifts that a gracious Creatorhas bestowed upon him! Marmion, you seem to smile upon me; you seemto exult in your triumph over the heart of your child. But there is apower in a mother's love that yet shall baffle you. Hitherto I havecome here to deplore the past; hitherto I have come here to dwellupon 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 onlyconsolation you have left me. But Venetia shall still be mine; andI, I am no longer yours. Our love, our still lingering love, hasvanished. You have been my enemy, now I am yours. I gaze upon yourportrait for the last time; and thus I prevent the magical fascinationof that face again appealing to the sympathies of my child. Thus andthus!' She seized the ancient dagger that we have mentioned as lyingon the volume, and, springing on the chair, she plunged it into thecanvas; then, tearing with unflinching resolution the severed parts, she scattered the fragments over the chamber, shook into a thousandleaves the melancholy garland, tore up the volume of his enamouredMuse, and then quitting the chamber, and locking and double lockingthe door, she descended the staircase, and proceeding to the greatwell of Cherbury, hurled into it the fatal key. 

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

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

CHAPTER VIII. 

As Lady Annabel entered the terrace-room, Doctor Masham came forwardand 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 asher 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 tornmy daughter from me. '

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

'He, he, ' muttered Lady Annabel; her speech was incoherent, her mannervery 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. 'ShallI 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 standingby her side. 

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

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

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

'My dear lady, you require rest, ' said Doctor Masham. 'You areovercome 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: shewill fly to him; sooner let us both die!'

'Dear lady!'

'She knows everything. Fate has baffled me; we cannot struggle withfate. 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. 'Venetialoves 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 wasmusic. 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 knowme; 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 sheentered his chamber. '

'Ah!'

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

'We will do that which is well and wise, ' replied Doctor Masham: 'atpresent 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 nothave her wake and find her mother not watching over her. But I wastempted. She slept; I left her for a moment; I went to destroy thespell. She cannot see him again. No one shall see him again. It was myweakness, the weakness of long years; and now I am its victim. '

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

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

'And I know the contrary, ' said the Doctor, attempting to reassureher; 'I will answer for Venetia's devotion to you. Indeed she has nothought but your happiness, and can love only you. When there isa fitting time, I will speak to her; but now, now is the time forrepose. 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 notdead; and, if he were dead, she would die also. She never mentionedme. '

'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, myhope, 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 nevercould be taught to hate him. I did not teach her to hate him. I saidnothing. I deemed, fond, foolish mother, that the devotion of my lifemight bind her to me. But what is a mother's love? I cannot contendwith him. He gained the mother; he will gain the daughter too. '

'God will guard over you, ' said Masham, with streaming eyes; 'God willnot desert a pious and virtuous woman. '

'I must go, ' said Lady Annabel, attempting to rise, but the Doctorgently controlled her; 'perhaps she is awake, and I am not at herside. She will not ask for me, she will ask for him; but I will bethere; 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 pureheart. She has been a child of unbroken love and duty; still shewill remain so. Her mind is for a moment overpowered by a marvellousdiscovery. She will recover, and be to you as she was before. '

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

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

'Let us pray to God! Let us humble ourselves, ' said Lady Annabel. 'Letus 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 tofavour 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, howfoolish, how mad I have been! I have alone been the cause of all thismisery. 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 myarm. All depends upon you. We have great cares now; let us not conjureup 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 issomething in this life to have a friend. '

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

'Rest here a moment, ' she said, as she entered the room without asound. 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! Iwill not leave you. I will remain under this roof. I have shared itsserenity and joy; let me not avoid it in this time of trouble andtribulation. '

CHAPTER IX. 

Venetia still slept: her mother alone in the chamber watched by herside. Some hours had elapsed since her interview with Dr. Masham; themedical 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 affordedher 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 wasnot right; somebody, I thought, struck me on my head. But all is rightnow, 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 lightbandage on her brow. 

'My darling, you have been ill, and you have lost blood; but now youare getting quite well. I have been very unhappy about you; but now Iam 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 afever, Venetia; but now the fever is gone; and you are only a littleweak, 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 holdyour hand. I thought in the fever that we were parted. '

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

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

'You repay me by your love, Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel, feeling thather daughter ought not to speak, yet irresistibly impelled to lead outher 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 arelike dreams; they are not true. '

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

When Mr. Hawkins returned, he gave a favourable report of Venetia. Hesaid that all danger was now past, and that all that was required forher recovery were time, care, and repose. He repeated to Lady Annabelalone that the attack was solely to be ascribed to some great mentalshock which her daughter had received, and which suddenly had affectedher circulation; leaving it, after this formal intimation, entirely tothe mother to take those steps in reference to the cause, whatever itmight 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 herchild, and, what was still more precious, of her heart, and evenvoluntarily promising her friend that she should herself sleepthis night in her daughter's chamber, on the sofa-bed. The Doctor, therefore, now bade her adieu, and said that he should ride over fromMarringhurst every day, to hear how their patient was proceeding. 

From this time, the recovery of Venetia, though slow, was gradual. Sheexperienced no relapse, and in a few weeks quitted her bed. She wasrather surprised at her altered appearance when it first met herglance in the mirror, but scarcely made any observation on the loss ofher locks. During this interval, the mind of Venetia had been quitedormant; the rage of the fever, and the violent remedies to which ithad been necessary to have recourse, had so exhausted her, that shehad not energy enough to think. All that she felt was a strangeindefinite conviction that some occurrence had taken place with whichher memory could not grapple. But as her strength returned, and as shegradually resumed her usual health, by proportionate though almostinvisible degrees her memory returned to her, and her intelligence. She clearly recollected and comprehended what had taken place. Sherecalled the past, compared incidents, weighed circumstances, siftedand balanced the impressions that now crowded upon her consciousness. It is difficult to describe each link in the metaphysical chain whichat length connected the mind of Venetia Herbert with her actualexperience and precise situation. It was, however, at length perfect, and gradually formed as she sat in an invalid chair, apparentlylistless, not yet venturing on any occupation, or occasionally amusedfor a moment by her mother reading to her. But when her mind had thusresumed its natural tone, and in time its accustomed vigour, the pastdemanded all her solicitude. At length the mystery of her birth wasrevealed to her. She was the daughter of Marmion Herbert; and who wasMarmion Herbert? The portrait rose before her. How distinct was theform, how definite the countenance! No common personage was MarmionHerbert, even had he not won his wife, and celebrated his daughter insuch witching strains. Genius was stamped on his lofty brow, and spokein his brilliant eye; nobility was in all his form. This chivalricpoet was her father. She had read, she had dreamed of such beings, shehad never seen them. If she quitted the solitude in which she lived, would she see men like her father? No other could ever satisfy herimagination; all beneath that standard would rank but as imperfectcreations in her fancy. And this father, he was dead. No doubt. Ah! was there indeed no doubt? Eager as was her curiosity on thisall-absorbing subject, Venetia could never summon courage to speakupon it to her mother. Her first disobedience, or rather her firstdeception of her mother, in reference to this very subject, hadbrought, and brought so swiftly on its retributive wings, suchdisastrous consequences, that any allusion to Lady Annabel wasrestrained by a species of superstitious fear, against which Venetiacould not contend. Then her father was either dead or living. That wascertain. If dead, it was clear that his memory, however cherished byhis relict, was associated with feelings too keen to admit of anyother but solitary indulgence. If living, there was a mysteryconnected with her parents, a mystery evidently of a painfulcharacter, and one which it was a prime object with her mother toconceal and to suppress. Could Venetia, then, in defiance of thatmother, that fond devoted mother, that mother who had watched throughlong days and long nights over her sick bed, and who now, without amurmur, was a prisoner to this very room, only to comfort and consoleher child: could Venetia take any step which might occasion thismatchless parent even a transient pang? No; it was impossible. To hermother she could never speak. And yet, to remain enveloped in thepresent mystery, she was sensible, was equally insufferable. All sheasked, 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, shecould exist upon his idea; she could conjure up romances of futureexistence with him; she could live upon the fond hope of some daycalling him father, and receiving from his hands the fervid blessinghe 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! LadyAnnabel seemed only to exist to attend upon her daughter. No loverever watched with such devotion the wants or even the caprices of hismistress. A thousand times every day Venetia found herself expressingher fondness and her gratitude. It seemed that the late dreadfulcontingency of losing her daughter had developed in Lady Annabel'sheart even additional powers of maternal devotion; and Venetia, thefond and grateful Venetia, ignorant of the strange past, which shebelieved she so perfectly comprehended, returned thanks to Heaven thather mother was at least spared the mortification of knowing that herdaughter, in her absence, had surreptitiously invaded the sanctuary ofher 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 persuadedhis friends, as a slight and not unpleasant change of scene, to payhim a visit at Marringhurst. Since the chamber scene, indeed, LadyAnnabel's tie to Cherbury was much weakened. There were certainfeelings of pain, and fear, and mortification, now associated withthat place which she could not bear to dwell upon, and which greatlybalanced 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 partof her mother, and so she readily agreed to fall into the arrangement. 

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

The surrounding country, which, though verdant, was flat, was welladapted to the limited exertions and still feeble footsteps of aninvalid, and Venetia began to study botany with the Doctor, who indeedwas not very profound in his attainments in this respect, but knewquite enough to amuse his scholar. By degrees also, as her strengthdaily increased, they extended their walks; and at length she evenmounted her pony, and was fast recovering her elasticity both of bodyand mind. There were also many pleasant books with which she wasunacquainted; a cabinet of classic coins, prints, and pictures. Shebecame, too, interested in the Doctor's rural pursuits; would watchhim with his angle, and already meditated a revolution in his garden. So time, on the whole, flew cheerfully on, certainly withoutany weariness; and the day seldom passed that they did not allcongratulate themselves on the pleasant and profitable change. 

In the meantime Venetia, when alone, still recurred to that idea thatwas now so firmly rooted in her mind, that it was quite out of thepower of any social discipline to divert her attention from it. Shewas often the sole companion of the Doctor, and she had long resolvedto seize a favourable opportunity to appeal to him on the subject ofher father. It so happened that she was walking alone with him onemorning in the neighbourhood of Marringhurst, having gone to visit theremains of a Roman encampment in the immediate vicinity. When they hadarrived at the spot, and the Doctor had delivered his usual lecture onthe locality, they sat down together on a mound, that Venetia mightrest 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 atOxford, but circumstances interfered which changed his plans, and so Iremain 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, quitedelighted to change the subject. 'Whether we consider its antiquity, its learning, the influence it has exercised upon the history of thecountry, its magnificent endowments, its splendid buildings, its greatcolleges, libraries, and museums, or that it is one of the principalhead-quarters of all the hope of England, our youth, it is not toomuch to affirm that there is scarcely a spot on the face of the globeof equal interest and importance. '

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

'Still harping of her father, ' thought the Doctor to himself, andgrowing uneasy; yet, from his very anxiety to turn the subject, quiteincapable 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 havebeen 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 youremember that there are between two and three thousand young men atthe university, you must not consider it very surprising that I mightnot recollect your father. '

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

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

'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 anyone to converse with your poor mother upon it. It is not in my powerto give you the information you desire. Be satisfied, my dear MissHerbert, that a gracious Providence has spared to you one parent, andone so inestimable. '

'I trust I know how to appreciate so great a blessing, ' repliedVenetia; 'but I should be sorry if the natural interest which allchildren must take in those who have given them birth, should belooked 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 variousreasons be insupportable to my mother; it is enough for me that I amconvinced such is the case: my lips are sealed to her for ever uponthe subject; but I cannot recognise the necessity of this constraintto others. For a long time I was kept in ignorance whether I hada father or not. I have discovered, no matter how, who he was. Ibelieve, pardon me, my dearest friend, I cannot help believing, thatyou were acquainted, or, at least, that you know something of him; andI entreat you! yes, ' repeated Venetia with great emphasis, layingher hand upon his arm, and looking with earnestness in his face, 'Ientreat you, by all your kind feelings to my mother and myself, by allthat friendship we so prize, by the urgent solicitation of a daughterwho 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 bewithheld 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 isbetter that we should both be silent. '

'No, indeed, ' replied Venetia, 'it is not better; it is not well thatwe should be silent. Candour is a great virtue. There is a charm, ahealthy charm, in frankness. Why this mystery? Why these secrets? Havethey worked good? Have they benefited us? O! my friend, I would notsay so to my mother, I would not be tempted by any sufferings to painfor an instant her pure and affectionate heart; but indeed, DoctorMasham, indeed, indeed, what I tell you is true, all my late illness, my present state, all, all are attributable but to one cause, thismystery 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 Ipromise 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 hasfainted. What can I do?' The unfortunate Doctor placed Venetia in areclining posture, and hurried to a brook that was nigh, and broughtwater in his hand to sprinkle on her. She revived; she made a struggleto restore herself. 

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

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

'Yes! yes!'

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

'No, now, now!' eagerly exclaimed Venetia, 'I am quite well. It wasnot pain or illness that overcame me. Now let us walk, now let us talkof 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 yourfather is unworthy of your mother, utterly; they are separated; theynever can be reunited. '

'Never?' said Venetia. 

'Never, ' replied Dr. Masham; 'and I now warn you; if, indeed, as Icannot doubt, you love your mother; if her peace of mind and happinessare, as I hesitate not to believe, the principal objects of your life, upon this subject with her be for ever silent. Seek to penetrate nomysteries, spare all allusions, banish, if possible, the idea of yourfather from your memory. Enough, you know he lives. We know no more. Your mother labours to forget him; her only consolation for sorrowssuch as few women ever experienced, is her child, yourself, your love. Now be no niggard with it. Cling to this unrivalled parent, who hasdedicated her life to you. Soothe her sufferings, endeavour to makeher share your happiness; but, of this be certain, that if youraise up the name and memory of your father between your mother andyourself, 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, andmore than it is in my power to grant. But I am my mother's child. Iwill exist only for her; and if my love can console her, she shallnever be without solace. I thank you, Doctor, for all your kindness. We will never talk again upon the subject; yet, believe me, you haveacted wisely, you have done good. '

CHAPTER XI. 

Venetia observed her promise to Doctor Masham with strictness. Shenever alluded to her father, and his name never escaped her mother'slips. Whether Doctor Masham apprised Lady Annabel of the conversationthat had taken place between himself and her daughter, it is not inour 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 hadoccurred, to enjoy the constant society of their friend; and thischange of life, though apparently so slight, proved highly beneficialto Venetia. She daily recovered her health, and a degree of mentalcomposure which she had not for some time enjoyed. On the whole shewas greatly satisfied with the discoveries which she had made. She hadascertained the name and the existence of her father: his very formand appearance were now no longer matter for conjecture; and in adegree she had even communicated with him. Time, she still believed, would develope even further wonders. She clung to an irresistibleconviction that she should yet see him; that he might even againbe united to her mother. She indulged in dreams as to his presentpursuits and position; she repeated to herself his verses, andremembered his genius with pride and consolation. 

They returned to Cherbury, they resumed the accustomed tenour of theirlives, as if nothing had occurred to disturb it. The fondness betweenthe mother and her daughter was unbroken and undiminished. They sharedagain the same studies and the same amusements. Lady Annabel perhapsindulged the conviction that Venetia had imbibed the belief that herfather was no more, and yet in truth that father was the sole idea onwhich her child ever brooded. Venetia had her secret now; and oftenas she looked up at the windows of the uninhabited portion of thebuilding, she remembered with concealed, but not less keen exultation, that she had penetrated their mystery. She could muse for hours overall that chamber had revealed to her, and indulge in a thousandvisions, of which her father was the centre. She was his 'ownVenetia. ' Thus he had hailed her at her birth, and thus he might yetagain acknowledge her. If she could only ascertain where he existed!What if she could, and she were to communicate with him? He must loveher. Her heart assured her he must love her. She could not believe, if they were to meet, that his breast could resist the silent appealwhich 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 soyoung! But a few, few years older than herself, when her mother musthave seen him for the last time. Yes! for the last time beheld thatbeautiful form, and that countenance that seemed breathing only withgenius and love. He might have been imprudent, rash, violent; butshe would not credit for an instant that a stain could attach to thehonour or the spirit of Marmion Herbert. 

The summer wore away. One morning, as Lady Annabel and Venetia weresitting together, Mistress Pauncefort bustled into the room witha countenance radiant with smiles and wonderment. Her ostensiblebusiness was to place upon the table a vase of flowers, but it wasevident that her presence was occasioned by affairs of far greaterurgency. The vase was safely deposited; Mistress Pauncefort gave thelast touch to the arrangement of the flowers; she lingered about LadyAnnabel. At length she said, 'I suppose you have heard the news, mylady?'

'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 allsurprised 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 amcertain sure of that, my lady. My lord's gentleman has been down thesetwo days; and all his dogs and guns too, my lady. And the keeper isordered to be quite ready, my lady, for the first. I wonder if thereis going to be a party. I should not be at all surprised. '

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

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

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

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

'Well, Pauncefort, that will do, ' said Lady Annabel, and thefunctionary 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 hisfathers, nor did the fair inhabitants of Cherbury hear of his returnwithout emotion. Although the intercourse between them during thisinterval had from the first been too slightly maintained, and of lateyears had entirely died off, his return was, nevertheless, an eventwhich recalled old times and revived old associations. His visit tothe hall was looked forward to with interest. He did not long keep hisformer friends in suspense; for although he was not uninfluenced bysome degree of embarrassment from the consciousness of neglect on hisside, rendered more keen now that he again found himself in the sceneendeared by the remembrance of their kindness, he was, nevertheless, both too well bred and too warm-hearted to procrastinate theperformance of a duty which the regulations of society and naturalimpulse alike assured him was indispensable. On the very morning, therefore, after his arrival, having sauntered awhile over the oldabbey and strolled over the park, mused over his mother's tomb withemotion, not the less deep because there was no outward and visiblesign of its influence, he ordered his horses, and directed his waythrough the accustomed woods to Cherbury. 

Five years had not passed away without their effects at least upon theexterior being of Cadurcis. Although still a youth, his appearancewas manly. A thoughtful air had become habitual to a countenancemelancholy even in his childhood. Nor was its early promise of beautyunfulfilled; although its expression was peculiar, and less pleasingthan impressive. His long dark locks shaded a pale and lofty brow thatwell became a cast of features delicately moulded, yet reserved andhaughty, and perhaps even somewhat scornful. His figure had set into aform of remarkable slightness and elegance, and distinguished forits symmetry. Altogether his general mien was calculated to attractattention and to excite interest. 

His vacations while at Eton had been spent by Lord Cadurcis in thefamily of his noble guardian, one of the king's ministers. Here he hadbeen gradually initiated in the habits and manners of luxurious andrefined 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 dispositionwhich, with all its native reserve, was singularly susceptible. Cadurcis had quickly imbibed the tone and adopted the usages ofthe circle in which he moved. Naturally impatient of control, heendeavoured by his precocious manhood to secure the respect andindependence which would scarcely have been paid or permitted to hisyears. From an early period he never permitted himself to be treatedas a boy; and his guardian, a man whose whole soul was concentred inthe world, humoured a bent which he approved and from which he auguredthe most complete success. Attracted by the promising talents and thepremature character of his ward, he had spared more time to assist thedevelopment of his mind and the formation of his manners than mighthave been expected from a minister of state. His hopes, indeed, restedwith confidence on his youthful relative, and he looked forward withno common emotion to the moment when he should have the honour ofintroducing to public life one calculated to confer so much crediton his tutor, and shed so much lustre on his party. The reader will, therefore, not be surprised if at this then unrivalled period ofpolitical excitement, when the existence of our colonial empire wasat stake, Cadurcis, with his impetuous feelings, had imbibed totheir fullest extent all the plans, prejudices, and passions of hispolitical connections. He was, indeed, what the circumstances of thetimes and his extreme youth might well excuse, if not justify, a mostviolent partisan. Bold, sanguine, resolute, and intolerant, it wasdifficult to persuade him that any opinions could be just which wereopposed to those of the circle in which he lived; and out of thatpale, it must be owned, he was as little inclined to recognise theexistence of ability as of truth. 

As Lord Cadurcis slowly directed his way through the woods and park ofCherbury, past years recurred to him like a faint yet pleasing dream. Among these meads and bowers had glided away the only happy years ofhis boyhood, the only period of his early life to which he could lookback without disgust. He recalled the secret exultation with which, incompany with his poor mother, he had first repaired to Cadurcis, aboutto take possession of what, to his inexperienced imagination, thenappeared a vast and noble inheritance, and for the first time in hislife to occupy a position not unworthy of his rank. For how manydomestic mortifications did the first sight of that old abbeycompensate! How often, in pacing its venerable galleries and solemncloisters, and musing over the memory of an ancient and illustriousancestry, had he forgotten those bitter passages of daily existence, so humbling to his vanity and so harassing to his heart! Ho had beheldthat morn, after an integral of many years, the tomb of his mother. That simple and solitary monument had revived and impressed upon him aconviction that too easily escaped in the various life and busy scenesin which he had since moved, the conviction of his worldly desolationand utter loneliness. He had no parents, no relations; now that he wasfor a moment free from the artificial life in which he had of latemingled, he felt that he had no friends. The image of his mother cameback to him, softened by the magical tint of years; after all she washis mother, and a deep sharer in all his joys and woes. Transported tothe old haunts of his innocent and warm-hearted childhood. He sighedfor a finer and a sweeter sympathy than was ever yielded by the roofwhich he had lately quitted; a habitation, but not a home. He conjuredup the picture of his guardian, existing in a whirl of official bustleand social excitement. A dreamy reminiscence of finer impulses stoleover the heart of Cadurcis. The dazzling pageant of metropolitansplendour faded away before the bright scene of nature that surroundedhim. He felt the freshness of the fragrant breeze; he gazed withadmiration on the still and ancient woods, and his pure and livelyblood bubbled beneath the influence of the golden sunbeams. Before himrose the halls of Cherbury, that roof where he had been so happy, thatroof to which he had appeared so ungrateful. The memory of a thousandacts of kindness, of a thousand soft and soothing traits of affection, recurred to him with a freshness which startled as much as it pleasedhim. Not to him only, but to his mother, that mother whose loss he hadlived to deplore, had the inmates of Cherbury been ministering angelsof peace and joy. Oh! that indeed had been a home; there indeed hadbeen days of happiness; there indeed he had found sympathy, andsolace, and succour! And now he was returning to them a stranger, tofulfil one of the formal duties of society in paying them his coldrespects; an attention which he could scarcely have avoided offeringhad he been to them the merest acquaintance, instead of having foundwithin those walls a home not merely in words, but friendship the mostdelicate and love the most pure, a second parent, and the only beingwhom he had ever styled sister!

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

He despaired of reviving the kindness which had been broken by such adreary interval, and broken on his side so wilfully; and yet hebegan to feel that unless met with that kindness he should be verymiserable. Sooth to say, he was not a little embarrassed, and scarcelyknew which contingency he most desired, to meet, or to escape fromher. He almost repented his return to Cadurcis, and yet to see Venetiaagain he felt must be exquisite pleasure. Influenced by these feelingshe arrived at the hall steps, and so, dismounting and giving his horseto his groom, Cadurcis, with a palpitating heart and faltering hand, formally rang the bell of that hall which in old days he entered atall seasons without ceremony. 

Never perhaps did a man feel more nervous; he grew pale, paler eventhan usual, and his whole frame trembled as the approaching footstepof the servant assured him the door was about to open. He longed nowthat the family might not be at home, that he might at least gainfour-and-twenty hours to prepare himself. But the family were at homeand he was obliged to enter. He stopped for a moment in the hall underthe pretence of examining the old familiar scene, but it was merely tocollect himself, for his sight was clouded; spoke to the old servant, to reassure himself by the sound of his own voice, but the husky wordsseemed to stick in his throat; ascended the staircase with totteringsteps, and leant against the banister as he heard his name announced. The effort, however, must be made; it was too late to recede; and LordCadurcis, entering the terrace-room, extended his hand to Lady AnnabelHerbert. She was not in the least changed, but looked as beautiful andserene 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 handwith earnestness he contrived to murmur forth with pleasing emotion, his delight at again meeting her. Strange to say, in the absorbingagitation of the moment, all thought of Venetia had vanished; andit was when he had turned and beheld a maiden of the most exquisitebeauty that his vision had ever lighted on, who had just risen fromher seat and was at the moment saluting him, that he entirely lost hispresence of mind; he turned scarlet, was quite silent, made an awkwardbow, and then stood perfectly fixed. 

'My daughter, ' said Lady Annabel, slightly pointing to Venetia; 'willnot you be seated?'

Cadurcis fell into a chair in absolute confusion. The rare andsurpassing beauty of Venetia, his own stupidity, his admiration ofher, his contempt for himself, the sight of the old chamber, therecollection of the past, the minutest incidents of which seemed allsuddenly to crowd upon his memory, the painful consciousness of therevolution which had occurred in his position in the family, proved byhis first being obliged to be introduced to Venetia, and thenbeing addressed so formally by his title by her mother; all theseimpressions united overcame him; he could not speak, he sat silent andconfounded; and had it not been for the imperturbable self-composureand delicate and amiable consideration of Lady Annabel, it wouldhave been impossible for him to have remained in a room where heexperienced agonising embarrassment. 

Under cover, however, of a discharge of discreet inquiries as to whenhe arrived, how long he meant to stay, whether he found Cadurcisaltered, and similar interrogations which required no extraordinaryexertion of his lordship's intellect to answer, but to which henevertheless contrived to give inconsistent and contradictoryresponses, Cadurcis in time recovered himself sufficiently to maintaina fair though not very brilliant conversation, and even venturedoccasionally to address an observation to Venetia, who was seated ather work perfectly composed, but who replied to all his remarks withthe same sweet voice and artless simplicity which had characterisedher childhood, though time and thought had, by their blendedinfluence, perhaps somewhat deprived her of that wild grace andsparkling gaiety for which she was once so eminent. 

These great disenchanters of humanity, if indeed they had stolen awaysome of the fascinating qualities of infancy, had amply recompensedVenetia Herbert for the loss by the additional and commanding charmswhich they had conferred on her. From a beautiful child she hadexpanded into a most beautiful woman. She had now entirely recoveredfrom her illness, of which the only visible effect was the additionthat it had made to her stature, already slightly above the middleheight, but of exquisite symmetry. Like her mother, she did not wearpowder, then usual in society; but her auburn hair, of the finesttexture, descended in long and luxuriant tresses far over hershoulders, 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 herinfancy. If the rose upon the cheek were less vivid than of yore, thedimples were certainly more developed; the clear grey eye was shadowedby long dark lashes, and every smile and movement of those ruby lipsrevealed teeth exquisitely small and regular, and fresh and brilliantas pearls just plucked by a diver. 

Conversation proceeded and improved. Cadurcis became more easy andmore fluent. His memory, which seemed suddenly to have returned to himwith unusual vigour, wonderfully served him. There was scarcely anindividual of whom he did not contrive to inquire, from Dr. Masham toMistress Pauncefort; he was resolved to show that if he had neglected, he had at least not forgotten them. Nor did he exhibit the slightestindication of terminating his visit; so that Lady Annabel, aware thathe was alone at the abbey and that he could have no engagement in theneighbourhood, could not refrain from inviting him to remain and dinewith them. The invitation was accepted without hesitation. In duecourse of time Cadurcis attended the ladies in their walk; it was adelightful stroll in the park, though he felt some slight emotion whenhe found himself addressing Venetia by the title of 'Miss Herbert. 'When he had exhausted all the topics of local interest, he had a greatdeal to say about himself in answer to the inquiries of Lady Annabel. He spoke with so much feeling and simplicity of his first days atEton, and the misery he experienced on first quitting Cherbury, thathis details could not fail of being agreeable to those whose naturalself-esteem they so agreeably mattered. Then he dwelt upon his casualacquaintance with London society, and Lady Annabel was gratified toobserve, from many incidental observations, that his principles werein every respect of the right tone; and that he had zealously enlistedhimself in the ranks of that national party who opposed themselvesto the disorganising opinions then afloat. He spoke of his impendingresidence at the university with the affectionate anticipations whichmight have been expected from a devoted child of the ancient andorthodox institutions of his country, and seemed perfectly impressedwith the responsible duties for which he was destined, as anhereditary legislator of England. On the whole, his carriage andconversation afforded a delightful evidence of a pure, and earnest, and frank, and gifted mind, that had acquired at an early age much ofthe mature and fixed character of manhood, without losing anythingof that boyish sincerity and simplicity too often the penalty ofexperience. 

The dinner passed in pleasant conversation, and if they were no longerfamiliar, they were at least cordial. Cadurcis spoke of Dr. Mashamwith affectionate respect, and mentioned his intention of visitingMarringhurst on the following day. He ventured to hope that LadyAnnabel and Miss Herbert might accompany him, and it was arranged thathis wish should be gratified. The evening drew on apace, and LadyAnnabel was greatly pleased when Lord Cadurcis expressed his wish toremain for their evening prayers. He was indeed sincerely religious;and as he knelt in the old chapel that had been the hallowed sceneof his boyish devotions, he offered his ardent thanksgivings to hisCreator who had mercifully kept his soul pure and true, and allowedhim, after so long an estrangement from the sweet spot of hischildhood, once more to mingle his supplications with his kind andvirtuous friends. 

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

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

Before Venetia retired to rest she remained for a few minutes in hermother's room. 'What do you think of him, mamma?' she said; 'is he notvery changed?'

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

'He really seemed happy to meet us again, and yet how strange that foryears he should never have communicated with us. '

'Not so very strange, my love! He was but a child when we parted, andhe has felt embarrassment in resuming connections which for a longinterval had been inevitably severed. Remember what a change his lifehad to endure; few, after such an interval, would have returned withfeelings 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 virtuesand great talents; but I was not so sanguine that they would haveflourished as they appear to have done. '

In the meantime the subject of their observations strolled homeon foot, for he had dismissed his horses, to the abbey. It was abrilliant night, and the white beams of the moon fell full upon theold monastic pile, of which massy portions were in dark shade whilethe light gracefully rested on the projecting ornaments of thebuilding, and played, as it were, with the fretted and fantasticpinnacles. Behind were the savage hills, softened by the hour; and onthe right extended the still and luminous lake. Cadurcis rested fora moment and gazed upon the fair, yet solemn scene. The dreams ofambition that occasionally distracted him were dead. The surroundingscene harmonised with the thoughts of purity, repose, and beauty thatfilled his soul. Why should he ever leave this spot, sacred to him bythe finest emotions of his nature? Why should he not at once quitthat world which he had just entered, while he could quit it withoutremorse? If ever there existed a being who was his own master, whomight mould his destiny at his will, it seemed to be Cadurcis. Hislone yet independent situation, his impetuous yet firm volition, alikequalified him to achieve the career most grateful to his disposition. Let him, then, achieve it here; here let him find that solitude he hadever loved, softened by that affection for which he had ever sighed, and which here only he had ever found. It seemed to him that therewas only one being in the world whom he had ever loved, and that wasVenetia Herbert: it seemed to him that there was only one thing inthis world worth living for, and that was the enjoyment of her sweetheart. The pure-minded, the rare, the gracious creature! Why shouldshe ever quit these immaculate bowers wherein she had been somystically and delicately bred? Why should she ever quit the fondroof of Cherbury, but to shed grace and love amid the cloisters ofCadurcis? Her life hitherto had been an enchanted tale; why shouldthe spell ever break? Why should she enter that world where care, disappointment, mortification, misery, must await her? He for a seasonhad left the magic circle of her life, and perhaps it was well. He wasa 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 hadbeen ever to have neglected her! And for a reason that ought to havemade him doubly her friend, her solace, her protector. Oh! to think ofthe sneers or the taunts of the world calling for a moment the colourfrom that bright cheek, or dusking for an instant the radiance of thatbrilliant eye! His heart ached at the thought of her unhappiness, andhe longed to press her to it, and cherish her like some innocent dovethat had flown from the terrors of a pursuing hawk. 

CHAPTER II. 

'Well, Pauncefort, ' said Lord Cadurcis, smiling, as he renewed hisacquaintance with his old friend, 'I hope you have not forgotten mylast 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 wewere never going to see you again!'

'You know I told you I should return; and now I mean never to leaveyou again. '

'Never is a long word, my lord, ' said Mistress Pauncefort, lookingvery archly. 

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

'Marry and settle, my lord, ' said Mistress Pauncefort, still morearch. 

'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 marrysooner or later, and the sooner the better, say I: and to be sure heis very young, but what of that? for, says I, no one can say he doesnot look quite a man. And really, my lord, saving your presence, youare grown indeed. '

'Pish!' said Lord Cadurcis, turning away and laughing, 'I have leftoff growing, Pauncefort, and all those sort of things. '

'You have not forgotten our last visit to Marringhurst?' said LordCadurcis to Venetia, as the comfortable mansion of the worthy Doctorappeared in sight. 

'I have forgotten nothing, ' replied Venetia with a faint smile; 'I donot know what it is to forget. My life has been so uneventful thatevery past incident, however slight, is as fresh in my memory as if itoccurred 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 verynearly riding my pony to-day? I wish to bring back old times with theutmost possible completeness; I wish for a moment to believe that Ihave never quitted Cherbury. '

'Let us think only of the present now, ' said Lady Annabel in acheerful voice, 'for it is very agreeable. I see the good Doctor; hehas 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 bemistaken?' 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 LadyAnnabel, with some quickness, yet in a lively tone. 

'Happy Cherbury!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis. 'May it indeed neverchange!'

They rode briskly on; the Doctor was standing at his gate. He salutedLady Annabel and Venetia with his accustomed cordiality, and thenstared 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 timedismounted and eagerly extended his hand to his old tutor. 

Having quitted their horses they all entered the house, nor was therenaturally any want of conversation. Cadurcis had much information togive and many questions to answer. He was in the highest spiritsand the most amiable mood; gay, amusing, and overflowing withkind-heartedness. The Doctor seldom required any inspiration, to bejoyous, and Lady Annabel was unusually animated. Venetia alone, thoughcheerful, was calmer than pleased Cadurcis. Time, he sorrowfullyobserved, had occasioned a greater change in her manner than he couldhave expected. Youthful as she still was, indeed but on the thresholdof womanhood, and exempted, as it seemed she had been, from anythingto disturb the clearness of her mind, that enchanting play of fancywhich had once characterised her, and which he recalled with a sigh, appeared in a great degree to have deserted her. He watched hercountenance with emotion, and, supremely beautiful as it undeniablywas, there was a cast of thoughtfulness or suffering impressed uponthe features which rendered him mournful he knew not why, and causedhim to feel as if a cloud had stolen unexpectedly over the sun andmade him shiver. 

But there was no time or opportunity for sad reflections; he had torenew his acquaintance with all the sights and curiosities of therectory, to sing to the canaries, and visit the gold fish, admire thestuffed fox, and wonder that in the space of five years the voraciousotter had not yet contrived to devour its prey. Then they refreshedthemselves 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. LadyAnnabel walked behind, leaning on the Doctor's arm, narrating, with nofear of being heard, all the history of their friend's return. 

'I never was so surprised in my life, ' said the Doctor; 'he is vastlyimproved; he is quite a man; his carriage is very finished. '

'And his principles, ' said Lady Annabel. 'You have no idea, my dearDoctor, how right his opinions seem to be on every subject. He hasbeen 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 hislife for our blessed constitution in Church and State. He requested, as a favour, that he might remain at our prayers last night. It isdelightful 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 visiblechange even to him; perhaps he may be a degree less agile, but I willnot believe it. And Lady Annabel; it seems to me your mother is moreyouthful 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, 'achange 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 inan 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 lostits 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 thenovelty of return that animates you. It will wear off; you will growweary, and when you go to the university you will think yourself happyagain. '

'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 leavehome again. '

'When you go to Cambridge, ' said Dr. Masham, who just then reachedthem, 'I shall trouble you with a letter to an old friend of minewhose acquaintance you may find valuable. '

Venetia smiled; Cadurcis bowed, expressed his thanks, and mutteredsomething about talking over the subject with the Doctor. 

After this the conversation became general, and at length they allreturned to the house to partake of the Doctor's hospitality, whopromised to dine at the hall on the morrow. The ride home wasagreeable and animated, but the conversation on the part of the ladieswas principally maintained by Lady Annabel, who seemed every momentmore delighted with the society of Lord Cadurcis, and to sympathiseevery instant more completely with his frank exposition of hisopinions on all subjects. When they returned to Cherbury, Cadurcisremained with them as a matter of course. An invitation was neitherexpected nor given. Not an allusion was made to the sports of thefield, to enjoy which was the original purpose of his visit to theabbey; and he spoke of to-morrow as of a period which, as usual, wasto be spent entirely in their society. He remained with them, as onthe previous night, to the latest possible moment. Although reservedin society, no one could be more fluent with those with whom he wasperfectly unembarrassed. He was indeed exceedingly entertaining, andLady Annabel relaxed into conversation beyond her custom. As forVenetia, she did not speak often, but she listened with interest, andwas evidently amused. When Cadurcis bade them good-night Lady Annabelbegged him to breakfast with them; while Venetia, serene, though kind, neither seconded the invitation, nor seemed interested one way or theother in its result. 

CHAPTER III. 

Except returning to sleep at the abbey, Lord Cadurcis was now as muchan habitual inmate of Cherbury Hall as in the days of his childhood. He was there almost with the lark, and never quitted its roof untilits 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 readingRichardson's novels, which he had brought with him from town, to theladies, and then in riding with them about the country, for he lovedto visit all his old haunts, and trace even the very green swardwhere he first met the gipsies, and fancied that he had achieved hisemancipation from all the coming cares and annoyances of the world. In this pleasant life several weeks had glided away: Cadurcis hadentirely resumed his old footing in the family, nor did he attempt toconceal the homage he was paying to the charms of Venetia. She indeedseemed utterly unconscious that such projects had entered, or indeedcould enter, the brain of her old playfellow, with whom, now thatshe was habituated to his presence, and revived by his inspiritingsociety, she had resumed all her old familiar intimacy, addressing himby 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 hervision been as clouded, her faithful minister, Mistress Pauncefort, would have taken care quickly to couch it; for a very short time hadelapsed before that vigilant gentlewoman, resolved to convince hermistress that nothing could escape her sleepless scrutiny, and that itwas equally in vain for her mistress to hope to possess any secretswithout her participation, seized a convenient opportunity before shebid her lady good night, just to inquire 'when it might be expected totake place?' and in reply to the very evident astonishment which LadyAnnabel testified at this question, and the expression of her extremedispleasure at any conversation on a circumstance for which therewas not the slightest foundation, Mistress Pauncefort, after dulyflouncing about with every possible symbol of pettish agitation andmortified curiosity, her cheek pale with hesitating impertinence, andher nose quivering with inquisitiveness, condescended to admit with asceptical sneer, that, of course, no doubt her ladyship knew more ofsuch a subject than she could; it was not her place to know anythingof such business; for her part she said nothing; it was not herplace, but if it were, she certainly must say that she could not helpbelieving that my lord was looking remarkably sweet on Miss Venetia, and what was more, everybody in the house thought the same, though forher part, whenever they mentioned the circumstance to her, she saidnothing, or bid them hold their tongues, for what was it to them; itwas not their business, and they could know nothing; and that nothingwould displease her ladyship more than chattering on such subjects, and many's the match as good as finished, that's gone off by no worsemeans than the chitter-chatter of those who should hold their tongues. Therefore she should say no more; but if her ladyship wished her tocontradict it, why she could, and the sooner, perhaps, the better. 

Lady Annabel observed to her that she wished no such thing, butshe desired that Pauncefort would make no more observations on thesubject, either to her or to any one else. And then Pauncefort badeher ladyship good night in a huff, catching up her candle with arather impertinent jerk, and gently slamming the door, as if she hadmeant to close it quietly, only it had escaped out of her fingers. 

Whatever might be the tone, whether of surprise or displeasure, whichLady Annabel thought fit to assume to her attendant on her noticingLord Cadurcis' attentions to her daughter, there is no doubt thathis conduct had early and long engaged her ladyship's remark, herconsideration, and her approval. Without meditating indeed animmediate union between Cadurcis and Venetia, Lady Annabel pleasedherself with the prospect of her daughter's eventual marriage with onewhom she had known so early and so intimately; who was by nature of agentle, sincere, and affectionate disposition, and in whom educationhad carefully instilled the most sound and laudable principles andopinions; one apparently with simple tastes, moderate desires, fairtalents, a mind intelligent, if not brilliant, and passions which atthe worst had been rather ill-regulated than violent; attached alsoto Venetia from her childhood, and always visibly affected by herinfluence. All these moral considerations seemed to offer a fairsecurity for happiness; and the material ones were neither lesspromising, nor altogether disregarded by the mother. It was an unionwhich would join broad lands and fair estates; which would place onthe 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 theworld from which Lady Annabel recoiled, establish her, without thisinitiatory and sorrowful experience, in a position superior to whicheven the blood of the Herberts, though it might flow in so fair andgifted a form as that of Venetia, need not aspire. 

Lord Cadurcis had not returned to Cherbury a week before this schemeentered into the head of Lady Annabel. She had always liked him; hadalways given him credit for good qualities; had always believed thathis early defects were the consequence of his mother's injudicioustreatment; and that at heart he was an amiable, generous, andtrustworthy being, one who might be depended on, with a naturally goodjudgment, and substantial and sufficient talents, which only requiredcultivation. When she met him again after so long an interval, andfound her early prognostics so fairly, so completely fulfilled, andwatched his conduct and conversation, exhibiting alike a well-informedmind, an obliging temper, and, what Lady Annabel valued even above allgifts and blessings, a profound conviction of the truth of all her ownopinions, moral, political, and religious, she was quite charmed; shewas moved to unusual animation; she grew excited in his praise; hispresence delighted her; she entertained for him the warmest affection, and reposed in him unbounded confidence. All her hopes becameconcentred in the wish of seeing him her son-in-law; and she detectedwith lively satisfaction the immediate impression which Venetia hadmade upon his heart; for indeed it should not be forgotten, thatalthough Lady Annabel was still young, and although her frame andtemperament were alike promising of a long life, it was natural, whenshe reflected upon the otherwise lone condition of her daughter, thatshe should tremble at the thought of quitting this world withoutleaving her child a protector. To Doctor Masham, from whom LadyAnnabel had no secrets, she confided in time these happy but coverthopes, and he was not less anxious than herself for their fulfilment. Since the return of Cadurcis the Doctor contrived to be a morefrequent visitor at the hall than usual, and he lost no opportunity ofsilently advancing the object of his friend. 

As for Cadurcis himself, it was impossible for him not quickly todiscover that no obstacle to his heart's dearest wish would arise onthe part of the parent. The demeanour of the daughter somewhat moreperplexed him. Venetia indeed had entirely fallen into her old habitsof intimacy and frankness with Plantagenet; she was as affectionateand as unembarrassed as in former days, and almost as gay; for hispresence and companionship had in a great degree insensibly removedthat stillness and gravity which had gradually influenced her mind andconduct. But in that conduct there was, and he observed it with somedegree of mortification, a total absence of the consciousness of beingthe object of the passionate admiration of another. She treated LordCadurcis as a brother she much loved, who had returned to his homeafter a long absence. She liked to listen to his conversation, to hearof his adventures, to consult over his plans. His arrival calleda smile to her face, and his departure for the night was alwaysalleviated by some allusion to their meeting on the morrow. But manyan ardent gaze on the part of Cadurcis, and many a phrase of emotion, passed unnoticed and unappreciated. His gallantry was entirelythrown away, or, if observed, only occasioned a pretty stare at theunnecessary trouble he gave himself, or the strange ceremony whichshe supposed an acquaintance with society had taught him. Cadurcisattributed this reception of his veiled and delicate overtures toher ignorance of the world; and though he sighed for as passionatea return to his strong feelings as the sentiments which animatedhimself, he was on the whole not displeased, but rather interested, bythese indications of a pure and unsophisticated spirit. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Cadurcis had proposed, and Lady Annabel had seconded the propositionwith eager satisfaction, that they should seek some day at the abbeywhatever hospitality it might offer; Dr. Masham was to be of theparty, which was, indeed, one of those fanciful expeditions where thesame companions, though they meet at all times without restraintand with every convenience of life, seek increased amusement in thenovelty of a slight change of habits. With the aid of the neighbouringtown of Southport, Cadurcis had made preparations for his friends notentirely unworthy of them, though he affected to the last all theair of a conductor of a wild expedition of discovery, and laughinglyimpressed upon them the necessity of steeling their minds and bodiesto the experience and endurance of the roughest treatment and the mostsevere hardships. 

The morning of this eventful day broke as beautifully as the precedingones. Autumn had seldom been more gorgeous than this year. Although hewas to play the host, Cadurcis would not deprive himself of his usualvisit to the hall; and he appeared there at an early hour to accompanyhis guests, who were to ride over to the abbey, to husband all theirenergies for their long rambles through the demesne. 

Cadurcis was in high spirits, and Lady Annabel scarcely lessjoyous. Venetia smiled with her usual sweetness and serenity. Theycongratulated each other on the charming season; and MistressPauncefort received a formal invitation to join the party and goa-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 stoutsteed, in his accustomed cheerful mood. Here was a party of pleasurewhich all agreed must be pleasant; no strangers to amuse, or to beamusing, but formed merely of four human beings who spent every day oftheir lives in each other's society, between whom there was the mostcomplete sympathy and the most cordial good-will. 

By noon they were all mounted on their steeds, and though the air waswarmed by a meridian sun shining in a clear sky, there was a gentlebreeze abroad, sweet and grateful; and moreover they soon entered thewood and enjoyed the shelter of its verdant shade. The abbey lookedmost picturesque when they first burst upon it; the nearer and woodedhills, which formed its immediate background, just tinted by thegolden pencil of autumn, while the meads of the valley were stillemerald green; and the stream, now lost, now winding, glitteredhere and there in the sun, and gave a life and sprightliness to thelandscape which exceeded even the effect of the more distant andexpansive lake. 

They were received at the abbey by Mistress Pauncefort, who hadpreceded them, and who welcomed them with a complacent smile. Cadurcishastened to assist Lady Annabel to dismount, and was a little confusedbut very pleased when she assured him she needed no assistance butrequested him to take care of Venetia. He was just in time to receiveher in his arms, where she found herself without the slightestembarrassment. The coolness of the cloisters was grateful after theirride, and they lingered and looked upon the old fountain, and felt thefreshness of its fall with satisfaction which all alike expressed. Lady Annabel and Venetia then retired for a while to free themselvesfrom their riding habits, and Cadurcis affectionately taking the armof Dr. Masham led him a few paces, and then almost involuntarilyexclaimed, 'My dear Doctor, I think I am the happiest fellow that everlived!'

'That I trust you may always be, my dear boy, ' said Dr. Masham; 'butwhat has called forth this particular exclamation?'

'To feel that I am once more at Cadurcis; to feel that I am here oncemore with you all; to feel that I never shall leave you again. '

'Not again?'

'Never!' said Cadurcis. 'The experience of these last few weeks, whichyet have seemed an age in my existence, has made me resolve never toquit a society where I am persuaded I may obtain a degree of happinesswhich 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 LordCadurcis. 'I know that her consent would ensure my happiness; and whenI reflect, I cannot help being equally persuaded that it would securehers. 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 marrythe most beautiful and the most gifted of God's creatures; I hope youmay 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 Ihave known her all my life, at least so long as I have been able toform an opinion. How few are the men, my dear Doctor, who are sofortunate as to unite themselves with women whom they have known, as Ihave 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 mayprobably turn out, as you yourself believe it will turn out, thatit is as well that we have been separated for this interval. It hasafforded me opportunities for observation which I should never haveenjoyed at Cadurcis; and although my lot either way could not havealtered the nature of things, I might have been discontented, I mighthave sighed for a world which now I do not value. It is true I havenot seen Venetia for five years, but I find her the same, or changedonly by nature, and fulfilling all the rich promise which herchildhood intimated. No, my dear Doctor, I respect your opinion morethan that of any man living; but nobody, nothing, can persuade me thatI am not as intimately acquainted with Venetia's character, with allher rare virtues, as if we had never separated. '

'I do not doubt it, ' said the Doctor; 'high as you may pitch yourestimate you cannot overvalue her. '

'Then why should we not marry?'

'Because, my dear friend, although you may be perfectly acquaintedwith Venetia, you cannot be perfectly acquainted with yourself. '

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

'Because it is impossible. No young man of eighteen ever possessedsuch precious knowledge. I esteem and admire you; I give you everycredit for a good heart and a sound head; but it is impossible, atyour time of life, that your character can be formed; and, until itbe, you may marry Venetia and yet be a very miserable man. '

'It is formed, ' said his lordship firmly; 'there is not a subjectimportant to a human being on which my opinions are not settled. '

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

'Impossible!' said Lord Cadurcis. 'My dear Doctor, I cannot understandyou; you say that you hope, that you wish, even that you believe thatI shall marry Venetia; and yet you permit me to infer that our unionwill 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 thougheven friends can scarcely be trusted under such circumstances, Ipromise 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 atonce. I know her well, you admit that yourself. I do not believe thatthere ever was a woman like her, that there ever will be a woman likeher. Nature has marked her out from other women, and her educationhas not been less peculiar. Her mystic breeding pleases me. Itis something to marry a wife so fair, so pure, so refined, soaccomplished, who is, nevertheless, perfectly ignorant of the world. I have dreamt of such things; I have paced these old cloisters when aboy and when I was miserable at home, and I have had visions, andthis was one. I have sighed to live alone with a fair spirit for myminister. 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 asmile. '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 alltheir 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 alwaysloved 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 terminatedthis conversation, the result of which was rather to confirm LordCadurcis in his resolution of instantly urging his suit, than thereverse. He ran forward to greet his friends with a smile, and tookhis place by the side of Venetia, whom, a little to her surprise, hecongratulated in glowing phrase on her charming costume. Indeed shelooked very captivating, with a pastoral hat, then much in fashion, and a dress as simple and as sylvan, both showing to admirableadvantage her long descending hair, and her agile and springy figure. 

Cadurcis proposed that they should ramble over the abbey, he talked ofprojected alterations, as if he really had the power immediately toeffect them, and was desirous of obtaining their opinions before anychange was made. So they ascended the staircase which many yearsbefore Venetia had mounted for the first time with her mother, andentered 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 thebuilding. Lady Annabel entered into all the details with an interestand animation which rather amused Dr. Masham. Venetia listened andsuggested, and responded to the frequent appeals of Cadurcis to herjudgment with an unconscious equanimity not less diverting. 

'Now here we really can do something, ' said his lordship as theyentered the saloon, or rather refectory; 'here I think we may effectwonders. 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 wecover them with? Shall it be damask? What do you think, Venetia? Doyou like damask? And what colour shall it be? Shall it be crimson?Shall it be crimson damask, Lady Annabel? Do you think Venetia wouldlike crimson damask? Now, Venetia, do give us the benefit of youropinion. '

Then they entered the old gallery; here was to be a greattransformation. Marvels were to be effected in the old gallery, and many and multiplied were the appeals to the taste and fancy ofVenetia. 

'I think, ' said Lord Cadurcis, 'I shall leave the gallery to bearranged when I am settled. The rooms and the saloon shall be done atonce, I shall give orders for them to begin instantly. Whom do yourecommend, Lady Annabel? Do you think there is any person at Southportwho could manage to do it, superintended by our taste? Venetia, whatdo 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 beensadly neglected since my poor mother's time. We could not do much inthose days, but still she loved this garden. I must depend upon youentirely to arrange my garden, Venetia. This spot is sacred to you. You have not forgotten our labours here, have you, Venetia? Ah! thosewere happy days, and these shall be more happy still. This is yourgarden; 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 firstwhen you left Cadurcis, but at last it did not seem that our presencewas very acceptable. '

'The brutes!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis. 

'No, no; good simple people, they were unused to orders from strangemasters, and they were perplexed. Besides, we had no right tointerfere. '

'No right to interfere! Venetia, my little fellow-labourer, noright to interfere! Why all is yours! Fancy your having no right tointerfere at Cadurcis!'

Then they proceeded to the park and wandered to the margin of thelake. There was not a spot, not an object, which did not recallsome adventure or incident of childhood. Every moment Lord Cadurcisexclaimed, 'Venetia! do you remember this?' 'Venetia! have youforgotten that?' and every time Venetia smiled, and proved howfaithful was her memory by adding some little unmentioned trait to thelively reminiscences of her companion. 

'Well, after all, ' said Lord Cadurcis with a sigh, 'my poor mother wasa strange woman, and, God bless her! used sometimes to worry me outof 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 sheloved 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 thisend of the park. I cannot conceive anything more effective than anentrance from the Southport road in this quarter. '

'Certainly, Lady Annabel, certainly we must build a lodge. Do not youthink 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 bebuilt directly, and it shall be called Venetia Lodge. '

The hours flew away, loitering in the park, roaming in the woods. Theymet Mistress Pauncefort and her friends loaded with plunder, and theyoffered to Venetia a trophy of their success; but when Venetia, merelyto please their kind hearts, accepted their tribute with cordiality, and declared there was nothing she liked better, Lord Cadurcis wouldnot be satisfied unless he immediately commenced nutting, and eachmoment he bore to Venetia the produce of his sport, till in time shecould scarcely sustain the rich and increasing burden. At length theybent their steps towards home, sufficiently wearied to look forwardwith welcome to rest and their repast, yet not fatigued, andexhilarated by the atmosphere, for the sun was now in its decline, though in this favoured season there were yet hours enough remainingof enchanting light. 

In the refectory they found, to the surprise of all but their host, abanquet. It was just one of those occasions when nothing isexpected and everything is welcome and surprising; when, from theunpremeditated air generally assumed, all preparation startles andpleases; when even ladies are not ashamed to eat, and formalityappears quite banished. Game of all kinds, teal from the lake, and piles of beautiful fruit, made the table alike tempting andpicturesque. Then there were stray bottles of rare wine disinterredfrom venerable cellars; and, more inspiriting even than the choicewine, a host under the influence of every emotion, and swayed by everycircumstance that can make a man happy and delightful. Oh! they werevery gay, and it seemed difficult to believe that care or sorrow, or the dominion of dark or ungracious passions, could ever disturbsympathies so complete and countenances so radiant. 

At the urgent request of Cadurcis, Venetia sang to them; and while shesang, the expression of her countenance and voice harmonising with thearch hilarity of the subject, Plantagenet for a moment believed thathe beheld the little Venetia of his youth, that sunny child so fullof mirth and grace, the very recollection of whose lively and brightexistence might enliven the gloomiest hour and lighten the heaviestheart. 

Enchanted by all that surrounded him, full of hope, and joy, andplans of future felicity, emboldened by the kindness of the daughter, Cadurcis now ventured to urge a request to Lady Annabel, and therequest was granted, for all seemed to feel that it was a day on whichnothing was to be refused to their friend. Happy Cadurcis! The childhad a holiday, and it fancied itself a man enjoying a triumph. Incompliance, therefore, with his wish, it was settled that they shouldall walk back to the hall; even Dr. Masham declared he was competentto the exertion, but perhaps was half entrapped into the declarationby the promise of a bed at Cherbury. This consent enchanted Cadurcis, who looked forward with exquisite pleasure to the evening walk withVenetia. 

CHAPTER VI. 

Although the sun had not set, it had sunk behind the hills leadingto Cherbury when our friends quitted the abbey. Cadurcis, withouthesitation, offered his arm to Venetia, and whether from a secretsympathy with his wishes, or merely from some fortunate accident, LadyAnnabel and Dr. Masham strolled on before without busying themselvestoo 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 thereply. 

'Then it has been successful, ' rejoined his lordship; 'for my onlywish was to amuse you. '

'I think we have all been equally amused, ' said Venetia. 'I never knewmamma in such good spirits. I think ever since you returned she hasbeen 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; thefirst 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 withyou. '

'Well, we are both happy now. '

'Oh! say that again, say that again, Venetia; for indeed you made memiserable when you told me that you had changed. I cannot bear thatyou, Venetia, should ever change. '

'It is the course of nature, Plantagenet; we all change, everythingchanges. 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; andshould be as happy. '

'Is beauty happiness, Plantagenet?'

'It makes others happy, Venetia; and when we make others happy weshould 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 werethe solace of my dark childhood; you were the charm that first taughtme existence was enjoyment. Before I came to Cherbury I never washappy, and since that hour--Ah, Venetia! dear, dearest Venetia! who islike to you?'

'Dear Plantagenet, you were always too kind to me. Would we werechildren once more!'

'Nay, my own Venetia! you tell me everything changes, and we must notmurmur at the course of nature. I would not have our childhood backagain, even with all its joys, for there are others yet in store forus, 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 heardof you always with interest, and I met you again with heartfeltpleasure. '

'Oh, that morning! Have you forgotten that morning? Do you know, youwill smile very much, but I really believe that I expected to see myVenetia still a little girl, the very same who greeted me when I firstarrived 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 knownyou must become, I was so confused I entirely lost my presence ofmind. You must have thought me very awkward, very stupid?'

'Indeed, I was rather gratified by observing that you could not meetus again without emotion. I thought it told well for your heart, whichI always believed to be most kind, at least, I am sure, to us. '

'Kind! oh, Venetia! that word but ill describes what my heart everwas, what it now is, to you. Venetia! dearest, sweetest Venetia!can you doubt for a moment my feelings towards your home, and whatinfluence must principally impel them? Am I so dull, or you so blind, Venetia? Can I not express, can you not discover how much, howardently, 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 yougave me? I always wore it until you seemed to forget us, and then Ithought it looked so foolish! You remember what is inscribed on it:'TO VENETIA, FROM HER AFFECTIONATE BROTHER, PLANTAGENET. ' And as abrother I always loved you; had I indeed been your sister I could nothave 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 shouldwe 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 neverthought of marriage in my life, Plantagenet; I have no intention, nowish to marry; I mean to live always with mamma. '

'And you shall always live with mamma, but that need not prevent youfrom marrying me, ' he replied. 'Do not we all live together now? Whatwill 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 anobstacle; for if it please you we will all live at Cherbury. '

'You say that we are happy now, Plantagenet; oh! let us remain as weare. '

'My own sweet girl, my sister, if you please, any title, so it be oneof fondness, your sweet simplicity charms me; but, believe me, itcannot 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 canlive at all. '

'Oh, Plantagenet! indeed I thought you were my brother; when I foundyou after so long a separation as kind as in old days, and kinderstill, I was so glad; I was so sure you loved me; I thought I had thekindest brother in the world. Let us not talk of any other love. Itwill, indeed it will, make mamma so miserable!'

'I am greatly mistaken, ' replied Lord Cadurcis, who saw no obstaclesto his hopes in their conversation hitherto, 'if, on the contrary, ourunion would not prove far from disagreeable to your mother, Venetia; Iwill say our mother, for indeed to me she has been one. '

'Plantagenet, ' said Venetia, in a very earnest tone, 'I love youvery much; but, if you love me, press me on this subject no more atpresent. You have surprised, indeed you have bewildered me. There arethoughts, there are feelings, there are considerations, that must berespected, that must influence me. Nay! do not look so sorrowful, Plantagenet. Let us be happy now. To-morrow, only to-morrow, andto-morrow we are sure to meet, we will speak further of all this; butnow, now, for a moment let us forget it, if we can forget anything sostrange. Nay! you shall smile!'

He did. Who could resist that mild and winning glance! And indeed LordCadurcis was scarcely disappointed, and not at all mortified at hisreception, or, as he esteemed it, the progress of his suit. Theconduct of Venetia he attributed entirely to her unsophisticatednature and the timidity of a virgin soul. It made him prize even moredearly the treasure that he believed awaited him. Silent, then, thoughfor a time they both struggled to speak on different subjects, silent, and almost content, Cadurcis proceeded, with the arm of Venetia lockedin his and ever and anon unconsciously pressing it to his heart. Therosy twilight had faded away, the stars were stealing forth, and themoon again glittered. With a soul softer than the tinted shades of eveand glowing like the heavens, Cadurcis joined his companions as theyentered the gardens of Cherbury. When they had arrived at home itseemed that exhaustion had suddenly succeeded all the excitementof the day. The Doctor, who was wearied, retired immediately. LadyAnnabel pressed Cadurcis to remain and take tea, or, at least to ridehome; but his lordship, protesting that he was not in the slightestdegree 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 ofloneliness which had haunted him from his boyhood, and which everasserted its sway when under the influence of his passions, came overhim now with irresistible power. A day of enjoyment had terminated, and it left him melancholy. Hour after hour he paced the moon-litcloisters of his abbey, where not a sound disturbed him, save themonotonous fall of the fountain, that seems by some inexplicableassociation 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 abouthimself, a subject to him ever perplexing and distressing. Hisconversation of the morning with Doctor Masham recurred to him. Whatdid the Doctor mean by his character not being formed, and thathe might yet live to change all his opinions? Character! what wascharacter? It must be will; and his will was violent and firm. Youngas he was, he had early habituated himself to reflection, and theresult of his musings had been a desire to live away from the worldwith those he loved. The world, as other men viewed it, had no charmsfor him. Its pursuits and passions seemed to him on the whole paltryand faint. He could sympathise with great deeds, but not with bustlinglife. That which was common did not please him. He loved things thatwere rare and strange; and the spell that bound him so strongly toVenetia Herbert was her unusual life, and the singular circumstancesof her destiny that were not unknown to him. True he was young;but, lord of himself, youth was associated with none of thosemortifications which make the juvenile pant for manhood. Cadurcisvalued his youth and treasured it. He could not conceive love, and theromantic life that love should lead, without the circumambient charmof youth adding fresh lustre to all that was bright and fair, and akeener relish to every combination of enjoyment. The moonbeam fellupon his mother's monument, a tablet on the cloister wall thatrecorded the birth and death of KATHERINE CADURCIS. His thoughts flewto his ancestry. They had conquered in France and Palestine, and lefta memorable name to the annalist of his country. Those days were past, and yet Cadurcis felt within him the desire, perhaps the power, ofemulating them; but what remained? What career was open in thismechanical age to the chivalric genius of his race? Was he misplacedthen in life? The applause of nations, there was something grand andexciting in such a possession. To be the marvel of mankind what wouldhe not hazard? Dreams, dreams! If his ancestors were valiant andcelebrated it remained for him to rival, to excel them, at least inone respect. Their coronet had never rested on a brow fairer thanthe one for which he destined it. Venetia then, independently of hispassionate love, was the only apparent object worth his pursuit, theonly thing in this world that had realised his dreams, dreams sacredto his own musing soul, that even she had never shared or guessed. Andshe, she was to be his. He could not doubt it: but to-morrow woulddecide; 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 andeven proposed. The fresh air was grateful to him; he bounded along toCherbury, and brushed the dew in his progress from the tall grass andshrubs. In sight of the hall, he for a moment paused. He was beforehis accustomed hour; and yet he was always too soon. Not to-day, though, not to-day; suddenly he rushes forward and springs down thegreen 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 hercountenance to-day was more pale than wont. There seemed a softness inher eyes usually so brilliant and even dazzling; the accents of hersalutation were suppressed and tender. 

'I thought you would be here early, ' she remarked, 'and therefore Irose to meet you. '

Was he to infer from this artless confession that his image hadhaunted her in her dreams, or only that she would not delay theconversation on which his happiness depended? He could scarcely doubtwhich version to adopt when she took his arm and led him from theterrace to walk where they could not be disturbed. 

'Dear Plantagenet, ' she said, 'for indeed you are very dear to me; Itold 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 notlove suspense; but indeed last night I was too much surprised, toomuch overcome by what occurred, that exhausted as I naturally was byall our pleasure, I could not tell you what I wished; indeed I couldnot, dear Plantagenet. '

'My own Venetia!'

'So I hope you will always deem me; for I should be very unhappy ifyou did not love me, Plantagenet, more unhappy than I have even beenthese last two years; and I have been very unhappy, very unhappyindeed, Plantagenet. '

'Unhappy, Venetia! my Venetia unhappy?'

'Listen! I will not weep. I can control my feelings. I have learnt todo 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, andyet 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 tobe 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 evenmamma'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 happenin five years, even at Cherbury. I told you I was changed. '

'Yes!' said Lord Cadurcis, in a voice of some anxiety, with ascrutinising 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. Hasany one--'

Venetia looked at him with an air of perplexity. She could notcomprehend the idea that impelled his interruption. 

'Go on, ' Lord Cadurcis added, after a short pause; 'I am indeed allanxiety. '

'You remember that Christmas which you passed at the hall and walkingat 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 meof 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 neverhave 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 toldyou 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 thisconcealment 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 thecheek of Cadurcis. 

'Plantagenet! dear, good Plantagenet! my brother! my own brother! see, I kneel to you; Venetia kneels to you! your own Venetia! Venetia thatyou love! Oh! if you knew the load that is on my spirit bearing medown 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 myfather; who had heard of him, who knew him; has been for years theonly thought of my being, the only object for which I existed. Andnow, here comes Plantagenet, my brother! my own brother! and he knowsall, and he will tell me; yes, that he will; he will tell his Venetiaall, all!'

'Is there not your mother?' said Lord Cadurcis, in a broken tone. 

'Forbidden, utterly forbidden. If I speak, they tell me her heart willbreak; 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 shakeshis head. '

'You never saw your father; think not of him. '

'Not think of him!' exclaimed Venetia, with extraordinary energy. 'Ofwhat else? For what do I live but to think of him? What object have Iin 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 ashade! what a glorious, what an immortal shade! If gods were uponearth 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 formdilated with enthusiasm, and involuntarily withdrawing her arm fromher 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 couldbe breathed by those lips, or fulfilled by that form. '

'I am glad you have not read his works, ' said Lord Cadurcis, withincreased bitterness. 'As for his conduct, your mother is a livingevidence of his honour, his generosity, and his virtue. '

'My mother!' said Venetia, in a softened voice; 'and yet he loved mymother!'

'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 cherishedmistress? More honourable, but scarcely less humiliating. '

'She must have misunderstood him, ' said Venetia. 'I have perused thesecret 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 afather; yes, he has gazed on me, even though but for a moment, withlove! Over me he has breathed forth the hallowed blessing of a parent!That transcendent form has pressed his lips to mine, and held me withfondness to his heart! And shall I credit aught to his dishonour? Isthere a being in existence who can persuade me he is heartless orabandoned? No! I love him! I adore him! I am devoted to him with allthe 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 himwithout delay in a world where it cannot be justice to separate achild from a father. '

And this was Venetia! the fair, the serene Venetia! the young, theinexperienced Venetia! pausing, as it were, on the parting thresholdof girlhood, whom, but a few hours since, he had fancied couldscarcely have proved a passion; who appeared to him barely tocomprehend the meaning of his advances; for whose calmness or whosecoldness he had consoled himself by the flattering conviction of herunknowing innocence. Before him stood a beautiful and inspired Moenad, her eye flashing supernatural fire, her form elevated above heraccustomed stature, defiance on her swelling brow, and passion on herquivering 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 hadbeen never stirred, and a bitter and mocking spirit in his brain, ofwhich he was himself unconscious. He had repaired this hopeful morn toCherbury to receive, as he believed, the plighted faith of a simpleand affectionate, perhaps grateful, girl. That her unsophisticated anduntutored spirit might not receive the advances of his heart with anequal and corresponding ardour, he was prepared. It pleased himthat he should watch the gradual development of this bud of sweetaffections, waiting, with proud anxiety, her fragrant and herfull-blown love. But now it appeared that her coldness or herindifference might be ascribed to any other cause than the one towhich he had attributed it, the innocence of an inexperienced mind. This girl was no stranger to powerful passions; she could love, andlove with fervency, with devotion, with enthusiasm. This child of joywas a woman of deep and thoughtful sorrows, brooding in solitude overhigh resolves and passionate aspirations. Why were not the emotionsof such a tumultuous soul excited by himself? To him she was calm andimperturbable; she called him brother, she treated him as a child. Buta picture, a fantastic shade, could raise in her a tempestuous swellof sentiment that transformed her whole mind, and changed the colourof all her hopes and thoughts. Deeply prejudiced against her father, Cadurcis now hated him, and with a fell and ferocious earnestness thatfew bosoms but his could prove. Pale with rage, he ground his teethand watched her with a glance of sarcastic aversion. 

'You led me here to listen to a communication which interested me, ' heat length said. 'Have I heard it?'

His altered tone, the air of haughtiness which he assumed, werenot lost upon Venetia. She endeavoured to collect herself, but shehesitated to reply. 

'I repeat my inquiry, ' said Cadurcis. 'Have you brought me here onlyto inform me that you have a father, and that you adore him, or hispicture?'

'I led you here, ' replied Venetia, in a subdued tone, and looking onthe ground, 'to thank you for your love, and to confess to you that Ilove 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 chamberwith the picture that has produced such marvellous effects. '

'I am no simpleton, Plantagenet, ' rejoined Venetia, quietly, 'but onewho is acting as she thinks right; and not only as her mind, but asher heart prompts her. '

They had stopped in the earlier part of this conversation on a littleplot of turf surrounded by shrubs; Cadurcis walked up and down thisarea with angry steps, occasionally glancing at Venetia with a look ofmortification 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 loveanother? Is not that other, by your own account, your father? Love himas much as you like. Is that to prevent you from loving your husbandalso?'

'Plantagenet, you are rude, and unnecessarily so, ' said Venetia. 'Irepeat to you again, and for the last time, that all my heart is myfather's. It would be wicked in me to marry you, because I cannot loveyou as a husband should be loved. I can never love you as I love myfather. However, it is useless to talk upon this subject. I have noteven the power of marrying you if I wished, for I have dedicatedmyself to my father in the name of God; and I have offered a vow, tobe registered in heaven, that thenceforth I would exist only for thepurpose 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 feelit. But, whatever your opinion may be of my father, I beg you toremember that you are speaking to his child. '

'I shall state my opinion respecting your father, madam, with the mostperfect unreserve, wherever and whenever I choose; quite convincedthat, however you esteem that opinion, it will not be widely differentfrom 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 subjectit will never influence mine. If, indeed, I were the mistress of myown destiny, which I am not, it would have been equally out of mypower to have acted as you have so singularly proposed. I do not wishto marry, and marry I never will; but were it in my power, or inaccordance with my wish, to unite my fate for ever with another's, itshould 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 greatman; one with whose name the world rung; perhaps, like my father, agenius and a poet. '

'A genius and a poet!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, in a fury, stampingwith passion; 'are these fit terms to use when speaking of the mostabandoned profligate of his age? A man whose name is synonymous withinfamy, and which no one dares to breathe in civilised life; whosevery blood is pollution, as you will some day feel; who has violatedevery tie, and derided every principle, by which society ismaintained; whose life is a living illustration of his own shamelessdoctrines; who is, at the same time, a traitor to his king and anapostate from his God!'

Curiosity, overpowering even indignation, had permitted Venetia tolisten even to this tirade. Pale as her companion, but with a glanceof withering scorn, she exclaimed, 'Passionate and ill-mannered boy!words cannot express the disgust and the contempt with which youinspire me. ' She spoke and she disappeared. Cadurcis was neither ablenor desirous to arrest her flight. He remained rooted to the ground, muttering to himself the word 'boy!' Suddenly raising his arm andlooking up to the sky, he exclaimed, 'The illusion is vanished!Farewell, Cherbury! farewell, Cadurcis! a wider theatre awaits me! Ihave been too long the slave of soft affections! I root them out of myheart for ever!' and, fitting the action to the phrase, it seemed thathe hurled upon the earth all the tender emotions of his soul. 'Woman!henceforth you shall be my sport! I have now no feeling but formyself. 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 withmy name; I will be a man, and a great man!'

CHAPTER VIII. 

The agitation of Venetia on her return was not unnoticed by hermother; but Lady Annabel ascribed it to a far different cause than thereal one. She was rather surprised when the breakfast passed, and LordCadurcis did not appear; somewhat perplexed when her daughter seizedthe earliest opportunity of retiring to her own chamber; but, withthat self-restraint of which she was so complete a mistress, LadyAnnabel uttered no remark. 

Once more alone, Venetia could only repeat to herself the wild wordsthat had burst from Plantagenet's lips in reference to her father. What could they mean? His morals might be misrepresented, his opinionsmight be misunderstood; stupidity might not comprehend his doctrines, malignity might torture them; the purest sages have been accusedof immorality, the most pious philosophers have been denounced asblasphemous: but, 'a traitor to his king, ' that was a tangible, anintelligible proposition, one with which all might grapple, whichcould be easily disproved if false, scarcely propounded were itnot true. 'False to his God!' How false? Where? When? What mysteryinvolved her life? Unhappy girl! in vain she struggled with theoverwhelming burden of her sorrows. Now she regretted that she hadquarrelled with Cadurcis; it was evident that he knew everything andwould have told her all. And then she blamed him for his harsh andunfeeling demeanour, and his total want of sympathy with her cruel andperplexing situation. She had intended, she had struggled to be sokind to him; she thought she had such a plain tale to tell that hewould have listened to it in considerate silence, and bowed to hernecessary and inevitable decision without a murmur. Amid all theseharassing emotions her mind tossed about like a ship without a rudder, until, in her despair, she almost resolved to confess everything toher mother, and to request her to soothe and enlighten her agitatedand confounded mind. But what hope was there of solace or informationfrom such a quarter? Lady Annabel's was not a mind to be diverted fromher purpose. Whatever might have been the conduct of her husband, itwas evident that Lady Annabel had traced out a course from which shehad resolved not to depart. She remembered the earnest and repeatedadvice of Dr. Masham, that virtuous and intelligent man who neveradvised anything but for their benefit. How solemnly had he enjoinedupon her never to speak to her mother upon the subject, unless shewished to produce misery and distress! And what could her mother tellher? Her father lived, he had abandoned her, he was looked upon as acriminal, and shunned by the society whose laws and prejudices he hadalike outraged. Why should she revive, amid the comparative happinessand serenity in which her mother now lived, the bitter recollection ofthe almost intolerable misfortune of her existence? No! Venetia wasresolved to be a solitary victim. In spite of her passionate andromantic devotion to her father she loved her mother with perfectaffection, the mother who had dedicated her life to her child, and atleast hoped she had spared her any share in their common unhappiness. And this father, whoso image haunted her dreams, whose unknown voiceseemed sometimes to float to her quick ear upon the wind, could he bethat abandoned being that Cadurcis had described, and that all aroundher, and all the circumstances of her life, would seem to indicate?Alas! it might be truth; alas! it seemed like truth: and for one solost, so utterly irredeemable, was she to murmur against that pureand benevolent parent who had cherished her with such devotion, andsnatched her perhaps from disgrace, dishonour, and despair!

And Cadurcis, would he return? With all his violence, the kindCadurcis! Never did she need a brother more than now; and now he wasabsent, 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 almostunconsciously, 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 herto practise, Venetia at length composed herself, and returned to theroom where she believed she would meet her mother, and hoped sheshould see Cadurcis. He was not there: but Lady Annabel was seated ascalm and busied as usual; the Doctor had departed. Even his presencewould have proved a relief, however slight, to Venetia, who dreaded atthis moment to be alone with her mother. She had no cause, however, for alarm; Lord Cadurcis never appeared, and was absent even fromdinner; the day died away, and still he was wanting; and at lengthVenetia bade her usual good night to Lady Annabel, and receivedher usual blessing and embrace without his name having been evenmentioned. 

Venetia passed a disturbed night, haunted by painful dreams, in whichher father and Cadurcis were both mixed up, and with images of pain, confusion, disgrace, and misery; but the morrow, at least, did notprolong her suspense, for just as she had joined her mother atbreakfast, Mistress Pauncefort, who had been despatched on somedomestic mission by her mistress, entered with a face of wonder, and began as usual: 'Only think, my lady; well to be sure, who havethought it? I am quite confident, for my own part, I was quite takenaback when I heard it; and I could not have believed my ears, if Johnhad not told me himself, and he had it from his lordship's own man. '

'Well, Pauncefort, what have you to say?' inquired Lady Annabel, verycalmly. 

'And never to send no note, my lady; at least I have not seen one comeup. That makes it so very strange. '

'Makes what, Pauncefort?'

'Why, my lady, doesn't your la'ship know his lordship left the abbeyyesterday, 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 oddestyoung gentleman as ever I met with; and, as I said to John: John, saysI, I hope his lordship has not gone to join the gipsies again. '

Venetia looked into a teacup, and then touched an egg, and thentwirled a spoon; but Lady Annabel seemed quite imperturbable, and onlyobserved, 'Probably his guardian is ill, and he has been suddenlysummoned 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 nevermentioned his name; and although she seemed to have no other object inlife but the pleasure and happiness of her child, this strange mothernever once consulted Venetia on the probable occasion of his suddendeparture, and his strange conduct. 

BOOK IV. 

CHAPTER I. 

Party feeling, perhaps, never ran higher in England than during theperiod immediately subsequent to the expulsion of the CoalitionMinistry. After the indefatigable faction of the American war, and theflagrant union with Lord North, the Whig party, and especially CharlesFox, then in the full vigour of his bold and ready mind, were stung tothe quick that all their remorseless efforts to obtain and preservethe government of the country should terminate in the preferment andapparent permanent power of a mere boy. 

Next to Charles Fox, perhaps the most eminent and influential memberof the Whig party was Lady Monteagle. The daughter of one of theoldest and most powerful peers in the kingdom, possessing livelytalents and many fascinating accomplishments, the mistress of a greatestablishment, very beautiful, and, although she had been marriedsome years, still young, the celebrated wife of Lord Monteagle foundherself the centre of a circle alike powerful, brilliant, and refined. She was the Muse of the Whig party, at whose shrine every man of witand fashion was proud to offer his flattering incense; and her housebecame not merely the favourite scene of their social pleasures, butthe sacred, temple of their political rites; here many a manoeuvre wasplanned, and many a scheme suggested; many a convert enrolled, andmany a votary initiated. 

Reclining on a couch in a boudoir, which she was assured was the exactfacsimile of that of Marie Antoinette, Lady Monteagle, with an eyesparkling with excitement and a cheek flushed with emotion, appeareddeeply interested in a volume, from which she raised her hand as herhusband entered the room. 

'Gertrude, my love, ' said his lordship, 'I have asked the new bishopto dine with us to-day. '

'My dear Henry, ' replied her ladyship, 'what could induce you to doanything 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 aska Tory bishop to meet a dozen of our own people?'

'I thought I had done wrong directly I had asked him, ' rejoined hislordship; 'and yet he would not have come if I had not made such apoint 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 mypresence of mind. You know he was my tutor at Christchurch, when poordear 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, introducedmyself, and asked him to dinner. '

'Well, never mind, ' said Lady Monteagle, smiling. 'It is ratherridiculous: 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 youpoor dear Herbert loved him to the last, and to this very moment hasthe greatest respect and affection for him. '

'How very strange that not only your tutor, but Herbert's, should be abishop, ' remarked the lady, smiling. 

'It is very strange, ' said his lordship, 'and it only shows that it isquite useless in this world to lay plans, or reckon on anything. Youknow how it happened?'

'Not I, indeed; I have never given a thought to the business; I onlyremember being very vexed that that stupid old Bangerford should nothave died when we were in office, and then, at any rate, we shouldhave got another vote. '

'Well, you know, ' said his lordship, 'dear old Masham, that is hisname, was at Weymouth this year; with whom do you think, of all peoplein 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 sayshe 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 shutup all her life, the mother was obliged to take her to Weymouth; andMasham, who has a living in their neighbourhood, which, by-the-bye, Herbert gave him, and is their chaplain and counsellor, and friend ofthe family, and all that sort of thing, though I really believe he hasalways acted for the best, he was with them. Well, the King took thegreatest fancy to these Herberts; and the Queen, too, quite singledthem out; and, in short, they were always with the royal family. Itended by his Majesty making Masham his chaplain; and now he has madehim a bishop. '

'Very droll indeed, ' said her ladyship; 'and the drollest thing of allis, 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 tillto-morrow. '

'Is it good?'

'Good! What crude questions you do always ask, Henry!' exclaimed LadyMonteagle. 'Good! Of course it is good. It is something better thangood. '

'But I mean is it as good as his other things? Will it make as muchnoise as his last thing?'

'Thing! Now, Henry, you know very well that if there be anything Idislike in the world, it is calling a poem a thing. '

'Well, my dear, you know I am no judge of poetry. But if you arepleased, 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 dearcreature!'

Her ladyship extended her hand, to which his lordship pressed hislips, 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 amreading Cadurcis' new poem; it will not he published till to-morrow, and it really has destroyed my nerves. I have got people to dinnerto-day, and I am sure I shall not be able to encounter them. '

'Something outrageous, I suppose, ' said Mr. Pole, with a sneer. 'Iwish 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 LadyMonteagle. '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. Hecomplains bitterly that so many women are in love with him. But thenhe is such an interesting creature, what can he expect?'

'Interesting!' exclaimed Mr. Pole. 'Now I hold he is the mostconceited, affected fellow that I ever met, ' he continued with unusualenergy. 

'Ah! you men do not understand him, ' said Lady Monteagle, shaking herhead. 'You cannot, ' she added, with a look of pity. 

'I cannot, certainly, ' said Mr. Pole, 'or his writings either. For mypart 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. 'Wecertainly are not very popular at this moment, and I feel convincedthat a connection with a person who attracts so much notice asCadurcis unfortunately does, and whose opinions on morals and religionmust be so offensive to the vast majority of the English public, mustultimately prove anything but advantageous to our party. '

'Oh! my dear Mr. Pole, ' said her ladyship, in a tone of affecteddeprecation, '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 recumbentposture, with some animation, 'that he is a poet?'

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

'Charles Fox thinks he is the greatest poet that ever existed, ' saidher 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 donot provoke me; do not flatter yourself you do. '

'That I feel to be an achievement alike beyond my power and myambition, ' replied Mr. Pole, slightly bowing, but with a sneer. 

'Well, read this, ' said Lady Monteagle, 'and then decide upon themerits of Cadurcis. '

Mr. Pole took the extended volume, but with no great willingness, andturned 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 asI can judge from so cursory a review. Exaggerated passion, bombasticlanguage, egotism to excess, and, which perhaps is the only portionthat is genuine, mixed with common-place scepticism and impossiblemorals, and a sort of vague, dreamy philosophy, which, if it meananything, means atheism, borrowed from his idol, Herbert, and which hehimself evidently does not comprehend. '

'Monster!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle, with a mock assumption ofindignation, 'and you are going to dine with him here to-day. You donot deserve it. '

'It is a reward which is unfortunately too often obtained by me, 'replied Mr. Pole. 'One of the most annoying consequences of yourfriend's popularity, Lady Monteagle, is that there is not a dinnerparty where one can escape him. I met him yesterday at Fanshawe's. Heamused himself by eating only biscuits, and calling for soda water, while we quaffed our Burgundy. How very original! What a thing it isto be a great poet!'

'Perverse, provoking mortal!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle. 'And on whatshould a poet live? On coarse food, like you coarse mortals? Cadurcisis all spirit, and in my opinion his diet only makes him moreinteresting. '

'I understand, ' said Mr. Pole, 'that he cannot endure a woman to eatat all. But you are all spirit, Lady Monteagle, and therefore ofcourse are not in the least inconvenienced. By-the-bye, do you mean togive us any of those charming little suppers this season?'

'I shall not invite you, ' replied her ladyship; 'none but admirers ofLord Cadurcis enter this house. '

'Your menace effects my instant conversion, ' replied Mr. Pole. 'I willadmire him as much as you desire, only do not insist upon my readinghis works. '

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

Mr. Pole smiled, bowed, and disappeared; and Lady Monteagle sat downto write a billet to Lord Cadurcis, to entreat him to be with her atfive o'clock, which was at least half an hour before the other guestswere expected. The Monteagles were considered to dine ridiculouslylate. 

CHAPTER II. 

Marmion Herbert, sprung from one of the most illustrious families inEngland, became at an early age the inheritor of a great estate, towhich, however, he did not succeed with the prejudices or opinionsusually imbibed or professed by the class to which he belonged. Whileyet a boy, Marmion Herbert afforded many indications of possessing amind alike visionary and inquisitive, and both, although not in anequal degree, sceptical and creative. Nature had gifted him withprecocious talents; and with a temperament essentially poetic, hewas nevertheless a great student. His early reading, originally byaccident and afterwards by an irresistible inclination, had fallenamong the works of the English freethinkers: with all their errors, a profound and vigorous race, and much superior to the Frenchphilosophers, who were after all only their pupils and theirimitators. While his juvenile studies, and in some degree thepredisposition of his mind, had thus prepared him to doubt and finallyto challenge the propriety of all that was established and received, the poetical and stronger bias of his mind enabled him quickly tosupply the place of everything he would remove and destroy; and, farfrom being the victim of those frigid and indifferent feelingswhich must ever be the portion of the mere doubter, Herbert, on thecontrary, looked forward with ardent and sanguine enthusiasm to aglorious and ameliorating future, which should amply compensate andconsole a misguided and unhappy race for the miserable past andthe painful and dreary present. To those, therefore, who could notsympathise with his views, it will be seen that Herbert, in attemptingto fulfil them, became not merely passively noxious from his example, but actively mischievous from his exertions. A mere sceptic, he wouldhave been perhaps merely pitied; a sceptic with a peculiar faith ofhis own, which he was resolved to promulgate, Herbert became odious. Asolitary votary of obnoxious opinions, Herbert would have been lookedupon only as a madman; but the moment he attempted to make proselyteshe rose into a conspirator against society. 

Young, irresistibly prepossessing in his appearance, with greateloquence, crude but considerable knowledge, an ardent imaginationand a subtle mind, and a generous and passionate soul, under anycircumstances he must have obtained and exercised influence, even ifhis Creator had not also bestowed upon him a spirit of indomitablecourage; but these great gifts of nature being combined with accidentsof fortune scarcely less qualified to move mankind, high rank, vastwealth, and a name of traditionary glory, it will not be esteemedsurprising that Marmion Herbert, at an early period, should haveattracted 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 singularaffection with which that able, learned, and amiable man earlyinspired his pupil, for a time controlled the spirit of Herbert; orrather confined its workings to so limited a sphere that the resultswere neither dangerous to society nor himself. Perfectly comprehendingand appreciating the genius of the youth entrusted to his charge, deeply interested in his spiritual as well as worldly welfare, andstrongly impressed with the importance of enlisting his pupil'senergies 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 theyoung inquirer; and as the tutor, equally by talent, experience, andlearning, was a competent champion of the great cause to which he wasdevoted, his zeal and ability for a time checked the development ofthose opinions of which he witnessed the menacing influence overHerbert with so much fear and anxiety. The college life of MarmionHerbert, therefore, passed in ceaseless controversy with his tutor;and as he possessed, among many other noble qualities, a high andphilosophic sense of justice, he did not consider himself authorised, while a doubt remained on his own mind, actively to promulgate thoseopinions, of the propriety and necessity of which he scarcely everceased to be persuaded. To this cause it must be mainly attributedthat Herbert was not expelled the university; for had he pursued therethe course of which his cruder career at Eton had given promise, therecan be little doubt that some flagrant outrage of the opinions heldsacred in that great seat of orthodoxy would have quickly removed himfrom the salutary sphere of their control. 

Herbert quitted Oxford in his nineteenth year, yet inferior tofew that he left there, even among the most eminent, in classicalattainments, and with a mind naturally profound, practised in all thearts of ratiocination. His general knowledge also was considerable, and he was a proficient in those scientific pursuits which were thenrare. Notwithstanding his great fortune and position, his departurefrom the university was not a signal with him for that abandonment tothe world, and that unbounded self-enjoyment naturally so tempting toyouth. On the contrary, Herbert shut himself up in his magnificentcastle, devoted to solitude and study. In his splendid library heconsulted the sages of antiquity, and conferred with them on thenature of existence and of the social duties; while in his laboratoryor his dissecting-room he occasionally flattered himself he mightdiscover the great secret which had perplexed generations. Theconsequence of a year passed in this severe discipline wasunfortunately a complete recurrence to those opinions that he hadearly imbibed, and which now seemed fixed in his conviction beyond thehope or chance of again faltering. In politics a violent republican, and an advocate, certainly a disinterested one, of a complete equalityof property and conditions, utterly objecting to the very foundationof our moral system, and especially a strenuous antagonist ofmarriage, which he taught himself to esteem not only as an unnaturaltie, but as eminently unjust towards that softer sex, who had beenso long the victims of man; discarding as a mockery the receivedrevelation of the divine will; and, if no longer an atheist, substituting merely for such an outrageous dogma a subtle and shadowyPlatonism; doctrines, however, which Herbert at least had acquired bya profound study of the works of their great founder; the pupil ofDoctor Masham at length deemed himself qualified to enter that worldwhich he was resolved to regenerate; prepared for persecution, andsteeled even to martyrdom. 

But while the doctrines of the philosopher had been forming, thespirit of the poet had not been inactive. Loneliness, after all, thebest 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 asympathetic soul. The stars and winds, the pensive sunset and thesanguine break of morn, the sweet solemnity of night, the ancienttrees and the light and evanescent flowers, all signs and sights andsounds of loveliness and power, fell on a ready eye and a responsiveear. Gazing on the beautiful, he longed to create it. Then it was thatthe two passions which seemed to share the being of Herbert appearedsimultaneously to assert their sway, and he resolved to call in hisMuse to the assistance of his Philosophy. 

Herbert celebrated that fond world of his imagination, which he wishedto teach men to love. In stanzas glittering with refined images, andresonant with subtle symphony, he called into creation that society ofimmaculate purity and unbounded enjoyment which he believed was thenatural inheritance of unshackled man. In the hero he pictured aphilosopher, young and gifted as himself; in the heroine, his idea ofa perfect woman. Although all those peculiar doctrines of Herbert, which, undisguised, must have excited so much odium, were more orless developed and inculcated in this work; nevertheless they werenecessarily so veiled by the highly spiritual and metaphoricallanguage of the poet, that it required some previous acquaintance withthe system enforced, to be able to detect and recognise the esotericspirit of his Muse. The public read only the history of an ideal worldand of creatures of exquisite beauty, told in language that alikedazzled their fancy and captivated their ear. They were lost in adelicious maze of metaphor and music, and were proud to acknowledgean addition to the glorious catalogue of their poets in a young andinteresting member of their aristocracy. 

In the meanwhile Herbert entered that great world that had longexpected him, and hailed his advent with triumph. How long might haveelapsed before they were roused by the conduct of Herbert to theerror under which they were labouring as to his character, it isnot difficult to conjecture; but before he could commence thosephilanthropic exertions which apparently absorbed him, he encounteredan individual who most unconsciously put his philosophy not merely tothe test, but partially even to the rout; and this was Lady AnnabelSidney. Almost as new to the world as himself, and not less admired, her unrivalled beauty, her unusual accomplishments, and her pure anddignified mind, combined, it must be confessed, with the flatteringadmiration of his genius, entirely captivated the philosophicalantagonist 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 hefaintly flattered himself, the last victim of prejudice. He wooed andwon the Lady Annabel. 

The marriage ceremony was performed by Doctor Masham, who had read hispupil's poem, and had been a little frightened by its indications; butthis happy union had dissipated all his fears. He would not believe inany other than a future career for him alike honourable and happy; andhe trusted that if any wild thoughts still lingered in Herbert's mind, that they would clear off by the same literary process; so thatthe utmost ill consequences of his immature opinions might be anoccasional line that the wise would have liked to blot, and yet whichthe unlettered might scarcely be competent to comprehend. Mr. And LadyAnnabel Herbert departed after the ceremony to his castle, and DoctorMasham to Marringhurst, a valuable living in another county, to whichhis pupil had just presented him. 

Some months after this memorable event, rumours reached the ear of thegood Doctor that all was not as satisfactory as he could desire inthat establishment, in the welfare of which he naturally took solively an interest. Herbert was in the habit of corresponding with therector of Marringhurst, and his first letters were full of details asto his happy life and his perfect consent; but gradually these detailshad been considerably abridged, and the correspondence assumed chieflya literary or philosophical character. Lady Annabel, however, wasalways mentioned with regard, and an intimation had been duly givento the Doctor that she was in a delicate and promising situation, andthat 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 ofthe world, that a husband, six months after marriage, should notspeak of the memorable event with all the fulness and fondness ofthe honeymoon; and, being one of those happy tempers that alwaysanticipate the best, he dismissed from his mind, as vain gossip andidle exaggerations, the ominous whispers that occasionally reachedhim. 

Immediately after the Christmas ensuing his marriage, the Herbertsreturned to London, and the Doctor, who happened to be a short timein the metropolis, paid them a visit. His observations were far fromunsatisfactory; it was certainly too evident that Marmion was nolonger enamoured of Lady Annabel, but he treated her apparently withcourtesy, and even cordiality. The presence of Dr. Masham tended, perhaps, a little to revive old feelings, for he was as much afavourite with the wife as with the husband; but, on the whole, the Doctor quitted them with an easy heart, and sanguine that theinteresting and impending event would, in all probability, reviveaffection on the part of Herbert, or at least afford Lady Annabel theonly substitute for a husband's heart. 

In due time the Doctor heard from Herbert that his wife had gonedown into the country, but was sorry to observe that Herbert did notaccompany her. Even this disagreeable impression was removed by aletter, shortly after received from Herbert, dated from the castle, and written in high spirits, informing him that Annabel had made himthe happy father of the most beautiful little girl in the world. During the ensuing three months Mr. Herbert, though he resumed hisresidence in London, paid frequent visits to the castle, where LadyAnnabel remained; and his occasional correspondence, though couchedin a careless vein, still on the whole indicated a cheerful spirit;though ever and anon were sarcastic observations as to the felicity ofthe married state, which, he said, was an undoubted blessing, as itkept a man out of all scrapes, though unfortunately under the penaltyof his total idleness and inutility in life. On the whole, however, the reader may judge of the astonishment of Doctor Masham when, incommon with the world, very shortly after the receipt of this letter, Mr. Herbert having previously proceeded to London, and awaiting, aswas said, the daily arrival of his wife and child, his former tutorlearned that Lady Annabel, accompanied only by Pauncefort and Venetia, had sought her father's roof, declaring that circumstances hadoccurred which rendered it quite impossible that she could live withMr. Herbert any longer, and entreating his succour and parentalprotection. 

Never was such a hubbub in the world! In vain Herbert claimed hiswife, and expressed his astonishment, declaring that he had partedfrom her with the expression of perfect kind feeling on both sides. No answer was given to his letter, and no explanation of any kindconceded him. The world universally declared Lady Annabel an injuredwoman, and trusted that she would eventually have the good sense andkindness to gratify them by revealing the mystery; while Herbert, on the contrary, was universally abused and shunned, avoided by hisacquaintances, and denounced as the most depraved of men. 

In this extraordinary state of affairs Herbert acted in a mannerthe best calculated to secure his happiness, and the very worst topreserve his character. Having ostentatiously shown himself in everypublic place, and courted notice and inquiry by every means in hispower, to prove that he was not anxious to conceal himself or avoidany inquiry, he left the country, free at last to pursue that careerto which he had always aspired, and in which he had been checked bya blunder, from the consequences of which he little expected thathe should so speedily and strangely emancipate himself. It was in abeautiful villa on the lake of Geneva that he finally establishedhimself, and there for many years he employed himself in thepublication of a series of works which, whether they were poetry orprose, imaginative or investigative, all tended to the same consistentpurpose, namely, the fearless and unqualified promulgation of thoseopinions, on the adoption of which he sincerely believed the happinessof mankind depended; and the opposite principles to which, in his owncase, had been productive of so much mortification and misery. His works, which were published in England, were little read, anduniversally decried. The critics were always hard at work, provingthat he was no poet, and demonstrating in the most logical mannerthat he was quite incapable of reasoning on the commonest topic. Inaddition to all this, his ignorance was self-evident; and though hewas very fond of quoting Greek, they doubted whether he was capable ofreading the original authors. The general impression of the Englishpublic, after the lapse of some years, was, that Herbert was anabandoned being, of profligate habits, opposed to all the institutionsof society that kept his infamy in check, and an avowed atheist; andas scarcely any one but a sympathetic spirit ever read a line hewrote, for indeed the very sight of his works was pollution, it is notvery wonderful that this opinion was so generally prevalent. A calminquirer might, perhaps, have suspected that abandoned profligacy isnot very compatible with severe study, and that an author is seldomloose in his life, even if he be licentious in his writings. A calminquirer might, perhaps, have been of opinion that a solitary sagemay be the antagonist of a priesthood without absolutely denying theexistence of a God; but there never are calm inquirers. The world, onevery subject, however unequally, is divided into parties; and even inthe 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 onevery subject, moral, political, and religious. 

Besides, it must be confessed, there was another circumstance whichwas almost as fatal to Herbert's character in England as his loose andheretical opinions. The travelling English, during their visits toGeneva, found out that their countryman solaced or enlivened hissolitude by unhallowed ties. It is a habit to which very young men, who are separated from or deserted by their wives, occasionally haverecourse. Wrong, no doubt, as most things are, but it is to be hopedvenial; 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 whogenerally at his studies out-watched the stars, were rife in Englishsociety; and

 Hoary marquises and stripling dukes, who were either protecting opera dancers, or, still worse, makinglove to their neighbours' wives, either looked grave when the name ofHerbert was mentioned in female society, or affectedly confused, as ifthey could a tale unfold, were they not convinced that the sense ofpropriety among all present was infinitely superior to their sense ofcuriosity. 

The only person to whom Herbert communicated in England was DoctorMasham. He wrote to him immediately on his establishment at Geneva, ina calm yet sincere and serious tone, as if it were useless to dwelltoo fully on the past. Yet he declared, although now that it was allover he avowed his joy at the interposition of his destiny, and theopportunity which he at length possessed of pursuing the career forwhich he was adapted, that he had to his knowledge given his wifeno cause of offence which could authorise her conduct. As for hisdaughter, he said he should not be so cruel as to tear her fromher mother's breast; though, if anything could induce him to suchbehaviour, it would be the malignant and ungenerous menace of hiswife's relatives, that they would oppose his preferred claim tothe guardianship of his child, on the plea of his immoral life andatheistical opinions. With reference to pecuniary arrangements, ashis chief seat was entailed on male heirs, he proposed that his wifeshould take up her abode at Cherbury, an estate which had been settledon her and her children at her marriage, and which, therefore, woulddescend to Venetia. Finally, he expressed his satisfaction that theneighbourhood of Marringhurst would permit his good and still faithfulfriend to cultivate the society and guard over the welfare of his wifeand daughter. 

During the first ten years of Herbert's exile, for such indeed itmight be considered, the Doctor maintained with him a rare yet regularcorrespondence; but after that time a public event occurred, anda revolution took place in Herbert's life which terminated allcommunication between them; a termination occasioned, however, by sucha simultaneous conviction of its absolute necessity, that it was notattended by any of those painful communications which are too oftenthe harrowing forerunners of a formal disruption of ancient ties. 

This event was the revolt of the American colonies; and thisrevolution in Herbert's career, his junction with the rebels againsthis native country. Doubtless it was not without a struggle, perhapsa pang, that Herbert resolved upon a line of conduct to which itmust assuredly have required the strongest throb of his cosmopolitansympathy, and his amplest definition of philanthropy to have impelledhim. But without any vindictive feelings towards England, for he everprofessed and exercised charity towards his enemies, attributing theirconduct entirely to their ignorance and prejudice, upon this step henevertheless felt it his duty to decide. There seemed in the openingprospects of America, in a world still new, which had borrowed fromthe old as it were only so much civilisation as was necessary tocreate and to maintain order; there seemed in the circumstances of itsboundless territory, and the total absence of feudal institutions andprejudices, so fair a field for the practical introduction of thoseregenerating principles to which Herbert had devoted all the thoughtand labour of his life, that he resolved, after long and perhapspainful meditation, to sacrifice every feeling and future interest toits fulfilment. All idea of ever returning to his native country, evenwere it only to mix his ashes with the generations of his ancestors;all hope of reconciliation with his wife, or of pressing to hisheart that daughter, often present to his tender fancy, and to whoseaffections he had feelingly appealed in an outburst of passionatepoetry; all these chances, chances which, in spite of his philosophy, had yet a lingering charm, must be discarded for ever. They werediscarded. Assigning his estate to his heir upon conditions, in orderto prevent its forfeiture, with such resources as he could command, and which were considerable, Marmion Herbert arrived at Boston, wherehis rank, his wealth, his distinguished name, his great talents, andhis undoubted zeal for the cause of liberty, procured him an eminentand gratifying reception. He offered to raise a regiment for therepublic, and the offer was accepted, and he was enrolled among thecitizens. All this occurred about the time that the Cadurcis familyfirst settled at the abbey, and this narrative will probably throwlight upon several slight incidents which heretofore may haveattracted the perplexed attention of the reader: such as the newspaperbrought by Dr. Masham at the Christmas visit; the tears shed at asubsequent period at Marringhurst, when he related to her the lastintelligence that had been received from America. For, indeed, it isimpossible to express the misery and mortification which this lastconduct of her husband occasioned Lady Annabel, brought up, as she hadbeen, with feelings of romantic loyalty and unswerving patriotism. To be a traitor seemed the only blot that remained for his sulliedscutcheon, and she had never dreamed of that. An infidel, aprofligate, a deserter from his home, an apostate from his God! oneinfamy alone remained, and now he had attained it; a traitor to hisking! Why, every peasant would despise him!

General Herbert, however, for such he speedily became, at the head ofhis division, soon arrested the attention, and commanded the respect, of Europe. To his exertions the successful result of the strugglewas, in a great measure, attributed; and he received the thanks ofCongress, of which he became a member. His military and politicalreputation 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 surreptitiouslyintroduced into France. The Whigs, who had become very factious, andnearly revolutionary, during the American war, suddenly became proudof their countryman, whom a new world hailed as a deliverer, andParis declared to be a great poet and an illustrious philosopher. Hiswritings became fashionable, especially among the young; numerouseditions of them appeared, and in time it was discovered that Herbertwas now not only openly read, and enthusiastically admired, but hadfounded a school. 

The struggle with America ceased about the time of Lord Cadurcis' lastvisit to Cherbury, when, from his indignant lips, Venetia first learntthe enormities of her father's career. Since that period some threeyears had elapsed until we introduced our readers to the boudoirof Lady Monteagle. During this period, among the Whigs and theirpartisans the literary fame of Herbert had arisen and becomeestablished. How they have passed in regard to Lady Annabel Herbertand her daughter, on the one hand, and Lord Cadurcis himself on theother, we will endeavour to ascertain in the following chapter. 

CHAPTER III. 

From the last departure of Lord Cadurcis from Cherbury, the health ofVenetia again declined. The truth is, she brooded in solitude over herstrange lot, until her nerves became relaxed by intense reverie andsuppressed feeling. The attention of a mother so wrapt up in her childas Lady Annabel, was soon attracted to the increasing languor ofour heroine, whose eye each day seemed to grow less bright, and hergraceful form less lithe and active. No longer, fond of the sun andbreeze as a beautiful bird, was Venetia seen, as heretofore, glancingin the garden, or bounding over the lawns; too often might she befound reclining on the couch, in spite of all the temptations of thespring; while her temper, once so singularly sweet that it seemedthere was not in the world a word that could ruffle it, and whichrequired so keenly and responded so quickly to sympathy, becamereserved, if not absolutely sullen, or at times even captious andfretful. 

This change in the appearance and demeanour of her daughter filledLady Annabel with anxiety and alarm. In vain she expressed to Venetiaher conviction of her indisposition; but Venetia, though her alteredhabits confirmed the suspicion, and authorised the inquiry of herparent, persisted ever in asserting that she had no ailment. Her oldmedical attendant was, however, consulted, and, being perplexed withthe case, he recommended change of air. Lady Annabel then consultedDr. Masham, and he gave his opinion in favour of change of air for onereason: and that was, that it would bring with it what he had longconsidered 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 puzzledphysician. We laugh very often at the errors of medical men; but ifwe would only, when we consult them, have strength of mind enough toextend to them something better than a half-confidence, we might becured the sooner. How often, when the unhappy disciple of Esculapiusis perplexing himself about the state of our bodies, we might throwlight upon his obscure labours by simply detailing to him the state ofour minds!

The result of these consultations in the Herbert family was a finalresolution, on the part of Lady Annabel, to quit Cherbury for a while. As the sea air was especially recommended to Venetia, and as LadyAnnabel shrank with a morbid apprehension from society, to whichnothing could persuade her she was not an object either of odium orimpertinent curiosity, she finally resolved to visit Weymouth, then asmall and secluded watering-place, and whither she arrived and settledherself, it not being even the season when its few customary visitorswere in the habit of gathering. 

This residence at Weymouth quite repaid Lady Annabel for all thetrouble of her new settlement, and for the change in her life verypainful to her confirmed habits, which she experienced in leaving forthe first time for such a long series of years, her old hall; for therose returned to the cheek of her daughter, and the western breezes, joined with the influence of the new objects that surrounded her, andespecially 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 ofher old vivacity. 

When Lady Annabel had resided about a year at Weymouth, in the societyof which she had invariably made the indisposition of Venetia a reasonfor not entering, a great revolution suddenly occurred at this littlequiet watering-place, for it was fixed upon as the summer residence ofthe English court. The celebrated name, the distinguished appearance, and the secluded habits of Lady Annabel and her daughter, had renderedthem the objects of general interest. Occasionally they were met in aseaside walk by some fellow-wanderer over the sands, or toiler overthe shingles; and romantic reports of the dignity of the mother andthe daughter's beauty were repeated by the fortunate observers to thelounging circle of the public library or the baths. 

The moment that Lady Annabel was assured that the royal family hadpositively fixed upon Weymouth for their residence, and were evendaily expected, she resolved instantly to retire. Her stern sense ofduty assured her that it was neither delicate nor loyal to obtrudebefore the presence of an outraged monarch the wife and daughter of atraitor; her haughty, though wounded, spirit shrank from the revivalof her husband's history, which must be the consequence of such aconjunction, and from the startling and painful remarks which mightreach the shrouded ear of her daughter. With her characteristicdecision, and with her usual stern volition, Lady Annabel quittedWeymouth instantly, but she was in some degree consoled for the regretand apprehensiveness which she felt at thus leaving a place that hadotherwise so happily fulfilled all her hopes and wishes, and thatseemed to agree so entirely with Venetia, by finding unexpectedlya marine villa, some few miles further up the coast, which wasuntenanted, and which offered to Lady Annabel all the accommodationshe 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 thenewspaper, or pass an hour in that easy lounging chat, which is, perhaps, one of the principal diversions of a watering-place. A greatdignitary of the church, who was about the King, and to whom Dr. Masham was known not merely by reputation, mentioned his presence tohis Majesty; and the King, who was fond of the society of eminentdivines, desired that Dr. Masham should be presented to him. Now, sofavourable was the impression that the rector of Marringhurst madeupon his sovereign, that from that moment the King was scarcely evercontent unless he was in attendance. His Majesty, who was happy inasking questions, and much too acute to be baffled when he soughtinformation, finally elicited from the Doctor all that, in order toplease Lady Annabel, he long struggled to conceal; but when the Kingfound that the deserted wife and daughter of Herbert were reallyliving in the neighbourhood, and that they had quitted Weymouth on hisarrival, from a feeling of delicate loyalty, nothing would satisfy thekind-hearted monarch but personally assuring them of the interest hetook in their welfare; and accordingly, the next day, without givingLady Annabel even the preparation of a notice, his Majesty and hisroyal consort, attended only by a lord in waiting, called at themarine villa, and fairly introduced themselves. 

An acquaintance, occasioned by a sentiment of generous andcondescending sympathy, was established and strengthened intointimacy, by the personal qualities of those thus delicately honoured. The King and Queen were equally delighted with the wife and daughterof the terrible rebel; and although, of course, not an allusion wasmade to his existence, Lady Annabel felt not the less acutely thecause to which she was indebted for a notice so gratifying, butwhich she afterwards ensured by her own merits. How strange are theaccidents of life! Venetia Herbert, who had been bred up in unbrokensolitude, and whose converse had been confined to two or three beings, suddenly found herself the guest of a king, and the visitor to acourt! She stepped at once from solitude into the most august circleof society; yet, though she had enjoyed none of that initiatoryexperience which is usually held so indispensable to the votariesof fashion, her happy nature qualified her to play her part withouteffort and with success. Serene and graceful, she mingled in thestrange and novel scene, as if it had been for ever her lot to dazzleand to charm. Ere the royal family returned to London, they extractedfrom Lady Annabel a compliance with their earnest wishes, thatshe should fix her residence, during the ensuing season, in themetropolis, and that she should herself present Venetia at St. James's. The wishes of kings are commands; and Lady Annabel, who thusunexpectedly perceived some of the most painful anticipations of hersolitude at once dissipated, and that her child, instead of beingsubjected on her entrance into life to all the mortifications she hadimagined, would, on the contrary, find her first introduction underauspices the most flattering and advantageous, bowed a dutiful assentto the condescending injunctions. 

Such were the memorable consequences of this visit to Weymouth! Thereturn of Lady Annabel to the world, and her intended residence in themetropolis, while the good Masham preceded their arrival to receive amitre. Strange events, and yet not improbable!

In the meantime Lord Cadurcis had repaired to the university, wherehis rank and his eccentric qualities quickly gathered round him achoice circle of intimates, chiefly culled from his old schoolfellows. Of these the great majority were his seniors, for whose societythe maturity of his mind qualified him. It so happened that thesecompanions were in general influenced by those liberal opinions whichhad become in vogue during the American war, and from which LordCadurcis had hitherto been preserved by the society in which hehad previously mingled in the house of his guardian. With thecharacteristic caprice and impetuosity of youth, Cadurcis rapidlyand ardently imbibed all these doctrines, captivated alike by theirboldness and their novelty. Hitherto the child of prejudice, heflattered himself that he was now the creature of reason, and, determined to take nothing for granted, he soon learned to questioneverything that was received. A friend introduced him to the writingsof Herbert, that very Herbert whom he had been taught to look uponwith so much terror and odium. Their perusal operated a completerevolution of his mind; and, in little more than a year from hisflight from Cherbury, he had become an enthusiastic votary of thegreat master, for his violent abuse of whom he had been banished fromthose happy bowers. The courage, the boldness, the eloquence, theimagination, the strange and romantic career of Herbert, carried thespirit of Cadurcis captive. The sympathetic companions studied hisworks and smiled with scorn at the prejudice of which their greatmodel had been the victim, and of which they had been so long thedupes. As for Cadurcis, he resolved to emulate him, and he commencedhis noble rivalship by a systematic neglect of all the duties andthe studies of his college life. His irregular habits procured himconstant reprimands in which he gloried; he revenged himself on theauthorities by writing epigrams, and by keeping a bear, which hedeclared should stand for a fellowship. At length, having wilfullyoutraged the most important regulations, he was expelled; and hemade his expulsion the subject of a satire equally personal andphilosophic, and which obtained applause for the great talent which itdisplayed, even from those who lamented its want of judgment and themisconduct of its writer. Flushed with success, Cadurcis at lengthfound, to his astonishment, that Nature had intended him for a poet. He repaired to London, where he was received with open arms by theWhigs, whose party he immediately embraced, and where he published apoem, in which he painted his own character as the hero, and of which, in spite of all the exaggeration and extravagance of youth, the geniuswas undeniable. Society sympathised with a young and a noble poet;his poem was read by all parties with enthusiasm; Cadurcis became thefashion. To use his own expression, 'One morning he awoke, and foundhimself famous. ' Young, singularly handsome, with every gift of natureand fortune, and with an inordinate vanity that raged in his soul, Cadurcis soon forgot the high philosophy that had for a momentattracted him, and delivered himself up to the absorbing egotism whichhad ever been latent in his passionate and ambitious mind. Gifted withenergies that few have ever equalled, and fooled to the bent by theexcited sympathies of society, he poured forth his creative and daringspirit with a license that conquered all obstacles, from the veryaudacity with which he assailed them. In a word, the young, thereserved, and unknown Cadurcis, who, but three years back, was to havelived in the domestic solitude for which he alone felt himself fitted, filled every heart and glittered in every eye. The men envied, thewomen loved, all admired him. His life was a perpetual triumph; abrilliant and applauding stage, on which he ever played a dazzling andheroic part. So sudden and so startling had been his apparition, sovigorous and unceasing the efforts by which he had maintained hisfirst overwhelming impression, and not merely by his writings, but byhis unusual manners and eccentric life, that no one had yet found timeto draw his breath, to observe, to inquire, and to criticise. He hadrisen, and still flamed, like a comet as wild as it was beautiful, andstrange is it was brilliant. 

CHAPTER IV. 

We must now return to the dinner party at Lord Monteagle's. When theBishop of ---- entered the room, he found nearly all the expectedguests assembled, and was immediately presented by his host to thelady of the house, who received him with all that fascinating addressfor which she was celebrated, expressing the extreme delight which shefelt at thus becoming formally acquainted with one whom her husbandhad long taught her to admire and reverence. Utterly unconscious whohad just joined the circle, while Lord Monteagle was introducing hisnewly-arrived guest to many present, and to all of whom he was unknownexcept by reputation, Lord Cadurcis was standing apart, apparentlywrapt in his own thoughts; but the truth is, in spite of all theexcitement in which he lived, he had difficulty in overcoming thenatural reserve of his disposition. 

'Watch Cadurcis, ' said Mr. Horace Pole to a fine lady. 'Does not helook sublime?'

'Show me him, ' said the lady, eagerly. 'I have never seen him yet; Iam 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 asneer. 'However, there is the marvellous young gentleman! "Alone in acrowd, " as he says in his last poem. Very interesting!'

'Wonderful creature!' exclaimed the dame. 

'Charming!' said Mr. Pole. 'If you ask Lady Monteagle, she willintroduce him to you, and then, perhaps, you will be fortunate enoughto 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 whoeats. '

'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 sonnetto 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 hiselegy on Mrs. Crewe's cat. But you must not talk of cats and dogs toCadurcis. He is too exalted to commemorate any animal less sublimethan 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 interestingmisanthrope!'

'He looks unhappy. '

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

'They do whisper very odd things, ' said the lady, with greatcuriosity. 'Do you think there is anything in them?'

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

'Dear me, how shocking! I think he must be the most interesting personthat ever lived. I should so like to know him! They say he is so veryodd. '

'Very, ' said Mr. Pole. 'He must be a man of genius; he is so unlikeeverybody; the very tie of his cravat proves it. And his hair, sosavage and dishevelled; none but a man of genius would not wearpowder. Watch him to-day, and you will observe that he will notcondescend to perform the slightest act like an ordinary mortal. Imet him at dinner yesterday at Fanshawe's, and he touched nothing butbiscuits 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 Ishall 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 tothe further end of the saloon, apart from every one, and threw himselfupon a couch with a somewhat discontented air. Lady Monteagle, whoseeye had never left him for a moment, although her attentions had beennecessarily commanded by her guests, and who dreaded the silent ragesin which Cadurcis constantly indulged, and which, when once assumedfor the day, were with difficulty dissipated, seized the firstopportunity to join and soothe him. 

'Dear Cadurcis, ' she said, 'why do you sit here? You know I am obligedto 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 asarcastic tone. 

'Now, Cadurcis, for Heaven's sake do not play with my feelings, 'exclaimed Lady Monteagle, in a deprecating tone. 'Pray be amiable. IfI think you are in one of your dark humours, it is quite impossiblefor me to attend to these people; and you know it is the only point onwhich Monteagle ever has an opinion; he insists upon my attending tohis guests. '

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

'Now, Cadurcis! I ask you as a favour, a favour to me, only forto-day. Be kind, be amiable, you can if you like; no person can bemore amiable; now, do!'

'I am amiable, ' said his lordship; 'I am perfectly satisfied, if youare. 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 ofthese creatures who come to eat your husband's cutlets, is too much, 'said his lordship. 'And you, Gertrude, what necessity can there be inyour troubling yourself to amuse people whom you meet every day ofyour life, and who, from the vulgar perversity of society, value youin exact proportion as you neglect them?'

'Yes, but to-day I must be attentive; for Henry, with his usualthoughtlessness, 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 thesimplicity of old days, which instantly returned on him, thosemelancholy eyes sparkling with animation, and that languid form quickwith excitement, he caught the Doctor's glance, and shook his extendedhand 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, 'thisis the greatest and the most unexpected pleasure I ever received. Ofall persons in the world, you are the one whom I was most anxious tomeet. '

The good Bishop appeared not less gratified with the rencounter thanCadurcis himself; but, in the midst of their mutual congratulations, dinner was announced and served; and, in due order, Lord Cadurcisfound himself attending that fine lady, whom Mr. Horace Pole had, injest, suggested should be the object of his services; while Mr. Polehimself was seated opposite to him at table. 

The lady, remembering all Mr. Pole's intimations, was reallymuch frightened; she at first could scarcely reply to the casualobservations of her neighbour, and quite resolved not to eat anything. But his lively and voluble conversation, his perfectly unaffectedmanner, and the nonchalance with which he helped himself to every dishthat was offered him, soon reassured her. Her voice became a littlefirmer, her manner less embarrassed, and she even began meditating adelicate assault upon a fricassee. 

'Are you going to Ranelagh to-night?' inquired Lord Cadurcis; 'I thinkI shall take a round. There is nothing like amusement; it is the onlything worth living for; and I thank my destiny I am easily amused. Wemust persuade Lady Monteagle to go with us. Let us make a party, andreturn and sup. I like a supper; nothing in the world more charmingthan a supper, A lobster salad, and champagne and chat. 

That is life, and delightful. Why, really, my dear madam, you eatnothing. You will never be able to endure the fatigues of a Ranelaghcampaign on the sustenance of a pâté. Pole, my good fellow, will youtake 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 mypart; but I have led rather a raking life lately. We must go and dinewith him again. '

Lord Cadurcis' neighbour and Mr. Pole exchanged looks; and the lady, emboldened by the unexpected conduct of her cavalier and the exceedinggood friends which he seemed resolved to be with her and everyone else, began to flatter herself that she might yet obtain themuch-desired inscription in her volume. So, after making the usualapproaches, of having a great favour to request, which, however, shecould not flatter herself would be granted, and which she even wasafraid to mention; encouraged by the ready declaration of LordCadurcis, that he should think it would be quite impossible for anyone to deny her anything, the lady ventured to state, that Mr. Fox hadwritten something in her book, and she should be the most honoured andhappiest lady in the land if--'

'Oh! I shall be most happy, ' said Lord Cadurcis; 'I really esteem yourrequest quite an honour: you know I am only a literary amateur, andcannot pretend to vie with your real authors. If you want them, youmust go to Mrs. Montagu. I would not write a line for her, and no theblues have quite excommunicated me. Never mind; I leave them to MissHannah More; but you, you are quite a different sort of person. Whatshall 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 ora broken fan; I don't think I could soar above them. I think that isabout my tether. '

This lady, though a great person, was not a beauty, and very littleof a wit, and not calculated in any respect to excite the jealousy ofLady Monteagle. In the meantime that lady was quite delighted with theunusual animation of Lord Cadurcis, who was much the most entertainingmember of the party. Every one present would circulate throughoutthe world that it was only at the Monteagle's that Lord Cadurciscondescended to be amusing. As the Bishop was seated on her righthand, Lady Monteagle seized the opportunity of making inquiries as totheir acquaintance; but she only obtained from the good Masham that hehad once resided in his lordship's neighbourhood, and had known him asa child, and was greatly attached to him. Her ladyship was anxious toobtain some juvenile anecdotes of her hero; but the Bishop contrivedto be amusing without degenerating into gossip. She did not gleanmuch, except that all his early friends were more astonished at hispresent career than the Bishop himself, who was about to add, thathe always had some misgivings, but, recollecting where he was, heconverted the word into a more gracious term. But if Lady Monteaglewere not so successful as she could wish in her inquiries, shecontrived still to speak on the, to her, ever-interesting subject, andconsoled herself by the communications which she poured into a guardedyet not unwilling ear, respecting the present life and conduct ofthe Bishop's former pupil. The worthy dignitary had been prepared bypublic fame for much that was dazzling and eccentric; but it must beconfessed he was not a little astonished by a great deal to which helistened. One thing, however, was clear that whatever might be thedemeanour of Cadurcis to the circle in which he now moved, time, andthe strange revolutions of his life, had not affected his carriageto his old friend. It gratified the Bishop while he listened to LadyMonteagle's details of the haughty, reserved, and melancholy demeanourof Cadurcis, which impressed every one with an idea that some superiorbeing had, as a punishment, been obliged to visit their humble globe, to recall the apparently heartfelt cordiality with which he hadresumed his old acquaintance with the former rector of Marringhurst. 

And indeed, to speak truth, the amiable and unpretending behaviour ofCadurcis this day was entirely attributable to the unexpected meetingwith this old friend. In the hurry of society he could scarcely dwellupon the associations which it was calculated to call up; yetmore than once he found himself quite absent, dwelling on sweetrecollections of that Cherbury that he had so loved. And ever and anonthe tones of a familiar voice caught his ear, so that they almost madehim start: they were not the less striking, because, as Masham wasseated on the same side of the table as Cadurcis, his eye had notbecome habituated to the Bishop's presence, which sometimes he almostdoubted. 

He seized the first opportunity after dinner of engaging his old tutorin 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 wasabout to inquire of some whom he could not mention without emotion. 

'Is it long since you have seen our friends?' said his lordship, 'ifindeed 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 seaair. '

'I hope neither Lady Annabel nor her daughter needs it?' said LordCadurcis, in a tone of much feeling. 

'Neither now, God be praised!' replied Masham; 'but Miss Herbert hasbeen a great invalid. '

There was a rather awkward silence. At length Lord Cadurcis said, 'Wemeet 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 wouldwillingly give a whole existence of a life like this for one year ofhappiness at Cherbury. '

'Nay!' said the Bishop, with a look of good-natured mockery, 'thismelancholy is all very well in poetry; but I always half-suspected, and I am quite sure now, that Cherbury was not particularly adapted toyou. '

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

'Hitherto I have not been so very wrong in my judgment respectingLord 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 neverchanged, one sentiment that still reigns paramount in my heart. '

'You think so, ' said his companion; but, perhaps, were it more than asentiment, it would cease to flourish. '

'No, ' said Lord Cadurcis firmly; 'the only circumstance in the worldof which I venture to feel certain is my love for Venetia. '

'It raged certainly during your last visit to Cherbury, ' said theBishop, 'after an interval of five years; it has been revived slightlyto-day, after an interval of three more, by the sight of a mutualacquaintance, who has reminded you of her. But what have been yourfeelings in the meantime? Confess the truth, and admit you have veryrarely spared a thought to the person to whom you fancy yourself atthis moment so passionately devoted. '

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

'Nay! prejudice is not my humour, my good lord. I decide only fromwhat I myself observe; I give my opinion to you at this moment asfreely as I did when you last conversed with me at the abbey, and whenI a little displeased you by speaking what you will acknowledge hassince turned out to be the truth. '

'You mean, then, to say, ' said his lordship, with some excitement, 'that you do not believe that I love Venetia?'

'I think you do, at this moment, ' replied Masham; 'and I think, ' hecontinued, smiling, 'that you may probably continue very much in lovewith her, even during the rest of the week. '

'You mock me!'

'Nay! I am sincerely serious. '

'What, then, do you mean?'

'I mean that your imagination, my lord, dwelling for the moment withgreat power upon the idea of Venetia, becomes inflamed, and your wholemind is filled with her image. '

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

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

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

'But it is in the nature of its influence not to endure. At thismoment, I repeat, your lordship may perhaps love Miss Herbert; youmay go home and muse over her memory, and even deplore in passionateverses your misery in being separated from her; but, in the course ofa few days, she will be again forgotten. '

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

'Why, you would probably part from her in a year, as her father partedfrom Lady Annabel. '

'Impossible! for my imagination could not conceive anything moreexquisite than she is. '

'Then it would conceive something less exquisite, ' said the Bishop. 'It is a restless quality, and is ever creative, either of good or ofevil. '

'Ah! my dear Doctor, excuse me for again calling you Doctor, it is sonatural, ' said Cadurcis, in a tone of affection. 

'Call me what you will, my dear lord, ' said the good Bishop, whoseheart was moved; 'I can never forget old days. '

'Believe me, then, ' continued Cadurcis, 'that you misjudge me inrespect of Venetia. I feel assured that, had we married three yearsago, I should have been a much happier man. '

'Why, you have everything to make you happy, ' said the Bishop; 'if youare not happy, who should be? You are young, and you are famous: allthat is now wanted is to be wise. '

Lord Cadurcis shrugged his shoulders. I am tired of this life, ' hesaid; 'I am wearied of the same hollow bustle, and the same falseglitter day after day. Ah! my dear friend, when I remember the happyhours when I used to roam through the woods of Cherbury with Venetia, and ramble in that delicious park, both young, both innocent, lit bythe sunset and guided by the stars; and then remember that it has allended in this, and that this is success, glory, fame, or whatever bethe proper title to baptize the bubble, the burthen of existence istoo great for me. '

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

'But what is wisdom?' said Lord Cadurcis. 

'One quality of it, in your situation, my lord, is to keep your headas calm as you can. Now, I must bid you good night. '

The Bishop disappeared, and Lord Cadurcis was immediately surroundedby several fine ladies, who were encouraged by the flattering bulletinthat his neighbour at dinner, who was among them, had given of hislordship's temper. They were rather disappointed to find him sullen, sarcastic, and even morose. As for going to Ranelagh, he declaredthat, if he had the power of awarding the punishment of his bitterestenemy, it would be to consign him for an hour to the barbarousinfliction of a promenade in that temple of ennui; and as for theowner of the album, who, anxious about her verses, ventured to expressa hope that his lordship would call upon her, the contemptuous bardgave her what he was in the habit of styling 'a look, ' and quittedthe room, without deigning otherwise to acknowledge her hopes and hercourtesy. 

CHAPTER V. 

We must now return to our friends the Herberts, who, having quittedWeymouth, without even revisiting Cherbury, are now on their journeyto the metropolis. It was not without considerable emotion that LadyAnnabel, after an absence of nearly nineteen years, contemplated herreturn to the scene of some of the most extraordinary and painfuloccurrences of her life. As for Venetia, who knew nothing of towns andcities, save from the hasty observations she had made in travelling, the idea of London, formed only from books and her imagination, wasinvested with even awful attributes. Mistress Pauncefort alonelooked forward to their future residence simply with feelings ofself-congratulation at her return, after so long an interval, to thetheatre of former triumphs and pleasures, and where she conceivedherself so eminently qualified to shine and to enjoy. 

The travellers entered town towards nightfall, by Hyde Park Corner, and proceeded to an hotel in St. James's Street, where Lady Annabel'sman of business had engaged them apartments. London, with its pallidparish lamps, scattered at long intervals, would have presented but agloomy appearance to the modern eye, habituated to all the splendourof gas; but to Venetia it seemed difficult to conceive a scene of morebrilliant bustle; and she leant back in the carriage, distracted withthe lights and the confusion of the crowded streets. When they wereonce safely lodged in their new residence, the tumult of unpacking thecarriages had subsided, and the ceaseless tongue of Pauncefort hadin some degree refrained from its wearying and worrying chatter, a feeling of loneliness, after all this agitation and excitement, simultaneously came over the feelings of both mother and daughter, though they alike repressed its expression. Lady Annabel was lostin many sad thoughts, and Venetia felt mournful, though she couldscarcely define the cause. Both were silent, and they soon soughtrefuge from fatigue and melancholy in sleep. 

The next morning, it being now April, was fortunately bright andclear. It certainly was a happy fortune that the fair Venetia was notgreeted with a fog. She rose refreshed and cheerful, and joined hermother, who was, however, not a little agitated by an impending visit, of which Venetia had been long apprised. This was from Lady Annabel'sbrother, the former ambassador, who had of late returned to his nativecountry. The brother and sister had been warmly attached in youth, butthe awful interval of time that had elapsed since they parted, filledVenetia's mother with many sad and serious reflections. The Earl andhis family had been duly informed of Lady Annabel's visit to themetropolis, and had hastened to offer her the hospitality of theirhome; but the offer had been declined, with feelings, however, not alittle gratified by the earnestness with which it had been proffered. 

Venetia was now, for the first time in her life, to see a relative. The anticipated meeting excited in her mind rather curiosity thansentiment. She could not share the agitation of her mother, andyet she looked forward to the arrival of her uncle with extremeinquisitiveness. She was not long kept in suspense. Their breakfastwas scarcely finished, when he was announced. Lady Annabel turnedrather pale; and Venetia, who felt herself as it were a stranger toher blood, would have retired, had not her mother requested her toremain; so she only withdrew to the back of the apartment. 

Her uncle was ten years the senior of his sister, but not unlike her. Tall, graceful, with those bland and sympathising manners that easilywin hearts, he entered the room with a smile of affection, yet with acomposure of deportment that expressed at the same time how sincerelydelighted he was at the meeting, and how considerately determined, atthe same time, not to indulge in a scene. He embraced his sister withtenderness, assured her that she looked as young as ever, softlychided her for not making his house her home, and hoped that theyshould never part again; and he then turned to his niece. A fineobserver, one less interested in the scene than the only witnesses, might have detected in the Earl, notwithstanding his experiencedbreeding, no ordinary surprise and gratification at the sight of theindividual whose relationship he was now to claim for the first time. 

'I must claim an uncle's privilege, ' he said, in a tone of sweetnessand some emotion, as he pressed with his own the beautiful lips ofVenetia. 'I ought to be proud of my niece. Why, Annabel! if only forthe honour of our family, you should not have kept this jewel so longenshrined in the casket of Cherbury. '

The Earl remained with them some hours, and his visit was reallyprolonged by the unexpected pleasure which he found in the society ofhis relations. He would not leave them until they promised to dinewith him that day, and mentioned that he had prevented his wife fromcalling with him that morning, because he thought, after so long aseparation, it might be better to meet thus quietly. Then they partedwith affectionate cordiality on both sides; the Earl enchanted to finddelightful companions where he was half afraid he might only meettiresome relatives; Lady Annabel proud of her brother, and gratifiedby his kindness; and Venetia anxious to ascertain whether all herrelations were as charming as her uncle. 

CHAPTER VI. 

When Lady Annabel and her daughter returned from their morning drive, they found the visiting ticket of the Countess on the table, who hadalso left a note, with which she had provided herself in case she wasnot so fortunate as to meet her relations. The note was affectionate, and expressed the great delight of the writer at again meeting herdear sister, and forming an acquaintance with her charming niece. 

'More relations!' said Venetia, with a somewhat droll expression ofcountenance. 

At this moment the Bishop of----, who had already called twice uponthem unsuccessfully, entered the room. The sight of this old and dearfriend gave great joy. He came to engage them to dine with him thenext day, having already ineffectually endeavoured to obtain them forpermanent guests. They sat chatting so long with him, that they wereobliged at last to bid him an abrupt adieu, and hasten and make theirtoilettes for their dinner. 

Their hostess received her relations with a warmth which her husband'spraises of her sister-in-law and niece had originally prompted, butwhich their appearance and manners instantly confirmed. As all theEarl's children were married, their party consisted to-day only ofthemselves; but it was a happy and agreeable meeting, for everyone was desirous of being amiable. To be sure they had not manyrecollections or associations in common, and no one recurred to thepast; but London, and the history of its fleeting hours, was aninexhaustible source of amusing conversation; and the Countess seemedresolved that Venetia should have a brilliant season; that she shouldbe much amused and much admired. Lady Annabel, however, put in a pleafor moderation, at least until Venetia was presented; but that theCountess declared must be at the next drawing-room, which was early inthe ensuing week. Venetia listened to glittering narratives of ballsand routs, operas and theatres, breakfasts and masquerades, Ranelaghand the Pantheon, with the same smiling composure as if she had beenaccustomed to them all her life, instead of having been shut up ina garden, with no livelier or brighter companions than birds andflowers. 

After dinner, as her aunt and uncle and Lady Annabel sat round thefire, talking of her maternal grandfather, a subject which did not atall interest her, Venetia stole from her chair to a table in a distantpart of the room, and turned over some books and music that were lyingupon it. Among these was a literary journal, which she touched almostby accident, and which opened, with the name of Lord Cadurcis on thetop of its page. This, of course, instantly attracted her attention. Her eye passed hastily over some sentences which greatly astonishedher, and, extending her arm for a chair without quitting the book, she was soon deeply absorbed by the marvels which rapidly unfoldedthemselves to her. The article in question was an elaborate criticismas well of the career as the works of the noble poet; for, indeed, asVenetia now learnt, they were inseparably blended. She gathered fromthese pages a faint and hasty yet not altogether unfaithful conceptionof the strange revolution that had occurred in the character, pursuits, and position of her former companion. In that mightymetropolis, whose wealth and luxury and power had that morning sovividly impressed themselves upon her consciousness, and to thehistory of whose pleasures and brilliant and fantastic dissipation shehad recently been listening with a lively and diverted ear, it seemedthat, by some rapid and magical vicissitude, her little Plantagenet, the faithful and affectionate companion of her childhood, whosesorrows she had so often soothed, and who in her pure and devoted lovehad always found consolation and happiness, had become 'the observedof all observers;' the most remarkable where all was striking, anddazzling where all were brilliant!

His last visit to Cherbury, and its strange consequences, thenoccurred to her; his passionate addresses, and their bitter parting. Here was surely matter enough for a maiden's reverie, and into areverie Venetia certainly fell, from which she was roused by the voiceof her uncle, who could not conceive what book his charming niececould find so interesting, and led her to feel what an ill complimentshe was paying to all present. Venetia hastily closed the volume, androse rather confused from her seat; her radiant smile was thebest apology to her uncle: and she compensated for her previousinattention, by playing to him on the harpsichord. All the time, however, the image of Cadurcis flitted across her vision, and shewas glad when her mother moved to retire, that she might enjoy theopportunity of pondering in silence and unobserved over the strangehistory that she had read. 

London is a wonderful place! Four-and-twenty hours back, with afeeling of loneliness and depression amounting to pain, Venetia hadfled to sleep as her only refuge; now only a day had passed, andshe had both seen and heard many things that had alike startled andpleased her; had found powerful and charming friends; and laid herhead upon her pillow in a tumult of emotion that long banished slumberfrom her beautiful eyes. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Venetia soon found that she must bid adieu for ever, in London, to herold habits of solitude. She soon discovered that she was never to bealone. Her aunt called upon them early in the morning, and said thatthe whole day must be devoted to their court dresses; and in a fewminutes they were all whirled off to a celebrated milliner's. Afterinnumerable consultations and experiments, the dress of Venetia wasdecided on; her aunt and Lady Annabel were both assured that it wouldexceed in splendour and propriety any dress at the drawing-room. Indeed, as the great artist added, with such a model to work fromit would reflect but little credit on the establishment, if anyapproached Miss Herbert in the effect she must inevitably produce. 

While her mother was undergoing some of those attentions to whichVenetia had recently submitted, and had retired for a few minutes intoan adjoining apartment, our little lady of Cherbury strolled about thesaloon in which she had been left, until her attention was attractedby a portrait of a young man in an oriental dress, standing verysublimely amid the ruins of some desert city; a palm tree in thedistance, and by his side a crouching camel, and some recumbentfollowers slumbering amid the fallen columns. 

'That is Lord Cadurcis, my love, ' said her aunt, who at the momentjoined her, 'the famous poet. All the young ladies are in love withhim. I dare say you know his works by heart. '

'No, indeed, aunt, ' said Venetia; 'I have never even read them; but Ishould like very much. '

'Not read Lord Cadurcis' poems! Oh! we must go and get them directlyfor you. Everybody reads them. You will be looked upon quite as alittle barbarian. We will stop the carriage at Stockdale's, and getthem for you. '

At this moment Lady Annabel rejoined them; and, having made all theirarrangements, they re-entered the carriage. 

'Stop at Stockdale's, ' said her ladyship to the servant; 'I mustget Cadurcis' last poem for Venetia. She will be quite back in herlearning, Annabel. '

'Cadurcis' last poem!' said Lady Annabel; 'do you mean Lord Cadurcis?Is he a poet?'

'To he sure! Well, you are countrified not to know Lord Cadurcis!'

'I know him very well, ' said Lady Annabel, gravely; 'but I did notknow he was a poet. '

The Countess laughed, the carriage stopped, the book was brought; LadyAnnabel looked uneasy, and tried to catch her daughter's countenance, but, strange to say, for the first time in her life was quiteunsuccessful. The Countess took the book, and immediately gave itVenetia. 'There, my dear, ' said her aunt, 'there never was anything socharming. I am so provoked that Cadurcis is a Whig. '

'A Whig!' said Lady Annabel; 'he was not a Whig when I knew him. '

'Oh! my dear, I am afraid he is worse than a Whig. He is almost arebel! But then he is such a genius! Everything is allowed, you know, to a genius!' said the thoughtless sister-in-law. 

Lady Annabel was silent; but the stillness of her emotion must not bejudged from the stillness of her tongue. Her astonishment at all shehad heard was only equalled by what we may justly term her horror. Itwas impossible that she could have listened to any communication atthe same time so astounding, and to her so fearful. 

'We knew Lord Cadurcis when he was very young, aunt, ' said Venetia, ina quiet tone. 'He lived near mamma, in the country. '

'Oh! my dear Annabel, if you see him in town bring him to me; he isthe most difficult person in the world to get to one's house, and Iwould give anything if he would come and dine with me. '

The Countess at last set her relations down at their hotel. When LadyAnnabel was once more alone with her daughter, she said, 'Venetia, dearest, give me that book your aunt lent you. '

Venetia immediately handed it to her, but her mother did not open it;but saying, 'The Bishop dines at four, darling; I think it is time forus to dress, ' Lady Annabel left the room. 

To say the truth, Venetia was less surprised than disappointed by thisconduct of her mother's; but she was not apt to murmur, and she triedto dismiss the subject from her thoughts. 

It was with unfeigned delight that the kind-hearted Masham welcomedunder his own roof his two best and dearest friends. He had askednobody to meet them; it was settled that they were to be quite alone, and to talk of nothing but Cherbury and Marringhurst. When they wereseated at table, the Bishop, who had been detained at the House ofLords, and been rather hurried to be in time to receive his guests, turned to his servant and inquired whether any one had called. 

'Yes, my lord, Lord Cadurcis, ' was the reply. 

'Our old companion, ' said the Bishop to Lady Annabel, with asmile. 'He has called upon me twice, and I have on both occasionsunfortunately been absent. '

Lady Annabel merely bowed an assent to the Bishop's remark. Venetialonged to speak, but found it impossible. 'What is it that repressesme?' she asked herself. 'Is there to be another forbidden subjectinsensibly to arise between us? I must struggle against thisindefinable despotism that seems to pervade my life. '

'Have you met Lord Cadurcis, sir?' at length asked Venetia. 

'Once; we resumed our acquaintance at a dinner party one day; but Ishall soon see a great deal of him, for he has just taken his seat. Heis of age, you know. '

'I hope he has come to years of discretion in every sense, ' said LadyAnnabel; 'but I fear not. '

'Oh, my dear lady!' said the Bishop, 'he has become a great man; he isour star. I assure you there is nobody in London talked of but LordCadurcis. He asked me a great deal after you and Cherbury. He will bedelighted to see you. '

'I cannot say, ' replied Lady Annabel, 'that the desire of meeting isat all mutual. From all I hear, our connections and opinions are verydifferent, and I dare say our habits likewise. '

'My aunt lent us his new poem to-day, ' said Venetia, boldly. 

'Have you read it?' asked the Bishop. 

'I am no admirer of modern poetry, ' said Lady Annabel, somewhattartly. 

'Poetry of any kind is not much in my way, ' said the Bishop, 'but ifyou like to read his poems, I will lend them to you, for he gave me acopy; esteemed a great honour, I assure you. '

'Thank you, my lord, ' said Lady Annabel, 'both Venetia and myselfare much engaged now; and I do not wish her to read while she is inLondon. When we return to Cherbury she will have abundance of time, ifdesirable. '

Both Venetia and her worthy host felt that the present subject ofconversation was not agreeable to Lady Annabel, and it was changed. They fell upon more gracious topics, and in spite of this somewhatsullen commencement the meeting was quite as delightful as theyanticipated. Lady Annabel particularly exerted herself to please, and, as was invariably the case under such circumstances with this lady, she was eminently successful; she apparently endeavoured, by herremarkable kindness to her daughter, to atone for any unpleasantfeeling which her previous manner might for an instant haveoccasioned. Venetia watched her beautiful and affectionate parent, as Lady Annabel now dwelt with delight upon the remembrance of theirhappy home, and now recurred to the anxiety she naturally felt abouther daughter's approaching presentation, with feelings of love andadmiration, which made her accuse herself for the recent rebellion ofher heart. She thought only of her mother's sorrows, and her devotionto her child; and, grateful for the unexpected course of circumstanceswhich seemed to be leading every member of their former little societyto honour and happiness, she resolved to persist in that career ofduty and devotion to her mother, from which it seemed to her she hadnever deviated for a moment but to experience sorrow, misfortune, andremorse. Never did Venetia receive her mother's accustomed embraceand blessing with more responsive tenderness and gratitude thanthis night. She banished Cadurcis and his poems from her thoughts, confident that, so long as her mother approved neither of hercontinuing his acquaintance, nor perusing his writings, it was wellthat the one should be a forgotten tie, and the other a sealed book. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Among the intimate acquaintances of Lady Annabel's brother was thenobleman who had been a minister during the American war, and whohad also been the guardian of Lord Cadurcis, of whom, indeed, he waslikewise a distant relative. He had called with his wife on LadyAnnabel, after meeting her and her daughter at her brother's, and hadcultivated her acquaintance with great kindness and assiduity, sothat Lady Annabel had found it impossible to refuse his invitation todinner. 

This dinner occurred a few days after the visit of the Herberts to theBishop, and that excellent personage, her own family, and some othersequally distinguished, but all of the ministerial party, were invitedto meet her. Lady Annabel found herself placed at table between apompous courtier, who, being a gourmand, was not very prompt todisturb his enjoyment by conversation, and a young man whom she foundvery agreeable, and who at first, indeed, attracted her attention byhis resemblance to some face with which she felt she was familiar, and yet which she was not successful in recalling. His manners wereremarkably frank and ingenuous, yet soft and refined. Without havingany peculiar brilliancy of expression, he was apt and fluent, and hiswhole demeanour characterised by a gentle modesty that was highlyengaging. Apparently he had travelled a great deal, for he more thanonce alluded to his experience of foreign countries; but this wasafterwards explained by Lady Annabel discovering, from an observationhe let fall, that he was a sailor. A passing question from an oppositeguest also told her that he was a member of parliament. While she wasrather anxiously wishing to know who he might be, and congratulatingherself that one in whose favour she was so much prepossessed shouldbe on the right side, their host saluted him from the top of thetable, and said, 'Captain Cadurcis, a glass of wine. '

The countenance was now explained. It was indeed Lord Cadurcis whom heresembled, though his eyes were dark blue, and his hair light brown. This then was that cousin who had been sent to sea to make hisfortune, and whom Lady Annabel had a faint recollection of poor Mrs. Cadurcis once mentioning. George Cadurcis had not exactly made hisfortune, but he had distinguished himself in his profession, andespecially in Rodney's victory, and had fought his way up to thecommand of a frigate. The frigate had recently been paid off, and hehad called to pay his respects to his noble relative with the hope ofobtaining his interest for a new command. The guardian of hiscousin, mortified with the conduct of his hopeful ward, was not veryfavourably impressed towards any one who bore the name of Cadurcis;yet George, with no pretence, had a winning honest manner that madefriends; his lordship took a fancy to him, and, as he could not at themoment obtain him a ship, he did the next best thing for him in hispower; a borough was vacant, and he put him into parliament. 

'Do you know, ' said Lady Annabel to her neighbour, 'I have beenfancying all dinner time that we had met before; but I find it is thatyou only resemble one with whom I was once acquainted. '

'My cousin!' said the Captain; 'he will be very mortified when I gohome, if I tell him your ladyship speaks of his acquaintance as onethat is past. '

'It is some years since we met, ' said Lady Annabel, in a more reservedtone. 

'Plantagenet can never forget what he owes to you, ' said CaptainCadurcis. 'How often has he spoken to me of you and Miss Herbert! Itwas only the other night; yes! not a week ago; that he made me sit upwith him all night, while he was telling stories of Cherbury: you seeI am quite familiar with the spot, ' he added, smiling. 

'You are very intimate with your cousin, I see, ' said Lady Annabel. 

'I live a great deal with him, ' said George Cadurcis. 'You know we hadnever met or communicated; and it was not Plantagenet's fault, I amsure; for of all the generous, amiable, lovable beings, Cadurcis isthe best I ever met with in this world. Ever since we knew each otherhe has been a brother to me; and though our politics and opinions areso opposed, and we naturally live in such a different circle, he wouldhave insisted even upon my having apartments in his house; nor is itpossible for me to give you the slightest idea of the delicate andunceasing kindness I experience from him. If we had lived together allour lives, it would be impossible to be more united. '

This eulogium rather softened Lady Annabel's heart; she even observed, 'I always thought Lord Cadurcis naturally well disposed; I alwayshoped he would turn out well; but I was afraid, from what I heard, hewas much changed. He shows, however, his sense and good feeling inselecting you for his friend; for you are his natural one, ' she added, after a momentary pause. 

'And then you know, ' he continued, 'it is so purely kind of him; forof course I am not fit to be a companion for Cadurcis, and perhaps, asfar as that, no one is. Of course we have not a thought in common. Iknow nothing but what I have picked up in a rough life; and he, youknow, is the cleverest person that ever lived, at least I think so. '

Lady Annabel smiled. 

'Well, he is very young, ' she observed, 'much your junior, CaptainCadurcis; and I hope he will yet prove a faithful steward of the greatgifts that God has given him. '

'I would stake all I hold dear, ' said the Captain, with greatanimation, 'that Cadurcis turns out well. He has such a good heart. Ah! Lady Annabel, if he be now and then a little irregular, only thinkof the temptations that assail him. Only one-and-twenty, his ownmaster, and all London at his feet. It is too much for any one's head. But say or think what the world may, I know him better than they do;and I know there is not a finer creature in existence. I hope his oldfriends will not desert him, ' added Captain Cadurcis, with a smilewhich, seemed to deprecate the severity of Lady Annabel; 'for in spiteof all his fame and prosperity, perhaps, after all, this is the timewhen he most needs them. '

'Very possibly, ' said her ladyship rather dryly. 

While the mother was engaged in this conversation with her neighbourrespecting her former interesting acquaintance, such was the fame ofLord Cadurcis then in the metropolis, that he also formed the topic ofconversation at another part of the table, to which the daughter wasan attentive listener. The tone in which he was spoken of, however, was of a very different character. While no one disputed his genius, his principles, temper, and habits of life were submitted to theseverest scrutiny; and it was with blended feelings of interest andastonishment that Venetia listened to the detail of wild opinions, capricious conduct, and extravagant and eccentric behaviour ascribedto the companion of her childhood, who had now become the spoiledchild of society. A shrewd gentleman, who had taken an extremelyactive part in this discussion, inquired of Venetia, next to whom hewas seated, whether she had read his lordship's last poem. He wasextremely surprised when Venetia answered in the negative; but heseized the opportunity of giving her an elaborate criticism on thepoetical genius of Cadurcis. 'As for his style, ' said the critic, 'noone can deny that is his own, and he will last by his style; as forhis philosophy, and all these wild opinions of his, they will passaway, because they are not genuine, they are not his own, they areborrowed. He will outwrite them; depend upon it, he will. The fact is, as a friend of mine observed the other day, Herbert's writings haveturned his head. Of course you could know nothing about them, butthere are wonderful things in them, I can tell you that. '

'I believe it most sincerely, ' said Venetia. 

The critic stared at his neighbour. 'Hush!' said he, 'his wife anddaughter are here. We must not talk of these things. You know LadyAnnabel Herbert? There she is; a very fine woman too. And that is hisdaughter there, I believe, that dark girl with a turned-up nose. Icannot say she warrants the poetical address to her:

 My precious pearl the false and glittering world Has ne'er polluted with, its garish light!

She does not look much like a pearl, does she? She should keep insolitude, eh?'

The ladies rose and relieved Venetia from her embarrassment. 

After dinner Lady Annabel introduced George Cadurcis to her daughter;and, seated by them both, he contrived without effort, and without theslightest consciousness of success, to confirm the pleasing impressionin his favour which he had already made, and, when they parted, it waseven with a mutual wish that they might meet again. 

CHAPTER IX. 

It was the night after the drawing-room. Lord Cadurcis was at Brookes'dining at midnight, having risen since only a few hours. Being amalcontent, he had ceased to attend the Court, where his originalreception had been most gracious, which he had returned by somefactious votes, and a caustic lampoon. 

A party of young men entered, from the Court Ball, which in those daysalways terminated at midnight, whence the guests generally proceededto Ranelagh; one or two of them seated themselves at the table atwhich Cadurcis was sitting. They were full of a new beauty who hadbeen presented. Their violent and even extravagant encomiums excitedhis curiosity. Such a creature had never been seen, she was peerless, the most radiant of acknowledged charms had been dimmed before her. Their Majesties had accorded to her the most marked reception. APrince of the blood had honoured her with his hand. Then they began toexpatiate with fresh enthusiasm on her unparalleled loveliness. 

'O Cadurcis, ' said a young noble, who was one of his extreme admirers, 'she is the only creature I ever beheld worthy of being one of yourheroines. '

'Whom are you talking about?' asked Cadurcis in a rather listlesstone. 

'The new beauty, of course. '

'And who may she be?'

'Miss Herbert, to be sure. Who speaks or thinks of any one else?'

'What, Ve----, I mean Miss Herbert?' exclaimed Cadurcis, with nolittle energy. 

'Yes. Do you know her?'

'Do you mean to say--' and Cadurcis stopped and rose from the table, and joined the party round the fire. 'What Miss Herbert is it?' headded, after a short pause. 

'Why _the_ Miss Herbert; Herbert's daughter, to be sure. She waspresented to-day by her mother. 

'Lady Annabel?'

'The same. '

'Presented to-day!' said Cadurcis audibly, yet speaking as it were tohimself. 'Presented to-day! Presented! How strange!'

'So every one thinks; one of the strangest things that ever happened, 'remarked a bystander. 

'And I did not even know they were in town, ' continued Cadurcis, for, from his irregular hours, he had not seen his cousin since the partyof yesterday. He began walking up and down the room, muttering, 'Masham, Weymouth, London, presented at Court, and I know nothing. Howlife changes! Venetia at Court, my Venetia!' Then turning round andaddressing the young nobleman who had first spoken to him, he asked'if the ball were over. '

'Yes; all the world are going to Ranelagh. Are you inclined to take around?'

'I have a strange fancy, ' said Cadurcis, 'and if you will go with me, I will take you in my vis-à-vis. It is here. '

This was an irresistible invitation, and in a few minutes thecompanions were on their way; Cadurcis, apparently with no peculiarinterest in the subject, leading the conversation very artfully tothe presentation of Miss Herbert. His friend was heartily inclined togratify his curiosity. He gave him ample details of Miss Herbert'sperson: even of her costume, and the sensation both produced; how shewas presented by her mother, who, after so long an estrangement fromthe world, scarcely excited less impression, and the remarkablecordiality with which both mother and daughter were greeted by thesovereign and his royal consort. 

The two young noblemen found Ranelagh crowded, but the presence ofLord Cadurcis occasioned a sensation the moment he was recognised. Everywhere the whisper went round, and many parties crowded near tocatch a glimpse of the hero of the day. 'Which is he? That fair, tall young man? No, the other to be sure. Is it really he? Howdistinguished! How melancholy! Quite the poet. Do you think he isreally so unhappy as he looks? I would sooner see him than the Kingand Queen. He seems very young, but then he has seen so much of theworld! Fine eyes, beautiful hair! I wonder who is his friend? Howproud he must be! Who is that lady he bowed to? That is the Dukeof ---- speaking to him, ' Such were the remarks that might be caught inthe vicinity of Lord Cadurcis as he took his round, gazed at by theassembled crowd, of whom many knew him only by fame, for the charm ofRanelagh was that it was rather a popular than a merely fashionableassembly. Society at large blended with the Court, which maintainedand renewed its influence by being witnessed under the most gracefulauspices. The personal authority of the aristocracy has decreased withthe disappearance of Ranelagh and similar places of amusement, whererank was not exclusive, and luxury by the gratification it occasionedothers seemed robbed of half its selfism. 

In his second round, Lord Cadurcis recognised the approach of theHerberts. They formed the portion of a large party. Lady Annabel wasleaning on her brother, whom Cadurcis knew by sight; Venetia was atthe side of her aunt, and several gentlemen were hovering about them;among them, to his surprise, his cousin, George Cadurcis, in hisuniform, for he had been to Court and to the Court Ball. Venetia wastalking with animation. She was in her Court dress and in powder. Herappearance was strange to him. He could scarcely recognise thefriend of his childhood; but without any doubt in all that assembly, unrivalled in the whole world for beauty, grace, and splendour, shewas without a parallel; a cynosure on which all eyes were fixed. 

So occupied were the ladies of the Herbert party by the conversationof their numerous and brilliant attendants, that the approach of anyone else but Lord Cadurcis might have been unnoticed by them, buta hundred tongues before he drew nigh had prepared Venetia for hisappearance. She was indeed most anxious to behold him, and though shewas aware that her heart fluttered not slightly as the moment was athand, she commanded her gaze, and her eyes met his, although she wasdoubtful whether he might choose or care to recognise her. He bowedalmost to the ground; and when Venetia had raised her responsive headhe had passed by. 

'Why, Cadurcis, you know Miss Herbert?' said his friend in a tone ofsome astonishment. 

'Well; but it is a long time since I have seen her. '

'Is she not beautiful?'

'I never doubted on that subject; I tell you, Scrope, we must contriveto join her party. I wish we had some of our friends among them. Herecomes the Monteagle; aid me to escape her. '

The most fascinating smile failed in arresting the progress ofCadurcis; fortunately, the lady was the centre of a brilliant band;all that he had to do, therefore, was boldly to proceed. 

'Do you think my cousin is altered since you knew him?' inquiredGeorge Cadurcis of Venetia. 

'I scarcely had time to observe him, ' she replied. 

'I wish you would let me bring him to you. He did not know until thismoment you were in town. I have not seen him since we met yesterday. '

'Oh, no, ' said Venetia. 'Do not disturb him. '

In time, however, Lord Cadurcis was again in sight; and now withoutany hesitation he stopped, and falling into the line by Miss Herbert, he addressed her: 'I am proud of being remembered by Miss Herbert, ' hesaid. 

'I am most happy to meet you, ' replied Venetia, with unaffectedsincerity. 

'And Lady Annabel, I have not been able to catch her eye: is she quitewell? I was ignorant that you were in London until I heard of yourtriumph this night. '

The Countess whispered her niece, and Venetia accordingly presentedLord Cadurcis to her aunt. This was a most gratifying circumstance tohim. He was anxious, by some means or other, to effect his entranceinto her circle; and he had an irresistible suspicion that LadyAnnabel no longer looked upon him with eyes of favour. So he resolvedto enlist the aunt as his friend. Few persons could be more winningthan Cadurcis, when he willed it; and every attempt to please from onewhom all emulated to gratify and honour, was sure to be successful. The Countess, who, in spite of politics, was a secret votary of his, was quite prepared to be enchanted. She congratulated herselfon forming, as she had long wished, an acquaintance with one socelebrated. She longed to pass Lady Monteagle in triumph. Cadurcisimproved his opportunity to the utmost. It was impossible for anyone to be more engaging; lively, yet at the same time gentle, anddeferential with all his originality. He spoke, indeed, more to theaunt than to Venetia, but when he addressed the latter, there wasa melting, almost a mournful tenderness in his tones, that alikeaffected her heart and charmed her imagination. Nor could she beinsensible to the gratification she experienced as she witnessed, every instant, the emotion his presence excited among the passers-by, and of which Cadurcis himself seemed so properly and so utterlyunconscious. And this was Plantagenet!

Lord Cadurcis spoke of his cousin, who, on his joining the party, hadassisted the arrangement by moving to the other side; and he spoke ofhim with a regard which pleased Venetia, though Cadurcis envied himhis good fortune in having the advantage of a prior acquaintancewith Miss Herbert in town; 'but then we are old acquaintances in thecountry, ' he added, half in a playful, half in a melancholy tone, 'arewe not?'

'It is a long time that we have known each other, and it is a longtime since we have met, ' replied Venetia. 

'A delicate reproach, ' said Cadurcis; 'but perhaps rather mymisfortune than my fault. My thoughts have been often, I might sayever, at Cherbury. '

'And the abbey; have you forgotten the abbey?'

'I have never been near it since a morning you perhaps remember, ' saidhis lordship in a low voice. 'Ah! Miss Herbert, ' he continued, witha sigh, 'I was young then; I have lived to change many opinions, andsome of which you then disapproved. '

The party stopped at a box just vacant, and in which the ladies seatedthemselves while their carriages were inquired for. Lord Cadurcis, with a rather faltering heart, went up to pay his respects toVenetia's mother. Lady Annabel received him with a courtesy, thathowever was scarcely cordial, but the Countess instantly presentedhim to her husband with an unction which a little astonished hersister-in-law. Then a whisper, but unobserved, passed between the Earland his lady, and in a minute Lord Cadurcis had been invited to dinewith them on the next day, and meet his old friends from the country. Cadurcis was previously engaged, but hesitated not a moment inaccepting the invitation. The Monteagle party now passed by; thelady looked a little surprised at the company in which she found herfavourite, and not a little mortified by his neglect. What businesshad Cadurcis to be speaking to that Miss Herbert? Was it not enoughthat the whole day not another name had scarcely crossed her ear, butthe night must even witness the conquest of Lord Cadurcis by thenew beauty? It was such bad ton, it was so unlike him, it was sounderbred, for a person of his position immediately to bow before thenew idol of the hour, and a Tory girl too! It was the last thingshe could have expected from him. She should, on the contrary, have thought that the universal admiration which this Miss Herbertcommanded, would have been exactly the reason why a man like Cadurciswould have seemed almost unconscious of her existence. She determinedto remonstrate with him; and she was sure of a speedy opportunity, forhe was to dine with her on the morrow. 

CHAPTER X. 

Notwithstanding Lady Annabel's reserved demeanour, Lord Cadurcis, supported by the presence of his cousin, whom he had discovered to bea favourite of that lady, ventured to call upon her the next day, butshe was out. They were to meet, however, at dinner, where Cadurcisdetermined to omit no opportunity to propitiate her. The Countess hada great deal of tact, and she contrived to make up a party to receivehim, in which there were several of his friends, among them his cousinand the Bishop of----, and no strangers who were not, like herself, his great admirers; but if she had known more, she need not have givenherself this trouble, for there was a charm among her guests of whichshe was ignorant, and Cadurcis went determined to please and to bepleased. 

At dinner he was seated next to Lady Annabel, and it was impossiblefor any person to be more deferential, soft, and insinuating. He spokeof old days with emotion which he did not attempt to suppress; healluded to the present with infinite delicacy. But it was verydifficult to make way. Lady Annabel was courteous, but she wasreserved. His lively reminiscences elicited from her no correspondingsentiment; and no art would induce her to dwell upon the present. Ifshe only would have condescended to compliment him, it would havegiven him an opportunity of expressing his distaste of the life whichhe now led, and a description of the only life which he wished tolead; but Lady Annabel studiously avoided affording him any openingof the kind. She treated him like a stranger. She impressed upon himwithout effort that she would only consider him an acquaintance. HowCadurcis, satiated with the incense of the whole world, sighed for onesingle congratulation from Lady Annabel! Nothing could move her. 

'I was so surprised to meet you last night, ' at length he againobserved. 'I have made so many inquiries after you. Our dear friendthe Bishop was, I fear, almost wearied with my inquiries afterCherbury. I know not how it was, I felt quite a pang when I heard thatyou had left it, and that all these years, when I have been conjuringup so many visions of what was passing under that dear roof, you wereat Weymouth. '

'Yes. We were at Weymouth some time. '

'But do not you long to see Cherbury again? I cannot tell you howI pant for it. For my part, I have seen the world, and I have seenenough of it. After all, the end of all our exertions is to be happyat home; that is the end of everything; don't you think so?'

'A happy home is certainly a great blessing, ' replied Lady Annabel;'and a rare one. '

'But why should it be rare?' inquired Lord Cadurcis. 

'It is our own fault, ' said Lady Annabel; 'our vanity drives us fromour hearths. '

'But we soon return again, and calm and cooled. For my part, I have noobject in life but to settle down at the old abbey, and never to quitagain our woods. But I shall lead a dull life without my neighbours, 'he added, with a smile, and in a tone half-coaxing. 

'I suppose you never see Lord ---- now?' said Lady Annabel, mentioninghis late guardian. There was, as Cadurcis fancied, some sarcasm in thequestion, though not in the tone in which it was asked. 

'No, I never see him, ' his lordship answered firmly; 'we differ in ouropinions, and I differ from him with regret; but I differ from a senseof duty, and therefore I have no alternative. '

'The claims of duty are of course paramount, ' observed Lady Annabel. 

'You know my cousin?' said Cadurcis, to turn the conversation. 

'Yes, and I like him much; he appears to be a sensible, amiableperson, of excellent principles. '

'I am not bound to admire George's principles, ' said LordCadurcis, gaily; 'but I respect them, because I know that they areconscientious. I love George; he is my only relation, and he is myfriend. '

'I trust he will always be your friend, for I think you will then, atleast, know one person on whom you can depend. '

'I believe it. The friendships of the world are wind. '

'I am surprised to hear you say so, ' said Lady Annabel. 

'Why, Lady Annabel?'

'You have so many friends. '

Lord Cadurcis smiled. 'I wish, ' he said, after a little hesitation, 'if only for "Auld lang syne, " I might include Lady Annabel Herbertamong them. '

'I do not think there is any basis for friendship between us, mylord, ' she said, very dryly. 

'The past must ever be with me, ' said Lord Cadurcis, 'and I shouldhave thought a sure and solid one. '

'Our opinions on all subjects are so adverse, that I must believe thatthere could be no great sympathy in our feelings. '

'My feelings are beyond my control, ' he replied; 'they are, and mustever be, totally independent of my opinions. '

Lady Annabel did not reply. His lordship felt baffled, but he wasresolved to make one more effort. 

'Do you know, ' he said, 'I can scarcely believe myself in Londonto-day? To be sitting next to you, to see Miss Herbert, to hear Dr. Masham's voice. Oh! does it not recall Cherbury, or Marringhurst, orthat day at Cadurcis, when you were so good as to smile over my roughrepast? Ah! Lady Annabel, those days were happy! those were feelingsthat can never die! All the glitter and hubbub of the world can nevermake me forget them, can never make you, I hope, Lady Annabel, quiterecall them with an effort. We were friends then: let us be friendsnow. '

'I am too old to cultivate new friendships, ' said Lady Annabel; 'andif we are to be friends, Lord Cadurcis, I am sorry to say that, afterthe interval that has occurred since we last parted, we should have tobegin again. '

'It is a long time, ' said Cadurcis, mournfully, 'a very long time, andone, in spite of what the world may think, to which I cannot look backwith any self-congratulation. I wished three years ago never to leaveCadurcis again. Indeed I did; and indeed it was not my fault that Iquitted it. '

'It was no one's fault, I hope. Whatever the cause may have been, Ihave ever remained quite ignorant of it. I wished, and wish, toremain ignorant of it. I, for one, have ever considered it the wisedispensation of a merciful Providence. '

Cadurcis ground his teeth; a dark look came over him which, whenonce it rose on his brow, was with difficulty dispelled; and for theremainder of the dinner he continued silent and gloomy. 

He was, however, not unobserved by Venetia. She had watched hisevident attempts to conciliate her mother with lively interest; shehad witnessed their failure with sincere sorrow. In spite of thatstormy interview, the results of which, in his hasty departure, andthe severance of their acquaintance, she had often regretted, she hadalways retained for him the greatest affection. During these threeyears he had still, in her inmost heart, remained her own Plantagenet, her adopted brother, whom she loved, and in whose welfare her feelingswere deeply involved. The mysterious circumstances of her birth, andthe discoveries to which they had led, had filled her mind with afanciful picture of human nature, over which she had long brooded. Agreat poet had become her ideal of a man. Sometimes she had sighed, when musing over her father and Plantagenet on the solitary seashoreat Weymouth, that Cadurcis, instead of being the merely amiable, andsomewhat narrow-minded being that she supposed, had not been investedwith those brilliant and commanding qualities which she felt couldalone master her esteem. Often had she, in those abstracted hours, played with her imagination in combining the genius of her father withthe soft heart of that friend to whom she was so deeply attached. Shehad wished, in her reveries, that Cadurcis might have been a greatman; that he might have existed in an atmosphere of glory amid theplaudits and admiration of his race; and that then he might haveturned from all that fame, so dear to them both, to the heart whichcould alone sympathise with the native simplicity of his childhood. 

The ladies withdrew. The Bishop and another of the guests joined themafter a short interval. The rest remained below, and drank their winewith the freedom not unusual in those days, Lord Cadurcis among them, although it was not his habit. But he was not convivial, though henever passed the bottle untouched. He was in one of those dark humoursof which there was a latent spring in his nature, but which in olddays had been kept in check by his simple life, his inexperiencedmind, and the general kindness that greeted him, and which nothing butthe caprice and perversity of his mother could occasionally develope. But since the great revolution in his position, since circumstanceshad made him alike acquainted with his nature, and had brought allsociety to acknowledge its superiority; since he had gained and felthis irresistible power, and had found all the world, and all theglory of it, at his feet, these moods had become more frequent. Theslightest reaction in the self-complacency that was almost unceasinglystimulated by the applause of applauded men and the love of theloveliest women, instantly took the shape and found refuge in theimmediate form of the darkest spleen, generally, indeed, brooding insilence, and, if speaking, expressing itself only in sarcasm. Cadurciswas indeed, as we have already described him, the spoiled child ofsociety; a froward and petted darling, not always to be conciliated bykindness, but furious when neglected or controlled. He was habituatedto triumph; it had been his lot to come, to see, and to conquer; eventhe procrastination of certain success was intolerable to him; hisenergetic volition could not endure a check. To Lady Annabel Herbert, indeed, he was not exactly what he was to others; there was a spellin old associations from which he unconsciously could not emancipatehimself, and from which it was his opinion he honoured her in notdesiring to be free. He had his reasons for wishing to regain his old, his natural influence, over her heart; he did not doubt for an instantthat, if Cadurcis sued, success must follow the condescending effort. He had sued, and he had been met with coldness, almost with disdain. He had addressed her in those terms of tenderness which experiencehad led him to believe were irresistible, yet to which he seldom hadrecourse, for hitherto he had not been under the degrading necessityof courting. He had dwelt with fondness on the insignificant past, because it was connected with her; he had regretted, or affectedeven to despise, the glorious present, because it seemed, for someindefinite cause, to have estranged him from her hearth. Yes! he hadhumbled himself before her; he had thrown with disdain at her feet allthat dazzling fame and expanding glory which seemed his peculiar andincreasing privilege. He had delicately conveyed to her that eventhese would be sacrificed, not only without a sigh, but with cheerfuldelight, to find himself once more living, as of old, in the limitedworld of her social affections. Three years ago he had been rejectedby the daughter, because he was an undistinguished youth. Now themother recoiled from his fame. And who was this woman? The same cold, stern heart that had alienated the gifted Herbert; the same narrow, rigid mind that had repudiated ties that every other woman in theworld would have gloried to cherish and acknowledge. And with her hehad passed his prejudiced youth, and fancied, like an idiot, that hehad found sympathy! Yes, so long as he was a slave, a mechanical, submissive slave, bowing his mind to all the traditionary bigotrywhich she adored, never daring to form an opinion for himself, worshipping her idol, custom, and labouring by habitual hypocrisy toperpetuate the delusions of all around her!

In the meantime, while Lord Cadurcis was chewing the cud of thesebitter feelings, we will take the opportunity of explaining theimmediate cause of Lady Annabel's frigid reception of his friendlyadvances. All that she had heard of Cadurcis, all the information shehad within these few days so rapidly acquired of his character andconduct, were indeed not calculated to dispose her to witness therenewal of their intimacy with feelings of remarkable satisfaction. But this morning she had read his poem, the poem that all London wastalking of, and she had read it with horror. She looked upon Cadurcisas a lost man. With her, indeed, since her marriage, an imaginativemind had become an object of terror; but there were some peculiaritiesin the tone of Cadurcis' genius, which magnified to excess her generalapprehension on this head. She traced, in every line, the evidencesof a raging vanity, which she was convinced must prompt its ownerto sacrifice, on all occasions, every feeling of duty to itsgratification. Amid all the fervour of rebellious passions, and theviolence of a wayward mind, a sentiment of profound egotism appearedto her impressed on every page she perused. Great as might have beenthe original errors of Herbert, awful as in her estimation were thecrimes to which they had led him, they might in the first instance betraced rather to a perverted view of society than of himself. But selfwas the idol of Cadurcis; self distorted into a phantom that seemedto Lady Annabel pregnant not only with terrible crimes, but with thebasest and most humiliating vices. The certain degradation which inthe instance of her husband had been the consequence of a bad system, would, in her opinion, in the case of Cadurcis, be the result of abad nature; and when she called to mind that there had once been aprobability that this individual might have become the husband of herVenetia, her child whom it had been the sole purpose of her life tosave from the misery of which she herself had been the victim; thatshe had even dwelt on the idea with complacency, encouraged itsprogress, regretted its abrupt termination, but consoled herself bythe flattering hope that time, with even more favourable auspices, would mature it into fulfilment; she trembled, and turned pale. 

It was to the Bishop that, after dinner, Lady Annabel expressed someof the feelings which the reappearance of Cadurcis had occasioned her. 

'I see nothing but misery for his future, ' she exclaimed; 'I tremblefor him when he addresses me. In spite of the glittering surface onwhich he now floats, I foresee only a career of violence, degradation, and remorse. '

'He is a problem difficult to solve, ' replied Masham; 'but there areelements not only in his character, but his career, so different fromthose of the person of whom we were speaking, that I am not inclinedat once to admit, that the result must necessarily be the same. '

'I see none, ' replied Lady Annabel; 'at least none of sufficientinfluence to work any material change. '

'What think you of his success?' replied Masham. 'Cadurcis isevidently proud of it. With all his affected scorn of the world, heis the slave of society. He may pique the feelings of mankind, but Idoubt whether he will outrage them. '

'He is on such a dizzy eminence, ' replied Lady Annabel, 'that I do notbelieve he is capable of calculating so finely. He does not believe, Iam sure, in the possibility of resistance. His vanity will tempt himonwards. '

'Not to persecution, ' said Masham. 'Now, my opinion of Cadurcis is, that his egotism, or selfism, or whatever you may style it, willultimately preserve him from any very fatal, from any irrecoverableexcesses. He is of the world, worldly. All his works, all his conduct, tend only to astonish mankind. He is not prompted by any visionaryideas of ameliorating his species. The instinct of self-preservationwill serve him as ballast. '

'We shall see, ' said Lady Annabel; 'for myself, whatever may be hisend, I feel assured that great and disgraceful vicissitudes are instore for him. '

'It is strange after what, in comparison with such extraordinarychanges, must be esteemed so brief an interval, ' observed Masham, witha smile, 'to witness such a revolution in his position. I often thinkto myself, can this indeed be our little Plantagenet?'

'It is awful!' said Lady Annabel; 'much more than strange. For myself, when I recall certain indications of his feelings when he was last atCadurcis, and think for a moment of the results to which they mighthave led, I shiver; I assure you, my dear lord, I tremble from head tofoot. And I encouraged him! I smiled with fondness on his feelings! Ithought I was securing the peaceful happiness of my child! What can wetrust to in this world! It is too dreadful to dwell upon! It must havebeen an interposition of Providence that Venetia escaped. '

'Dear little Venetia, ' exclaimed the good Bishop; 'for I believe Ishall call her little Venetia to the day of my death. How well shelooks to-night! Her aunt is, I think, very fond of her! See!'

'Yes, it pleases me, ' said Lady Annabel; but I do wish my sister wasnot such an admirer of Lord Cadurcis' poems. You cannot conceive howuneasy it makes me. I am quite annoyed that he was asked here to-day. Why ask him?'

'Oh! there is no harm, ' said Masham; 'you must forget the past. By allaccounts, Cadurcis is not a marrying man. Indeed, as I understood, marriage with him is at present quite out of the question. And as forVenetia, she rejected him before, and she will, if necessary, rejecthim again. He has been a brother to her, and after that he can be nomore. Girls never fall in love with those with whom they are bred up. '

'I hope, I believe there is no occasion for apprehension, ' repliedLady Annabel; 'indeed, it has scarcely entered my head. The verycharms he once admired in Venetia can have no sway over him, asI should think, now. I should believe him as little capable ofappreciating Venetia now, as he was when last at Cherbury, ofanticipating the change in his own character. '

'You mean opinions, my dear lady, for characters never change. Believeme, Cadurcis is radically the same as in old days. Circumstances haveonly developed his latent predisposition. '

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

'Hush! here he comes. '

The Earl and his guests entered the room; a circle was formed roundLady Annabel; some evening visitors arrived; there was singing. It hadnot been the intention of Lord Cadurcis to return to the drawing-roomafter his rebuff by Lady Annabel; he had meditated making his peace atMonteagle House; but when the moment of his projected departure hadarrived, he could not resist the temptation of again seeing Venetia. He entered the room last, and some moments after his companions. LadyAnnabel, who watched the general entrance, concluded he had gone, andher attention was now fully engaged. Lord Cadurcis remained at theend of the room alone, apparently abstracted, and looking far fromamiable; but his eye, in reality, was watching Venetia. Suddenly heraunt approached her, and invited the lady who was conversing with MissHerbert to sing; Lord Cadurcis immediately advanced, and took herseat. Venetia was surprised that for the first time in her lifewith Plantagenet she felt embarrassed. She had met his look when heapproached her, and had welcomed, or, at least, intended to welcomehim with a smile, but she was at a loss for words; she was hauntedwith the recollection of her mother's behaviour to him at dinner, andshe looked down on the ground, far from being at ease. 

'Venetia!' said Lord Cadurcis. 

She started. 

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

She did not, she could not reply; she felt confused; the blood rose toher cheek. 

'How changed is everything!' continued Cadurcis. 'To think the dayshould ever arrive when I should have to beg your permission to callyou Venetia!'

She looked up; she met his glance. It was mournful; nay, his eyes weresuffused with tears. She saw at her side the gentle and melancholyPlantagenet of her childhood. 

'I cannot speak; I am agitated at meeting you, ' she said with hernative frankness. 'It is so long since we have been alone; and, as yousay, all is so changed. '

'But are you changed, Venetia?' he said in a voice of emotion; 'forall other change is nothing. '

'I meet you with pleasure, ' she replied; 'I hear of your fame withpride. You cannot suppose that it is possible I should cease to beinterested in your welfare. '

'Your mother does not meet me with pleasure; she hears of nothingthat has occurred to me with pride; your mother has ceased to take aninterest in my welfare; and why should you be unchanged?'

'You mistake my mother. '

'No, no, ' replied Cadurcis, shaking his head, 'I have read her inmostsoul to-day. Your mother hates me; me, whom she once styled her son. She was a mother once to me, and you were my sister. If I have losther heart, why have I not lost yours?'

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

'O Venetia, whatever you may think, I never wanted the solace of asister's love more than I do at this moment. '

'I pledged my affection to you when we were children, ' repliedVenetia; 'you have done nothing to forfeit it, and it is yours still. '

'When we were children, ' said Cadurcis, musingly; 'when we wereinnocent; when we were happy. You, at least, are innocent still; areyou happy, Venetia?'

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

The blood deserted his heart when she called him Plantagenet; hebreathed with difficulty. 

'When I last returned to Cherbury, ' he said, 'you told me you werechanged, Venetia; you revealed to me on another occasion the secretcause of your affliction. I was a boy then, a foolish ignorant boy. Instead of sympathising with your heartfelt anxiety, my silly vanitywas offended by feelings I should have shared, and soothed, andhonoured. Ah, Venetia! well had it been for one of us that I hadconducted myself more kindly, more wisely. '

'Nay, Plantagenet, believe me, I remember that interview only toregret it. The recollection of it has always occasioned me greatgrief. We were both to blame; but we were both children then. We mustpardon each other's faults. '

'You will hear, that is, if you care to listen, Venetia, much of myconduct and opinions, ' continued Lord Cadurcis, 'that may induce youto believe me headstrong and capricious. Perhaps I am less of both inall things than the world imagines. But of this be certain, that myfeelings towards you have never changed, whatever you may permit themto be; and if some of my boyish judgments have, as was but natural, undergone some transformation, be you, my sweet friend, in some degreeconsoled for the inconsistency, since I have at length learned duly toappreciate one of whom we then alike knew little, but whom a naturalinspiration taught you, at least, justly to appreciate: I need not sayI mean the illustrious father of your being. '

Venetia could not restrain her tears; she endeavoured to conceal heragitated countenance behind the fan with which she was fortunatelyprovided. 

'To me a forbidden subject, ' said Venetia, 'at least with them I couldalone converse upon it, but one that my mind never deserts. '

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

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

'We shall meet, I hope, ' said Lord Cadurcis; 'we must meet, meetoften. I called upon your mother to-day, fruitlessly. You must attemptto conciliate her. Why should we be parted? We, at least, are friends, and more than friends. I cannot exist unless we meet, and meet withthe frankness of old days. '

'I think you mistake mamma; I think you may, indeed. Remember howlately she has met you, and after how long an interval! A little time, and she will resume her former feelings, and believe that you havenever forfeited yours. Besides, we have friends, mutual friends. Myaunt admires you, and here I naturally must be a great deal. And theBishop, he still loves you; that I am sure he does: and your cousin, mamma likes your cousin. I am sure if you can manage only to bepatient, if you will only attempt to conciliate a little, all will beas before. Remember, too, how changed your position is, ' Venetia addedwith a smile; 'you allow me to forget you are a great man, but mammais naturally restrained by all this wonderful revolution. When shefinds that you really are the Lord Cadurcis whom she knew such a verylittle boy, the Lord Cadurcis who, without her aid, would never havebeen able even to write his fine poems, oh! she must love you again. How can she help it?'

Cadurcis smiled. 'We shall see, ' he said. 'In the meantime do not youdesert me, Venetia. '

'That is impossible, ' she replied; 'the happiest of my days have beenpassed with you. You remember the inscription on the jewel? I shallkeep to my vows. '

'That was a very good inscription so far as it went, ' said Cadurcis;and then, as if a little alarmed at his temerity, he changed thesubject. 

'Do you know, ' said Venetia, after a pause, 'I am treating you allthis time as a poet, merely in deference to public opinion. Not a linehave I been permitted to read; but I am resolved to rebel, and youmust arrange it all. '

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

At this moment the Countess approached them, and told Venetia thather mother wished to speak to her. Lady Annabel had discovered thetête-à-tête, and resolved instantly to terminate it. Lord Cadurcis, however, who was quick as lightning, read all that was necessary inVenetia's look. Instead of instantly retiring, he remained some littletime longer, talked to the Countess, who was perfectly enchanted withhim, even sauntered up to the singers, and complimented them, and didnot make his bow until he had convinced at least the mistress of themansion, if not her sister-in-law, that it was not Venetia Herbert whowas his principal attraction in this agreeable society. 

CHAPTER XI. 

The moment he had quitted Venetia, Lord Cadurcis returned home. Hecould not endure the usual routine of gaiety after her society; andhis coachman, often waiting until five o'clock in the morning atMonteagle House, could scarcely assure himself of his good fortunein this exception to his accustomed trial of patience. The vis-à-visstopped, and Lord Cadurcis bounded out with a light step and a lighterheart. His table was covered with letters. The first one that caughthis eye was a missive from Lady Monteagle. Cadurcis seized it like awild animal darting on its prey, tore it in half without opening it, and, grasping the poker, crammed it with great energy into the fire. This exploit being achieved, Cadurcis began walking up and down theroom; and indeed he paced it for nearly a couple of hours in a deepreverie, and evidently under a considerable degree of excitement, forhis gestures were violent, and his voice often audible. At length, about an hour after midnight, he rang for his valet, tore off hiscravat, and hurled it to one corner of the apartment, called for hisrobe de chambre, soda water, and more lights, seated himself, andbegan pouring forth, faster almost than his pen could trace the words, the poem that he had been meditating ever since he had quitted theroof where he had met Venetia. She had expressed a wish to read hispoems; he had resolved instantly to compose one for her solitaryperusal Thus he relieved his heart:

 I. 

 Within a cloistered pile, whose Gothic towers Rose by the margin of a sedgy lake, Embosomed in a valley of green bowers, And girt by many a grove and ferny brake Loved by the antlered deer, a tender youth Whom Time to childhood's gentle sway of love Still spared; yet innocent as is the dove, Nor mounded yet by Care's relentless tooth; Stood musing, of that fair antique domain The orphan lord! And yet, no childish thought With wayward purpose holds its transient reign In his young mind, with deeper feelings fraught; Then mystery all to him, and yet a dream, That Time has touched with its revealing beam. 

 II. 

 There came a maiden to that lonely boy, And like to him as is the morn to night; Her sunny face a very type of joy, And with her soul's unclouded lustre bright. Still scantier summers had her brow illumed Than that on which she threw a witching smile, Unconscious of the spell that could beguile His being of the burthen it was doomed By his ancestral blood to bear: a spirit, Rife with desponding thoughts and fancies drear, A moody soul that men sometimes inherit, And worse than all the woes the world may bear. But when he met that maiden's dazzling eye, He bade each gloomy image baffled fly. 

 III. 

 Amid the shady woods and sunny lawns The maiden and the youth now wander, gay As the bright birds, and happy as the fawns, Their sportive rivals, that around them play; Their light hands linked in love, the golden hours Unconscious fly, while thus they graceful roam, And careless ever till the voice of home Recalled them from their sunshine find their flowers; For then they parted: to his lonely pile The orphan-chief, for though his woe to lull, The maiden called him brother, her fond smile Gladdened another hearth, while his was dull Yet as they parted, she reproved his sadness, And for his sake she gaily whispered gladness. 

 IV. 

 She was the daughter of a noble race, That beauteous girl, and yet she owed her name To one who needs no herald's skill to trace His blazoned lineage, for his lofty fame Lives in the mouth of men, and distant climes Re-echo his wide glory; where the brave Are honoured, where 'tis noble deemed to save A prostrate nation, and for future times Work with a high devotion, that no taunt, Or ribald lie, or zealot's eager curse, Or the short-sighted world's neglect can daunt, That name is worshipped! His immortal verse Blends with his god-like deeds, a double spell To bind the coming age he loved too well!

 V. 

 For, from his ancient home, a scatterling, They drove him forth, unconscious of their prize, And branded as a vile unhallowed thing, The man who struggled only to be wise. And even his hearth rebelled, the duteous wife, Whose bosom well might soothe in that dark hour, Swelled with her gentle force the world's harsh power, And aimed her dart at his devoted life. That struck; the rest his mighty soul might scorn, But when his household gods averted stood, 'Twas the last pang that cannot well be borne When tortured e'en to torpor: his heart's blood Flowed to the unseen blow: then forth he went, And gloried in his ruthless banishment. 

 VI. 

 A new-born pledge of love within his home, His alien home, the exiled father left; And when, like Cain, he wandered forth to roam, A Cain without his solace, all bereft, Stole down his pallid cheek the scalding tear, To think a stranger to his tender love His child must grow, untroubled where might rove His restless life, or taught perchance to fear Her father's name, and bred in sullen hate, Shrink from his image. Thus the gentle maid, Who with her smiles had soothed an orphan's fate, Had felt an orphan's pang; yet undismayed, Though taught to deem her sire the child of shame, She clung with instinct to that reverent name!

 VII. 

 Time flew; the boy became a man; no more His shadow falls upon his cloistered hall, But to a stirring world he learn'd to pour The passion of his being, skilled to call From the deep caverns of his musing thought Shadows to which they bowed, and on their mind To stamp the image of his own; the wind, Though all unseen, with force or odour fraught, Can sway mankind, and thus a poet's voice, Now touched with sweetness, now inflamed with rage, Though breath, can make us grieve and then rejoice: Such is the spell of his creative page, That blends with all our moods; and thoughts can yield That all have felt, and yet till then were sealed. 

 VIII. 

 The lute is sounding in a chamber bright With a high festival; on every side, Soft in the gleamy blaze of mellowed light, Fair women smile, and dancers graceful glide; And words still sweeter than a serenade Are breathed with guarded voice and speaking eyes, By joyous hearts in spite of all their sighs; But byegone fantasies that ne'er can fade Retain the pensive spirit of the youth; Reclined against a column he surveys His laughing compeers with a glance, in sooth, Careless of all their mirth: for other days Enchain him with their vision, the bright hours Passed with the maiden in their sunny bowers. 

 IX. 

 Why turns his brow so pale, why starts to life That languid eye? What form before unseen, With all the spells of hallowed memory rife, Now rises on his vision? As the Queen Of Beauty from her bed of sparkling foam Sprang to the azure light, and felt the air, Soft as her cheek, the wavy dancers bear To his rapt sight a mien that calls his home, His cloistered home, before him, with his dreams Prophetic strangely blending. The bright muse Of his dark childhood still divinely beams Upon his being; glowing with the hues That painters love, when raptured pencils soar To trace a form that nations may adore!

 X. 

 One word alone, within her thrilling ear, Breathed with hushed voice the brother of her heart, And that for aye is hidden. With a tear Smiling she strove to conquer, see her start, The bright blood rising to her quivering cheek, And meet the glance she hastened once to greet, When not a thought had he, save in her sweet And solacing society; to seek Her smiles his only life! Ah! happy prime Of cloudless purity, no stormy fame His unknown sprite then stirred, a golden time Worth all the restless splendour of a name; And one soft accent from those gentle lips Might all the plaudits of a world eclipse. 

 XI. 

 My tale is done; and if some deem it strange My fancy thus should droop, deign then to learn My tale is truth: imagination's range Its bounds exact may touch not: to discern Far stranger things than poets ever feign, In life's perplexing annals, is the fate Of those who act, and musing, penetrate The mystery of Fortune: to whose reign The haughtiest brow must bend; 'twas passing strange The youth of these fond children; strange the flush Of his high fortunes and his spirit's change; Strange was the maiden's tear, the maiden's blush; Strange were his musing thoughts and trembling heart, 'Tis strange they met, and stranger if they part!

CHAPTER XII. 

When Lady Monteagle discovered, which she did a very few hours afterthe mortifying event, where Lord Cadurcis had dined the day on whichhe had promised to be her guest, she was very indignant, but hervanity was more offended than her self-complacency. She was annoyedthat Cadurcis should have compromised his exalted reputation by sopublicly dangling in the train of the new beauty: still more that heshould have signified in so marked a manner the impression which thefair stranger had made upon him, by instantly accepting an invitationto a house so totally unconnected with his circle, and where, had itnot been to meet this Miss Herbert, it would of course never haveentered his head to be a visitor. But, on the whole, Lady Monteaglewas rather irritated than jealous; and far from suspecting that therewas the slightest chance of her losing her influence, such as it mightbe, over Lord Cadurcis, all that she felt was, that less lustre mustredound to her from its possession and exercise, if it were obviousto the world that his attentions could be so easily attracted andcommanded. 

When Lord Cadurcis, therefore, having dispatched his poem to Venetia, paid his usual visit on the next day to Monteagle House, he wasreceived rather with sneers than reproaches, as Lady Monteagle, withno superficial knowledge of society or his lordship's character, was clearly of opinion that this new fancy of her admirer was to betreated rather with ridicule than indignation; and, in short, as shehad discovered that Cadurcis was far from being insensible to mockery, that it was clearly a fit occasion, to use a phrase then very much invogue, for _quizzing_. 

'How d'ye do?' said her ladyship, with an arch smile, 'I really couldnot expect to see you!'

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

'You seem quite distrait, ' continued Lady Monteagle, after a moment'spause, which his lordship ought to have broken. 'But no wonder, if theworld be right. '

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

'Had you a pleasant party yesterday?'

'Very. '

'Lady ---- must have been quite charmed to have you at last, ' said LadyMonteagle. 'I suppose she exhibited you to all her friends, as if youwere one of the savages that went to Court the other day. '

'She was courteous. '

'Oh! I can fancy her flutter! For my part, if there be one characterin the world more odious than another, I think it is a fussy woman. Lady ----, with Lord Cadurcis dining with her, and the new beauty for aniece, must have been in a most delectable state of bustle. '

'I thought she was rather quiet, ' said her companion with provokingindifference. 'She seemed to me an agreeable person. '

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

'Oh! these are moderate expressions to use in reference to a personlike Miss Herbert. '

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

'No, ' said Lord Cadurcis, somewhat changing colour, and speakingthrough his teeth; 'something devilish pleasant, I dare say. '

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

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

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

'I think so, ' said Lord Cadurcis. 

'Rather too tall, I think. '

'Do you?'

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

'Do you?'

'Fine eyes! Grey, I believe. Cannot say I admire grey eyes. Certainsign of bad temper, I believe, grey eyes?'

'Are they?'

'I did not observe her hand. I dare say a little coarse. Fair peoplewho are tall generally fail in the hand and arm. What sort of a handand arm has she?'

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

'Ah! you admire her. And you have cause. No one can deny she is a finegirl, and every one must regret, that with her decidedly provincialair and want of style altogether, which might naturally be expected, considering the rustic way I understand she has been brought up (anold house in the country, with a methodistical mother), that sheshould have fallen into such hands as her aunt. Lady ---- is enough tospoil any girl's fortune in London. '

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

'Consideration!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle. 'If you mean that they arepeople of rank, and good blood, and good property, they are certainlypeople of consideration; but they are Goths, Vandals, Huns, Calmucks, Canadian savages! They have no fashion, no style, no ton, no influencein the world. It is impossible that a greater misfortune could havebefallen your beauty than having such an aunt. Why, no man who has theslightest regard for his reputation would be seen in her company. Sheis a regular quiz, and you cannot imagine how everybody was laughingat you the other night. '

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

'And, upon my honour, ' continued Lady Monteagle, 'speaking merely asyour friend, and not being the least jealous (Cadurcis do not supposethat), not a twinge has crossed my mind on that score; but still Imust tell you that it was most ridiculous for a man like you, towhom everybody looks up, and from whom the slightest attention isan honour, to go and fasten yourself the whole night upon a rusticsimpleton, something between a wax doll and a dairymaid, whom everyfool in London was staring at; the very reason why you should not haveappeared to have been even aware of her existence. '

'We have all our moments of weakness, Gertrude, ' said Lord Cadurcis, charmed that the lady was so thoroughly unaware and unsuspicious ofhis long and intimate connection with the Herberts. 'I suppose it wasmy cursed vanity. I saw, as you say, every fool staring at her, andso I determined to show that in an instant I could engross herattention. '

'Of course, I know it was only that; but you should not have goneand dined there, Cadurcis, ' added the lady, very seriously, 'Thatcompromised you; but, by cutting them in future in the most markedmanner, you may get over it. '

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

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

'What it is to have a friend like you, Gertrude, ' said Cadurcis, 'afriend who is neither a Goth, nor a Vandal, nor a Hun, nor a Calmuck, nor a Canadian savage; but a woman of fashion, style, ton, influencein the world! It is impossible that a greater piece of good fortunecould have befallen me than having you for a friend. '

'Ah, méchant! you may mock, ' said the lady, triumphantly, for she wasquite satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken; 'but I amglad for your sake that you take such a sensible view of the case. '

Notwithstanding, however, this sensible view of the case, afterlounging an hour at Monteagle House, Lord Cadurcis' carriage stoppedat the door of Venetia's Gothic aunt. He was not so fortunate asto meet his heroine; but, nevertheless, he did not esteem his timeentirely thrown away, and consoled himself for the disappointmentby confirming the favourable impression he had already made in thisestablishment, and cultivating an intimacy which he was assured mustcontribute many opportunities of finding himself in the societyof Venetia. From this day, indeed, he was a frequent guest at heruncle's, and generally contrived also to meet her several times inthe week at some great assembly; but here, both from the occasionalpresence of Lady Monteagle, although party spirit deterred her fromattending many circles where Cadurcis was now an habitual visitant, and from the crowd of admirers who surrounded the Herberts, he rarelyfound an opportunity for any private conversation with Venetia. His friend the Bishop also, notwithstanding the prejudices of LadyAnnabel, received him always with cordiality, and he met the Herbertsmore than once at his mansion. At the opera and in the park also hehovered about them, in spite of the sarcasms or reproaches of LadyMonteagle; for the reader is not to suppose that that lady continuedto take the same self-complacent view of Lord Cadurcis' acquaintancewith the Herberts which she originally adopted, and at first flatteredherself was the just one. His admiration of Miss Herbert had becomethe topic of general conversation; it could no longer be concealed ordisguised. But Lady Monteagle was convinced that Cadurcis was not amarrying man, and persuaded herself that this was a fancy which mustevaporate. Moreover, Monteagle House still continued his spot of mostconstant resort; for his opportunities of being with Venetia were, with all his exertions, limited, and he had no other resource whichpleased him so much as the conversation and circle of the brightgoddess of his party. After some fiery scenes therefore with thedivinity, which only led to his prolonged absence, for the profoundand fervent genius of Cadurcis revolted from the base sentiment andmock emotions of society, the lady reconciled herself to her lot, still believing herself the most envied woman in London, and oftenashamed of being jealous of a country girl. 

The general result of the fortnight which elapsed since Cadurcisrenewed his acquaintance with his Cherbury friends was, that he hadbecome convinced of his inability of propitiating Lady Annabel, wasdevotedly attached to Venetia, though he had seldom an opportunityof intimating feelings, which the cordial manner in which she everconducted herself to him gave him no reason to conclude desperate; atthe same time that he had contrived that a day should seldom elapse, which did not under some circumstances, however unfavourable, bringthem together, while her intimate friends and the circles in which shepassed most of her life always witnessed his presence with favour. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

We must, however, endeavour to be more intimately acquainted withthe heart and mind of Venetia in her present situation, so stronglycontrasting with the serene simplicity of her former life, than thelimited and constrained opportunities of conversing with the companionof his childhood enjoyed by Lord Cadurcis could possibly enable him tobecome. Let us recur to her on the night when she returned home, afterhaving met with Plantagenet at her uncle's, and having pursued aconversation with him, so unexpected, so strange, and so affecting!She had been silent in the carriage, and retired to her roomimmediately. She retired to ponder. The voice of Cadurcis lingered inher ear; his tearful eye still caught her vision. She leant her headupon her hand, and sighed! Why did she sigh? What at this instant washer uppermost thought? Her mother's dislike of Cadurcis. 'Your motherhates me. ' These had been his words; these were the words she repeatedto herself, and on whose fearful sounds she dwelt. 'Your mother hatesme. ' If by some means she had learnt a month ago at Weymouth, that hermother hated Cadurcis, that his general conduct had been such as toexcite Lady Annabel's odium, Venetia might have for a momentbeen shocked that her old companion in whom she had once been sointerested, had by his irregular behaviour incurred the dislike of hermother, by whom he had once been so loved. But it would have been atransient emotion. She might have mused over past feelings and pasthopes in a solitary ramble on the seashore; she might even have sheda tear over the misfortunes or infelicity of one who had once beento her a brother; but, perhaps, nay probably, on the morrow theremembrance of Plantagenet would scarcely have occurred to her. Long years had elapsed since their ancient fondness; a considerableinterval since even his name had met her ear. She had heard nothingof him that could for a moment arrest her notice or command herattention. 

But now the irresistible impression that her mother disliked this veryindividual filled, her with intolerable grief. What occasioned thischange in her feelings, this extraordinary difference in her emotions?There was, apparently, but one cause. She had met Cadurcis. Could thena glance, could even the tender intonations of that unrivalled voice, and the dark passion of that speaking eye, work in an instant suchmarvels? Could they revive the past so vividly, that Plantagenet ina moment resumed his ancient place in her affections? No, it was notthat: it was less the tenderness of the past that made Venetia mournher mother's sternness to Cadurcis, than the feelings of the future. For now she felt that her mother's heart was not more changed towardsthis personage than was her own. 

It seemed to Venetia that even before they met, from the very momentthat his name had so strangely caught her eye in the volume on thefirst evening she had visited her relations, that her spirit suddenlyturned to him. She had never heard that name mentioned since withouta fluttering of the heart which she could not repress, and an emotionshe could ill conceal. She loved to hear others talk of him, and yetscarcely dared speak of him herself. She recalled her emotionat unexpectedly seeing his portrait when with her aunt, and hermortification when her mother deprived her of the poem which shesighed to read. Day after day something seemed to have occurred to fixher brooding thoughts with fonder earnestness on his image. At lengththey met. Her emotion when she first recognised him at Ranelagh andfelt him approaching her, was one of those tumults of the heart thatform almost a crisis in our sensations. With what difficulty hadshe maintained herself! Doubtful whether he would even formallyacknowledge her presence, her vision as if by fascination hadnevertheless met his, and grew dizzy as he passed. In the intervalthat had elapsed between his first passing and then joining her, whata chaos was her mind! What a wild blending of all the scenes andincidents of her life! What random answers had she made to those withwhom she had been before conversing with ease and animation! And then, when she unexpectedly found Cadurcis at her side, and listened to thesound of that familiar voice, familiar and yet changed, expressingso much tenderness in its tones, and in its words such deference anddelicate respect, existence felt to her that moment affluent with ablissful excitement of which she had never dreamed!

Her life was a reverie until they met again, in which she only musedover his fame, and the strange relations of their careers. She hadwatched the conduct of her mother to him at dinner with poignantsorrow; she scarcely believed that she should have an opportunityof expressing to him her sympathy. And then what had followed?A conversation, every word of which had touched her heart; aconversation that would have entirely controlled her feelings even ifhe had not already subjected them. The tone in which he so suddenlyhad pronounced 'Venetia, ' was the sweetest music to which she had everlistened. His allusion to her father had drawn tears, which could notbe restrained even in a crowded saloon. Now she wept plenteously. It was so generous, so noble, so kind, so affectionate! Dear, dearCadurcis, is it wonderful that you should be loved?

Then falling into a reverie of sweet and unbroken stillness, with hereyes fixed in abstraction on the fire, Venetia reviewed her life fromthe moment she had known Plantagenet. Not an incident that had everoccurred to them that did not rise obedient to her magical bidding. She loved to dwell upon the time when she was the consolation of hissorrows, and when Cherbury was to him a pleasant refuge! Oh! she feltsure her mother must remember those fond days, and love him as sheonce did! She pictured to herself the little Plantagenet of herchildhood, so serious and so pensive when alone or with others, yetwith her at times so gay and wild, and sarcastic; forebodings all ofthat deep and brilliant spirit, which had since stirred up the heartof a great nation, and dazzled the fancy of an admiring world. Thechange too in their mutual lots was also, to a degree, not free fromthat sympathy that had ever bound them together. A train of strangeaccidents had brought Venetia from her spell-bound seclusion, placedher suddenly in the most brilliant circle of civilisation, and classedher among not the least admired of its favoured members. And whom hadshe come to meet? Whom did she find in this new and splendid life themost courted and considered of its community, crowned as it were withgarlands, and perfumed with the incense of a thousand altars? Her ownPlantagenet. It was passing strange. 

The morrow brought the verses from Cadurcis. They greatly affectedher. The picture of their childhood, and of the singular sympathy oftheir mutual situations, and the description of her father, calledforth her tears; she murmured, however, at the allusion to her otherparent. It was not just, it could not be true. These verses were not, of course, shown to Lady Annabel. Would they have been shown, even ifthey had not contained the allusion? The question is not perplexing. Venetia had her secret, and a far deeper one than the mere receptionof a poem; all confidence between her and her mother had expired. Lovehad stept in, and, before his magic touch, the discipline of a lifeexpired in an instant. 

From all this an idea may be formed of the mood in which, during thefortnight before alluded to, Venetia was in the habit of meeting LordCadurcis. During this period not the slightest conversation respectinghim had occurred between her mother and herself. Lady Annabel nevermentioned him, and her brow clouded when his name, as was often thecase, was introduced. At the end of this fortnight, it happened thather aunt and mother were out together in the carriage, and had lefther in the course of the morning at her uncle's house. During thisinterval, Lord Cadurcis called, and having ascertained, through agarrulous servant, that though his mistress was out, Miss Herbert wasin the drawing-room, he immediately took the opportunity of beingintroduced. Venetia was not a little surprised at his appearance, and, conscious of her mother's feelings upon the subject, for a momenta little agitated, yet, it must be confessed, as much pleased. Sheseized this occasion of speaking to him about his verses, for hithertoshe had only been able to acknowledge the receipt of them by aword. While she expressed without affectation the emotions they hadoccasioned her, she complained of his injustice to her mother: thiswas the cause of an interesting conversation of which her fatherwas the subject, and for which she had long sighed. With what deep, unbroken attention she listened to her companion's enthusiasticdelineation of his character and career! What multiplied questions didshe not ask him, and how eagerly, how amply, how affectionately hesatisfied her just and natural curiosity! Hours flew away while theyindulged in this rare communion. 

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

'You will, ' replied Plantagenet; 'your destiny requires it. You willsee him as surely as you beheld that portrait that it was the labourof a life to prevent you beholding. '

Venetia shook her head; 'And yet, ' she added musingly, 'my motherloves him. '

'Her life proves it, ' said Cadurcis bitterly. 

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

'I pretend not to understand her heart, ' he answered; 'it is an enigmathat I cannot solve. I ought not to believe that she is without one;but, at any rate, her pride is deeper than her love. '

'They were ill suited, ' said Venetia, mournfully; 'and yet it is oneof my dreams that they may yet meet. '

'Ah, Venetia!' he exclaimed, in a voice of great softness, 'they hadnot known each other from their childhood, like us. They met, and theyparted, alike in haste. '

Venetia made no reply; her eyes were fixed in abstraction on ahandscreen, which she was unconscious that she held. 

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

At this moment a thundering knock at the door announced the return ofthe Countess and her sister-in-law. Cadurcis rose from his seat, buthis chair, which still remained close to that on which Venetia wassitting, did not escape the quick glance of her mortified mother. TheCountess welcomed Cadurcis with extreme cordiality; Lady Annabel onlyreturned his very courteous bow. 

'Stop and dine with us, my dear lord, ' said the Countess. 'We are onlyourselves, and Lady Annabel and Venetia. '

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

'Oh!' exclaimed her sister. 'It will be such a disappointment toPhilip. Indeed you must stay, ' she added, in a coaxing tone; 'we shallbe such an agreeable little party, with Lord Cadurcis. '

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

CHAPTER XIV. 

Lady Annabel was particularly kind to Venetia on their return to theirhotel, otherwise her daughter might have fancied that she had offendedher, for she was silent. Venetia did not doubt that the presence ofLord Cadurcis was the reason that her mother would not remain anddine at her uncle's. This conviction grieved Venetia, but she did notrepine; she indulged the fond hope that time would remove the strongprejudice which Lady Annabel now so singularly entertained against onein whose welfare she was originally so deeply interested. During theirsimple and short repast Venetia was occupied in a reverie, inwhich, it must be owned, Cadurcis greatly figured, and answered theoccasional though kind remarks of her mother with an absent air. 

After dinner, Lady Annabel drew her chair towards the fire, for, although May, the weather was chill, and said, 'A quiet evening athome, Venetia, will be a relief after all this gaiety. ' Venetiaassented to her mother's observation, and nearly a quarter of an hourelapsed without another word being spoken. Venetia had taken up abook, and Lady Annabel was apparently lost in her reflections. Atlength she said, somewhat abruptly, 'It is more than three years, Ithink, since Lord Cadurcis left Cherbury?'

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

'He quitted us suddenly. '

'Very suddenly, ' agreed Venetia. 

'I never asked you whether you knew the cause, Venetia, ' continued hermother, 'but I always concluded that you did. I suppose I was not inerror?'

This was not a very agreeable inquiry. Venetia did not reply toit with her previous readiness and indifference. That indeed wasimpossible; but, with her accustomed frankness, after a moment'shesitation, she answered, 'Lord Cadurcis never specifically stated thecause to me, mamma; indeed I was myself surprised at his departure, but some conversation had occurred between us on the very morning hequitted Cadurcis, which, on reflection, I could not doubt occasionedthat departure. '

'Lord Cadurcis preferred his suit to you, Venetia, and you rejectedhim?' said Lady Annabel. 

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

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

'Why should you think so, dearest mamma?'

'Whatever may have been the cause that impelled your conduct then, 'said Lady Annabel, 'I shall ever esteem your decision as a signalinterposition of Providence in your favour. Except his extreme youth, there was apparently no reason which should not have induced you toadopt a different decision. I tremble when I think what might havebeen the consequences. '

'Tremble, dearest mother?'

'Tremble, Venetia. My only thought in this life is the happiness of mychild. It was in peril. 

'Nay, I trust not that, mamma: you are prejudiced against Plantagenet. It makes me very unhappy, and him also. '

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

'Indeed he is not. '

'He will be, ' said Lady Annabel. 'Prepare yourself. Tell me, then, areyour feelings the same towards him as when he last quitted us?'

'Feelings, mamma!' said Venetia, echoing her mother's words; forindeed the question was one very difficult to answer; 'I ever lovedPlantagenet; I love him still. '

'But do you love him now as then? Then you looked upon him as abrother. He has no soul now for sisterly affections. I beseech youtell me, my child, me, your mother, your friend, your best, your onlyfriend, tell me, have you for a moment repented that you ever refusedto extend to him any other affection?'

'I have not thought of the subject, mamma; I have not wished to thinkof the subject; I have had no occasion to think of it. Lord Cadurcisis not my suitor now. '

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

'Dearest mother!' exclaimed Venetia, in a tone of mingled fondness andreproach, and she rose from her seat and embraced Lady Annabel. 

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

'Mother, mother, ' said Venetia, in a deprecatory tone. 'Do not asksuch cruel questions? Whom should I love but you, the best, thedearest mother that ever existed? And what object can I have in lifethat for a moment can be placed in competition with your happiness?'

'Then, Venetia, I tell you, ' said Lady Annabel, in a solemn yetexcited voice, 'that that happiness is gone for ever, nay, my verylife will be the forfeit, if I ever live to see you the bride of LordCadurcis. '

'I have no thought of being the bride of any one, ' said Venetia. 'I amhappy with you. I wish never to leave you. '

'My child, the fulfilment of such a wish is not in the nature ofthings, ' replied Lady Annabel. 'The day will come when we must part;I am prepared for the event; nay, I look forward to it not only withresignation, but delight, when I think it may increase your happiness;but were that step to destroy it, oh! then, then I could live no more. I can endure my own sorrows, I can struggle with my own bitter lot, I have some sources of consolation which enable me to endure my ownmisery without repining; but yours, yours, Venetia, I could not bear. No! if once I were to behold you lingering in life as your mother, with blighted hopes and with a heart broken, if hearts can break, Ishould not survive the spectacle; I know myself, Venetia, I could notsurvive it. '

'But why anticipate such misery? Why indulge in such gloomyforebodings? Am I not happy now? Do you not love me?'

Venetia had drawn her chair close to that of her mother; she sat byher side and held her hand. 

'Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel, after a pause of some minutes, and in alow voice, 'I must speak to you on a subject on which we have neverconversed. I must speak to you;' and here Lady Annabel's voice droppedlower and lower, but still its tones were distinct, althoughshe expressed herself with evident effort: 'I must speak to youabout--your father. '

Venetia uttered a faint cry, she clenched her mother's hand with aconvulsive grasp, and sank upon her bosom. She struggled to maintainherself, but the first sound of that name from her mother's lips, andall the long-suppressed emotions that it conjured up, overpowered her. The blood seemed to desert her heart; still she did not faint; sheclung to Lady Annabel, pallid and shivering. 

Her mother tenderly embraced her, she whispered to her words of greataffection, she attempted to comfort and console her. Venetia murmured, 'This is very foolish of me, mother; but speak, oh! speak of what Ihave so long desired to hear. '

'Not now, Venetia. '

'Now, mother! yes, now! I am quite composed. I could not bear thepostponement of what you were about to say. I could not sleep, dearmother, if you did not speak to me. It was only for a moment I wasovercome. See! I am quite composed. ' And indeed she spoke in a calmand steady voice, but her pale and suffering countenance expressed thepainful struggle which it cost her to command herself. 

'Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel, 'it has been one of the objects of mylife, that you should not share my sorrows. '

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

'I concealed from you for years, ' continued Lady Annabel, 'acircumstance in which, indeed, you were deeply interested, but theknowledge of which could only bring you unhappiness. Yet it wasdestined that my solicitude should eventually be baffled. I know thatit is not from my lips that you learn for the first time that you havea father, a father living. '

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

'I know all, ' said Lady Annabel. 

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

'There is nothing that you can confess with which I am not acquainted, Venetia; and I feel assured, I have ever felt assured, that your onlyreason for concealment was a desire to save me pain. '

'That, indeed, has ever been my only motive, ' replied Venetia, 'forhaving a secret from my mother. '

'In my absence from Cherbury you entered the chamber, ' said LadyAnnabel, calmly. 'In the delirium of your fever I became acquaintedwith a circumstance which so nearly proved fatal to you. '

Venetia's cheek turned scarlet. 

'In that chamber you beheld the portrait of your father, ' continuedLady Annabel. 'From our friend you learnt that father was stillliving. That is all?' said Lady Annabel, inquiringly. 

'No, not all, dear mother; not all. Lord Cadurcis reproached me atCherbury with, with, with having such a father, ' she added, in ahesitating voice. 'It was then I learnt his misfortunes, mother; hismisery. '

'I thought that misfortunes, that misery, were the lot of your otherparent, ' replied Lady Annabel, somewhat coldly. 

'Not with my love, ' said Venetia, eagerly; 'not with my love, mother. You have forgotten your misery in my love. Say so, say so, dearestmother. ' And Venetia threw herself on her knees before Lady Annabel, and looked up with earnestness in her face. 

The expression of that countenance had been for a moment stern, butit relaxed into fondness, as Lady Annabel gently bowed her head, andpressed her lips to her daughter's forehead. 'Ah, Venetia!' she said, 'all depends upon you. I can endure, nay, I can forget the past, if mychild be faithful to me. There are no misfortunes, there is no misery, if the being to whom I have consecrated the devotion of my life willonly be dutiful, will only be guided by my advice, will only profit bymy sad experience. '

'Mother, I repeat I have no thought but for you, ' said Venetia. 'Myown dearest mother, if my duty, if my devotion can content you, youshall be happy. But wherein have I failed?'

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

'And ever shall be, ' said Venetia. 'But you were speaking, mother, youwere speaking of, of my, my father!'

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

Venetia kissed her mother's hand. 

'Was he less beautiful than Cadurcis? Was he less gifted?' exclaimedLady Annabel, with animation. 'He could whisper in tones as sweet, andpour out his vows as fervently. Yet what am I? O my child!' continuedLady Annabel, 'beware of such beings! They bear within them a spiriton which all the devotion of our sex is lavished in vain. A year, no!not a year, not one short year! and all my hopes were blighted! OVenetia! if your future should be like my bitter past! and it mighthave been, and I might have contributed to the fulfilment! can youwonder that I should look upon Cadurcis with aversion?'

'But, mother, dearest mother, we have known Plantagenet from hischildhood. You ever loved him; you ever gave him credit for a heart, most tender and affectionate. '

'He has no heart. '

'Mother!'

'He cannot have a heart. Spirits like him are heartless. It is anotherimpulse that sways their existence. It is imagination; it is vanity;it is self, disguised with glittering qualities that dazzle our weaksenses, but selfishness, the most entire, the most concentrated. Weknew him as a child: ah! what can women know? We are born to love, andto be deceived. We saw him young, helpless, abandoned; he moved ourpity. We knew not his nature; then he was ignorant of it himself. Butthe young tiger, though cradled at our hearths and fed on milk, willin good time retire to its jungle and prey on blood. You cannot changeits nature; and the very hand that fostered it will be its firstvictim. '

'How often have we parted!' said Venetia, in a deprecating tone; 'howlong have we been separated! and yet we find him ever the same; heever loves us. Yes! dear mother, he loves you now, the same as in olddays. If you had seen him, as I have seen him, weep when he recalledyour promise to be a parent to him, and then contrasted with suchsweet hopes your present reserve, oh! you would believe he had aheart, you would, indeed!'

'Weep!' exclaimed Lady Annabel, bitterly, 'ay! they can weep. Sensibility is a luxury which they love to indulge. Their verysusceptibility is our bane. They can weep; they can play upon ourfeelings; and our emotion, so easily excited, is an homage to theirown power, in which they glory. 

'Look at Cadurcis, ' she suddenly resumed; 'bred with so much care;the soundest principles instilled into him with such sedulousness;imbibing them apparently with so much intelligence, ardour, andsincerity, with all that fervour, indeed, with which men of histemperament for the moment pursue every object; but a few years back, pious, dutiful, and moral, viewing perhaps with intolerance tooyouthful all that differed from the opinions and the conduct he hadbeen educated to admire and follow. And what is he now? The mostlawless of the wild; casting to the winds every salutary principle ofrestraint and social discipline, and glorying only in the abandonedenergy of self. Three years ago, you yourself confessed to me, hereproached you with your father's conduct; now he emulates it. Thereis a career which such men must run, and from which no influence candivert them; it is in their blood. To-day Cadurcis may vow to youeternal devotion; but, if the world speak truth, Venetia, a month agohe was equally enamoured of another, and one, too, who cannot be his. But grant that his sentiments towards you are for the moment sincere;his imagination broods upon your idea, it transfigures it with a halowhich exists only to his vision. Yield to him; become his bride; andyou will have the mortification of finding that, before six mouthshave elapsed, his restless spirit is already occupied with objectswhich may excite your mortification, your disgust, even your horror!'

'Ah, mother! it is not with Plantagenet as with my father; Plantagenetcould not forget Cherbury, he could not forget our childhood, ' saidVenetia. 

'On the contrary, while you lived together these recollections wouldbe wearisome, common-place to him; when you had separated, indeed, mellowed by distance, and the comparative vagueness with which yourabsence would invest them, they would become the objects of his muse, and he would insult you by making the public the confidant of all yourmost delicate domestic feelings. '

Lady Annabel rose from her seat, and walked up and down the room, speaking with an excitement very unusual with her. 'To have allthe soft secrets of your life revealed to the coarse wonder of thegloating multitude; to find yourself the object of the world'scuriosity, still worse, their pity, their sympathy; to have the sacredconduct of your hearth canvassed in every circle, and be the grandsubject of the pros and cons of every paltry journal, ah, Venetia! youknow not, you cannot understand, it is impossible you can comprehend, the bitterness of such a lot. '

'My beloved mother!' said Venetia, with streaming eyes, 'you cannothave a feeling that I do not share. '

'Venetia, you know not what I had to endure!' exclaimed Lady Annabel, in a tone of extreme bitterness. 'There is no degree of wretchednessthat you can conceive equal to what has been the life of your mother. And what has sustained me; what, throughout all my tumultuoustroubles, has been the star on which I have ever gazed? My child! Andam I to lose her now, after all my sufferings, all my hopes that sheat least might be spared my miserable doom? Am I to witness her also avictim?' Lady Annabel clasped her hands in passionate grief. 

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

'Venetia, you know how I have doted upon you; you know how I havewatched and tended you from your infancy. Have I had a thought, awish, a hope, a plan? has there been the slightest action of my life, of which you have not been the object? All mothers feel, but none everfelt like me; you were my solitary joy. '

Venetia leant her face upon the table at which she was sitting andsobbed aloud. 

'My love was baffled, ' Lady Annabel continued. 'I fled, for both oursakes, from the world in which my family were honoured; I sacrificedwithout a sigh, in the very prime of my youth, every pursuit whichinterests woman; but I had my child, I had my child!'

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

'I have schooled my mind, ' continued Lady Annabel, still pacing theroom with agitated steps; 'I have disciplined my emotions; I have feltat my heart the constant the undying pang, and yet I have smiled, thatyou might be happy. But I can struggle against my fate no longer. Nolonger can I suffer my unparalleled, yes, my unjust doom. What have Idone to merit these afflictions? Now, then, let me struggle no more;let me die!'

Venetia tried to rise; her limbs refused their office; she tottered;she fell again into her seat with an hysteric cry. 

'Alas! alas!' exclaimed Lady Annabel, 'to a mother, a child iseverything; but to a child, a parent is only a link in the chain ofher existence. It was weakness, it was folly, it was madness to stakeeverything on a resource which must fail me. I feel it now, but I feelit too late. '

Venetia held forth her arms; she could not speak; she was stifled withher emotion. 

'But was it wonderful that I was so weak?' continued her mother, as itwere communing only with herself. 'What child was like mine? Oh! thejoy, the bliss, the hours of rapture that I have passed, in gazingupon my treasure, and dreaming of all her beauty and her rarequalities! I was so happy! I was so proud! Ah, Venetia! you know nothow I have loved you!'

Venetia sprang from her seat; she rushed forward with convulsiveenergy; she clung to her mother, threw her arms round her neck, andburied her passionate woe in Lady Annabel's bosom. 

Lady Annabel stood for some minutes supporting her speechless andagitated child; then, as her sobs became fainter, and the tumult ofher grief gradually died away, she bore her to the sofa, and seatedherself by her side, holding Venetia's hand in her own, and ever andanon soothing her with soft embraces, and still softer words. 

At length, in a faint voice, Venetia said, 'Mother, what can I do torestore the past? How can we be to each other as we were, for this Icannot bear?'

'Love me, my Venetia, as I love you; be faithful to your mother; donot disregard her counsel; profit by her errors. '

'I will in all things obey you, ' said Venetia, in a low voice; 'thereis no sacrifice I am not prepared to make for your happiness. '

'Let us not talk of sacrifices, my darling child; it is not asacrifice that I require. I wish only to prevent your everlastingmisery. '

'What, then, shall I do?'

'Make me only one promise; whatever pledge you give, I feel assuredthat no influence, Venetia, will ever induce you to forfeit it. '

'Name it, mother. '

'Promise me never to marry Lord Cadurcis, ' said Lady Annabel, in awhisper, but a whisper of which not a word was lost by the person towhom it was addressed. 

'I promise never to marry, but with your approbation, ' said Venetia, in a solemn voice, and uttering the words with great distinctness. 

The countenance of Lady Annabel instantly brightened; she embraced herchild with extreme fondness, and breathed the softest and the sweetestexpressions of gratitude and love. 

CHAPTER XV. 

When Lady Monteagle discovered that of which her good-natured friendstook care she should not long remain ignorant, that Venetia Herberthad been the companion of Lord Cadurcis' childhood, and that the mostintimate relations had once subsisted between the two families, she became the prey of violent jealousy; and the bitterness of herfeelings was not a little increased, when she felt that she had notonly been abandoned, but duped; and that the new beauty, out of hisfancy for whom she had flattered herself she had so triumphantlyrallied him, was an old friend, whom he always admired. She seized thefirst occasion, after this discovery, of relieving her feelings, bya scene so violent, that Cadurcis had never again entered MonteagleHouse; and then repenting of this mortifying result, which she hadherself precipitated, she overwhelmed him with letters, which, nextto scenes, were the very things which Lord Cadurcis most heartilyabhorred. These, now indignant, now passionate, now loading him withreproaches, now appealing to his love, and now to his pity, dailyarrived at his residence, and were greeted at first only with shortand sarcastic replies, and finally by silence. Then the lady soliciteda final interview, and Lord Cadurcis having made an appointment toquiet her, went out of town the day before to Richmond, to a villabelonging to Venetia's uncle, and where, among other guests, he was ofcourse to meet Lady Annabel and her daughter. 

The party was a most agreeable one, and assumed an additional interestwith Cadurcis, who had resolved to seize this favourable opportunityto bring his aspirations to Venetia to a crisis. The day after thelast conversation with her, which we have noticed, he had indeedboldly called upon the Herberts at their hotel for that purpose, butwithout success, as they were again absent from home. He had beensince almost daily in the society of Venetia; but London, to a loverwho is not smiled upon by the domestic circle of his mistress, is avery unfavourable spot for confidential conversations. A villa life, with its easy, unembarrassed habits, its gardens and lounging walks, to say nothing of the increased opportunities resulting from beingtogether at all hours, and living under the same roof, was morepromising; and here he flattered himself he might defy even the Arguseye and ceaseless vigilance of his intended mother-in-law, his enemy, whom he could not propitiate, and whom he now fairly hated. 

His cousin George, too, was a guest, and his cousin George was theconfidant of his love. Upon this kind relation devolved the duty, farfrom a disagreeable one, of amusing the mother; and as Lady Annabel, though she relaxed not a jot of the grim courtesy which she everextended to Lord Cadurcis, was no longer seriously uneasy as to hisinfluence after the promise she had exacted from her daughter, itwould seem that these circumstances combined to prevent Lord Cadurcisfrom being disappointed at least in the first object which he wishedto obtain, an opportunity. 

And yet several days elapsed before this offered itself, passed byCadurcis, however, very pleasantly in the presence of the being heloved, and very judiciously too, for no one could possibly be moreamiable and ingratiating than our friend. Every one present, exceptLady Annabel, appeared to entertain for him as much affection asadmiration: those who had only met him in throngs were quite surprisedhow their superficial observation and the delusive reports of theworld had misled them. As for his hostess, whom it had ever been hisstudy to please, he had long won her heart; and, as she could notbe blind to his projects and pretensions, she heartily wished himsuccess, assisted him with all her efforts, and desired nothing moresincerely than that her niece should achieve such a conquest, and sheobtain so distinguished a nephew. 

Notwithstanding her promise to her mother, Venetia felt justified inmaking no alteration in her conduct to one whom she still sincerelyloved; and, under the immediate influence of his fascination, it wasoften, when she was alone, that she mourned with a sorrowing heartover the opinion which her mother entertained of him. Could it indeedbe possible that Plantagenet, the same Plantagenet she had known soearly and so long, to her invariably so tender and so devoted, couldentail on her, by their union, such unspeakable and inevitable misery?Whatever might be the view adopted by her mother of her conduct, Venetia felt every hour more keenly that it was a sacrifice, and thegreatest; and she still indulged in a vague yet delicious dream, that Lady Annabel might ultimately withdraw the harsh and perhapsheart-breaking interdict she had so rigidly decreed. 

'Cadurcis, ' said his cousin to him one morning, 'we are all goingto Hampton Court. Now is your time; Lady Annabel, the Vernons, andmyself, will fill one carriage; I have arranged that. Look out, andsomething may be done. Speak to the Countess. '

Accordingly Lord Cadurcis hastened to make a suggestion to a friendalways flattered by his notice. 'My dear friend, ' he said in hissoftest tone, 'let you and Venetia and myself manage to be together;it will be so delightful; we shall quite enjoy ourselves. '

The Countess did not require this animating compliment to effect theobject which Cadurcis did not express. She had gradually falleninto the unacknowledged conspiracy against her sister-in-law, whoseprejudice against her friend she had long discovered, and had nowceased to combat. Two carriages, and one filled as George hadarranged, accordingly drove gaily away; and Venetia, and her aunt, andLord Cadurcis were to follow them on horseback. They rode with delightthrough the splendid avenues of Bushey, and Cadurcis was never in alighter or happier mood. 

The month of May was in its decline, and the cloudless sky and thebalmy air such as suited so agreeable a season. The London season wasapproaching its close; for the royal birthday was, at the period ofour history, generally the signal of preparation for country quarters. The carriages arrived long before the riding party, for they hadwalked their steeds, and they found a messenger who requested them tojoin their friends in the apartments which they were visiting. 

'For my part, ' said Cadurcis, 'I love the sun that rarely shines inthis land. I feel no inclination to lose the golden hours in thesegloomy rooms. What say you, ladies fair, to a stroll in the gardens?It will be doubly charming after our ride. '

His companions cheerfully assented, and they walked away, congratulating themselves on their escape from the wearisome amusementof palace-hunting, straining their eyes to see pictures hung at agigantic height, and solemnly wandering through formal apartments fullof state beds and massy cabinets and modern armour. 

Taking their way along the terrace, they struck at length into a lessformal path. At length the Countess seated herself on a bench. 'I mustrest, ' she said, 'but you, young people, may roam about; only do notlose me. '

'Come, Venetia!' said Lord Cadurcis. 

Venetia was hesitating; she did not like to leave her aunt alone, butthe Countess encouraged her, 'If you will not go, you will only makeme continue walking, ' she said. And so Venetia proceeded, and for thefirst time since her visit was alone with Plantagenet. 

'I quite love your aunt, ' said Lord Cadurcis. 

'It is difficult indeed not to love her, ' said Venetia. 

'Ah, Venetia! I wish your mother was like your aunt, ' he continued. It was an observation which was not heard without some emotion by hiscompanion, though it was imperceptible. 'Venetia, ' said Cadurcis, 'when I recollect old days, how strange it seems that we now nevershould be alone, but by some mere accident, like this, for instance. '

'It is no use thinking of old days, ' said Venetia. 

'No use! said Cadurcis. 'I do not like to hear you say that, Venetia. Those are some of the least agreeable words that were ever utteredby that mouth. I cling to old days; they are my only joy and my onlyhope. '

'They are gone, ' said Venetia. 

'But may they not return?' said Cadurcis. 

'Never, ' said Venetia, mournfully. 

They had walked on to a marble fountain of gigantic proportions andelaborate workmanship, an assemblage of divinities and genii, allspouting water in fantastic attitudes. 

'Old days, ' said Plantagenet, 'are like the old fountain at Cadurcis, dearer to me than all this modern splendour. '

'The old fountain at Cadurcis, ' said Venetia, musingly, and gazing onthe water with an abstracted air, 'I loved it well!'

'Venetia, ' said her companion, in a tone of extreme tenderness, yetnot untouched with melancholy, 'dear Venetia, let us return, andreturn together, to that old fountain and those old days!'

Venetia shook her head. 'Ah, Plantagenet!' she exclaimed in a mournfulvoice, 'we must not speak of these things. '

'Why not, Venetia?' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. 'Why should webe estranged from each other? I love you; I love only you; neverhave I loved another. And you, have you forgotten all our youthfulaffection? You cannot, Venetia. Our childhood can never be a blank. '

'I told you, when first we met, my heart was unchanged, ' said Venetia. 

'Remember the vows I made to you when last at Cherbury, ' saidCadurcis. 'Years have flown on, Venetia; but they find me urging thesame. At any rate, now I know myself; at any rate, I am not now anobscure boy; yet what is manhood, and what is fame, without the charmof my infancy and my youth! Yes, Venetia! you must, you will he mine?'

'Plantagenet, ' she replied, in a solemn tone, 'yours I never can be. '

'You do not, then, love me?' said Cadurcis reproachfully, and in avoice of great feeling. 

'It is impossible for you to be loved more than I love you, ' saidVenetia. 

'My own Venetia!' said Cadurcis; 'Venetia that I dote on! what doesthis mean? Why, then, will you not be mine?'

'I cannot; there is an obstacle, an insuperable obstacle. '

'Tell it me, ' said Cadurcis eagerly; 'I will overcome it. '

'I have promised never to marry without the approbation of my mother;her approbation you never can obtain. '

Cadurcis' countenance fell; this was an obstacle which he felt thateven he could not overcome. 

'I told you your mother hated me, Venetia. ' And then, as she did notreply, he continued, 'You confess it, I see you confess it. Once youflattered me I was mistaken; but now, now you confess it. '

'Hatred is a word which I cannot understand, ' replied Venetia. 'Mymother has reasons for disapproving my union with you; not founded onthe circumstances of your life, and therefore removable (for I knowwhat the world says, Plantagenet, of you), but I have confidence inyour love, and that is nothing; but founded on your character, on yournature; they may be unjust, but they are insuperable, and I must yieldto them. '

'You have another parent, Venetia, ' said Cadurcis, in a tone of almostirresistible softness, 'the best and greatest of men! Once you told methat his sanction was necessary to your marriage. I will obtain it. O Venetia! be mine, and we will join him; join that ill-fated andillustrious being who loves you with a passion second only to mine;him who has addressed you in language which rests on every lip, andhas thrilled many a heart that you even can never know. My adoredVenetia! picture to yourself, for one moment, a life with him; restingon my bosom, consecrated by his paternal love! Let us quit this meanand miserable existence, which we now pursue, which never could havesuited us; let us shun for ever this dull and degrading life, that isnot life, if life be what I deem it; let us fly to those beautifulsolitudes where he communes with an inspiring nature; let us, let usbe happy!'

He uttered these last words in a tone of melting tenderness; he leantforward his head, and his gaze caught hers, which was fixed upon thewater. Her hand was pressed suddenly in his; his eye glittered, hislip seemed still speaking; he awaited his doom. 

The countenance of Venetia was quite pale, but it was disturbed. Youmight see, as it were, the shadowy progress of thought, and mark thetumultuous passage of conflicting passions. Her mind, for a moment, was indeed a chaos. There was a terrible conflict between love andduty. At length a tear, one solitary tear, burst from her burningeye-ball, and stole slowly down her cheek; it relieved her pain. Shepressed Cadurcis hand, and speaking in a hollow voice, and with a lookvague and painful, she said, 'I am a victim, but I am resolved. Inever will desert her who devoted herself to me. '

Cadurcis quitted her hand rather abruptly, and began walking up anddown on the turf that surrounded the fountain. 

'Devoted herself to you!' he exclaimed with a fiendish laugh, andspeaking, as was his custom, between his teeth. 'Commend me to suchdevotion. Not content with depriving you of a father, now forsoothshe must bereave you of a lover too! And this is a mother, a devotedmother! The cold-blooded, sullen, selfish, inexorable tyrant!'

'Plantagenet!' exclaimed Venetia with great animation. 

'Nay, I will speak. Victim, indeed! You have ever been her slave. Shea devoted mother! Ay! as devoted as a mother as she was dutiful as awife! She has no heart; she never had a feeling. And she cajoles youwith her love, her devotion, the stern hypocrite!'

'I must leave you, ' said Venetia; 'I cannot bear this. '

'Oh! the truth, the truth is precious, ' said Cadurcis, taking herhand, and preventing her from moving. 'Your mother, your devotedmother, has driven one man of genius from her bosom, and his country. Yet there is another. Deny me what I ask, and to-morrow's sun shalllight me to another land; to this I will never return; I will blendmy tears with your father's, and I will publish to Europe the doubleinfamy of your mother. I swear it solemnly. Still I stand here, Venetia; prepared, if you will but smile upon me, to be her son, herdutiful son. Nay! her slave like you. She shall not murmur. I will bedutiful; she shall be devoted; we will all be happy, ' he added in asofter tone. 'Now, now, Venetia, my happiness is on the stake, now, now. '

'I have spoken, ' said Venetia. 'My heart may break, but my purposeshall not falter. '

'Then my curse upon your mother's head?' said Cadurcis, with terriblevehemency. 'May heaven rain all its plagues upon her, the Hecate!'

'I will listen no more, ' exclaimed Venetia indignantly, and she movedaway. She had proceeded some little distance when she paused andlooked back; Cadurcis was still at the fountain, but he did notobserve her. She remembered his sudden departure from Cherbury; shedid not doubt that, in the present instance, he would leave them asabruptly, and that he would keep his word so solemnly given. Her heartwas nearly breaking, but she could not bear the idea of parting inbitterness with the being whom, perhaps, she loved best in the world. She stopt, she called his name in a voice low indeed, but in thatsilent spot it reached him. He joined her immediately, but with a slowstep. When he had reached her, he said, without any animation and in afrigid tone, 'I believe you called me?'

Venetia burst into tears. 'I cannot bear to part in anger, Plantagenet. I wished to say farewell in kindness. I shall always prayfor your happiness. God bless you, Plantagenet!'

Lord Cadurcis made no reply, though for a moment he seemed about tospeak; he bowed, and, as Venetia approached her aunt, he turned hissteps in a different direction. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Venetia stopped for a moment to collect herself before she joinedher aunt, but it was impossible to conceal her agitation from theCountess. They had not, however, been long together before theyobserved their friends in the distance, who had now quitted thepalace. Venetia made the utmost efforts to compose herself, and notunsuccessful ones. She was sufficiently calm on their arrival, tolisten, if not to converse. The Countess, with all the tact of awoman, covered her niece's confusion by her animated description oftheir agreeable ride, and their still more pleasant promenade; and ina few minutes the whole party were walking back to their carriages. When they had arrived at the inn, they found Lord Cadurcis, towhose temporary absence the Countess had alluded with some casualobservation which she flattered herself was very satisfactory. Cadurcis appeared rather sullen, and the Countess, with femininequickness, suddenly discovered that both herself and her niece wereextremely fatigued, and that they had better return in the carriages. There was one vacant place, and some of the gentlemen must rideoutside. Lord Cadurcis, however, said that he should return as hecame, and the grooms might lead back the ladies' horses; and so in afew minutes the carriages had driven off. 

Our solitary equestrian, however, was no sooner mounted than he puthis horse to its speed, and never drew in his rein until he reachedHyde Park Corner. The rapid motion accorded with his tumultuous mood. He was soon at home, gave his horse to a servant, for he had lefthis groom behind, rushed into his library, tore up a letter of LadyMonteagle's with a demoniac glance, and rang his bell with such forcethat it broke. His valet, not unused to such ebullitions, immediatelyappeared. 

'Has anything happened, Spalding?' said his lordship. 

'Nothing particular, my lord. Her ladyship sent every day, and calledherself twice, but I told her your lordship was in Yorkshire. '

'That was right; I saw a letter from her. When did it come?'

'It has been here several days, my lord. '

'Mind, I am at home to nobody; I am not in town. '

The valet bowed and disappeared. Cadurcis threw himself into an easychair, stretched his legs, sighed, and then swore; then suddenlystarting up, he seized a mass of letters that were lying on the table, and hurled them to the other end of the apartment, dashed severalbooks to the ground, kicked down several chairs that were in his way, and began pacing the room with his usual troubled step; and so hecontinued until the shades of twilight entered his apartment. Then hepulled down the other bell-rope, and Mr. Spalding again appeared. 

'Order posthorses for to-morrow, ' said his lordship. 

'Where to, my lord?'

'I don't know; order the horses. '

Mr. Spalding again bowed and disappeared. 

In a few minutes he heard a great stamping and confusion in hismaster's apartment, and presently the door opened and his master'svoice was heard calling him repeatedly in a very irritable tone. 

'Why are there no bells in this cursed room?' inquired Lord Cadurcis. 

'The ropes are broken, my lord. '

'Why are they broken?'

'I can't say, my lord, '

'I cannot leave this house for a day but I find everything inconfusion. Bring me some Burgundy. '

'Yes, my lord. There is a young lad, my lord, called a few minutesback, and asked for your lordship. He says he has something veryparticular to say to your lordship. I told him your lordship was outof town. He said your lordship would wish very much to see him, andthat he had come from the Abbey. '

'The Abbey!' said Cadurcis, in a tone of curiosity. 'Why did you notshow him in?'

'Your lordship said you were not at home to anybody. '

'Idiot! Is this anybody? Of course I would have seen him. What thedevil do I keep you for, sir? You seem to me to have lost your head. '

Mr. Spalding retired. 

'The Abbey! that is droll, ' said Cadurcis. 'I owe some duties to thepoor Abbey. I should not like to quit England, and leave anybody introuble at the Abbey. I wish I had seen the lad. Some son of a tenantwho has written to me, and I have never opened his letters. I amsorry. '

In a few minutes Mr. Spalding again entered the room. 'The young ladhas called again, my lord. He says he thinks your lordship has come totown, and he wishes to see your lordship very much. '

'Bring lights and show him up. Show him up first. '

Accordingly, a country lad was ushered into the room, although it wasso dusky that Cadurcis could only observe his figure standing at thedoor. 

'Well, my good fellow, ' said Cadurcis; 'what do you want? Are you inany trouble?'

The boy hesitated. 

'Speak out, my good fellow; do not be alarmed. If I can serve you, orany one at the Abbey, I will do it. '

Here Mr. Spalding entered with the lights. The lad held a cottonhandkerchief to his face; he appeared to be weeping; all that wasseen of his head were his locks of red hair. He seemed a country lad, dressed in a long green coat with silver buttons, and he twirled inhis disengaged hand a peasant's white hat. 

'That will do, Spalding, ' said Lord Cadurcis. 'Leave the room. Now, my good fellow, my time is precious; but speak out, and do not beafraid. '

'Cadurcis!' said the lad in a sweet and trembling voice. 

'Gertrude, by G--d!' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, starting. 'What infernalmasquerade is this?'

'Is it a greater disguise than I have to bear every hour of my life?'exclaimed Lady Monteagle, advancing. 'Have I not to bear a smilingface with a breaking heart?'

'By Jove! a scene, ' exclaimed Cadurcis in a piteous tone. 

'A scene!' exclaimed Lady Monteagle, bursting into a flood ofindignant tears. 'Is this the way the expression of my feelings isever to be stigmatised? Barbarous man!'

Cadurcis stood with his back to the fireplace, with his lipscompressed, and his hands under his coat-tails. He was resolved thatnothing should induce him to utter a word. He looked the picture ofdogged indifference. 

'I know where you have been, ' continued Lady Monteagle. 'You have beento Richmond; you have been with Miss Herbert. Yes! I know all. I am avictim, but I will not be a dupe. Yorkshire indeed! Paltry coward!'

Cadurcis hummed an air. 

'And this is Lord Cadurcis!' continued the lady. 'The sublime, ethereal Lord Cadurcis, condescending to the last refuge of themeanest, most commonplace mind, a vulgar, wretched lie! What couldhave been expected from such a mind? You may delude the world, but Iknow you. Yes, sir! I know you. And I will let everybody know you. Iwill tear away the veil of charlatanism with which you have envelopedyourself. The world shall at length discover the nature of the idolthey have worshipped. All your meanness, all your falsehood, all yourselfishness, all your baseness, shall be revealed. I may be spurned, but at any rate I will be revenged!'

Lord Cadurcis yawned. 

'Insulting, pitiful wretch!' continued the lady. 'And you think thatI wish to hear you speak! You think the sound of that deceitful voicehas any charm for me! You are mistaken, sir! I have listened to youtoo long. It was not to remonstrate with you that I resolved to seeyou. The tones of your voice can only excite my disgust. I am here tospeak myself; to express to you the contempt, the detestation, theaversion, the scorn, the hatred, which I entertain for you!'

Lord Cadurcis whistled. 

The lady paused; she had effected the professed purport of her visit;she ought now to have retired, and Cadurcis would most willingly haveopened the door for her, and bowed her out of his apartment. But herconduct did not exactly accord with her speech. She intimated nointention of moving. Her courteous friend retained his position, andadhered to his policy of silence. There was a dead pause, and thenLady Monteagle, throwing herself into a chair, went into hysterics. 

Lord Cadurcis, following her example, also seated himself, took up abook, and began to read. 

The hysterics became fainter and fainter; they experienced all thosegradations of convulsive noise with which Lord Cadurcis was so wellacquainted; at length they subsided into sobs and sighs. Finally, there was again silence, now only disturbed by the sound of a pageturned by Lord Cadurcis. 

Suddenly the lady sprang from her seat, and firmly grasping the arm ofCadurcis, threw herself on her knees at his side. 

'Cadurcis!' she exclaimed, in a tender tone, 'do you love me?'

'My dear Gertrude, ' said Lord Cadurcis, coolly, but rather regrettinghe had quitted his original and less assailable posture, 'you know Ilike quiet women. '

'Cadurcis, forgive me!' murmured the lady. 'Pity me! Think only howmiserable I am!'

'Your misery is of your own making, ' said Lord Cadurcis. 'Whatoccasion is there for any of these extraordinary proceedings? I havetold you a thousand times that I cannot endure scenes. Female societyis a relaxation to me; you convert it into torture. I like to sailupon a summer sea; and you always will insist upon a white squall. '

'But you have deserted me!'

'I never desert any one, ' replied Cadurcis calmly, raising her fromher supplicating attitude, and leading her to a seat. 'The last timewe met, you banished me your presence, and told me never to speak toyou again. Well, I obeyed your orders, as I always do. '

'But I did not mean what I said, ' said Lady Monteagle. 

'How should I know that?' said Lord Cadurcis. 

'Your heart ought to have assured you, ' said the lady. 

'The tongue is a less deceptive organ than the heart, ' replied hercompanion. 

'Cadurcis, ' said the lady, looking at her strange disguise, 'what doyou advise me to do?'

'To go home; and if you like I will order my vis-à-vis for youdirectly, ' and he rose from his seat to give the order. 

'Ah!' you are sighing to get rid of me!' said the lady, in areproachful, but still subdued tone. 

'Why, the fact is, Gertrude, I prefer calling upon you, to yourcalling upon me. When I am fitted for your society, I seek it; and, when you are good-tempered, always with pleasure; when I am not in themood for it, I stay away. And when I am at home, I wish to see no one. I have business now, and not very agreeable business. I am disturbedby many causes, and you could not have taken a step which could havegiven me greater annoyance than the strange one you have adopted thisevening. '

'I am sorry for it now, ' said the lady, weeping. 'When shall I see youagain?'

'I will call upon you to-morrow, and pray receive me with smiles. '

'I ever will, ' said the lady, weeping plenteously. 'It is all myfault; you are ever too good. There is not in the world a kinder andmore gentle being than yourself. I shall never forgive myself for thisexposure. 

'Would you like to take anything?' said Lord Cadurcis: 'I am sure youmust feel exhausted. You see I am drinking wine; it is my only dinnerto-day, but I dare say there is some salvolatile in the house; I daresay, when my maids go into hysterics, they have it!'

'Ah, mocker!' said Lady Monteagle; 'but I can pardon everything, ifyou will only let me see you. '

'Au revoir! then, ' said his lordship; 'I am sure the carriage must beready. I hear it. Come, Mr. Gertrude, settle your wig; it is quiteawry. By Jove! we might as well go to the Pantheon, as you are readydressed. I have a domino. ' And so saying, Lord Cadurcis handed thelady to his carriage, and pressed her lightly by the hand, as hereiterated his promise of calling at Monteagle House the next day. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Lord Cadurcis, unhappy at home, and wearied of the commonplaceresources of society, had passed the night in every species ofdissipation; his principal companion being that same young nobleman inwhose company he had been when he first met Venetia at Ranelagh. Themorn was breaking when Cadurcis and his friend arrived at his door. They had settled to welcome the dawn with a beaker of burnt Burgundy. 

'Now, my dear Scrope, ' said Cadurcis, 'now for quiet and philosophy. The laughter of those infernal women, the rattle of those cursed dice, and the oaths of those ruffians are still ringing in my ears. Let uscompose ourselves, and moralise. '

Accustomed to their master's habits, who generally turned night intoday, the household were all on the alert; a blazing fire greeted them, and his lordship ordered instantly a devil and the burnt Burgundy. 

'Sit you down here, my Scrope; that is the seat of honour, and youshall have it. What is this, a letter? and marked "Urgent, " and in aman's hand. It must be read. Some good fellow nabbed by a bailiff, or planted by his mistress. Signals of distress! We must assist ourfriends. '

The flame of the fire fell upon Lord Cadurcis' face as he read theletter; he was still standing, while his friend was stretched out inhis easy chair, and inwardly congratulating himself on his comfortableprospects. The countenance of Cadurcis did not change, but he bithis lip, and read the letter twice, and turned it over, but with acareless air; and then he asked what o'clock it was. The servantinformed him, and left the room. 

'Scrope, ' said Lord Cadurcis, quietly, and still standing, 'are youvery drunk?'

'My dear fellow, I am as fresh as possible; you will see what justiceI shall do to the Burgundy. '

'"Burgundy to-morrow, " as the Greek proverb saith, ' observed LordCadurcis. 'Read that. '

His companion had the pleasure of perusing a challenge from LordMonteagle, couched in no gentle terms, and requesting an immediatemeeting. 

'Well, I never heard anything more ridiculous in my life, ' said LordScrope. 'Does he want satisfaction because you have planted her?'

'D--n her!' said Lord Cadurcis. 'She has occasioned me a thousandannoyances, and now she has spoilt our supper. I don't know, though;he wants to fight quickly, let us fight at once. I will send him acartel now, and then we can have our Burgundy. You will go out withme, of course? Hyde Park, six o'clock, and short swords. '

Lord Cadurcis accordingly sat down, wrote his letter, and dispatchedit by Mr. Spalding to Monteagle House, with peremptory instructions tobring back an answer. The companions then turned to their devil. 

'This is a bore, Cadurcis, ' said Lord Scrope. 

'It is. I cannot say I am very valorous in a bad cause. I do not liketo fight "upon compulsion, " I confess. If I had time to screw mycourage up, I dare say I should do it very well. I dare say, forinstance, if ever I am publicly executed, I shall die game. '

'God forbid!' said Lord Scrope. 'I say, Cadurcis, I would not drinkany Burgundy if I were you. I shall take a glass of cold water. '

'Ah! you are only a second, and so you want to cool your valour, ' saidCadurcis. 'You have all the fun. '

'But how came this blow-up?' inquired Lord Scrope. 'Lettersdiscovered, eh? Because I thought you never saw her now?'

'By Jove! my dear fellow, she has been the whole evening heremasquerading it like a very vixen, as she is; and now she hascommitted us both. I have burnt her letters, without reading them, for the last month. Now I call that honourable; because, as I had nolonger any claim on her heart, I would not think of trenching on hercorrespondence. But honour, what is honour in these dishonourabledays? This is my reward. She contrived to enter my house this evening, dressed like a farmer's boy, and you may imagine what ensued; rage, hysterics, and repentance. I am sure if Monteagle had seen me, hewould not have been jealous. I never opened my mouth, but, like afool, sent her home in my carriage; and now I am going to be runthrough the body for my politeness. '

In this light strain, blended, however, with more decorous feeling onthe part of Lord Scrope, the young men conversed until the messenger'sreturn with Lord Monteagle's answer. In Hyde Park, in the course of anhour, himself and Lord Cadurcis, attended by their friends, were tomeet. 

'Well, there is nothing like having these affairs over, ' saidCadurcis; 'and to confess the truth, my dear Scrope, I should not muchcare if Monteagle were to despatch me to my fathers; for, in the wholecourse of my miserable life, and miserable, whatever the world maythink, it has been, I never felt much more wretched than I have duringthe last four-and-twenty hours. By Jove! do you know I was going toleave England this morning, and I have ordered my horses, too. '

'Leave England!'

'Yes, leave England; and where I never intended to return. '

'Well, you are the oddest person I ever knew, Cadurcis. I should havethought you the happiest person that ever existed. Everybody admires, everybody envies you. You seem to have everything that man can desire. Your life is a perpetual triumph. '

'Ah! my dear Scrope, there is a skeleton in every house. If you knewall, you would not envy me. '

'Well, we have not much time, ' said Lord Scrope; 'have you anyarrangements to make?'

'None. My property goes to George, who is my only relative, withoutthe necessity of a will, otherwise I should leave everything to him, for he is a good fellow, and my blood is in his veins. Just youremember, Scrope, that I will be buried with my mother. That is all;and now let us get ready. '

The sun had just risen when the young men went forth, and the daypromised to be as brilliant as the preceding one. Not a soul wasstirring in the courtly quarter in which Cadurcis resided; even thelast watchman had stolen to repose. They called a hackney coach at thefirst stand they reached, and were soon at the destined spot. Theywere indeed before their time, and strolling by the side of theSerpentine, Cadurcis said, 'Yesterday morning was one of the happiestof my life, Scrope, and I was in hopes that an event would haveoccurred in the course of the day that might have been my salvation. If it had, by-the-bye, I should not have returned to town, and gotinto this cursed scrape. However, the gods were against me, and now Iam reckless. '

Now Lord Monteagle and his friend, who was Mr. Horace Pole, appeared. Cadurcis advanced, and bowed; Lord Monteagle returned his bow, stiffly, but did not speak. The seconds chose their ground, thechampions disembarrassed themselves of their coats, and their swordscrossed. It was a brief affair. After a few passes, Cadurcis receiveda slight wound in his arm, while his weapon pierced his antagonist inthe breast. Lord Monteagle dropped his sword and fell. 

'You had better fly, Lord Cadurcis, ' said Mr. Horace Pole. 'This is abad business, I fear; we have a surgeon at hand, and he can help us tothe coach that is waiting close by. '

'I thank you, sir, I never fly, ' said Lord Cadurcis; 'and I shall waithere until I see your principal safely deposited in his carriage; hewill have no objection to my friend, Lord Scrope, assisting him, who, by his presence to-day, has only fulfilled one of the painful dutiesthat society imposes upon us. '

The surgeon gave an unfavourable report of the wound, which he dressedon the field. Lord Monteagle was then borne to his carriage, which wasat hand, and Lord Scrope, the moment he had seen the equipage moveslowly off, returned to his friend. 

'Well Cadurcis, ' he exclaimed in an anxious voice, 'I hope you havenot killed him. What will you do now?'

'I shall go home, and await the result, my dear Scrope. I am sorry foryou, for this may get you into trouble. For myself, I care nothing. '

'You bleed!' said Lord Scrope. 

'A scratch. I almost wish our lots had been the reverse. Come, Scrope, help me on with my coat. Yesterday I lost my heart, last night I lostmy money, and perhaps to-morrow I shall lose my arm. It seems we arenot in luck. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

It has been well observed, that no spectacle is so ridiculous as theBritish public in one of its periodical fits of morality. In general, elopements, divorces, and family quarrels pass with little notice. Weread the scandal, talk about it for a day, and forget it. But, once insix or seven years, our virtue becomes outrageous. We cannot sufferthe laws of religion and decency to be violated. We must make astand against vice. We must teach libertines that the English peopleappreciate the importance of domestic ties. Accordingly, someunfortunate man, in no respect more depraved than hundreds whoseoffences have been treated with lenity, is singled out as an expiatorysacrifice. If he has children, they are to be taken from him. If hehas a profession, he is to be driven from it. He is cut by the higherorders, and hissed by the lower. He is, in truth, a sort of whippingboy, by whose vicarious agonies all the other transgressors of thesame class are, it is supposed, sufficiently chastised. We reflectvery complacently on our own severity, and compare, with great pride, the high standard of morals established in England, with the Parisianlaxity. At length, our anger is satiated, our victim is ruined andheart-broken, and our virtue goes quietly to sleep for seven yearsmore. 

These observations of a celebrated writer apply to the instance ofLord Cadurcis; he was the periodical victim, the scapegoat of Englishmorality, sent into the wilderness with all the crimes and curses ofthe multitude on his head. Lord Cadurcis had certainly committed agreat crime: not his intrigue with Lady Monteagle, for that surely wasnot an unprecedented offence; not his duel with her husband, for afterall it was a duel in self-defence; and, at all events, divorcesand duels, under any circumstances, would scarcely have excited orauthorised the storm which was now about to burst over the latespoiled child of society. But Lord Cadurcis had been guilty of theoffence which, of all offences, is punished most severely: LordCadurcis had been overpraised. He had excited too warm an interest;and the public, with its usual justice, was resolved to chastise himfor its own folly. 

There are no fits of caprice so hasty and so violent as those ofsociety. Society, indeed, is all passion and no heart. Cadurcis, inallusion to his sudden and singular success, had been in the habit ofsaying to his intimates, that he 'woke one morning and found himselffamous. ' He might now observe, 'I woke one morning and found myselfinfamous. ' Before twenty-four hours had passed over his duel with LordMonteagle, he found himself branded by every journal in London, as anunprincipled and unparalleled reprobate. The public, without waitingto think or even to inquire after the truth, instantly selected asgenuine the most false and the most flagrant of the fifty libellousnarratives that were circulated of the transaction. Stories, inconsistent with themselves, were all alike eagerly believed, andwhat evidence there might be for any one of them, the virtuous people, by whom they were repeated, neither cared nor knew. The public, inshort, fell into a passion with their darling, and, ashamed of theirpast idolatry, nothing would satisfy them but knocking the divinity onthe head. 

Until Lord Monteagle, to the great regret of society, who reallywished him to die in order that his antagonist might commit murder, was declared out of danger, Lord Cadurcis never quitted his house, andhe was not a little surprised that scarcely a human being called uponhim except his cousin, who immediately flew to his succour. George, indeed, would gladly have spared Cadurcis any knowledge of the stormthat was raging against him, and which he flattered himself would blowover before Cadurcis was again abroad; but he was so much withhis cousin, and Cadurcis was so extremely acute and naturally sosuspicious, that this was impossible. Moreover, his absolute desertionby his friends, and the invectives and the lampoons with which thenewspapers abounded, and of which he was the subject, rendered anyconcealment out of the question, and poor George passed his life inrunning about contradicting falsehoods, stating truth, fighting hiscousin's battles, and then reporting to him, in the course of the day, the state of the campaign. 

Cadurcis, being a man of infinite sensibility, suffered tortures. Hehad been so habituated to panegyric, that the slightest criticismruffled him, and now his works had suddenly become the subject ofuniversal and outrageous attack; having lived only in a cloud ofincense, he suddenly found himself in a pillory of moral indignation;his writings, his habits, his temper, his person, were all alikeridiculed and vilified. In a word, Cadurcis, the petted, idolised, spoiled Cadurcis, was enduring that charming vicissitude in aprosperous existence, styled a reaction; and a conqueror, who deemedhimself invincible, suddenly vanquished, could scarcely be morethunderstruck, or feel more impotently desperate. 

The tortures of his mind, however, which this sudden change in hisposition and in the opinions of society, were of themselves competentto occasion to one of so impetuous and irritable a temperament, andwho ever magnified both misery and delight with all the creativepower of a brooding imagination, were excited in his case even to theliveliest agony, when he reminded himself of the situation in which hewas now placed with Venetia. All hope of ever obtaining her hand hadnow certainly vanished, and he doubted whether even her love couldsurvive the quick occurrence, after his ardent vows, of this degradingand mortifying catastrophe. He execrated Lady Monteagle with the mostheartfelt rage, and when he remembered that all this time the worldbelieved him the devoted admirer of this vixen, his brain wasstimulated almost to the verge of insanity. His only hope of thetruth reaching Venetia was through the medium of his cousin, and heimpressed daily upon Captain Cadurcis the infinite consolation itwould prove to him, if he could contrive to make her aware of the realfacts of the case. According to the public voice, Lady Monteagle athis solicitation had fled to his house, and remained there, and herhusband forced his entrance into the mansion in the middle of thenight, while his wife escaped disguised in Lord Cadurcis' clothes. She did not, however, reach Monteagle House in time enough toescape detection by her lord, who had instantly sought and obtainedsatisfaction from his treacherous friend. All the monstrous inventionsof the first week had now subsided into this circumstantial andundoubted narrative; at least this was the version believed by thosewho had been Cadurcis' friends. They circulated the authentic talewith the most considerate assiduity, and shook their heads, and saidit was too bad, and that he must not be countenanced. 

The moment Lord Monteagle was declared out of danger, Lord Cadurcismade his appearance in public. He walked into Brookes', and everybodyseemed suddenly so deeply interested in the newspapers, that you mighthave supposed they had brought intelligence of a great battle, or arevolution, or a change of ministry at the least. One or two men spoketo him, who had never presumed to address him at any other time, andhe received a faint bow from a distinguished nobleman, who had everprofessed for him the greatest consideration and esteem. 

Cadurcis mounted his horse and rode down to the House of Lords. Therewas a debate of some public interest, and a considerable crowd wascollected round the Peers' entrance. The moment Lord Cadurcis wasrecognised, the multitude began hooting. He was agitated, and grinneda ghastly smile at the rabble. But he dismounted, without furtherannoyance, and took his seat. Not a single peer of his own party spoketo him. The leader of the Opposition, indeed, bowed to him, and, inthe course of the evening, he received, from one or two more of hisparty, some formal evidences of frigid courtesy. The tone of hisreception by his friends could not be concealed from the ministerialparty. It was soon detected, and generally whispered, that LordCadurcis was cut. Nevertheless, he sat out the debate and voted. Thehouse broke up. He felt lonely; his old friend, the Bishop of----, whohad observed all that had occurred, and who might easily have avoidedhim, came forward, however, in the most marked manner, and, in a tonewhich everybody heard, said, 'How do you do, Lord Cadurcis? I am veryglad to see you, ' shaking his hand most cordially. This made a greatimpression. Several of the Tory Lords, among them Venetia's uncle, nowadvanced and sainted him. He received their advances with a haughty, but not disdainful, courtesy; but when his Whig friends, confused, nowhurried to encumber him with their assistance, he treated them withthe scorn which they well deserved. 

'Will you take a seat in my carriage home, Lord Cadurcis?' said hisleader, for it was notorious that Cadurcis had been mobbed on hisarrival. 

'Thank you, my lord, ' said Cadurcis, speaking very audibly, 'Iprefer returning as I came. We are really both of us such unpopularpersonages, that your kindness would scarcely be prudent. '

The house had been full; there was a great scuffle and confusion asthe peers were departing; the mob, now considerable, were prepared forthe appearance of Lord Cadurcis, and their demeanour was menacing. Some shouted out his name; then it was repeated with odious andvindictive epithets, followed by ferocious yells. A great manypeers collected round Cadurcis, and entreated him not to return onhorseback. It must be confessed that genuine and considerable feelingwas now shown by all men of all parties. And indeed to witness thisyoung, and noble, and gifted creature, but a few days back the idolof the nation, and from whom a word, a glance even, was deemed thegreatest and most gratifying distinction, whom all orders, classes, and conditions of men had combined to stimulate with multipliedadulation, with all the glory and ravishing delights of the world, asit were, forced upon him, to see him thus assailed with the savageexecrations of all those vile things who exult in the fall ofeverything that is great, and the abasement of everything that isnoble, was indeed a spectacle which might have silenced malice andsatisfied envy!

'My carriage is most heartily at your service, Lord Cadurcis, ' saidthe noble leader of the government in the upper house; 'you can enterit without the slightest suspicion by these ruffians. ' 'Lord Cadurcis;my dear lord; my good lord, for our sakes, if not for your own;Cadurcis, dear Cadurcis, my good Cadurcis, it is madness, folly, insanity; a mob will do anything, and an English mob is viler thanall; for Heaven's sake!' Such were a few of the varied exclamationswhich resounded on all sides, but which produced on the person to whomthey were addressed only the result of his desiring the attendant tocall for his horses. 

The lobby was yet full; it was a fine thing in the light of thearchway to see Cadurcis spring into his saddle. Instantly there was ahorrible yell. Yet in spite of all their menaces, the mob were for atime awed by his courage; they made way for him; he might even haverode quickly on for some few yards, but he would not; he reined hisfiery steed into a slow but stately pace, and, with a countenancescornful and composed, he continued his progress, apparentlyunconscious of impediment. Meanwhile, the hooting continued withoutabatement, increasing indeed, after the first comparative pause, in violence and menace. At length a bolder ruffian, excited by theuproar, rushed forward and seized Cadurcis' bridle. Cadurcis struckthe man over the eyes with his whip, and at the same time touched hishorse with his spur, and the assailant was dashed to the ground. Thisseemed a signal for a general assault. It commenced with hideousyells. His friends at the house, who had watched everything with thekeenest interest, immediately directed all the constables who were athand to rush to his succour; hitherto they had restrained the police, lest their interference might stimulate rather than repress the mob. The charge of the constables was well timed; they laid about them withtheir staves; you might have heard the echo of many a broken crown. Nevertheless, though they dispersed the mass, they could not penetratethe immediate barrier that surrounded Lord Cadurcis, whose onlydefence indeed, for they had cut off his groom, was the terrors of hishorse's heels, and whose managed motions he regulated with admirableskill, now rearing, now prancing, now kicking behind, and nowturning round with a quick yet sweeping motion, before which the mobretreated. Off his horse, however, they seemed resolved to drag him;and it was not difficult to conceive, if they succeeded, what mustbe his eventual fate. They were infuriate, but his contact with hisassailants fortunately prevented their co-mates from hurling stones athim from the fear of endangering their own friends. 

A messenger to the Horse Guards had been sent from the House of Lords;but, before the military could arrive, and fortunately (for, withtheir utmost expedition, they must have been too late), a rumour ofthe attack got current in the House of Commons. Captain Cadurcis, Lord Scrope, and a few other young men instantly rushed out; and, ascertaining the truth, armed with good cudgels and such othereffective weapons as they could instantly obtain, they mounted theirhorses and charged the nearly-triumphant populace, dealing suchvigorous blows that their efforts soon made a visible diversion inLord Cadurcis' favour. It is difficult, indeed, to convey an idea ofthe exertions and achievements of Captain Cadurcis; no Paladin ofchivalry ever executed such marvels on a swarm of Paynim slaves; andmany a bloody coxcomb and broken limb bore witness in Petty Francethat night to his achievements. Still the mob struggled and were notdaunted by the delay in immolating their victim. As long as they hadonly to fight against men in plain clothes, they were valorous andobstinate enough; but the moment that the crests of a troop of HorseGuards were seen trotting down Parliament Street, everybody ran away, and in a few minutes all Palace-yard was as still as if the genius ofthe place rendered a riot impossible. 

Lord Cadurcis thanked his friends, who were profuse in theircompliments to his pluck. His manner, usually playful with hisintimates of his own standing, was, however, rather grave at present, though very cordial. He asked them home to dine with him; but theywere obliged to decline his invitation, as a division was expected;so, saying 'Good-bye, George, perhaps I shall see you to-night, 'Cadurcis rode rapidly off. 

With Cadurcis there was but one step from the most exquisitesensitiveness to the most violent defiance. The experience of thisday had entirely cured him of his previous nervous deference to thefeelings of society. Society had outraged him, and now he resolved tooutrage society. He owed society nothing; his reception at the Houseof Lords and the riot in Palace-yard had alike cleared his accountswith all orders of men, from the highest to the lowest. He hadexperienced, indeed, some kindness that he could not forget, but onlyfrom his own kin, and those who with his associations were the same askin. His memory dwelt with gratification on his cousin's courageouszeal, and still more on the demonstration which Masham had made in hisfavour, which, if possible, argued still greater boldness and sincereregard. That was a trial of true affection, and an instance of moralcourage, which Cadurcis honoured, and which he never could forget. Hewas anxious about Venetia; he wished to stand as well with her as hedeserved; no better; but he was grieved to think she could believe allthose infamous tales at present current respecting himself. But, forthe rest of the world, he delivered them all to the most absolutecontempt, disgust, and execration; he resolved, from this time, nothing should ever induce him again to enter society, or admit theadvances of a single civilised ruffian who affected to be social. Thecountry, the people, their habits, laws, manners, customs, opinions, and everything connected with them, were viewed with the samejaundiced eye; and his only object now was to quit England, to whichhe resolved never to return. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Venetia was, perhaps, not quite so surprised as the rest of herfriends, when, on their return to Richmond, Lord Cadurcis was notagain seen. She was very unhappy: she recalled the scene in thegarden at Cherbury some years back; and, with the knowledge of theimpetuosity of his temper, she believed she should never see himagain. Poor Plantagenet, who loved her so much, and whose love she sofully returned! why might they not be happy? She neither doubted theconstancy of his affection, nor their permanent felicity if theywere united. She shared none of her mother's apprehensions or herprejudices, but she was the victim of duty and her vow. In the courseof four-and-twenty hours, strange rumours were afloat respecting LordCadurcis; and the newspapers on the ensuing morning told the truth, and more than the truth. Venetia could not doubt as to the duel or theelopement; but, instead of feeling indignation, she attributed whathad occurred to the desperation of his mortified mind; and she visitedon herself all the fatal consequences that had happened. At present, however, all her emotions were quickly absorbed in the one terriblefear that Lord Monteagle would die. In that dreadful and urgentapprehension every other sentiment merged. It was impossible toconceal her misery, and she entreated her mother to return to town. 

Very differently, however, was the catastrophe viewed by Lady Annabel. She, on the contrary, triumphed in her sagacity and her prudence. Shehourly congratulated herself on being the saviour of her daughter;and though she refrained from indulging in any open exultationover Venetia's escape and her own profound discretion, it was, nevertheless, impossible for her to conceal from her daughter herinfinite satisfaction and self-congratulation. While Venetia was halfbroken-hearted, her mother silently returned thanks to Providence forthe merciful dispensation which had exempted her child from so muchmisery. 

The day after their return to town, Captain Cadurcis called upon them. Lady Annabel never mentioned the name of his cousin; but George, finding no opportunity of conversing with Venetia alone, and being, indeed, too much excited to speak on any other subject, plunged atonce into the full narrative; defended Lord Cadurcis, abused theMonteagles and the slanderous world, and, in spite of Lady Annabel'sill-concealed dissatisfaction, favoured her with an exact andcircumstantial account of everything that had happened, how ithappened, when it happened, and where it happened; concluding by adeclaration that Cadurcis was the best fellow that ever lived; themost unfortunate, and the most ill-used; and that, if he were to behunted down for an affair like this, over which he had no control, there was not a man in London who could be safe for ten minutes. Allthat George effected by his zeal, was to convince Lady Annabel thathis cousin had entirely corrupted, him; she looked upon her formerfavourite as another victim; but Venetia listened in silence, and notwithout solace. 

Two or three days after the riot at the House of Lords, CaptainCadurcis burst into his cousin's room with a triumphant countenance. 'Well, Plantagenet!' he exclaimed, 'I have done it; I have seenher alone, and I have put you as right as possible. Nothing can bebetter. '

'Tell me, my dear fellow, ' said Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. 

'Well, you know, I have called half-a-dozen times, ' said George, 'buteither Lady Annabel was there, or they were not at home, or somethingalways occurred to prevent any private communication. But I met herto-day with her aunt; I joined them immediately, and kept with themthe whole morning. I am sorry to say she, I mean Venetia, is devilishill; she is, indeed. However, her aunt now is quite on your side, andvery kind, I can tell you that. I put her right at first, and she hasfought our battle bravely. Well, they stopped to call somewhere, andVenetia was so unwell that she would not get out, and I was left alonein the carriage with her. Time was precious, and I opened at once. Itold her how wretched you were, and that the only thing that made youmiserable was about her, because you were afraid she would think youso profligate, and all that. I went through it all; told her the exacttruth, which, indeed, she had before heard; but now I assured her, onmy honour, that it was exactly what happened; and she said she did notdoubt it, and could not, from some conversation which you had togetherthe day we were all at Hampton Court, and that she felt that nothingcould have been premeditated, and fully believed that everything hadoccurred as I said; and, however she deplored it, she felt the samefor you as ever, and prayed for your happiness. Then she told me whatmisery the danger of Lord Monteagle had occasioned her; that shethought his death must have been the forerunner of her own; but themoment he was declared out of danger seemed the happiest hour ofher life. I told her you were going to leave England, and asked herwhether she had any message for you; and she said, "Tell him he is thesame to me that he has always been. " So, when her aunt returned, Ijumped out and ran on to you at once. '

'You are the best fellow that ever lived, George, ' said Lord Cadurcis;'and now the world may go to the devil!'

This message from Venetia acted upon Lord Cadurcis like a charm. Itinstantly cleared his mind. He shut himself up in his house for aweek, and wrote a farewell to England, perhaps the most masterlyeffusion of his powerful spirit. It abounded in passages ofoverwhelming passion, and almost Satanic sarcasm. Its compositionentirely relieved his long-brooding brain. It contained, moreover, a veiled address to Venetia, delicate, tender, and irresistiblyaffecting. He appended also to the publication, the verses he hadpreviously addressed to her. 

This volume, which was purchased with an avidity exceeding eventhe eagerness with which his former productions had been received, exercised extraordinary influence on public opinion. It enlisted thefeelings of the nation on his side in a struggle with a coterie. Itwas suddenly discovered that Lord Cadurcis was the most injured ofmortals, and far more interesting than ever. The address to theunknown object of his adoration, and the verses to Venetia, mystifiedeverybody. Lady Monteagle was universally abused, and all sympathisedwith the long-treasured and baffled affection of the unhappy poet. Cadurcis, however, was not to be conciliated. He left his nativeshores in a blaze of glory, but with the accents of scorn stillquivering on his lip. 

END OF BOOK IV. 

BOOK V. 

CHAPTER I. 

The still waters of the broad and winding lake reflected the lustreof the cloudless sky. The gentle declinations of the green hills thatimmediately bordered the lake, with an undulating margin that nowretired into bays of the most picturesque form, now jutted forthinto woody promontories, and then opened into valleys of sequesteredbeauty, which the eye delighted to pursue, were studded with whitevillas, and cottages scarcely less graceful, and occasionally withvillages, and even towns; here and there rose a solitary chapel; and, scarcely less conspicuous, the black spire of some cypress strikinglycontrasting with the fair buildings or the radiant foliage that ingeneral surrounded them. A rampart of azure mountains raised theirhuge forms behind the nearer hills; and occasionally peering overthese, like spectres on some brilliant festival, were the ghastlyvisages of the Alpine glaciers. 

It was within an hour of sunset, and the long shadows had fallen uponthe waters; a broad boat, with a variegated awning, rowed by two men, approached the steps of a marble terrace. The moment they had reachedtheir point of destination, and had fastened the boat to its moorings, the men landed their oars, and immediately commenced singing a simpleyet touching melody, wherewith it was their custom to apprise theiremployers of their arrival. 

'Will they come forth this evening, think you, Vittorio?' said oneboatman to the other. 

'By our holy mother, I hope so!' replied his comrade, 'for this lightair that is now rising will do the young signora more good than fiftydoctors. '

'They are good people, ' said Vittorio. 'It gives me more pleasure torow them than any persons who ever hired us. '

'Ay, ay!' said his comrade, 'It was a lucky day when we first put anoar in the lake for them, heretics though they be. '

'But they may he converted yet, ' said his companion; 'for, as I wassaying to Father Francisco last night, if the young signora dies, itis a sad thing to think what will become of her. '

'And what said the good Father?'

'He shook his head, ' said Vittorio. 

'When Father Francisco shakes his head, he means a great deal, ' saidhis companion. 

At this moment a servant appeared on the terrace, to say the ladieswere at hand; and very shortly afterwards Lady Annabel Herbert, withher daughter leaning on her arm, descended the steps, and entered theboat. The countenances of the boatmen brightened when they saw them, and they both made their inquiries after the health of Venetia withtenderness and feeling. 

'Indeed, my good friends, ' said Venetia, 'I think you are right, andthe lake will cure me after all. '

'The blessing of the lake be upon you, signora, ' said the boatmen, crossing themselves. 

Just as they were moving off, came running Mistress Pauncefort, quite breathless. 'Miss Herbert's fur cloak, my lady; you told me toremember, my lady, and I cannot think how I forgot it. But I reallyhave been so very hot all day, that such a thing as furs never enteredmy head. And for my part, until I travelled, I always thought furswere only worn in Russia. But live and learn, as I say. '

They were now fairly floating on the calm, clear waters, and therising breeze was as grateful to Venetia as the boatmen had imagined. 

A return of those symptoms which had before disquieted Lady Annabelfor her daughter, and which were formerly the cause of their residenceat Weymouth, had induced her, in compliance with the advice of herphysicians, to visit Italy; but the fatigue of travel had exhaustedthe energies of Venetia (for in those days the Alps were not passed inluxurious travelling carriages) on the very threshold of the promisedland; and Lady Annabel had been prevailed upon to take a villa on theLago Maggiore, where Venetia had passed two months, still sufferingindeed from great debility, but not without advantage. 

There are few spots more favoured by nature than the Italian lakes andtheir vicinity, combining, as they do, the most sublime featuresof mountainous scenery with all the softer beauties and the variedluxuriance of the plain. As the still, bright lake is to the rushingand troubled cataract, is Italy to Switzerland and Savoy. Emergingfrom the chaotic ravines and the wild gorges of the Alps, the happyland breaks upon us like a beautiful vision. We revel in the sunnylight, after the unearthly glare of eternal snow. Our sight seemsrenovated as we throw our eager glance over those golden plains, clothed with such picturesque trees, sparkling with such gracefulvillages, watered by such noble rivers, and crowned with suchmagnificent cities; and all bathed and beaming in an atmosphere sosoft and radiant! Every isolated object charms us with its beautifulnovelty: for the first time we gaze on palaces; the garden, theterrace, and the statue, recall our dreams beneath a colder sky;and we turn from these to catch the hallowed form of some cupolaedconvent, crowning the gentle elevation of some green hill, and flankedby the cypress or the pine. 

The influence of all these delightful objects and of this benignatmosphere on the frame and mind of Venetia had been considerable. After the excitement of the last year of her life, and the harassingand agitating scenes with which it closed, she found a fine solacein this fair land and this soft sky, which the sad perhaps can aloneexperience. Its repose alone afforded a consolatory contrast to theturbulent pleasure of the great world. She looked back upon thoseglittering and noisy scenes with an aversion which was only modifiedby her self-congratulation at her escape from their exhausting andcontaminating sphere. Here she recurred, but with all the advantagesof a change of scene, and a scene so rich in novel and interestingassociations, to the calm tenor of those days, when not a thought everseemed to escape from Cherbury and its spell-bound seclusion. Herbooks, her drawings, her easel, and her harp, were now again her chiefpursuits; pursuits, however, influenced by the genius of the land inwhich she lived, and therefore invested with a novel interest; forthe literature and the history of the country naturally attracted herattention; and its fair aspects and sweet sounds, alike inspired herpencil and her voice. She had, in the society of her mother, indeed, the advantage of communing with a mind not less refined and cultivatedthan her own. Lady Annabel was a companion whose conversation, fromreading and reflection, was eminently suggestive; and their hours, though they lived in solitude, never hung heavy. They were alwaysemployed, and always cheerful. But Venetia was not more than cheerful. Still very young, and gifted with an imaginative and thereforesanguine mind, the course of circumstances, however, had checked hernative spirit, and shaded a brow which, at her time of life and withher temperament, should have been rather fanciful than pensive. IfVenetia, supported by the disciplined energies of a strong mind, hadschooled herself into not looking back to the past with grief, herfuture was certainly not tinged with the Iris pencil of Hope. Itseemed to her that it was her fate that life should bring her nohappier hours than those she now enjoyed. They did not amount toexquisite bliss. That was a conviction which, by no process ofreflection, however ingenious, could she delude herself to credit. Venetia struggled to take refuge in content, a mood of mind perhapsless natural than it should be to one so young, so gifted, and sofair!

Their villa was surrounded by a garden in the ornate and artificialstyle of the country. A marble terrace overlooked the lake, crownedwith many a statue and vase that held the aloe. The laurel and thecactus, the cypress and the pine, filled the air with their fragrance, or charmed the eye with their rarity and beauty: the walks werefestooned with the vine, and they could raise their hands and pluckthe glowing fruit which screened them, from the beam by which, it wasripened. In this enchanted domain Venetia might be often seen, aform even fairer than the sculptured nymphs among which she glided, catching the gentle breeze that played upon the surface of the lake, or watching the white sail that glittered in the sun as it floatedover its purple bosom. 

Yet this beautiful retreat Venetia was soon to quit, and she thoughtof her departure with a sigh. Her mother had been warned to avoidthe neighbourhood of the mountains in the winter, and the autumn wasapproaching its close. If Venetia could endure the passage of theApennines, it was the intention of Lady Annabel to pass the winteron the coast of the Mediterranean; otherwise to settle in one of theLombard cities. At all events, in the course of a few weeks they wereto quit their villa on the lake. 

CHAPTER II. 

A very few days after this excursion on the lake, Lady Annabel and herdaughter were both surprised and pleased with a visit from a friendwhose appearance was certainly very unexpected; this was CaptainCadurcis. On his way from Switzerland to Sicily, he had heard of theirresidence in the neighbourhood, and had crossed over from Arona tovisit them. 

The name of Cadurcis was still dear to Venetia, and George haddisplayed such gallantry and devotion in all his cousin's troubles, that she was personally attached to him; he had always been afavourite of her mother; his arrival, therefore, was welcomed by eachof the ladies with great cordiality. He accepted the hospitality whichLady Annabel offered him, and remained with them a week, a periodwhich they spent in visiting the most beautiful and interesting spotsof the lake, with which they were already sufficiently familiar toallow them to prove guides as able as they were agreeable. Theseexcursions, indeed, contributed to the pleasure and happiness of thewhole party. There was about Captain Cadurcis a natural cheerfulnesswhich animated every one in his society; a gay simplicity, difficultto define, but very charming, and which, without effort, oftenproduced deeper impressions than more brilliant and subtle qualities. Left alone in the world, and without a single advantage save thosethat nature had conferred upon him, it had often been remarked, that in whatever circle he moved George Cadurcis always became thefavourite and everywhere made friends. His sweet and engaging temperhad perhaps as much contributed to his professional success as hisdistinguished gallantry and skill. Other officers, no doubt, wereas brave and able as Captain Cadurcis, but his commanders alwayssignalled him out for favourable notice; and, strange to say, hissuccess, instead of exciting envy and ill-will, pleased even his lessfortunate competitors. However hard another might feel his own lot, itwas soothed by the reflection that George Cadurcis was at leastmore fortunate. His popularity, however, was not confined to hisprofession. His cousin's noble guardian, whom George had never seenuntil he ventured to call upon his lordship on his return to England, now looked upon him almost as a son, and omitted no opportunity ofadvancing his interests in the world. Of all the members of the Houseof Commons he was perhaps the only one that everybody praised, andhis success in the world of fashion had been as remarkable as in hisprofession. These great revolutions in his life and future prospectshad, however, not produced the slightest change in his mind andmanners; and this was perhaps the secret spell of his prosperity. Though we are most of us the creatures of affectation, simplicity hasa great charm, especially when attended, as in the present instance, with many agreeable and some noble qualities. In spite of the roughfortunes of his youth, the breeding of Captain Cadurcis was high; therecollection of the race to which he belonged had never been forgottenby him. He was proud of his family. He had one of those light hearts, too, which enable their possessors to acquire accomplishments withfacility: he had a sweet voice, a quick ear, a rapid eye. Heacquired a language as some men learn an air. Then his temper wasimperturbable, and although the most obliging and kindest-heartedcreature that ever lived, there was a native dignity about him whichprevented his goodnature from being abused. No sense of interesteither could ever induce him to act contrary to the dictates of hisjudgment and his heart. At the risk of offending his patron, Georgesided with his cousin, although he had deeply offended his guardian, and although the whole world was against him. Indeed, the strongaffection that Lord Cadurcis instantly entertained for George isnot the least remarkable instance of the singular, though silent, influence that Captain Cadurcis everywhere acquired. Lord Cadurcishad fixed upon him for his friend from the first moment of theiracquaintance; and though apparently there could not be two charactersmore dissimilar, there were at bottom some striking points of sympathyand some strong bonds of union, in the generosity and courage thatdistinguished both, and in the mutual blood that filled their veins. 

There seemed to be a tacit understanding between the several membersof our party that the name of Lord Cadurcis was not to be mentioned. Lady Annabel made no inquiry after him; Venetia was unwilling tohazard a question which would annoy her mother, and of which theanswer could not bring her much satisfaction; and Captain Cadurcis didnot think fit himself to originate any conversation on the subject. Nevertheless, Venetia could not help sometimes fancying, when her eyesmet his, that their mutual thoughts were the same, and both dwellingon one who was absent, and of whom her companion would willingly haveconversed. To confess the truth, indeed, George Cadurcis was on hisway to join his cousin, who had crossed over from Spain to Barbary, and journeyed along the African coast from Tangiers to Tripoli. Theirpoint of reunion was to be Sicily or Malta. Hearing of the residenceof the Herberts on the lake, he thought it would be but kind toPlantagenet to visit them, and perhaps to bear to him some messagefrom Venetia. There was nothing, indeed, on which Captain Cadurciswas more intent than to effect the union between his cousin and MissHerbert. He was deeply impressed with the sincerity of Plantagenet'spassion, and he himself entertained for the lady the greatestaffection and admiration. He thought she was the only person whom hehad ever known, who was really worthy to be his cousin's bride. And, independent of her personal charms and undoubted talents, she haddisplayed during the outcry against Lord Cadurcis so much good sense, such a fine spirit, and such modest yet sincere affection for thevictim, that George Cadurcis had almost lost his own heart to her, when he was endeavouring to induce her not utterly to reject that ofanother; and it became one of the dreams of his life, that in a littletime, when all, as he fondly anticipated, had ended as it should, and as he wished it, he should be able to find an occasional home atCadurcis Abbey, and enjoy the charming society of one whom he hadalready taught himself to consider as a sister. 

'And to-night you must indeed go?' said Venetia, as they were walkingtogether on the terrace. It was the only time that they had been alonetogether during his visit. 

'I must start from Arona at daybreak, ' replied George; 'and I musttravel quickly, for in less than a month I must be in Sicily. '

'Sicily! Why are you going to Sicily?'

Captain Cadurcis smiled. 'I am going to join a friend of ours, ' heanswered. 

'Plantagenet?' she said. 

Captain Cadurcis nodded assent. 

'Poor Plantagenet!' said Venetia. 

'His name has been on my lips several times, ' said George. 

'I am sure of that, ' said Venetia. 'Is he well?'

'He writes to me in fair spirits, ' said Captain Cadurcis. 'He has beentravelling in Spain, and now he is somewhere in Africa; we are to meetin Sicily or Malta. I think travel has greatly benefited him. He seemsquite delighted with his glimpse of Oriental manners, and I shouldscarcely be surprised if he were now to stretch on to Constantinople. '

'I wonder if he will ever return to England, ' said Venetia, thoughtfully. 

'There is only one event that would induce him, ' said CaptainCadurcis. And then after a pause he added, 'You will not ask me whatit is?'

'I wish he were in England, and were happy, ' said Venetia. 

'It is in your power to effect both results, ' said her companion. 

'It is useless to recur to that subject, ' said Venetia. 'Plantagenetknows my feelings towards him, but fate has forbidden our destinies tobe combined. '

'Then he will never return to England, and never be happy. Ah, Venetia! what shall I tell him when we meet? What message am I to bearhim from you?'

'Those regards which he ever possessed, and has never forfeited, ' saidVenetia. 

'Poor Cadurcis!' said his cousin, shaking his head, 'if any man everhad reason to be miserable, it is he. '

'We are none of us very happy, I think, ' said Venetia, mournfully. 'Iam sure when I look back to the last few years of my life it seemsto me that there is some curse hanging over our families. I cannotpenetrate it; it baffles me. '

'I am sure, ' said Captain Cadurcis with great animation, 'nay, I wouldpledge my existence cheerfully on the venture, that if Lady Annabelwould only relent towards Cadurcis, we should all be the happiestpeople in the world. '

'Heigho!' said Venetia. 'There are other cares in our house besidesour unfortunate acquaintance with your cousin. We were the last peoplein the world with whom he should ever have become connected. '

'And yet it was an intimacy that commenced auspiciously, ' said herfriend. 'I am sure I have sat with Cadurcis, and listened to him bythe hour, while he has told me of all the happy days at Cherbury whenyou were both children; the only happy days, according to him, that heever knew. '

'Yes! they were happy days, ' said Venetia. 

'And what connection could have offered a more rational basis forfelicity than your union?' he continued. 'Whatever the world maythink, I, who know Cadurcis to the very bottom of his heart, feelassured that you never would have repented for an instant becoming thesharer of his life; your families were of equal rank, your estatesjoined, he felt for your mother the affection of a son. There seemedevery element that could have contributed to earthly bliss. As for hislate career, you who know all have already, have always indeed, viewed it with charity. Placed in his position, who could have actedotherwise? I know very well that his genius, which might recommendhim to another woman, is viewed by your mother with more thanapprehension. It is true that a man of his exquisite sensibilityrequires sympathies as refined to command his nature. It is no commonmind that could maintain its hold over Cadurcis, and his spirit couldnot yield but to rare and transcendent qualities. He found them, Venetia, he found them in her whom he had known longest and mostintimately, and loved from his boyhood. Talk of constancy, indeed! whohas been so constant as my cousin? No, Venetia! you may think fit tobow to the feelings of your mother, and it would be impertinence in meto doubt for an instant the propriety of your conduct: I do not doubtit; I admire it; I admire you, and everything you have done; none canview your behaviour throughout all these painful transactions withmore admiration, I might even say with more reverence, than myself;but, Venetia, you never can persuade me, you have never attempted topersuade me, that you yourself are incredulous of the strength andpermanency of my cousin's love. '

'Ah, George! you are our friend!' said Venetia, a tear stealing downher cheek. 'But, indeed, we must not talk of these things. As formyself, I think not of happiness. I am certain I am not born to behappy. I wish only to live calmly; contentedly, I would say; but that, perhaps, is too much. My feelings have been so harrowed, my mind soharassed, during these last few years, and so many causes of pain andmisery seem ever hovering round my existence, that I do assure you, my dear friend, I have grown old before my time. Ah! you may smile, George, but my heart is heavy; it is indeed. '

'I wish I could lighten it, ' said Captain Cadurcis. 'I fear I amsomewhat selfish in wishing you to marry my cousin, for then you knowI should have a permanent and authentic claim to your regard. But noone, at least I think so, can feel more deeply interested in yourwelfare than I do. I never knew any one like you, and I always tellCadurcis so, and that I think makes him worse, but I cannot help it. '

Venetia could not refrain from smiling at the simplicity of thisconfession. 

'Well, ' continued her companion, ' everything, after all, is for thebest. You and Plantagenet are both very young; I live in hopes that Ishall yet see you Lady Cadurcis. '

Venetia shook her head, but was not sorry that their somewhatmelancholy conversation should end in a livelier vein. So they enteredthe villa. 

The hour of parting was painful, and the natural gaiety of CaptainCadurcis deserted him. He had become greatly attached to the Herberts. Without any female relatives of his own, their former intimacy andprobable connection with his cousin had taught him to look upon themin some degree in the light of kindred. He had originally indeedbecome acquainted with them in all the blaze of London society, notvery calculated to bring out the softer tints and more subdued tonesof our character, but even then the dignified grace of Lady Annabeland the radiant beauty of Venetia, had captivated him, and he hadcultivated their society with assiduity and extreme pleasure. Thegrand crisis of his cousin's fortunes had enabled him to becomeintimate with the more secret and serious qualities of Venetia, andfrom that moment he had taken the deepest interest in everythingconnected with her. His happy and unexpected meeting in Italy hadcompleted the spell; and now that he was about to leave them, uncertain even if they should ever meet again, his soft hearttrembled, and he could scarcely refrain from tears as he pressed theirhands, and bade them his sincere adieus. 

The moon had risen, ere he entered his boat, and flung a rippling lineof glittering light on the bosom of the lake. The sky was without acloud, save a few thin fleecy vapours that hovered over the azure browof a distant mountain. The shores of the lake were suffused with theserene effulgence, and every object was so distinct, that the eye waspained by the lights of the villages, that every instant became morenumerous and vivid. The bell of a small chapel on the opposite shore, and the distant chant of some fishermen still working at their nets, were the only sounds that broke the silence which they did notdisturb. Reclined in his boat, George Cadurcis watched the vanishingvilla of the Herberts, until the light in the principal chamber wasthe only sign that assured him of its site. That chamber held Venetia, the unhappy Venetia! He covered his face with his hand when eventhe light of her chamber vanished, and, full of thoughts tender anddisconsolate, he at length arrived at Arona. 

CHAPTER III. 

Pursuant to their plans, the Herberts left the Lago Maggiore towardsthe end of October, and proceeded by gentle journeys to the Apennines. Before they crossed this barrier, they were to rest awhile in one ofthe Lombard cities; and now they were on the point of reaching Arquâ, which Venetia had expressed a strong desire to visit. 

At the latter part of the last century, the race of tourists, theoffspring of a long peace, and the rapid fortunes made during the war, did not exist. Travelling was then confined to the aristocracy, and though the English, when opportunity offered, have ever been arestless people, the gentle bosom of the Euganean Hills was thenrarely disturbed amid its green and sequestered valleys. 

There is not perhaps in all the Italian region, fertile as it is ininteresting associations and picturesque beauty, a spot that traditionand nature have so completely combined to hallow, as the lastresidence of Petrarch. It seems, indeed, to have been formed for theretirement of a pensive and poetic spirit. It recedes from the worldby a succession of delicate acclivities clothed with vineyards andorchards, until, winding within these hills, the mountain hamlet isat length discovered, enclosed by two ridges that slope towards eachother, and seem to shut out all the passions of a troubled race. Thehouses are scattered at intervals on the steep sides of these summits, and on a little knoll is the mansion of the poet, built by himself, and commanding a rich and extensive view, that ends only with theshores of the Adriatic sea. His tomb, a sarcophagus of red marble, supported by pillars, doubtless familiar to the reader, is at hand;and, placed on an elevated site, gives a solemn impression to a scene, of which the character would otherwise be serenely cheerful. 

Our travellers were surprised to find that the house of the poet wasinhabited by a very different tenant to the rustic occupier they hadanticipated. They heard that a German gentleman had within the lastyear fixed upon it as the residence of himself and his wife. Thepeasants were profuse in their panegyrics of this visitor, whosearrival had proved quite an era in the history of their village. According to them, a kinder and more charitable gentleman neverbreathed; his whole life was spent in studying and contributing to thehappiness of those around him. The sick, the sorrowful, and the needywere ever sure of finding a friend in him, and merit a generouspatron. From him came portions to the portionless; no village maidenneed despair of being united to her betrothed, while he could assisther; and at his own cost he had sent to the academy of Bologna, ayouth whom his father would have made a cowherd, but whom naturepredisposed to be a painter. The inhabitants believed this benevolentand generous person was a physician, for he attended the sick, prescribed for their complaints, and had once even performed anoperation with great success. It seemed that, since Petrarch, no onehad ever been so popular at Arquâ as this kind German. Lady Annabeland Venetia were interested with the animated narratives of theever-active beneficence of this good man, and Lady Annabel especiallyregretted that his absence deprived her of the gratification ofbecoming acquainted with a character so rare and so invaluable. In themeantime they availed themselves of the offer of his servants to viewthe house of Petrarch, for their master had left orders, that hisabsence should never deprive a pilgrim from paying his homage to theshrine of genius. 

The house, consisting of two floors, had recently been repaired bythe present occupier. It was simply furnished. The ground-floor wasallotted to the servants. The upper story contained five rooms, threeof which were of good size, and two closets. In one of these were thetraditionary chair and table of Petrarch, and here, according to theirguides, the master of the house passed a great portion of his time instudy, to which, by their account, he seemed devoted. The adjoiningchamber was his library; its windows opened on a balcony looking ontwo lofty and conical hills, one topped with a convent, while thevalley opened on the side and spread into a calm and very pleasantview. Of the other apartments, one served as a saloon, but there wasnothing in it remarkable, except an admirably painted portrait of abeautiful woman, which the servant informed them was their mistress. 

'But that surely is not a German physiognomy?' said Lady Annabel. 

'The mistress is an Italian, ' replied the servant. 

'She is very handsome, of whatever nation she may be, ' replied LadyAnnabel. 

'Oh! how I should have liked to have met these happy people, mamma, 'said Venetia, 'for happy they surely must be. '

'They seem to be good people, ' said Lady Annabel. 'It really lightenedmy heart to hear of all this gentleman's kind deeds. '

'Ah! if the signora only knew the master, ' said their guide, 'shewould indeed know a good man. '

They descended to the garden, which certainly was not like the gardenof their villa; it had been but lately a wilderness of laurels, butthere were evidences that the eye and hand of taste were commencingits restoration with effect. 

'The master did this, ' said their guide. 'He will allow no one to workin the garden but himself. It is a week since he went to Bologna, tosee our Paulo. He gained a prize at the academy, and his father beggedthe master to be present when it was conferred on him; he said itwould do his son so much good! So the master went, though it is theonly time he has quitted Quâ since he came to reside here. '

'And how long has he resided here?' inquired Venetia. 

''Tis the second autumn, ' said the guide, 'and he came in the spring. If the signora would only wait, we expect the master home to-night orto-morrow, and he would be glad to see her. '

'We cannot wait, my friend, ' said Lady Annabel, rewarding the guide;'but you will thank your master in our names, for the kindness we haveexperienced. You are all happy in such a friend. '

'I must write my name in Petrarch's house, ' said Venetia. 'Adieu, happy Arquâ! Adieu, happy dwellers in this happy valley!'

CHAPTER IV. 

Just as Lady Annabel and her daughter arrived at Rovigo, one of thosesudden and violent storms that occasionally occur at the terminationof an Italian autumn raged with irresistible fury. The wind roaredwith a noise that overpowered the thunder; then came a rattling showerof hail, with stones as big as pigeons' eggs, succeeded by rain, notin showers, but literally in cataracts. The only thing to whicha tempest of rain in Italy can be compared is the bursting of awaterspout. Venetia could scarcely believe that this could be the sameday of which the golden morning had found her among the sunny hills ofArquâ. This unexpected vicissitude induced Lady Annabel to alter herplans, and she resolved to rest at Rovigo, where she was glad to findthat they could be sheltered in a commodious inn. 

The building had originally been a palace, and in its halls andgalleries, and the vast octagonal vestibule on which the principalapartments opened, it retained many noble indications of the purposesto which it was formerly destined. 

At present, a lazy innkeeper who did nothing; his bustling wife, who seemed equally at home in the saloon, the kitchen, and even thestable; and a solitary waiter, were the only inmates, except theHerberts, and a travelling party, who had arrived shortly after them, and who, like them, had been driven by stress of weather to seekrefuge at a place where otherwise they had not intended to remain. 

A blazing fire of pine wood soon gave cheerfulness to the vast andsomewhat desolate apartment into which our friends had been ushered;their sleeping-room was adjoining, but separated. In spite of thelamentations of Pauncefort, who had been drenched to the skin, and whorequired much more waiting upon than her mistress, Lady Annabel andVenetia at length produced some degree of comfort. They drew the tablenear the fire; they ensconced themselves behind an old screen; and, producing their books and work notwithstanding the tempest, theycontrived to domesticate themselves at Rovigo. 

'I cannot help thinking of Arquâ and its happy tenants, mamma, ' saidVenetia. 

'And yet, perhaps, they may have their secret sorrows, ' saidLady Annabel. 'I know not why, I always associate seclusion withunhappiness. '

Venetia remembered Cherbury. Their life at Cherbury was like the lifeof the German at Arquâ. A chance visitor to Cherbury in their absence, viewing the beautiful residence and the fair domain, and listening tothe tales which they well might hear of all her mother's grace andgoodness, might perhaps too envy its happy occupiers. But were theyhappy? Had they no secret sorrows? Was their seclusion associated withunhappiness? These were reflections that made Venetia grave; but sheopened her journal, and, describing the adventures and feelings of themorning, she dissipated some mournful reminiscences. 

The storm still raged, Venetia had quitted the saloon in which hermother and herself had been sitting, and had repaired to the adjoiningchamber to fetch a book. The door of this room opened, as all theother entrances of the different apartments, on to the octagonalvestibule. Just as she was quitting the room, and about to return toher mother, the door of the opposite chamber opened, and there cameforward a gentleman in a Venetian dress of black velvet. His staturewas much above the middle height, though his figure, which wasremarkably slender, was bowed; not by years certainly, for hiscountenance, though singularly emaciated, still retained tracesof youth. His hair, which he wore very long, descended over hisshoulders, and must originally have been of a light golden colour, butnow was severely touched with grey. His countenance was very pallid, so colourless indeed that its aspect was almost unearthly; but hislarge blue eyes, that were deeply set in his majestic brow, stillglittered with fire, and their expression alone gave life to a visage, which, though singularly beautiful in its outline, from its faded andattenuated character seemed rather the countenance of a corpse than ofa breathing being. 

The glance of the stranger caught that of Venetia, and seemed tofascinate her. She suddenly became motionless; wildly she stared atthe stranger, who, in his turn, seemed arrested in his progress, andstood still as a statue, with his eyes fixed with absorbing intereston the beautiful apparition before him. An expression of perplexityand pain flitted over the amazed features of Venetia; and then itseemed that, by some almost supernatural effort, confusion amountingto stupefaction suddenly brightened and expanded into keen andoverwhelming intelligence. Exclaiming in a frenzied tone, 'My father!'Venetia sprang forward, and fell senseless on the stranger's breast. 

Such, after so much mystery, so many aspirations, so much anxiety, andso much suffering, such was the first meeting of Venetia Herbert withher father!

Marmion Herbert, himself trembling and speechless, bore the apparentlylifeless Venetia into his apartment. Not permitting her for a momentto quit his embrace, he seated himself, and gazed silently on theinanimate and unknown form he held so strangely within his arms. Thoselips, now closed as if in death, had uttered however one wordwhich thrilled to his heart, and still echoed, like a supernaturalannunciation, within his ear. He examined with an eye of agitatedscrutiny the fair features no longer sensible of his presence. Hegazed upon that transparent brow, as if he would read some secret inits pellucid veins; and touched those long locks of golden hair with atrembling finger, that seemed to be wildly seeking for some vague andmiraculous proof of inexpressible identity. The fair creature hadcalled him 'Father. ' His dreaming reveries had never pictured a beinghalf so beautiful! She called him 'Father!' Tha word had touchedhis brain, as lightning cuts a tree. He looked around him with adistracted air, then gazed on the tranced form he held with a glancewhich would have penetrated her soul, and murmured unconsciously thewild word she had uttered. She called him 'Father!' He dared not thinkwho she might be. His thoughts were wandering in a distant land;visions of another life, another country, rose before him, troubledand obscure. Baffled aspirations, and hopes blighted in the bud, andthe cherished secrets of his lorn existence, clustered like cloudsupon his perplexed, yet creative, brain. She called him, 'Father!' Itwas a word to make him mad. 'Father!' This beautiful being hadcalled him 'Father, ' and seemed to have expired, as it were, in theirresistible expression. His heart yearned to her; he had met herembrace with an inexplicable sympathy; her devotion had seemed, as itwere, her duty and his right. Yet who was she? He was a father. Itwas a fact, a fact alike full of solace and mortification, theconsciousness of which never deserted him. But he was the father of anunknown child; to him the child of his poetic dreams, rather than hisreality. And now there came this radiant creature, and called him'Father!' Was he awake, and in the harsh busy world; or was it theapparition of au over-excited imagination, brooding too constantly onone fond idea, on which he now gazed so fixedly? Was this some spirit?Would that she would speak again! Would that those sealed lips wouldpart and utter but one word, would but again call him 'Father, ' and heasked no more!

'Father!' to be called 'Father' by one whom he could not name, by oneover whom he mused in solitude, by one to whom he had poured forth allthe passion of his desolate soul; to be called 'Father' by this beingwas the aspiring secret of his life. He had painted her to himself inhis loneliness, he had conjured up dreams of ineffable loveliness, andinexpressible love; he had led with her an imaginary life of thrillingtenderness; he had indulged in a delicious fancy of mutual interchangeof the most exquisite offices of our nature; and then, when he hadsometimes looked around him, and found no daughter there, no beamingcountenance of purity to greet him with its constant smile, andreceive the quick and ceaseless tribute of his vigilant affection, thetears had stolen down his lately-excited features, all the consolingbeauty of his visions had vanished into air, he had felt the deepcurse of his desolation, and had anathematised the cunning brainthat made his misery a thousand-fold keener by the mockery of itstransporting illusions. 

And now there came this transcendent creature, with a form moreglowing than all his dreams; a voice more musical than a seraphicchorus, though it had uttered but one thrilling word: there came thistranscendent creature, beaming with grace, beauty, and love, and hadfallen upon his heart, and called him 'Father!'

Herbert looked up to heaven as if waiting for some fresh miracle toterminate the harrowing suspense of his tortured mind; Herbert lookeddown upon his mysterious companion; the rose was gradually returningto her cheek, her lips seemed to tremble with reviving breath. Therewas only one word more strange to his ear than that which she haduttered, but an irresistible impulse sent forth the sound. 

'Venetia!' he exclaimed. 

The eyes of the maiden slowly opened; she stared around her with avague glance of perplexity, not unmingled with pain; she looked up;she caught the rapt gaze of her father, bending over her withfondness yet with fear; his lips moved, for a moment they refused toarticulate, yet at length they again uttered, 'Venetia!' And the onlyresponse she made was to cling to him with nervous energy, and hideher face in his bosom. 

Herbert pressed her to his heart. Yet even now he hesitated to creditthe incredible union. Again he called her by her name, but added withrising confidence, 'My Venetia!'

'Your child, your child, ' she murmured. 'Your own Venetia. '

He pressed his lips to hers; he breathed over her a thousandblessings; she felt his tears trickling on her neck. 

At length Venetia looked up and sighed; she was exhausted by theviolence of her emotions: her father relaxed his grasp with infinitetenderness, watching her with delicate solicitude; she leaned her armupon his shoulder with downcast eyes. 

Herbert gently took her disengaged hand, and pressed it to his lips. 'I am as in a dream, ' murmured Venetia. 

'The daughter of my heart has found her sire, ' said Herbert in animpassioned voice. 'The father who has long lived upon her fanciedimage; the father, I fear, she has been bred up to hate. '

'Oh! no, no!' said Venetia, speaking rapidly and with a slight shiver;'not hate! it was a secret, his being was a secret, his name was nevermentioned; it was unknown. '

'A secret! My existence a secret from my child, my beautiful fondchild!' exclaimed Herbert in a tone even more desolate than bitter. 'Why did they not let you at least hate me!'

'My father!' said Venetia, in a firmer voice, and with returninganimation, yet gazing around her with a still distracted air, 'Am Iwith my father? The clouds clear from my brain. I remember that wemet. Where was it? Was it at Arquâ? In the garden? I am with myfather!' she continued in a rapid tone and with a wild smile. 'Oh! letme look on him;' and she turned round, and gazed upon Herbert witha serious scrutiny. 'Are you my father?' she continued, in a still, small voice. 'Your hair has grown grey since last I saw you; it wasgolden then, like mine. I know you are my father, ' she added, after apause, and in a tone almost of gaiety. 'You cannot deceive me. I knowyour name. They did not tell it me; I found it out myself, but it mademe very ill, very; and I do not think I have ever been quite wellsince. You are Marmion Herbert. My mother had a dog called Marmion, when I was a little girl, but I did not know I had a father then. '

'Venetia!' exclaimed Herbert, with streaming eyes, as he listened withanguish to these incoherent sentences. 'My Venetia loves me!'

'Oh! she always loved you, ' replied Venetia; always, always. Beforeshe knew her father she loved him. I dare say you think I do not loveyou, because I am not used to speak to a father. Everything must belearnt, you know, ' she said, with a faint, sad smile; 'and then itwas so sudden! I do not think my mother knows it yet. And after all, though I found you out in a moment, still, I know not why, I thoughtit was a picture. But I read your verses, and I knew them by heart atonce; but now my memory has worn out, for I am ill, and everything hasgone cross with me. And all because my father wrote me verses. 'Tisvery strange, is not it?'

'Sweet lamb of my affections, ' exclaimed Herbert to himself, 'I fearme much this sudden meeting with one from whose bosom you ought neverto have been estranged, has been for the moment too great a trial forthis delicate brain. '

'I will not tell my mother, ' said Venetia; 'she will be angry. '

'Your mother, darling; where is your mother?' said Herbert, looking, if possible, paler than he was wont. 

She was at Arquâ with me, and on the lake for months, but where we arenow, I cannot say. If I could only remember where we are now, ' sheadded with earnestness, and with a struggle to collect herself, 'Ishould know everything. '

'This is Rovigo, my child, the inn of Rovigo. You are travelling withyour mother. Is it not so?'

'Yes! and we came this morning, and it rained. Now I know everything, 'said Venetia, with an animated and even cheerful air. 

'And we met in the vestibule, my sweet, ' continued Herbert, in asoothing voice; 'we came out of opposite chambers, and you knew me; myVenetia knew me. Try to tell me, my darling, ' he added, in a tone ofcoaxing fondness, 'try to remember how Venetia knew her father. '

'He was so like his picture at Cherbury, ' replied Venetia. 

'Cherbury!' exclaimed Herbert, with a deep-drawn sigh. 

'Only your hair has grown grey, dear father; but it is long, quite aslong as in your picture. '

'Her dog called Marmion!' murmured Herbert to himself, 'and myportrait, too! You saw your father's portrait, then, every day, love?'

'Oh, no! said Venetia, shaking her head, 'only once, only once. And Inever told mamma. It was where no one could go, but I went there oneday. It was in a room that no one ever entered except mamma, butI entered it. I stole the key, and had a fever, and in my fever Iconfessed all. But I never knew it. Mamma never told me I confessedit, until many, many years afterwards. It was the first, the only timeshe ever mentioned to me your name, my father. '

'And she told you to shun me, to hate me? She told you I was avillain, a profligate, a demon? eh? eh? Was it not so, Venetia?'

'She told me that you had broken her heart, ' said Venetia; 'and sheprayed to God that her child might not be so miserable. '

'Oh, my Venetia!' exclaimed Herbert, pressing her to his breast, and in a voice stifled with emotion, 'I feel now we might have beenhappy!'

In the meantime the prolonged absence of her daughter surprisedLady Annabel. At length she rose, and walked into their adjoiningapartment, but to her surprise Venetia was not there. Returning to hersaloon, she found Pauncefort and the waiter arranging the table fordinner. 

'Where is Miss Herbert, Pauncefort?' inquired Lady Annabel. 

'I am sure, my lady, I cannot say. I have no doubt she is in the otherroom. '

'She is not there, for I have just quitted it, ' replied Lady Annabel. 'How very strange! You have not seen the signora?' inquired LadyAnnabel of the waiter. 

'The signora is in the room with the gentleman. '

'The gentleman!' exclaimed Lady Annabel. 'Tell me, good man, what doyou mean? I am inquiring for my daughter. '

'I know well the signora is talking of her daughter, ' replied thewaiter. 

'But do you know my daughter by sight? Surely you you must mean someone else. '

'Do I know the signora's daughter?' said the waiter. 'The beautifulyoung lady, with hair like Santa Marguerita, in the church of the HolyTrinity! I tell the signora, I saw her carried into numero 4, in thearms of the Signor Forestiere, who arrived this morning. '

'Venetia is ill, ' said Lady Annabel. 'Show me to the room, my friend. '

Lady Annabel accordingly, with a hurried step, following her guide, quitted the chamber. Pauncefort remained fixed to the earth, the verypicture of perplexity. 

'Well, to be sure!' she exclaimed, 'was anything ever so strange! Inthe arms of Signor Forestiere! Forestiere. An English name. There isno person of the name of Forest that I know. And in his arms, too! Ishould not wonder if it was my lord after all. Well, I should be gladif he were to come to light again, for, after all, my lady may saywhat she likes, but if Miss Venetia don't marry Lord Cadurcis, I mustsay marriages were never made in heaven!'

CHAPTER V. 

The waiter threw open the door of Mr. Herbert's chamber, and LadyAnnabel swept in with a majesty she generally assumed when about tomeet strangers. The first thing she beheld was her daughter inthe arms of a man whose head was bent, and who was embracing her. Notwithstanding this astounding spectacle, Lady Annabel neitherstarted nor screamed; she only said in an audible tone, and one ratherexpressing astonishment than agitation, 'Venetia!'

Immediately the stranger looked up, and Lady Annabel beheld herhusband!

She was rooted to the earth. She turned deadly pale; for a moment hercountenance expressed only terror, but the terror quickly changed intoaversion. Suddenly she rushed forward, and exclaimed in a tone inwhich decision conquered dismay, 'Restore me my child!'

The moment Herbert had recognised his wife he had dexterouslydisengaged himself from the grasp of Venetia, whom he left on thechair, and meeting Lady Annabel with extended arms, that seemed todeprecate her wrath, he said, 'I seek not to deprive you of her; sheis yours, and she is worthy of you; but respect, for a few moments, the feelings of a father who has met his only child in a manner sounforeseen. '

The presence of her mother instantaneously restored Venetia toherself. Her mind was in a moment cleared and settled. Her past andpeculiar life, and all its incidents, recurred to her with theiraccustomed order, vividness, and truth. She thoroughly comprehendedher present situation. Actuated by long-cherished feelings and thenecessity of the occasion, she rose and threw herself at her mother'sfeet and exclaimed, 'O mother! he is my father, love him!'

Lady Annabel stood with an averted countenance, Venetia clinging toher hand, which she had caught when she rushed forward, and which nowfell passive by Lady Annabel's side, giving no sign, by any pressureor motion, of the slightest sympathy with her daughter, or feeling forthe strange and agonising situation in which they were both placed. 

'Annabel, ' said Herbert, in a voice that trembled, though the speakerstruggled to appear calm, 'be charitable! I have never intruded uponyour privacy; I will not now outrage it. Accident, or some divinermotive, has brought us together this day. If you will not treat mewith kindness, look not upon me with aversion before our child. '

Still she was silent and motionless, her countenance hidden from herhusband and her daughter, but her erect and haughty form betokeningher inexorable mind. 'Annabel, ' said Herbert, who had now withdrawnto some distance, and leant against a pillar, 'will not then nearlytwenty years of desolation purchase one moment of intercourse? I haveinjured you. Be it so. This is not the moment I will defend myself. But have I not suffered? Is not this meeting a punishment deepereven than your vengeance could devise? Is it nothing to behold thisbeautiful child, and feel that she is only yours? Annabel, look on me, look on me only one moment! My frame is bowed, my hair is grey, myheart is withered; the principle of existence waxes faint and slack inthis attenuated frame. I am no longer that Herbert on whom you oncesmiled, but a man stricken with many sorrows. The odious conviction ofmy life cannot long haunt you; yet a little while, and my memory willalone remain. Think of this, Annabel; I beseech you, think of it. Oh!believe me, when the speedy hour arrives that will consign me to thegrave, where I shall at least find peace, it will not be utterlywithout satisfaction that you will remember that we met if even byaccident, and parted at least not with harshness!'

'Mother, dearest mother!' murmured Venetia, 'speak to him, look onhim!'

'Venetia, ' said her mother, without turning her head, but in a calm, firm tone, 'your father has seen you, has conversed with you. Betweenyour father and myself there can be nothing to communicate, either offact or feeling. Now let us depart. '

'No, no, not depart!' said Venetia franticly. 'You did not say depart, dear mother! I cannot go, ' she added in a low and half-hystericalvoice. 

'Desert me, then, ' said the mother. 'A fitting consequence of yourprivate communications with your father, ' she added in a tone ofbitter scorn; and Lady Annabel moved to depart, but Venetia, stillkneeling, clung to her convulsively. 

'Mother, mother, you shall not go; you shall not leave me; we willnever part, mother, ' continued Venetia, in a tone almost of violence, as she perceived her mother give no indication of yielding to herwish. 'Are my feelings then nothing?' she then exclaimed. 'Is thisyour sense of my fidelity? Am I for ever to be a victim?' She loosenedher hold of her mother's hand, her mother moved on, Venetia fell uponher forehead and uttered a faint scream. The heart of Lady Annabelrelented when she fancied her daughter suffered physical pain, howeverslight; she hesitated, she turned, she hastened to her child; herhusband had simultaneously advanced; in the rapid movement andconfusion her hand touched that of Herbert. 

'I yield her to you, Annabel, ' said Herbert, placing Venetia in hermother's arms. 'You mistake me, as you have often mistaken me, if youthink I seek to practise on the feelings of this angelic child. She isyours; may she compensate you for the misery I have caused you, butnever sought to occasion!'

'I am not hurt, dear mother, ' said Venetia, as her mother tenderlyexamined her forehead. 'Dear, dear mother, why did you reproach me?'

'Forget it, ' said Lady Annabel, in a softened tone; 'for indeed youare irreproachable. '

'O Annabel!' said Herbert, 'may not this child be some atonement, thischild, of whom I solemnly declare I would not deprive you, though Iwould willingly forfeit my life for a year of her affection; and your, your sufferance, ' he added. 

'Mother! speak to him, ' said Venetia, with her head on her mother'sbosom, who still, however, remained rigidly standing. But Lady Annabelwas silent. 

'Your mother was ever stern and cold, Venetia, ' said Herbert, thebitterness of his heart at length expressing itself. 

'Never, ' said Venetia, with great energy; 'never; you know not mymother. Was she stern and cold when she visited each night in secretyour portrait?' said Venetia, looking round upon her astonishedfather, with her bright grey eye. 'Was she stern and cold when shewept over your poems, those poems whose characters your own hand hadtraced? Was she stern and cold when she hung a withered wreath on yourbridal bed, the bed to which I owe my miserable being? Oh, no, myfather! sad was the hour of separation for my mother and yourself. It may have dimmed the lustre of her eye, and shaded your locks withpremature grey; but whatever may have been its inscrutable cause, there was one victim of that dark hour, less thought of thanyourselves, and yet a greater sufferer than both, the being in whoseheart you implanted affections, whose unfulfilled tenderness has madethat wretched thing they call your daughter. '

'Annabel!' exclaimed Herbert, rapidly advancing, with an imploringgesture, and speaking in a tone of infinite anguish, 'Annabel, Annabel, even now we can be happy!'

The countenance of his wife was troubled, but its stern expression haddisappeared. The long-concealed, yet at length irrepressible, emotionof Venetia had touched her heart. In the conflict of affection betweenthe claims of her two parents, Lady Annabel had observed with asentiment of sweet emotion, in spite of all the fearfulness of themeeting, that Venetia had not faltered in her devotion to her mother. The mental torture of her child touched her to the quick. In theexcitement of her anguish, Venetia had expressed a profound sentiment, the irresistible truth of which Lady Annabel could no longerwithstand. She had too long and too fondly schooled herself to lookupon the outraged wife as the only victim. There was then, at lengthit appeared to this stern-minded woman, another. She had laboured inthe flattering delusion that the devotion of a mother's love mightcompensate to Venetia for the loss of that other parent, which in somedegree Lady Annabel had occasioned her; for the worthless husband, hadshe chosen to tolerate the degrading connection, might neverthelesshave proved a tender father. But Nature, it seemed, had shrunk fromthe vain effort of the isolated mother. The seeds of affection forthe father of her being were mystically implanted in the bosom of hischild. Lady Annabel recalled the harrowing hours that this attempt byher to curb and control the natural course and rising sympathiesof filial love had cost her child, on whom she had so vigilantlypractised it. She recalled her strange aspirations, her inspiredcuriosity, her brooding reveries, her fitful melancholy, her terribleillness, her resignation, her fidelity, her sacrifices: there cameacross the mind of Lady Annabel a mortifying conviction that thedevotion to her child, on which she had so rated herself, mightafter all only prove a subtle form of profound selfishness; and thatVenetia, instead of being the idol of her love, might eventually bethe martyr of her pride. And, thinking of these things, she wept. 

This evidence of emotion, which in such a spirit Herbert knew how toestimate, emboldened him to advance; he fell on one knee before herand her daughter; gently he stole her hand, and pressed it to hislips. It was not withdrawn, and Venetia laid her hand upon theirs, and would have bound them together had her mother been relentless. It seemed to Venetia that she was at length happy, but she wouldnot speak, she would not disturb the still and silent bliss of theimpending reconciliation. Was it then indeed at hand? In truth, thedeportment of Herbert throughout the whole interview, so delicate, sosubdued, so studiously avoiding the slightest rivaly with his wifein the affections of their child, and so carefully abstaining fromattempting in the slightest degree to control the feelings of Venetia, had not been lost upon Lady Annabel. And when she thought of him, sochanged from what he had been, grey, bent, and careworn, with all thelustre that had once so fascinated her, faded, and talking of thatimpending fate which his wan though spiritual countenance too clearlyintimated, her heart melted. 

Suddenly the door burst open, and there stalked into the room a womanof eminent but most graceful stature, and of a most sovereign andvoluptuous beauty. She was habited in the Venetian dress; her darkeyes glittered with fire, her cheek was inflamed with no amiableemotion, and her long black hair was disordered by the violence of hergesture. 

'And who are these?' she exclaimed in a shrill voice. 

All started; Herbert sprang up from his position with a glance ofwithering rage. Venetia was perplexed, Lady Annabel looked round, andrecognised the identical face, however distorted by passion, that shehad admired in the portrait at Arquâ. 

'And who are these?' exclaimed the intruder, advancing. 'PerfidiousMarmion! to whom do you dare to kneel?'

Lady Annabel drew herself up to a height that seemed to look down evenupon this tall stranger. The expression of majestic scorn that shecast upon the intruder made her, in spite of all her violence andexcitement, tremble and be silent: she felt cowed she knew not why. 

'Come, Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel with all her usual composure, 'letme save my daughter at least from this profanation, '

'Annabel!' said Herbert, rushing after them, 'be charitable, be just!'He followed them to the threshold of the door; Venetia was silent, forshe was alarmed. 

'Adieu, Marmion!' said Lady Annabel, looking over her shoulder with abitter smile, but placing her daughter before her, as if to guard her. 'Adieu, Marmion! adieu for ever!'

CHAPTER VI. 

The moon shone brightly on the house of Petrarch, and the hamletslept in peace. Not a sound was heard, save the shrill voice of thegrasshoppers, so incessant that its monotony blended, as it were, withthe stillness. Over the green hills and the far expanse of the sheenyplain, the beautiful light of heaven fell with all the magical reposeof the serene hour, an hour that brought to one troubled breast, andone distracted spirit, in that still and simple village, no quietude. 

Herbert came forth into the balcony of his residence, and leaning overthe balustrade, revolved in his agitated mind the strange and stirringincidents of the day. His wife and his child had quitted the inn ofRovigo instantly after that mortifying rencounter that had dashed socruelly to the ground all his sweet and quickly-rising hopes. As forhis companion, she had by his peremptory desire returned to Arquâalone; he was not in a mood to endure her society; but he hadconducted himself to her mildly, though with firmness; he had promisedto follow her, and, in pursuance of his pledge, he rode home alone. 

He was greeted on his return by his servant, full of the the visitof the morning. With an irresistible curiosity, Herbert had made himdescribe every incident that had occurred, and repeat a hundred timesevery word that the visitors had uttered. He listened with someconsolation, however mournful, to his wife's praises of the unknownstranger's life; he gazed with witching interest upon the autograph ofhis daughter on the wall of his library. He had not confessed to hismistress the relation which the two strangers bore to him; yet he wasinfluenced in concealing the real circumstances, only by an indefinitesentiment, that made him reluctant to acknowledge to her ties sopure. The feelings of the parent overpowered the principles of thephilosopher. This lady indeed, although at the moment she had indulgedin so violent an ebullition of temper, possessed little influence overthe mind of her companion. Herbert, however fond of solitude, required in his restricted world the graceful results of femininesuperintendence. Time had stilled his passions, and cooled the fervourof his soul. The age of his illusions had long passed. This was aconnection that had commenced in no extravagant or romantic mood, andperhaps for that reason had endured. He had become acquainted with heron his first unknown arrival in Italy, from America, now nearly twoyears back. It had been maintained on his side by a temper naturallysweet, and which, exhausted by years of violent emotion, now requiredonly repose; seeking, in a female friend, a form that should notoutrage an eye ever musing on the beautiful, and a disposition thatshould contribute to his comfort, and never ruffle his feelings. Separated from his wife by her own act, whatever might have been itsimpulse, and for so long an interval, it was a connection which theworld in general might have looked upon with charity, which in hercalmer hours one would imagine even Lady Annabel might have glancedover without much bitterness. Certainly it was one which, under allthe circumstances of the case, could scarcely be esteemed by her as anoutrage or an insult; but even Herbert felt, with all his philosophyand proud freedom from prejudice, that the rencounter of the morningwas one which no woman could at the moment tolerate, few eventuallyexcuse, and which of all incidents was that which would most tend toconfirm his wife in her stoical obduracy. Of his offences towardsher, whatever were their number or their quality, this surely was theleast, and yet its results upon his life and fortunes would in allprobability only be equalled by the mysterious cause of their originalseparation. But how much more bitter than that original separationwas their present parting! Mortifying and annoying as had been theoriginal occurrence, it was one that many causes and considerationscombined to enable Herbert to support. He was then in the very primeof youth, inexperienced, sanguine, restless, and adventurous, with thewhole world and its unknown results before him, and freedom for whichhe ever sighed to compensate for the loss of that domestic joy thathe was then unable to appreciate. But now twenty years, which, in thecareer of such a spirit, were equal to a century of the existence ofcoarser clay, had elapsed; he was bowed with thought and suffering, ifnot by time; his conscience was light, but it was sad; his illusionshad all vanished; he knew the world, and all that the world couldbring, and he disregarded them; and the result of all his profoundstudy, lofty aspirations, and great conduct was, that he sighed forrest. The original catastrophe had been merely a separation betweena husband and a wife; the one that had just happened, involved otherfeelings; the father was also separated from his child, and a child ofsuch surpassing qualities, that his brief acquaintance with her hadalone sufficed to convert his dream of domestic repose into a visionof domestic bliss. 

Beautiful Venetia! so fair, and yet so dutiful; with a bosom teemingwith such exquisite sensibilities, and a mind bright with such acuteand elevated intelligence! An abstract conception of the sentimentsthat might subsist between a father and a daughter, heightened by allthe devices of a glowing imagination, had haunted indeed occasionallythe solitary musing of Marmion Herbert; but what was this creation ofhis poetic brain compared with the reality that now had touched hishuman heart? Vainly had he believed that repose was the only solacethat remained for his exhausted spirit. He found that a new passionnow swayed his soul; a passion, too, that he had never proved; ofa nature most peculiar; pure, gentle, refined, yet ravishing andirresistible, compared with which all former transports, no matter howviolent, tumultuous, and exciting, seemed evanescent and superficial:they were indeed the wind, the fire, and the tempest that had gonebefore, but this was the still small voice that followed, excelled, and survived their might and majesty, unearthly and eternal!

His heart melted to his daughter, nor did he care to live without herlove and presence. His philosophical theories all vanished. He felthow dependent we are in this world on our natural ties, and howlimited, with all his arrogance, is the sphere of man. Dreaming ofphilanthropy, he had broken his wife's heart, and bruised, perhapsirreparably, the spirit of his child; he had rendered those miserablewho depended on his love, and for whose affection his heart nowyearned to that degree, that he could not contemplate existencewithout their active sympathy. 

Was it then too late! Was it then impossible to regain that Paradisehe had forfeited so weakly, and of whose amaranthine bowers, but a fewhours since, he had caught such an entrancing glimpse, of which thegate for a moment seemed about to re-open! In spite of all, then, Annabel still loved him, loved him passionately, visited his picture, mused over the glowing expression of their loves, wept over the bridalbed so soon deserted! She had a dog, too, when Venetia was a child, and called it Marmion. 

The recollection of this little trait, so trifling, yet so touching, made him weep even with wildness. The tears poured down his cheeks intorrents, he sobbed convulsively, his very heart seemed to burst. Forsome minutes he leant over the balustrade in a paroxysm of grief. 

He looked up. The convent hill rose before him, bright in the moon;beneath was his garden; around him the humble roofs that he madehappy. It was not without an effort that he recalled the locality, that he remembered he was at Arquâ. And who was sleeping within thehouse? Not his wife, Annabel was far away with their daughter. Thevision of his whole life passed before him. Study and strife, and fameand love; the pride of the philosopher, the rapture of the poet, the blaze of eloquence, the clash of arms, the vows of passion, theexecration and the applause of millions; both once alike welcome tohis indomitable soul! And what had they borne to him? Misery. Hecalled up the image of his wife, young, beautiful, and noble, with amind capable of comprehending his loftiest and his finest moods, witha soul of matchless purity, and a temper whose winning tenderness hadonly been equalled by her elevated sense of self-respect; a woman thatmight have figured in the days of chivalry, soft enough to be hisslave, but too proud to be his victim. He called up her image inthe castle of his fathers, exercising in a domain worthy of such amistress, all those sweet offices of life which here, in this hiredroof in a strange land, and with his crippled means, he had yet foundsolacing. He conjured before him a bud by the side of that beauteousflower, sharing all her lustre and all her fragrance, his own Venetia!What happiness might not have been his? And for what had he forfeitedit? A dream, with no dream-like beauty; a perturbed, and restless, andagitated dream, from which he had now woke shattered and exhausted. 

He had sacrificed his fortune, he had forfeited his country, he hadalienated his wife, and he had lost his child; the home of his heroicancestry, the ancient land whose fame and power they had created, thebeauteous and gifted woman who would have clung for ever to his bosom, and her transcendant offspring worthy of all their loves! Profoundphilosopher!

The clock of the convent struck the second hour after midnight. Herbert started. And all this time where were Annabel and Venetia?They still lived, they were in the same country, an hour ago they wereunder the same roof, in the same chamber; their hands had joined, their hearts had opened, for a moment he had dared to believe that allthat he cared for might be regained. And why was it not? The cause, the cause? It recurred to him with associations of dislike, ofdisgust, of wrath, of hatred, of which one whose heart was so tender, and whose reason was so clear, could under the influence of no otherfeelings have been capable. The surrounding scene, that had so oftensoothed his mournful soul, and connected it with the last hours ofa spirit to whom he bore much resemblance, was now looked upon withaversion. To rid himself of ties, now so dreadful, was all hisambition. He entered the house quickly, and, seating himself in hiscloset, he wrote these words:

'You beheld this morning my wife and child; we can meet no more. Allthat I can effect to console you under this sudden separation shall bedone. My banker from Bologna will be here in two days; express to himall your wishes. '

It was written, sealed, directed, and left upon the table at whichthey had so often been seated. Herbert descended into the garden, saddled his horse, and in a few minutes, in the heart of night, hadquitted Arquâ. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The moment that the wife of Marmion Herbert re-entered her saloon, shesent for her courier and ordered horses to her carriage instantly. Until they were announced as ready, Lady Annabel walked up and downthe room with an impatient step, but was as completely silent as themiserable Venetia, who remained weeping on the sofa. The confusion andcuriosity of Mistress Pauncefort were extraordinary. She still had alurking suspicion that the gentleman was Lord Cadurcis and she seizedthe first opportunity of leaving the room, and flouncing into that ofthe stranger, as if by mistake, determined to catch a glimpse of him;but all her notable skill was baffled, for she had scarcely opened thedoor before she was met by the Italian lady, who received MistressPauncefort's ready-made apology, and bowed her away. The faithfulattendant then hurried downstairs to crossexamine the waiter, but, though she gained considerable information from that functionary, itwas of a perplexing nature; for from him she only learnt that thestranger lived at Arquâ. 'The German gentleman!' soliloquised MistressPauncefort; 'and what could he have to say to Miss Venetia! and amarried man, too! Well, to be sure, there is nothing like travellingfor adventures! And I must say, considering all that I know, and howI have held my tongue for nearly twenty years, I think it is verystrange indeed of my lady to have any secrets from me. Secrets, indeed! Poh!' and Mistress Pauncefort flounced again into LadyAnnabel's room, with a face of offended pride, knocking the booksabout, dashing down writing cases, tossing about work, and making asmuch noise and disturbance as if she had a separate quarrel with everysingle article under her superintendence. 

In the meantime the carriage was prepared, to which they were obligedalmost to carry Venetia, feeble and stupefied with grief. Uncertainof her course, but anxious, in the present state of her daughter, forrest and quiet, Lady Annabel ordered the courier to proceed to Padua, at which city they arrived late at night, scarcely a word having beeninterchanged during the whole journey between Lady Annabel and herchild, though infinite were the soft and soothing attentions which themother lavished upon her. Night, however, brought no rest to Venetia;and the next day, her state appeared so alarming to Lady Annabel, thatshe would have instantly summoned medical assistance, had it not beenfor Venetia's strong objections. 'Indeed, dear mother, ' she said, 'it is not physicians that I require. They cannot cure me. Let me bequiet. '

The same cause, indeed, which during the last five years had atintervals so seriously menaced the existence of this unhappy girl, wasnow at work with renovated and even irresistible influence. Her framecould no longer endure the fatal action of her over-excited nerves. Her first illness, however alarming, had been baffled by time, skill, and principally by the vigour of an extremely youthful frame, then astranger to any serious indisposition. At a later period, the changeof life induced by their residence at Weymouth had permitted her againto rally. She had quitted England with renewed symptoms of her formerattack, but a still more powerful change, not only of scene, but ofclimate and country, and the regular and peaceful life she had led onthe Lago Maggiore, had again reassured the mind of her anxious mother. This last adventure at Rovigo, however, prostrated her. The strangesurprise, the violent development of feeling, the agonising doubts andhopes, the terrible suspense the profound and bitter and overwhelmingdisappointment, all combined to shake her mind to its veryfoundations. She felt for the first time, that she could no longerbear up against the torture of her singular position. Her energy wasentirely exhausted; she was no longer capable of making the slightestexertion; she took refuge in that torpid resignation that results fromutter hopelessness. 

Lying on her sofa with her eyes fixed in listless abstraction, thescene at Rovigo flitted unceasingly before her languid vision. Atlength she had seen that father, that unknown and mysterious father, whose idea had haunted her infancy as if by inspiration; to gainthe slightest knowledge of whom had cost her many long and acutesuffering; and round whose image for so many years every thought ofher intelligence, and every feeling of her heart, had clustered likespirits round some dim and mystical altar, At length she had beheldhim; she had gazed on that spiritual countenance; she had listened tothe tender accents of that musical voice; within his arms she had beenfolded with rapture, and pressed to a heart that seemed to beatonly for her felicity. The blessing of her father, uttered by hislong-loved lips, had descended on her brow, and been sealed with hispassionate embrace. 

The entrance of her mother, that terrible contest of her laceratedheart, when her two parents, as it were, appealed to her love, whichthey would not share; the inspiration of her despair, that so suddenlyhad removed the barriers of long years, before whose irresistiblepathos her father had bent a penitent, and her mother's inexorablepride had melted; the ravishing bliss that for a moment had thrilledthrough her, being experienced too for the first time, when she feltthat her parents were again united and bound by the sweet tie of hernow happy existence; this was the drama acted before her with analmost ceaseless repetition of its transporting incidents; and whenshe looked round, and beheld her mother sitting alone, and watchingher with a countenance almost of anguish, it was indeed with extremedifficulty that Venetia could persuade herself that all had not been areverie; and she was only convinced of the contrary by that heavinessof the heart which too quickly assures us of the reality of thosesorrows of which fancy for a moment may cheat us into scepticism. 

And indeed her mother was scarcely less miserable. The sight ofHerbert, so changed from the form that she remembered; those tones ofheart-rending sincerity, in which he had mournfully appealed to theinfluence of time and sorrow on his life, still greatly affected her. She had indulged for a moment in a dream of domestic love, she hadcast to the winds the inexorable determination of a life, and hadmingled her tears with those of her husband and her child. And howhad she been repaid? By a degrading catastrophe, from whose revoltingassociations her mind recoiled with indignation and disgust. But herlingering feeling for her husband, her own mortification, were asnothing compared with the harrowing anxiety she now entertained forher daughter. To converse with Venetia on the recent occurrence wasimpossible. It was a subject which admitted of no discussion. Theyhad passed a week at Padua, and the slightest allusion to what hadhappened had never been made by either Lady Annabel or her child. Itwas only by her lavish testimonies of affection that Lady Annabelconveyed to Venetia how deeply she sympathised with her, and howunhappy she was herself. She had, indeed, never quitted for a momentthe side of her daughter, and witnessed each day, with renewedanguish, her deplorable condition; for Venetia continued in a statewhich, to those unacquainted with her, might have been mistaken forinsensibility, but her mother knew too well that it was despair. She never moved, she never sighed, nor wept; she took no notice ofanything that occurred; she sought relief in no resources. Books, anddrawings, and music, were quite forgotten by her; nothing amused, andnothing annoyed her; she was not even fretful; she had, apparently, no physical ailment; she remained pale and silent, plunged in anabsorbing paroxysm of overwhelming woe. 

The unhappy Lady Annabel, at a loss how to act, at length thought itmight be advisable to cross over to Venice. She felt assured now, thatit would be a long time, if ever, before her child could again endurethe fatigue of travel; and she thought that for every reason, whetherfor domestic comfort or medical advice, or those multifariousconsiderations which interest the invalid, a capital was by far themost desirable residence for them. There was a time when a visit tothe city that had given her a name had been a favourite dream ofVenetia; she had often sighed to be within

 The sea-born city's walls; the graceful towers Loved by the bard. 

Those lines of her father had long echoed in her ear; but now theproposition called no light to her glazed eye, nor summoned for aninstant the colour back to her cheek. She listened to her mother'ssuggestion, and expressed her willingness to do whatever she desired. Venice to her was now only a name; for, without the presence and theunited love of both her parents, no spot on earth could interest, andno combination of circumstances affect her. To Venice, however, theydeparted, having previously taken care that every arrangement shouldbe made for their reception. The English ambassador at the Ducal courtwas a relative of Lady Annabel, and therefore no means or exertionswere spared to study and secure the convenience and accommodation ofthe invalid. The barge of the ambassador met them at Fusina; and whenVenetia beheld the towers and cupolas of Venice, suffused with agolden light and rising out of the bright blue waters, for a momenther spirit seemed to lighten. It is indeed a spectacle as beautiful asrare, and one to which the world offers few, if any, rivals. Glidingover the great Lagune, the buildings, with which the pictures atCherbury had already made her familiar, gradually rose up before her:the mosque-like Church of St. Marc, the tall Campanile red in the sun, the Moresco Palace of the Doges, the deadly Bridge of Sighs, and thedark structure to which it leads. 

Venice had not then fallen. The gorgeous standards of the sovereignrepublic, and its tributary kingdoms, still waved in the Place of St. Marc; the Bucentaur was not rotting in the Arsenal, and the warlikegalleys of the state cruised without the Lagune; a busy andpicturesque population swarmed in all directions; and the Venetiannoble, the haughtiest of men, might still be seen proudly moving fromthe council of state, or stepping into a gondola amid a bowing crowd. All was stirring life, yet all was silent; the fantastic architecture, the glowing sky, the flitting gondolas, and the brilliant crowdgliding about with noiseless step, this city without sound, it seemeda dream!

CHAPTER VIII

The ambassador had engaged for Lady Annabel a palace on the GrandCanal, belonging to Count Manfrini. It was a structure of great sizeand magnificence, and rose out of the water with a flight of marblesteps. Within was a vast gallery, lined with statues and busts on tallpedestals; suites of spacious apartments, with marble floors andhung with satin; ceilings painted by Tintoretto and full of Turkishtrophies; furniture alike sumptuous and massy; the gilding, althoughof two hundred years' duration, as bright and burnished as if ithad but yesterday been touched with the brush; sequin gold, asthe Venetians tell you to this day with pride. But even their oldfurniture will soon not be left to them, as palaces are now dailybroken up like old ships, and their colossal spoils consigned toHanway Yard and Bond Street, whence, re-burnished and vamped up, theirTitantic proportions in time appropriately figure in the boudoirs ofMay Fair and the miniature saloons of St. James'. Many a fine lady nowsits in a doge's chair, and many a dandy listens to his doom from acouch that has already witnessed the less inexorable decrees of theCouncil of Ten. 

Amid all this splendour, however, one mournful idea alone pervaded thetortured consciousness of Lady Annabel Herbert. Daily the dark truthstole upon her with increased conviction, that Venetia had come hitheronly to die. There seemed to the agitated ear of this distractedmother a terrible omen even in the very name of her child; and shecould not resist the persuasion that her final destiny would, in somedegree, be connected with her fanciful appellation. The physicians, for hopeless as Lady Annabel could not resist esteeming theirinterference, Venetia was now surrounded with physicians, shook theirheads, prescribed different remedies and gave contrary opinions; eachday, however, their patient became more languid, thinner and morethin, until she seemed like a beautiful spirit gliding into thesaloon, leaning on her mother's arm, and followed by Pauncefort, whohad now learnt the fatal secret from, her mistress, and whose heartwas indeed almost broken at the prospect of the calamity that wasimpending over them. 

At Padua, Lady Annabel, in her mortified reveries, outraged as sheconceived by her husband, and anxious about her daughter, had schooledherself into visiting her fresh calamities on the head of the unhappyHerbert, to whose intrusion and irresistible influence she ascribedall the illness of her child; but, as the indisposition of Venetiagradually, but surely, increased, until at length it assumed soalarming an aspect that Lady Annabel, in the distraction of her mind, could no longer refrain from contemplating the most fatal result, shehad taught herself bitterly to regret the failure of that approachingreconciliation which now she could not but believe would, at least, have secured her the life of Venetia. Whatever might be the riskof again uniting herself with her husband, whatever might be themortification and misery which it might ultimately, or even speedily, entail upon her, there was no unhappiness that she could herselfexperience, which for one moment she could put in competition with theexistence of her child. When that was the question, every feelingthat had hitherto impelled her conduct assumed a totally differentcomplexion. That conduct, in her view, had been a systematic sacrificeof self to secure the happiness of her daughter; and the result of allher exertions was, that not only her happiness was destroyed, but herlife was fast vanishing away. To save Venetia, it now appeared to LadyAnnabel that there was no extremity which she would not endure; and ifit came to a question, whether Venetia should survive, or whethershe should even be separated from her mother, her maternal heart nowassured her that she would not for an instant hesitate in preferringan eternal separation to the death of her child. Her terror now workedto such a degree upon her character, that she even, at times, halfresolved to speak to Venetia upon the subject, and contrive somemethod of communicating her wishes to her father; but pride, thehabitual repugnance of so many years to converse upon the topic, mingled also, as should be confessed, with an indefinite apprehensionof the ill consequences of a conversation of such a character on thenervous temperament of her daughter, restrained her. 

'My love!' said Lady Annabel, one day to her daughter, 'do you thinkyou could go out? The physicians think it of great importance that youshould attempt to exert yourself, however slightly. '

'Dear mother, if anything could annoy me from your lips, it wouldbe to hear you quote these physicians, ' said Venetia. 'Their dailypresence and inquiries irritate me. Let me be at peace. I wish to seeno one but you. '

'But Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel, in a voice of great emotion, 'Venetia--, ' and here she paused; 'think of my anxiety. '

'Dear mother, it would be ungrateful for me ever to forget that. Butyou, and you alone, know that my state, whatever it may be, and towhatever it may be I am reconciled, is not produced by causes overwhich these physicians have any control, over which no one hascontrol--now, ' added Venetia, in a tone of great mournfulness. 

For here we must remark that so inexperienced was Venetia in thefeelings of others, and so completely did she judge of the strengthand purity of their emotions from her own, that reflection, since theterrible adventure of Rovigo, had only convinced her that it was nolonger in her mother's power to unite herself again with her otherparent. She had taught herself to look upon her father's burst offeeling towards Lady Annabel as the momentary and inevitable result ofa meeting so unexpected and overpowering, but she did not doubt thatthe stranger whose presence had ultimately so fatally clouded thatinterview of promise, possessed claims upon Marmion Herbert which hewould neither break, nor, upon reflection, be desirous to question. Itwas then the conviction that a reconciliation between her parents wasnow impossible, in which her despair originated, and she pictured toherself her father once more at Arquâ disturbed, perhaps, for a dayor two, as he naturally must be, by an interview so sudden and soharassing; shedding a tear, perhaps, in secret to the wife whom he hadinjured, and the child whom he had scarcely seen; but relapsing, alikefrom the force of habit and inclination, into those previous andconfirmed feelings, under whose influence, she was herself a witness, his life had been so serene, and even so laudable. She was confirmedin these opinions by the circumstance of their never having heardsince from him. Placed in his situation, if indeed an irresistibleinfluence were not controlling him, would he have hesitated for amoment to have prevented even their departure, or to have pursuedthem; to have sought at any rate some means of communicating withthem? He was plainly reconciled to his present position, and felt thatunder these circumstances silence on his part was alike kindest andmost discreet. Venetia had ceased, therefore, to question the justiceor the expediency, or even the abstract propriety, of her mother'sconduct. She viewed their condition now as the result of sternnecessity. She pitied her mother, and for herself she had no hope. 

There was then much meaning in that little monosyllable with whichVenetia concluded her reply to her mother. She had no hope 'now. ' LadyAnnabel, however, ascribed it to a very different meaning; she onlybelieved that her daughter was of opinion that nothing would induceher now to listen to the overtures of her father. Prepared for anysacrifice of self, Lady Annabel replied, 'But there is hope, Venetia;when your life is in question, there is nothing that should not bedone. '

'Nothing can be done, ' said Venetia, who, of course, could not dreamof what was passing in her mother's mind. 

Lady Annabel rose from her seat and walked to the window; apparentlyher eye watched only the passing gondolas, but indeed she saw themnot; she saw only her child stretched perhaps on the couch of death. 

'We quitted, perhaps, Rovigo too hastily, ' said Lady Annabel, in achoking voice, and with a face of scarlet. It was a terrible struggle, but the words were uttered. 

'No, mother, ' said Venetia, to Lady Annabel's inexpressible surprise, 'we did right to go. '

'Even my child, even Venetia, with all her devotion to him, feels theabsolute necessity of my conduct, ' thought Lady Annabel. Her pridereturned; she felt the impossibility of making an overture to Herbert;she looked upon their daughter as the last victim of his fatal career. 

CHAPTER IX. 

How beautiful is night in Venice! Then music and the moon reignsupreme; the glittering sky reflected in the waters, and every gondolagliding with sweet sounds! Around on every side are palaces andtemples, rising from the waves which they shadow with their solemnforms, their costly fronts rich with the spoils of kingdoms, andsoftened with the magic of the midnight beam. The whole city too ispoured forth for festival. The people lounge on the quays and clusteron the bridges; the light barks skim along in crowds, just touchingthe surface of the water, while their bright prows of polished irongleam in the moonshine, and glitter in the rippling wave. Not a soundthat is not graceful: the tinkle of guitars, the sighs of serenaders, and the responsive chorus of gondoliers. Now and then a laugh, light, joyous, and yet musical, bursts forth from some illuminatedcoffee-house, before which a buffo disports, a tumbler stands on hishead, or a juggler mystifies; and all for a sequin!

The Place of St. Marc, at the period of our story, still presented themost brilliant spectacle of the kind in Europe. Not a spot was moredistinguished for elegance, luxury, and enjoyment. It was indeed theinner shrine of the temple of pleasure, and very strange and amusingwould be the annals of its picturesque arcades. We must not, however, step behind their blue awnings, but content ourselves with theexterior scene; and certainly the Place of St. Marc, with thevariegated splendour of its Christian mosque, the ornate architectureof its buildings, its diversified population, a tribute from everyshore of the midland sea, and where the noble Venetian, in his robeof crimson silk, and long white peruque, might be jostled by theSclavonian with his target, and the Albanian in his kilt, while theTurk, sitting cross-legged on his Persian carpet, smoked his longchibouque with serene gravity, and the mild Armenian glided by himwith a low reverence, presented an aspect under a Venetian moon suchas we shall not easily find again in Christendom, and, in spite of thedying glory and the neighbouring vice, was pervaded with an air ofromance and refinement, compared with which the glittering dissipationof Paris, even in its liveliest and most graceful hours, assumes acharacter alike coarse and commonplace. 

It is the hour of love and of faro; now is the hour to press your suitand to break a bank; to glide from the apartment of rapture into thechamber of chance. Thus a noble Venetian contrived to pass the night, in alternations of excitement that in general left him sufficientlyserious for the morrow's council. For more vulgar tastes there was theminstrel, the conjuror, and the story-teller, goblets of Cyprus wine, flasks of sherbet, and confectionery that dazzled like diamonds. Andfor every one, from the grave senator to the gay gondolier, there wasan atmosphere in itself a spell, and which, after all, has more to dowith human happiness than all the accidents of fortune and all thearts of government. 

Amid this gay and brilliant multitude, one human being stood alone. Muffled in his cloak, and leaning against a column in the porticoof St. Marc, an expression of oppressive care and affliction wasimprinted on his countenance, and ill accorded with the light andfestive scene. Had he been crossed in love, or had he lost atplay? Was it woman or gold to which his anxiety and sorrow wereattributable, for under one or other of these categories, undoubtedly, all the miseries of man may range. Want of love, or want of money, lies at the bottom of all our griefs. 

The stranger came forward, and leaving the joyous throng, turned downthe Piazzetta, and approached the quay of the Lagune. A gondoliersaluted him, and he entered his boat. 

'Whither, signor?' said the gondolier. 

'To the Grand Canal, ' he replied. 

Over the moonlit wave the gondola swiftly skimmed! The scene was amarvellous contrast to the one which the stranger had just quitted;but it brought no serenity to his careworn countenance, though his eyefor a moment kindled as he looked upon the moon, that was sailing inthe cloudless heaven with a single star by her side. 

They had soon entered the Grand Canal, and the gondolier looked to hisemployer for instructions. 'Row opposite to the Manfrini palace, ' saidthe stranger, 'and rest upon your oar. '

The blinds of the great window of the palace were withdrawn. Distinctly might be recognised a female figure bending over therecumbent form of a girl. An hour passed away and still the gondolawas motionless, and still the silent stranger gazed on the inmates ofthe palace. A servant now came forward and closed the curtain of thechamber. The stranger sighed, and waving his hand to the gondolier, bade him return to the Lagune. 

CHAPTER X. 

It is curious to recall our feelings at a moment when a great eventis impending over us, and we are utterly unconscious of its probableoccurrence. How often does it happen that a subject which almostunceasingly engages our mind, is least thought of at the very instantthat the agitating suspense involved in its consideration is perhapsabout to be terminated for ever! The very morning after the mysteriousgondola had rested so long before the Manfrini Palace, Venetia rosefor the first time since the flight from Rovigo, refreshed by herslumbers, and tranquil in her spirit. It was not in her powerto recall her dreams; but they had left a vague and yet sereneimpression. There seemed a lightness in her heart, that long had beenunusual with her, and she greeted her mother with a smile, faintindeed, yet natural. 

Perhaps this beneficial change, slight but still delightful, might beattributed to the softness and the splendour of the morn. Before theapproach of winter, it seemed that the sun was resolved to remind theVenetians that they were his children; and that, although his raysmight be soon clouded for a season, they were not to believe thattheir parent had deserted them. The sea was like glass, a golden hazesuffused the horizon, and a breeze, not strong enough to disturb thewaters, was wafted at intervals from the gardens of the Brenta, fitfuland sweet. 

Venetia had yielded to the suggestion of her mother, and had agreedfor the first time to leave the palace. They stepped into theirgondola, and were wafted to an island in the Lagune where there wasa convent, and, what in Venice was more rare and more delightful, agarden. Its scanty shrubberies sparkled in the sun; and a cypressflanked by a pine-tree offered to the eye unused to trees a novel andpicturesque group. Beneath its shade they rested, watching on one sidethe distant city, and on the other the still and gleaming waters ofthe Adriatic. While they were thus sitting, renovated by the soft airand pleasant spectacle, a holy father, with a beard like a meteor, appeared and addressed them. 

'Welcome to St. Lazaro!' said the holy father, speaking in English;'and may the peace that reigns within its walls fill also yourbreasts!'

'Indeed, holy father, ' said Lady Annabel to the Armenian monk, 'I havelong heard of your virtues and your happy life. '

'You know that Paradise was placed in our country, ' said the monk witha smile. 'We have all lost Paradise, but the Armenian has lost hiscountry too. Nevertheless, with God's blessing, on this islet we havefound an Eden, pure at least and tranquil. '

'For the pious, Paradise exists everywhere, ' said Lady Annabel. 

'You have been in England, holy father?' said Venetia. 

'It has not been my good fortune, ' replied the monk. 

'Yet you speak our tongue with a facility and accent that surpriseme. '

'I learnt it in America where I long resided, ' rejoined the Armenian. 

'This is for your eye, lady, ' continued the monk, drawing a letterfrom his bosom. 

Lady Annabel felt not a little surprised; but the idea immediatelyoccurred to her that it was some conventual memorial appealing to hercharity. She took the paper from the monk, who immediately moved away;but what was the agitation of Lady Annabel when she recognised thehandwriting of her husband! Her first thought was to save Venetiafrom sharing that agitation. She rose quickly; she commanded herselfsufficiently to advise her daughter, in a calm tone, to remain seated, while for a moment she refreshed herself by a stroll. She had notquitted Venetia many paces, when she broke the seal and read theselines:

'Tremble not, Annabel, when you recognise this handwriting. It is thatof one whose only aspiration is to contribute to your happiness; andalthough the fulfilment of that fond desire may be denied him, itnever shall be said, even by you, that any conduct of his should nowoccasion you annoyance. I am in Venice at the peril of my life, whichI only mention because the difficulties inseparable from my positionare the principal cause that you did not receive this communicationimmediately after our strange meeting. I have gazed at night upon yourpalace, and watched the forms of my wife and our child; but one wordfrom you, and I quit Venice for ever, and it shall not be my fault ifyou are ever again disturbed by the memory of the miserable Herbert. 

'But before I go, I will make this one appeal if not to your justice, at least to your mercy. After the fatal separation of a life, we haveonce more met: you have looked upon me not with hatred; my hand hasonce more pressed yours; for a moment I indulged the impossible hope, that this weary and exhausted spirit might at length be blessed. Withagony I allude to the incident that dispelled the rapture ofthis vision. Sufficient for me most solemnly to assure you thatfour-and-twenty hours had not elapsed without that feeble andunhallowed tie being severed for ever! It vanished instantaneouslybefore the presence of my wife and my child. However you decide, itcan never again subsist: its utter and eternal dissolution was theinevitable homage to your purity. 

'Whatever may have been my errors, whatever my crimes, for I will notattempt to justify to you a single circumstance of my life, I humblemyself in the dust before you, and solicit only mercy; yet whatevermay have been my career, ah! Annabel, in the infinite softness of yoursoul was it not for a moment pardoned? Am I indeed to suffer for thatlast lamentable intrusion? You are a woman, Annabel, with a brain asclear as your heart is pure. Judge me with calmness, Annabel; werethere no circumstances in my situation to extenuate that deplorableconnection? I will not urge them; I will not even intimate them; butsurely, Annabel, when I kneel before you full of deep repentance andlong remorse, if you could pardon the past, it is not that incident, however mortifying to you, however disgraceful to myself, that shouldbe an impassable barrier to all my hopes!

'Once you loved me; I ask you not to love me now. There is nothingabout me now that can touch the heart of woman. I am old before mytime; bent with the blended influence of action and of thought, and ofphysical and moral suffering. The play of my spirit has gone for ever. My passions have expired like my hopes. The remaining sands of my lifeare few. Once it was otherwise: you can recall a different picture ofthe Marmion on whom you smiled, and of whom you were the first love. OAnnabel! grey, feeble, exhausted, penitent, let me stagger over yourthreshold, and die! I ask no more; I will not hope for your affection;I will not even count upon your pity; but endure my presence; let yourroof screen my last days!'

It was read; it was read again, dim as was the sight of Lady Annabelwith fast-flowing tears. Still holding the letter, but with handsfallen, she gazed upon the shining waters before her in a fit ofabstraction. It was the voice of her child that roused her. 

'Mother, ' said Venetia in a tone of some decision, 'you are troubled, and we have only one cause of trouble. That letter is from my father. '

Lady Annabel gave her the letter in silence. 

Venetia withdrew almost unconsciously a few paces from her mother. Shefelt this to be the crisis of her life. There never was a moment whichshe believed required more fully the presence of all her energies. Before she had addressed Lady Annabel, she had endeavoured to steelher mind to great exertion. Yet now that she held the letter, shecould not command herself sufficiently to read it. Her breath desertedher; her hand lost its power; she could not even open the lines onwhich perhaps her life depended. Suddenly, with a rapid effort, sheglanced at the contents. The blood returned to her check; her eyebecame bright with excitement; she gasped for breath; she advanced toLady Annabel. 'Ah! mother, ' she exclaimed, 'you will grant all that itdesires!'

Still gazing on the wave that laved the shore of the island with analmost inperceptible ripple, Lady Annabel continued silent. 

'Mother, ' said Venetia, 'my beloved mother, you hesitate. ' Sheapproached Lady Annabel, and with one arm round her neck, she graspedwith the other her mother's hand. 'I implore you, by all thataffection which you lavish on me, yield to this supplication. Omother! dearest mother! it has been my hope that my life has been atleast a life of duty; I have laboured to yield to all your wishes. I have struggled to make their fulfilment the law of my being. Yes!mother, your memory will assure you, that when the sweetest emotionsof my heart were the stake, you appealed to me to sacrifice them, andthey were dedicated to your will. Have I ever murmured? I have soughtonly to repay your love by obedience. Speak to me, dearest mother! Iimplore you speak to me! Tell me, can you ever repent relenting inthis instance? O mother! you will not hesitate; you will not indeed;you will bring joy and content to our long-harassed hearth! Tell meso; I beseech you tell me so! I wish, oh! how I wish, that you wouldcomply from the mere impulse of your own heart! But, grant that itis a sacrifice; grant that it may be unwise; that it may be vain; Isupplicate you to make it! I, your child, who never deserted you, whowill never desert you, pledging my faith to you in the face of heaven;for my sake, I supplicate you to make it. You do not hesitate; youcannot hesitate; mother, you cannot hesitate. Ah! you would not if youknew all; if you knew all the misery of my life, you would be glad;you would be cheerful; you would look upon this as an interposition ofProvidence in favour of your Venetia; you would, indeed, dear mother!'

'What evil fortune guided our steps to Italy?' said Lady Annabel in asolemn tone, and as if in soliloquy. 

'No, no, mother; not evil fortune; fortune the best and brightest, 'exclaimed her daughter, 'We came here to be happy, and happiness wehave at length gained. It is in our grasp; I feel it. It was notfortune, dear mother! it was fate, it was Providence, it was God. Youhave been faithful to Him, and He has brought back to you my father, chastened and repentant. God has turned his heart to all your virtues. Will you desert him? No, no, mother, you will not, you cannot; for hissake, for your own sake, and for your child's, you will not!'

'For twenty years I have acted from an imperious sense of duty, ' saidLady Annabel, 'and for your sake, Venetia, as much as for my own. Shall the feelings of a moment--'

'O mother! dearest mother! say not these words. With me, at least, it has not been the feeling of a moment. It haunted my infancy; itharassed me while a girl; it has brought me in the prime of womanhoodto the brink of the grave. And with you, mother, has it been thefeeling of a moment? Ah! you ever loved him, when his name was neverbreathed by those lips. You loved him when you deemed he had forgottenyou; when you pictured him to yourself in all the pride of health andgenius, wanton and daring; and now, now that he comes to you penitent, perhaps dying, more like a remorseful spirit than a breathing being, and humbles himself before you, and appeals only to your mercy, ah! mymother, you cannot reject, you could not reject him, even if you werealone, even if you had no child!'

'My child! my child! all my hopes were in my child, ' murmured LadyAnnabel. 

'Is she not by your side?' said Venetia. 

'You know not what you ask; you know not what you counsel, ' said LadyAnnabel. 'It has been the prayer and effort of my life that you shouldnever know. There is a bitterness in the reconciliation which followslong estrangement, that yields a pang more acute even than the firstdisunion. Shall I be called upon to mourn over the wasted happiness oftwenty years? Why did he not hate us?'

'The pang is already felt, mother, ' said Venetia. 'Reject my father, but you cannot resume the feelings of a month back. You have seenhim; you have listened to him. He is no longer the character whichjustified your conduct, and upheld you under the trial. His image hasentered your soul; your heart is softened. Bid him quit Venice withoutseeing you, and you will remain the most miserable of women. '

'On his head, then, be the final desolation, ' said Lady Annabel; 'itis but a part of the lot that he has yielded me. '

'I am silent, ' said Venetia, relaxing her grasp. 'I see that yourchild is not permitted to enter into your considerations. ' She turnedaway. 

'Venetia!' said her mother. 

'Mother!' said Venetia, looking back, but not returning. 

'Return one moment to me. '

Venetia slowly rejoined her. Lady Annabel spoke in a kind and gentle, though serious tone. 

'Venetia, ' she said, 'what I am about to speak is not the impulse ofthe moment, but has been long revolved in my mind; do not, therefore, misapprehend it. I express without passion what I believe to be truth. I am persuaded that the presence of your father is necessary toyour happiness; nay, more, to your life. I recognise the mysteriousinfluence which he has ever exercised over your existence. I feel itimpossible for me any longer to struggle against a power to which Ibow. Be happy, then, my daughter, and live. Fly to your father, and beto him as matchless a child as you have been to me. ' She uttered theselast words in a choking voice. 

'Is this, indeed, the dictate of your calm judgment, mother?' saidVenetia. 

'I call God to witness, it has of late been more than once on my lips. The other night, when I spoke of Rovigo, I was about to express this. '

'Then, mother!' said Venetia, 'I find that I have been misunderstood. At least I thought my feelings towards yourself had been appreciated. They have not; and I can truly say, my life does not afford a singlecircumstance to which I can look back with content. Well will itindeed be for me to die?'

'The dream of my life, ' said Lady Annabel, in a tone of infinitedistress, 'was that she, at least, should never know unhappiness. Itwas indeed a dream. '

There was now a silence of several minutes. Lady Annabel remained inexactly the same position, Venetia standing at a little distance fromher, looking resigned and sorrowful. 

'Venetia, ' at length said Lady Annabel, 'why are you silent?'

'Mother, I have no more to say. I pretend not to act in this life; itis my duty to follow you. '

'And your inclination?' inquired Lady Annabel. 

'I have ceased to have a wish upon any subject, ' said Venetia. 

'Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel, with a great effort, 'I am miserable. '

This unprecedented confession of suffering from the strong mind of hermother, melted Venetia to the heart. She advanced, and threw her armsround her mother's neck, and buried her weeping face in Lady Annabel'sbosom. 

'Speak to me, my daughter, ' said Lady Annabel; 'counsel me, for mymind trembles; anxiety has weakened it. Nay, I beseech you, speak. Speak, speak, Venetia. What shall I do?'

'Mother, I will never say anything again but that I love you!'

'I see the holy father in the distance. Let us walk to him, my child, and meet him. '

Accordingly Lady Annabel, now leaning on Venetia, approached the monk. About five minutes elapsed before they reached him, during which not aword was spoken. 

'Holy father, ' said Lady Annabel, in a tone of firmness that surprisedher daughter and made her tremble with anticipation, 'you know thewriter of this letter?'

'He is my friend of many years, lady, ' replied the Armenian; 'I knewhim in America. I owe to him my life, and more than my life. Therebreathes not his equal among men. '

A tear started to the eye of Lady Annabel; she recalled the terms inwhich the household at Arquâ had spoken of Herbert. 'He is in Venice?'she inquired. 

'He is within these walls, ' the monk replied. 

Venetia, scarcely able to stand, felt her mother start. After amomentary pause, Lady Annabel said, 'Can I speak with him, and alone?'

Nothing but the most nervous apprehension of throwing any obstacle inthe way of the interview could have sustained Venetia. Quite pale, with her disengaged hand clenched, not a word escaped her lips. Shehung upon the answer of the monk. 

'You can see him, and alone, ' said the monk. 'He is now in thesacristy. Follow me. '

'Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel, 'remain in this garden. I will accompanythis holy man. Stop! embrace me before I go, and, ' she added, in awhisper, 'pray for me. '

It needed not the admonition of her mother to induce Venetia to seekrefuge in prayer, in this agony of her life. But for its salutary andstilling influence, it seemed to her that she must have forfeited allcontrol over her mind. The suspense was too terrible for human aid tosupport her. Seated by the sea-side, she covered her face with herhands, and invoked the Supreme assistance. More than an hour passedaway. Venetia looked up. Two beautiful birds, of strange form andspotless plumage, that perhaps had wandered from the Aegean, werehovering over her head, bright and glancing in the sun. She acceptedtheir appearance as a good omen. At this moment she heard a voice, and, looking up, observed a monk in the distance, beckoning to her. She rose, and with a trembling step approached him. He retired, stillmotioning to her to follow him. She entered, by a low portal, a darkcloister; it led to an ante-chapel, through which, as she passed, herear caught the solemn chorus of the brethren. Her step faltered; hersight was clouded; she was as one walking in a dream. The monk openeda door, and, retiring, waved his hand, as for her to enter. There wasa spacious and lofty chamber, scantily furnished, some huge chests, and many sacred garments. At the extreme distance her mother wasreclined on a bench, her head supported by a large crimson cushion, and her father kneeling by her mother's side. With a soundless step, and not venturing even to breathe, Venetia approached them, and, sheknew not how, found herself embraced by both her parents. 

END OF BOOK V. 

BOOK VI. 

CHAPTER I. 

In a green valley of the Apennines, close to the sea-coast betweenGenoa and Spezzia, is a marine villa, that once belonged to theMalaspina family, in olden time the friends and patrons of Dante. Itis rather a fantastic pile, painted in fresco, but spacious, in goodrepair, and convenient. Although little more than a mile from Spezzia, a glimpse of the blue sea can only be caught from one particular spot, so completely is the land locked with hills, covered with groves ofchestnut and olive orchards. From the heights, however, you enjoymagnificent prospects of the most picturesque portion of the Italiancoast; a lofty, undulating, and wooded shore, with an infinite varietyof bays and jutting promontories; while the eye, wandering fromLeghorn on one side towards Genoa on the other, traces an almostuninterrupted line of hamlets and casinos, gardens and orchards, terraces of vines, and groves of olive. Beyond them, the broad andblue expanse of the midland ocean, glittering in the meridian blaze, or about to receive perhaps in its glowing waters the red orb ofsunset. 

It was the month of May, in Italy, at least, the merry month of May, and Marmion Herbert came forth from the villa Malaspina, and throwinghimself on the turf, was soon lost in the volume of Plato which hebore with him. He did not move until in the course of an hour he wasroused by the arrival of servants, who brought seats and a table, when, looking up, he observed Lady Annabel and Venetia in the porticoof the villa. He rose to greet them, and gave his arm to his wife. 

'Spring in the Apennines, my Annabel, ' said Herbert, 'is a happycombination. I am more in love each day with this residence. Thesituation is so sheltered, the air so soft and pure, the spot sotranquil, and the season so delicious, that it realises all my romanceof retirement. As for you, I never saw you look so well; and as forVenetia, I can scarcely believe this rosy nymph could have been ourpale-eyed girl, who cost us such anxiety!'

'Our breakfast is not ready. Let us walk to our sea view, ' said LadyAnnabel. 'Give me your book to carry, Marmion. '

'There let the philosopher repose, ' said Herbert, throwing the volumeon the turf. 'Plato dreamed of what I enjoy. '

'And of what did Plato dream, papa?' said Venetia. 

'He dreamed of love, child. '

Venetia took her father's disengaged arm. 

They had now arrived at their sea view, a glimpse of the Mediterraneanbetween two tall crags. 

'A sail in the offing, ' said Herbert. 'How that solitary sail tells, Annabel!'

'I feel the sea breeze, mother. Does not it remind you of Weymouth?'said Venetia. 

'Ah! Marmion, ' said Lady Annabel, 'I would that you could see Mashamonce more. He is the only friend that I regret. '

'He prospers, Annabel; let that be our consolation: I have at leastnot injured him. '

They turned their steps; their breakfast was now prepared. The sun hadrisen above the hill beneath whose shade they rested, and the oppositeside of the valley sparkled in light. It was a cheerful scene. 'I havea passion for living in the air, ' said Herbert; 'I always envied theshepherds in Don Quixote. One of my youthful dreams was living amongmountains of rosemary, and drinking only goat's milk. After breakfastI will read you Don Quixote's description of the golden age. I haveoften read it until the tears came into my eyes. '

'We must fancy ourselves in Spain, ' said Lady Annabel; 'it is notdifficult in this wild green valley; and if we have not rosemary, wehave scents as sweet. Nature is our garden here, Venetia; and I do notenvy even the statues and cypresses of our villa of the lake. '

'We must make a pilgrimage some day to the Maggiore, Annabel, ' saidHerbert. 'It is hallowed ground to me now. '

Their meal was finished, the servants brought their work, and books, and drawings; and Herbert, resuming his natural couch, re-opened hisPlato, but Venetia ran into the villa, and returned with a volume. 'You must read us the golden age, papa, ' she said, as she offered him, with a smile, his favourite Don Quixote. 

'You must fancy the Don looking earnestly upon a handful of acorns, 'said Herbert, opening the book, 'while he exclaims, "O happy age!which our first parents called the age of gold! not because gold, somuch adored in this iron age, was then easily purchased, but becausethose two fatal words, _meum_ and _tuum_, were distinctions unknown tothe people of those fortunate times; for all things were in common inthat holy age: men, for their sustenance, needed only to lift theirhands, and take it from the sturdy oak, whose spreading arms liberallyinvited them to gather the wholesome savoury fruit; while the clearsprings, and silver rivulets, with luxuriant plenty, afforded themtheir pure refreshing water. In hollow trees, and in the cleftsof rocks, the labouring and industrious bees erected their littlecommonwealths, that men might reap with pleasure and with ease thesweet and fertile harvest of their toils, The tough and strenuouscork-trees did, of themselves, and without other art than their nativeliberality, dismiss and impart their broad light bark, which served tocover those lowly huts, propped up with rough-hewn stakes, that werefirst built as a shelter against the inclemencies of the air. All thenwas union, all peace, all love and friendship in the world. As yet norude ploughshare presumed with violence to pry into the pious bowelsof our mother earth, for she without compulsion kindly yielded fromevery part of her fruitful and spacious bosom, whatever might at oncesatisfy, sustain, and indulge her frugal children. Then was the timewhen innocent, beautiful young sheperdesses went tripping over thehills and vales; their lovely hair sometimes plaited, sometimes looseand flowing, clad in no other vestment but what the modesty of naturemight require. The Tyrian dye, the rich glossy hue of silk, martyredand dissembled into every colour, which are now esteemed so fine andmagnificent, were unknown to the innocent simplicity of that age; yet, bedecked with more becoming leaves and flowers, they outshone theproudest of the vaindressing ladies of our times, arrayed in the mostmagnificent garbs and all the most sumptuous adornings which idlenessand luxury have taught succeeding pride. Lovers then expressed thepassion of their souls in the unaffected language of the heart, withthe native plainness and sincerity in which they were conceived, anddivested of all that artificial contexture which enervates what itlabours to enforce. Imposture, deceit, and malice had not yet creptin, and imposed themselves unbribed upon mankind in the disguise oftruth: justice, unbiassed either by favour or interest, which now sofatally pervert it, was equally and impartially dispensed; nor was thejudge's fancy law, for then there were neither judges nor causes to bejudged. The modest maid might then walk alone. But, in this degenerateage, fraud and a legion of ills infecting the world, no virtue can besafe, no honour be secure; while wanton desires, diffused into thehearts of men, corrupt the strictest watches and the closest retreats, which, though as intricate, and unknown as the labyrinth of Crete, are no security for chastity. Thus, that primitive innocence beingvanished, the oppression daily prevailing, there was a necessityto oppose the torrent of violence; for which reason the order ofknighthood errant was instituted, to defend the honour of virgins, protect widows, relieve orphans, and assist all that are distressed. Now I myself am one of this order, honest friends and though allpeople are obliged by the law of nature to be kind to persons of mycharacter, yet since you, without knowing anything of this obligation, have so generously entertained me, I ought to pay you my utmostacknowledgment, and accordingly return you my most hearty thanks. "

'There, ' said Herbert, as he closed the book. 'In my opinion, DonQuixote was the best man that ever lived. '

'But he did not ever live, ' said Lady Annabel, smiling. 

'He lives to us, ' said Herbert. 'He is the same to this age as if hehad absolutely wandered over the plains of Castile and watched in theSierra Morena. We cannot, indeed, find his tomb; but he has left ushis great example. In his hero, Cervantes has given us the pictureof a great and benevolent philosopher, and in his Sancho, a completepersonification of the world, selfish and cunning, and yet overawedby the genius that he cannot comprehend: alive to all the materialinterests of existence, yet sighing after the ideal; securing his fouryoung foals of the she-ass, yet indulging in dreams of empire. '

'But what do you think of the assault on the windmills, Marmion?' saidLady Annabel. 

'In the outset of his adventures, as in the outset of our lives, hewas misled by his enthusiasm, ' replied Herbert, 'without which, afterall, we can do nothing. But the result is, Don Quixote was a redresserof wrongs, and therefore the world esteemed him mad. '

In this vein, now conversing, now occupied with their pursuits, andoccasionally listening to some passage which Herbert called to theirattention, and which ever served as the occasion for some criticalremarks, always as striking from their originality as they were happyin their expression, the freshness of the morning disappeared; the sunnow crowned the valley with his meridian beam, and they re-entered thevilla. The ladies returned to their cool saloon, and Herbert to hisstudy. 

It was there he amused himself by composing the following lines:

 SPRING IN THE APENNINES. 

 I. 

 Spring in the Apennine now holds her court Within an amphitheatre of hills, Clothed with the blooming chestnut; musical With murmuring pines, waving their light green cones Like youthful Bacchants; while the dewy grass, The myrtle and the mountain violet, Blend their rich odours with the fragrant trees, And sweeten the soft air. Above us spreads The purple sky, bright with the unseen sun The hills yet screen, although the golden beam Touches the topmost boughs, and tints with light The grey and sparkling crags. The breath of morn Still lingers in the valley; but the bee With restless passion hovers on the wing, Waiting the opening flower, of whose embrace The sun shall be the signal. Poised in air, The winged minstrel of the liquid dawn, The lark, pours forth his lyric, and responds To the fresh chorus of the sylvan doves, The stir of branches and the fall of streams, The harmonies of nature!

 II

 Gentle Spring! Once more, oh, yes! once more I feel thy breath, And charm of renovation! To the sky Thou bringest light, and to the glowing earth A garb of grace: but sweeter than the sky That hath no cloud, and sweeter than the earth With all its pageantry, the peerless boon Thou bearest to me, a temper like thine own; A springlike spirit, beautiful and glad! Long years, long years of suffering, and of thought Deeper than woe, had dimmed the eager eye Once quick to catch thy brightness, and the ear That lingered on thy music, the harsh world Had jarred. The freshness of my life was gone, And hope no more an omen in thy bloom Found of a fertile future! There are minds, Like lands, but with one season, and that drear Mine was eternal winter!

 III. 

 A dark dream Of hearts estranged, and of an Eden lost Entranced my being; one absorbing thought Which, if not torture, was a dull despair That agony were light to. But while sad Within the desert of my life I roamed, And no sweet springs of love gushed for to greet My wearied heart, behold two spirits came Floating in light, seraphic ministers, The semblance of whose splendour on me fell As on some dusky stream the matin ray, Touching the gloomy waters with its life. And both were fond, and one was merciful! And to my home long forfeited they bore My vagrant spirit, and the gentle hearth. I reckless fled, received me with its shade And pleasant refuge. And our softened hearts Were like the twilight, when our very bliss Calls tears to soothe our rapture; as the stars Steal forth, then shining smiles their trembling ray Mixed with our tenderness; and love was there In all his manifold forms; the sweet embrace, And thrilling pressure of the gentle hand, And silence speaking with the melting eye!

 IV. 

 And now again I feel thy breath, O spring! And now the seal hath fallen from my gaze, And thy wild music in my ready ear Finds a quick echo! The discordant world Mars not thy melodies; thy blossoms now Are emblems of my heart; and through my veins The flow of youthful feeling, long pent up, Glides like thy sunny streams! In this fair scene, On forms still fairer I my blessing pour; On her the beautiful, the wise, the good, Who learnt the sweetest lesson to forgive; And on the bright-eyed daughter of our love, Who soothed a mother, and a father saved!

CHAPTER II. 

Between the reconciliation of Lady Annabel Herbert with her husband, at the Armenian convent at Venice, and the spring morning in theApennines, which we have just described, half a year had intervened. The political position of Marmion Herbert rendered it impossible forhim to remain in any city where there was a representative of hisBritannic Majesty. Indeed, it was scarcely safe for him to be knownout of America. He had quitted that country shortly after the strugglewas over, chiefly from considerations for his health. His energies hadbeen fast failing him; and a retired life and change of climate hadbeen recommended by his physicians. His own feelings induced him tovisit Italy, where he had once intended to pass his life, and where henow repaired to await death. Assuming a feigned name, and living instrict seclusion, it is probable that his presence would never havebeen discovered; or, if detected, would not have been noticed. Oncemore united with his wife, her personal influence at the court of St. James', and her powerful connections, might secure him from annoyance;and Venetia had even indulged in a vague hope of returning to England. But Herbert could only have found himself again in his native countryas a prisoner on parole. It would have been quite impossible for himto mix in the civil business of his native land, or enjoy any of therights of citizenship. If a mild sovereign in his mercy had indeedaccorded him a pardon, it must have been accompanied with rigorous andmortifying conditions; and his presence, in all probability, wouldhave been confined to his country residence and its immediateneighbourhood. The pride of Lady Annabel herself recoiled from thissufferance; and although Herbert, keenly conscious of the sacrificewhich a permanent estrangement from England entailed upon his wife andchild, would have submitted to any restrictions, however humiliating, provided they were not inconsistent with his honour, it must beconfessed that, when he spoke of this painful subject to his wife, it was with no slight self-congratulation that he had found herresolution to remain abroad under any circumstances was fixed with herhabitual decision. She communicated both to the Bishop of ---- and toher brother the unexpected change that had occurred in her condition, and she had reason to believe that a representation of what hadhappened would be made to the Royal family. Perhaps both the head ofher house and her reverend friend anticipated that time might removethe barrier that presented itself to Herbert's immediate return toEngland: they confined their answers, however, to congratulations onthe reconciliation, to their confidence in the satisfaction it wouldoccasion her, and to the expression of their faithful friendship; andneither alluded to a result which both, if only for her sake, desired. 

The Herberts had quitted Venice a very few days after the meeting onthe island of St. Lazaro; had travelled by slow journeys, crossing theApennines, to Genoa; and only remained in that city until they engagedtheir present residence. It combined all the advantages which theydesired: seclusion, beauty, comfort, and the mild atmosphere thatVenetia had seemed to require. It was not, however, the genial airthat had recalled the rose to Venetia's cheek and the sunny smile toher bright eye, or had inspired again that graceful form with all itspristine elasticity. It was a heart content; a spirit at length atpeace. The contemplation of the happiness of those most dear to herthat she hourly witnessed, and the blissful consciousness that herexertions had mainly contributed to, if not completely occasioned, all this felicity, were remedies of far more efficacy than all theconsultations and prescriptions of her physicians. The conduct of herfather repaid her for all her sufferings, and realised all herdreams of domestic tenderness and delight. Tender, grateful, andaffectionate, Herbert hovered round her mother like a delicate spiritwho had been released by some kind mortal from a tedious and revoltingthraldom, and who believed he could never sufficiently testify hisdevotion. There was so much respect blended with his fondness, thatthe spirit of her mother was utterly subdued by his irresistibledemeanour. All her sadness and reserve, her distrust and her fear, hadvanished; and rising confidence mingling with the love she had everborne to him, she taught herself even to seek his opinion, and beguided by his advice. She could not refrain, indeed, from occasionallyfeeling, in this full enjoyment of his love, that she might haveoriginally acted with too much precipitation; and that, had she onlybent for a moment to the necessity of conciliation, and condescendedto the excusable artifices of affection, their misery might have beenprevented. Once when they were alone, her softened heart would haveconfessed to Herbert this painful conviction, but he was too happyand too generous to permit her for a moment to indulge in such aremorseful retrospect. All the error, he insisted, was his own; and hehad been fool enough to have wantonly forfeited a happiness which timeand experience had now taught him to appreciate. 

'We married too young, Marmion, ' said his wife. 

'It shall be that then, love, ' replied Herbert; 'but for all that Ihave suffered. I would not have avoided my fate on the condition oflosing the exquisite present!'

It is perhaps scarcely necessary to remark, that Herbert avoided withthe most scrupulous vigilance the slightest allusion to any of thosepeculiar opinions for which he was, unhappily, too celebrated. Musingover the singular revolutions which had already occurred in his habitsand his feelings towards herself, Lady Annabel, indeed, did notdespair that his once self-sufficient soul might ultimately bowto that blessed faith which to herself had ever proved so great asupport, and so exquisite a solace. It was, indeed, the inexpressiblehope that lingered at the bottom of her heart; and sometimes she evenindulged in the delightful fancy that his mild and penitent spirithad, by the gracious mercy of Providence, been already touched by thebright sunbeam of conviction. At all events, his subdued and chastenedtemperament was no unworthy preparation for still greater blessings. It was this hallowed anticipation which consoled, and alone consoled, Lady Annabel for her own estrangement from the communion of hernational church. Of all the sacrifices which her devotion to Herbertentailed upon her, this was the one which she felt most constantlyand most severely. Not a day elapsed but the chapel at Cherbury rosebefore her; and when she remembered that neither herself nor herdaughter might again kneel round the altar of their God, she almosttrembled at the step which she had taken, and almost esteemed ita sacrifice of heavenly to earthly duty, which no consideration, perhaps, warranted. This apprehension, indeed, was the cloud inher life, and one which Venetia, who felt all its validity, founddifficulty in combating. 

Otherwise, when Venetia beheld her parents, she felt ethereal, and seemed to move in air; for her life, in spite of its apparenttranquillity, was to her all excitement. She never looked upon herfather, or heard his voice, without a thrill. His society was asdelightful as his heart was tender. It seemed to her that she couldlisten to him for ever. Every word he spoke was different fromthe language of other men; there was not a subject on which hisrichly-cultivated mind could not pour forth instantaneously a flood offine fancies and deep intelligence. He seemed to have read every bookin every language, and to have mused over every line he had read. Shecould not conceive how one, the tone of whose mind was so originalthat it suggested on every topic some conclusion that struck instantlyby its racy novelty, could be so saturated with the learning and theviews of other men. Although they lived in unbroken solitude, and werealmost always together, not a day passed that she did not find herselfmusing over some thought or expression of her father, and which brokefrom his mind without effort, and as if by chance. Literature toHerbert was now only a source of amusement and engaging occupation. All thought of fame had long fled his soul. He cared not for beingdisturbed; and he would throw down his Plato for Don Quixote, or closehis Aeschylus and take up a volume of Madame de Sévigné without amurmur, if reminded by anything that occurred of a passage which mightcontribute to the amusement and instruction of his wife and daughter. Indeed, his only study now was to contribute to their happiness. Forhim they had given up their country and society, and he sought, by hisvigilant attention and his various accomplishments, to render theirhours as light and pleasant as, under such circumstances, waspossible. His muse, too, was only dedicated to the celebration of anytopic which their life or themselves suggested. He loved to lie underthe trees, and pour forth sonnets to Lady Annabel; and encouragedVenetia, by the readiness and interest with which he invariablycomplied with her intimations, to throw out every fancy which occurredto her for his verse. A life passed without the intrusion of a singleevil passion, without a single expression that was not soft, andgraceful, and mild, and adorned with all the resources of a mostaccomplished and creative spirit, required not the distractionsof society. It would have shrunk from it, from all its artificialexcitement and vapid reaction. The days of the Herberts flowed on inone bright, continuous stream of love, and literature, and gentlepleasures. Beneath them was the green earth, above them the blue sky. Their spirits were as clear, and their hearts as soft as the clime. 

The hour of twilight was approaching, and the family were preparingfor their daily walk. Their simple repast was finished, and Venetiaheld the verses which her father had written in the morning, and whichhe had presented to her. 

'Let us descend to Spezzia, ' said Herbert to Lady Annabel; 'I love anocean sunset. '

Accordingly they proceeded through their valley to the craggy pathwhich led down to the bay. After passing through a small ravine, themagnificent prospect opened before them. The sun was yet an hour abovethe horizon, and the sea was like a lake of molten gold; the colourof the sky nearest to the sun, of a pale green, with two or threeburnished streaks of vapour, quite still, and so thin you could almostcatch the sky through them, fixed, as it were, in this gorgeous frame. It was now a dead calm, but the sail that had been hovering the wholemorning in the offing had made the harbour in time, and had justcast anchor near some coasting craft and fishing-boats, all that nowremained where Napoleon had projected forming one of the arsenals ofthe world. 

Tracing their way down a mild declivity, covered with spreadingvineyards, and quite fragrant with the blossom of the vine, theHerberts proceeded through a wood of olives, and emerged on a terraceraised directly above the shore, leading to Spezzia, and studded hereand there with rugged groups of aloes. 

'I have often observed here, ' said Venetia, 'about a mile out at sea;there, now, where I point; the water rise. It is now a calm, and yetit is more troubled, I think, than usual. Tell me the cause, dearfather, for I have often wished to know. '

'It passes my experience, ' said Herbert; 'but here is an ancientfisherman; let us inquire of him. '

He was an old man, leaning against a rock, and smoking his pipe incontemplative silence; his face bronzed with the sun and the roughnessof many seasons, and his grey hairs not hidden by his long blue cap. Herbert saluted him, and, pointing to the phenomenon, requested anexplanation of it. 

''Tis a fountain of fresh water, signor, that rises in our gulf, ' saidthe old fisherman, 'to the height of twenty feet. '

'And is it constant?' inquired Herbert. 

''Tis the same in sunshine and in storm, in summer and in winter, incalm or in breeze, ' said the old fisherman. 

'And has it always been so?'

'It came before my time. '

'A philosophic answer, ' said Herbert, 'and deserves a paul. Mine was acrude question. Adio, good friend. '

'I should like to drink of that fountain of fresh water, Annabel, 'said Herbert. 'There seems to me something wondrous fanciful in it. Some day we will row there. It shall be a calm like this. '

'We want a fountain in our valley, ' said Lady Annabel. 

'We do, ' said Herbert; 'and I think we must make one; we must inquireat Genoa. I am curious in fountains. Our fountain should, I think, beclassical; simple, compact, with a choice inscription, the altar of aNaiad. '

'And mamma shall make the design, and you shall write theinscription, ' said Venetia. 

'And you shall be the nymph, child, ' said Herbert. 

They were now within a bowshot of the harbour, and a jutting cliff ofmarble, more graceful from a contiguous bed of myrtles, invited themto rest, and watch the approaching sunset. 

'Say what they like, ' said Herbert, 'there is a spell in the shoresof the Mediterranean Sea which no others can rival. Never was such aunion of natural loveliness and magical associations! On these shoreshave risen all that interests us in the past: Egypt and Palestine, Greece, Rome, and Carthage, Moorish Spain, and feodal Italy. Theseshores have yielded us our religion, our arts, our literature, and ourlaws. If all that we have gained from the shores of the Mediterraneanwas erased from the memory of man, we should be savages. Will theAtlantic ever be so memorable? Its civilisation will be more rapid, but will it be as refined? and, far more important, will it be aspermanent? Will it not lack the racy vigour and the subtle spirit ofaboriginal genius? Will not a colonial character cling to its society, feeble, inanimate, evanescent? What America is deficient in iscreative intellect. It has no nationality. Its intelligence has beenimported, like its manufactured goods. Its inhabitants are a people, but are they a nation? I wish that the empire of the Incas and thekingdom of Montezuma had not been sacrificed. I wish that the republicof the Puritans had blended with the tribes of the wilderness. '

The red sun was now hovering over the horizon; it quivered for aninstant, and then sank. Immediately the high and undulating coast wascovered with a crimson flush; the cliffs, the groves, the bays andjutting promontories, each straggling sail and tall white tower, suffused with a rosy light. Gradually that rosy tint became a brightviolet, and then faded into purple. But the glory of the sunset longlingered in the glowing west, streaming with every colour of the Iris, while a solitary star glittered with silver light amid the shiftingsplendour. 

'Hesperus rises from the sunset like the fountain of fresh water fromthe sea, ' said Herbert. 'The sky and the ocean have two natures, likeourselves, '

At this moment the boat of the vessel, which had anchored about anhour back, put to shore. 

'That seems an English brig, ' said Herbert. 'I cannot exactly make outits trim; it scarcely seems a merchant vessel. '

The projection of the shore hid the boat from their sight as itlanded. The Herberts rose, and proceeded towards the harbour. Therewere some rude steps cut in the rock which led from the immediateshore to the terrace. As they approached these, two gentlemenin sailors' jackets mounted suddenly. Lady Annabel and Venetiasimultaneously started as they recognised Lord Cadurcis and hiscousin. They were so close that neither party had time to preparethemselves. Venetia found her hand in that of Plantagenet, while LadyAnnabel saluted George. Infinite were their mutual inquiries andcongratulations, but it so happened that, with one exception, no namewas mentioned. It was quite evident, however, to Herbert, that thesewere very familiar acquaintances of his family; for, in the surpriseof the moment, Lord Cadurcis had saluted his daughter by her Christianname. There was no slight emotion, too, displayed on all sides. Indeed, independently of the agitation which so unexpected arencounter was calculated to produce, the presence of Herbert, afterthe first moments of recognition, not a little excited the curiosityof the young men, and in some degree occasioned the embarrassmentof all. Who was this stranger, on whom Venetia and her mother wereleaning with such fondness? He was scarcely too old to be the admirerof Venetia, and if there were a greater disparity of years betweenthem than is usual, his distinguished appearance might well reconcilethe lady to her lot, or even justify her choice. Had, then, Cadurcisagain met Venetia only to find her the bride or the betrothed ofanother? a mortifying situation, even an intolerable one, if hisfeelings remained unchanged; and if the eventful year that had elapsedsince they parted had not replaced her image in his susceptible mindby another more cherished, and, perhaps, less obdurate. Again, to LadyAnnabel the moment was one of great awkwardness, for the introductionof her husband to those with whom she was recently so intimate, andwho were then aware that the name of that husband was never evenmentioned in her presence, recalled the painful past with a disturbingvividness. Venetia, indeed, did not share these feelings fully, but she thought it ungracious to anticipate her mother in theannouncement. 

The Herberts turned with Lord Cadurcis and his cousin; they were aboutto retrace their steps on the terrace, when Lady Annabel, takingadvantage of the momentary silence, and summoning all her energy, witha pale cheek and a voice that slightly faltered, said, 'Lord Cadurcis, allow me to present you to Mr. Herbert, my husband, ' she added withemphasis. 

'Good God!' exclaimed Cadurcis, starting; and then, outstretching hishand, he contrived to add, 'have I, indeed, the pleasure of seeing oneI have so long admired?'

'Lord Cadurcis!' exclaimed Herbert, scarcely less surprised. 'Is itLord Cadurcis? This is a welcome meeting. '

Everyone present felt overwhelmed with confusion or astonishment; LadyAnnabel sought refuge in presenting Captain Cadurcis to her husband. This ceremony, though little noticed even by those more immediatelyinterested in it, nevertheless served, in some degree, as a diversion. Herbert, who was only astonished, was the first who rallied. PerhapsLord Cadurcis was the only man in existence whom Herbert wished toknow. He had read his works with deep interest; at least, thoseportions which foreign journals had afforded him. He was deeplyimpressed with his fame and genius; but what perplexed him at thismoment, even more than his unexpected introduction to him, was thesingular, the very extraordinary circumstance, that the name of theirmost celebrated countryman should never have escaped the lips eitherof his wife or his daughter, although they appeared, and Venetiaespecially, to be on terms with him of even domestic intimacy. 

'You arrived here to day, Lord Cadurcis?' said Herbert. 'From whence?'

'Immediately from Naples, where we last touched, ' replied hislordship; 'but I have been residing at Athens. '

'I envy you, ' said Herbert. 

'It would be a fit residence for you, ' said Lord Cadurcis. 'You were, however, in some degree, my companion, for a volume of your poems wasone of the few books I had with me. I parted with all the rest, but Iretained that. It is in my cabin, and full of my scribblement. If youwould condescend to accept it, I would offer it to you. '

Mr. Herbert and Lord Cadurcis maintained the conversation along theterrace. Venetia, by whose side her old companion walked, was quitesilent. Once her eyes met those of Cadurcis; his expression of mingledarchness and astonishment was irresistible. His cousin and LadyAnnabel carried on a more suppressed conversation, but on ordinarytopics. When they had reached the olive-grove Herbert said, 'Here liesour way homeward, my lord. If you and your cousin will accompany us, it will delight Lady Annabel and myself. '

'Nothing, I am sure, will give George and myself greater pleasure, ' hereplied. 'We had, indeed, no purpose when you met us but to enjoy ourescape from imprisonment, little dreaming we should meet our kindestand oldest friends, ' he added. 

'Kindest and oldest friends!' thought Herbert to himself. 'Well, thisis strange indeed. '

'It is but a slight distance, ' said Lady Annabel, who thought itnecessary to enforce the invitation. 'We live in the valley, of whichyonder hill forms a part. '

'And there we have passed our winter and our spring, ' added Venetia, 'almost as delightfully as you could have done at Athens. '

'Well, ' thought Cadurcis to himself, 'I have seen many of the world'smarvels, but this day is a miracle. '

When they had proceeded through the olive-wood, and mounted theacclivity, they arrived at a path which permitted the ascent of onlyone person at a time. Cadurcis was last, and followed Venetia. Unableany longer to endure the suspense, he was rather irritated that shekept so close to her father; he himself loitered a few paces behind, and, breaking off a branch of laurel, he tossed it at her. She lookedround and smiled; he beckoned to her to fall back. 'Tell me, Venetia, 'he said, 'what does all this mean?'

'It means that we are at last all very happy, ' she replied. 'Do younot see my father?'

'Yes; and I am very glad to see him; but this company is the very lastin which I expected to have that pleasure. '

'It is too long a story to tell now; you must imagine it. '

'But are you glad to see me?'

'Very. '

'I don't think you care for me the least. '

'Silly Lord Cadurcis!' she said, smiling. 

'If you call me Lord Cadurcis, I shall immediately go back to thebrig, and set sail this night for Athens. '

'Well then, silly Plantagenet!'

He laughed, and they ran on. 

CHAPTER III. 

'Well, I am not surprised that you should have passed your timedelightfully here, ' said Lord Cadurcis to Lady Annabel, when they hadentered the villa; 'for I never beheld so delightful a retreat. It iseven more exquisite than your villa on the lake, of which George gaveme so glowing a description. I was almost tempted to hasten to you. Would you have smiled on me!' he added, rather archly, and in acoaxing tone. 

'I am more gratified that we have met here, ' said Lady Annabel. 

'And thus, ' added Cadurcis. 

'You have been a great traveller since we last met?' said LadyAnnabel, a little embarrassed. 

'My days of restlessness are over, ' said Cadurcis. 'I desire nothingmore dearly than to settle down in the bosom of these green hills asyou have done. '

'This life suits Mr. Herbert, ' said Lady Annabel. 'He is fond ofseclusion, and you know I am accustomed to it. '

'Ah! yes, ' said Cadurcis, mournfully. 'When I was in Greece, I usedoften to wish that none of us had ever left dear Cherbury; but I donot now. '

'We must forget Cherbury, ' said Lady Annabel. 

'I cannot: I cannot forget her who cherished my melancholy childhood. Dear Lady Annabel, ' he added in a voice of emotion, and offering herhis hand, 'forget all my follies, and remember that I was your child, once as dutiful as you were affectionate. '

Who could resist this appeal? Lady Annabel, not without agitation, yielded him her hand, which he pressed to his lips. 'Now I am againhappy, ' said Cadurcis; 'now we are all happy. Sweetest of friends, youhave removed in a moment the bitterness of years. '

Although lights were in the saloon, the windows opening on the porticowere not closed. The evening air was soft and balmy, and though themoon had not risen, the distant hills were clear in the starlight. Venetia was standing in the portico conversing with George Cadurcis. 

'I suppose you are too much of a Turk to drink our coffee, LordCadurcis, ' said Herbert. Cadurcis turned and joined him, together withLady Annabel. 

'Nay, ' said Lord Cadurcis, in a joyous tone, 'Lady Annabel will answerfor me that I always find everything perfect under her roof. '

Captain Cadurcis and Venetia now re-entered the villa; they clusteredround the table, and seated themselves. 

'Why, Venetia, ' said Cadurcis, 'George met me in Sicily and quitefrightened me about you. Is it the air of the Apennines that hasworked these marvels? for, really, you appear to me exactly the sameas when we learnt the French vocabulary together ten years ago. '

'"The French vocabulary together, ten years ago!"' thought Herbert;'not a mere London acquaintance, then. This is very strange. '

'Why, indeed, Plantagenet, ' replied Venetia, 'I was very unwell whenGeorge visited us; but I really have quite forgotten that I ever wasan invalid, and I never mean to be again. '

'"Plantagenet!"' soliloquised Herbert. 'And this is the great poetof whom I have heard so much! My daughter is tolerably familiar withhim. '

'I have brought you all sorts of buffooneries from Stamboul, 'continued Cadurcis; 'sweetmeats, and slippers, and shawls, and daggersworn only by sultanas, and with which, if necessary, they can keep"the harem's lord" in order. I meant to have sent them with George toEngland, for really I did not anticipate our meeting here. '

'"Sweetmeats and slippers, "' said Herbert to himself, '"shawls anddaggers!" What next?'

'And has George been with you all the time?' inquired Venetia. 

'Oh! we quarrelled now and then, of course. He found Athens dull, andwould stay at Constantinople, chained by the charms of a fair Perote, to whom he wanted me to write sonnets in his name. I would not, because I thought it immoral. But, on the whole, we got on very well;a sort of Pylades and Orestes, I assure you; we never absolutelyfought. '

'Come, come, ' said George, 'Cadurcis is always ashamed of beingamiable. We were together much more than I ever intended oranticipated. You know mine was a sporting tour; and therefore, ofcourse, we were sometimes separated. But he was exceedingly popularwith all parties, especially the Turks, whom he rewarded for theircourtesy by writing odes to the Greeks to stir them up to revolt. '

'Well, they never read them, ' said Cadurcis. 'All we, poor fellows, can do, ' he added, turning to Herbert, 'is to wake the Hellenisticraptures of May Fair; and that they call fame; as much like fame as atoadstool is like a truffle. '

'Nevertheless, I hope the muse has not slumbered, ' said Herbert; 'foryou have had the happiest inspiration in the climes in which you haveresided; not only are they essentially poetic, but they offer a virginvein. '

'I have written a little, ' replied Cadurcis; 'I will give it you, ifyou like, some day to turn over. Yours is the only opinion that Ireally care for. I have no great idea of the poetry; but I am verystrong in my costume. I feel very confident about that. I fancy I knowhow to hit off a pasha, or touch in a Greek pirate now. As for all thethings I wrote in England, I really am ashamed of them. I got up myorientalism from books, and sultans and sultanas at masquerades, ' headded, archly. 'I remember I made my heroines always wear turbans;only conceive my horror when I found that a Turkish woman would assoon think of putting my hat on as a turban, and that it was anarticle of dress entirely confined to a Bond Street milliner. '

The evening passed in interesting and diverting conversation; ofcourse, principally contributed by the two travellers, who had seen somuch. Inspirited by his interview with Lady Annabel, and her graciousreception of his overtures, Lord Cadurcis was in one of those frolichumours, which we have before noticed was not unnatural to him. He hadconsiderable powers of mimicry, and the talent that had pictured toVenetia in old days, with such liveliness, the habits of the old maidsof Morpeth, was now engaged on more considerable topics; an interviewwith a pasha, a peep into a harem, a visit to a pirate's isle, theslave-market, the bazaar, the barracks of the janissaries, all touchedwith irresistible vitality, and coloured with the rich phrases ofunrivalled force of expression. The laughter was loud and continual;even Lady Annabel joined zealously in the glee. As for Herbert, hethought Cadurcis by far the most hearty and amusing person he had everknown, and could not refrain from contrasting him with the picturewhich his works and the report of the world had occasionally enabledhim to sketch to his mind's eye; the noble, young, and impassionedbard, pouring forth the eloquent tide of his morbid feelings to anidolising world, from whose applause he nevertheless turned with analmost misanthropic melancholy. 

It was now much past the noon of night, and the hour of separation, long postponed, was inevitable. Often had Cadurcis risen to depart, and often, without regaining his seat, had he been tempted by hisfriends, and especially Venetia, into fresh narratives. At last hesaid, 'Now we must go. Lady Annabel looks good night. I remember thelook, ' he said, laughing, 'when we used to beg for a quarter of anhour more. O Venetia! do not you remember that Christmas when dearold Masham read Julius Caesar, and we were to sit up until it wasfinished. When he got to the last act I hid his spectacles. I neverconfessed it until this moment. Will you pardon me, Lady Annabel?' andhe pressed his hands together in a mockery of supplication. 

'Will you come and breakfast with us to-morrow?' said Lady Annabel. 

'With delight, ' he answered. 'I am used, you know, to walks beforebreakfast. George, I do not think George can do it, though. Georgelikes his comforts; he is a regular John Bull. He was always callingfor tea when we were in Turkey!'

At this moment Mistress Pauncefort entered the room, ostensibly onsome little affair of her mistress, but really to reconnoitre. 

'Ah! Mistress Pauncefort; my old friend, Mistress Pauncefort, how doyou do?' exclaimed his lordship. 

'Quite well, my lord, please your lordship; and very glad to see yourlordship again, and looking so well too. '

'Ah! Mistress Pauncefort, you always flattered me!'

'Oh! dear, my lord, your lordship, no, ' said Mistress Pauncefort, witha simper. 

'But you, Pauncefort, ' said Cadurcis, 'why there must be some magic inthe air here. I have been complimenting your lady and Miss Venetia;but really, you, I should almost have thought it was some youngersister. '

'Oh! my lord, you have such a way, ' said Mistress Pauncefort, retreating with a slow step that still lingered for a remark. 

'Pauncefort, is that an Italian cap?' said Lord Cadurcis; 'you know, Pauncefort, you were always famous for your caps. '

Mistress Pauncefort disappeared in a fluster of delight. 

And now they had indeed departed. There was a pause of completesilence after they had disappeared, the slight and not painfulreaction after the mirthful excitement of the last few hours. Atlength Herbert, dropping, as was his evening custom, a few drops oforange-flower into a tumbler of water, said, 'Annabel, my love, I amrather surprised that neither you nor Venetia should have mentioned tome that you knew, and knew so intimately, a man like Lord Cadurcis. '

Lady Annabel appeared a little confused; she looked even at Venetia, but Venetia's eyes were on the ground. At length she said, 'In truth, Marmion, since we met we have thought only of you. '

'Cadurcis Abbey, papa, is close to Cherbury, ' said Venetia. 

'Cherbury!' said Herbert, with a faint blush. 'I have never seen it, and now I shall never see it. No matter, my country is your mother andyourself. Some find a home in their country, I find a country in myhome. Well, ' he added, in a gayer tone, 'it has gratified me much tomeet Lord Cadurcis. We were happy before, but now we are even gay. I like to see you smile, Annabel, and hear Venetia laugh. I feel, myself, quite an unusual hilarity. Cadurcis! It is very strange howoften I have mused over that name. A year ago it was one of my fewwishes to know him; my wishes, then, dear Annabel, were not veryambitious. They did not mount so high as you have since permittedthem. And now I do know him, and under what circumstances! Is not lifestrange? But is it not happy? I feel it so. Good night, sweet wife;my darling daughter, a happy, happy night!' He embraced them erethey retired; and opening a volume composed his mind after the novelexcitement of the evening. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Cadurcis left the brig early in the morning alone, and strolledtowards the villa. He met Herbert half-way to Spezzia, who turned backwith him towards home. They sat down on a crag opposite the sea; therewas a light breeze, the fishing boats wore out, and the view was asanimated as the fresh air was cheering. 

'There they go, ' said Cadurcis, smiling, 'catching John Dory, as youand I try to catch John Bull. Now if these people could understandwhat two great men were watching them, how they would stare! But theydon't care a sprat for us, not they! They are not part of the worldthe three or four thousand civilised savages for whom we sweat ourbrains, and whose fetid breath perfumed with musk is fame. Pah!'

Herbert smiled. 'I have not cared much myself for this same world. '

'Why, no; you have done something, and shown your contempt for them. No one can deny that. I will some day, if I have an opportunity. I oweit them; I think I can show them a trick or two still. [A] I have got aDamascus blade in store for their thick hides. I will turn their flankyet. '

[Footnote A: I think I know a trick or two would turn Your flanks. _Don Juan_. ]

'And gain a victory where conquest brings no glory. You are worthbrighter laurels, Lord Cadurcis. '

'Now is not it the most wonderful thing in the world that you and Ihave met?' said Cadurcis. 'Now I look upon ourselves as somethinglike, eh! Fellows with some pith in them. By Jove, if we only joinedtogether, how we could lay it on! Crack, crack, crack; I think I seethem wincing under the thong, the pompous poltroons! If you only knewhow they behaved to me! By Jove, sir, they hooted me going to theHouse of Lords, and nearly pulled me off my horse. The ruffians wouldhave massacred me if they could; and then they all ran away from adrummer-boy and a couple of grenadiers, who were going the rounds tochange guard. Was not that good? Fine, eh? A brutish mob in a fit ofmorality about to immolate a gentleman, and then scampering off from asentry. I call that human nature!'

'As long as they leave us alone, and do not burn us alive, I amcontent, ' said Herbert. 'I am callous to what they say. '

'So am I, ' said Cadurcis. 'I made out a list the other day of allthe persons and things I have been compared to. It begins well, withAlcibiades, but it ends with the Swiss giantess or the Polish dwarf, Iforget which. Here is your book. You see it has been well thumbed. Infact, to tell the truth, it was my cribbing book, and I always keptit by me when I was writing at Athens, like a gradus, a _gradus adParnassum_, you know. But although I crib, I am candid, and you see Ifairly own it to you. '

'You are welcome to all I have ever written, ' said Herbert. 'Mine werebut crude dreams. I wished to see man noble and happy; but if he willpersist in being vile and miserable, I must even be content. I canstruggle for him no more. '

'Well, you opened my mind, ' said Cadurcis. 'I owe you everything;but I quite agree with you that nothing is worth an effort. As forphilosophy and freedom, and all that, they tell devilish well in astanza; but men have always been fools and slaves, and fools andslaves they always will be. '

'Nay, ' said Herbert, 'I will not believe that. I will not give upa jot of my conviction of a great and glorious future for humandestinies; but its consummation will not be so rapid as I oncethought, and in the meantime I die. '

'Ah, death!' said Lord Cadurcis, 'that is a botherer. What can youmake of death? There are those poor fishermen now; there will be awhite squall some day, and they will go down with those lateen sailsof theirs, and be food for the very prey they were going to catch; andif you continue living here, you may eat one of your neighbours inthe shape of a shoal of red mullets, when it is the season. The greatsecret, we cannot penetrate that with all our philosophy, my dearHerbert. "All that we know is, nothing can be known. " Barren, barren, barren! And yet what a grand world it is! Look at this bay, these bluewaters, the mountains, and these chestnuts, devilish fine! The factis, truth is veiled, but, like the Shekinah over the tabernacle, theveil is of dazzling light!'

'Life is the great wonder, ' said Herbert, 'into which all that isstrange and startling resolves itself. The mist of familiarityobscures from us the miracle of our being. Mankind are constantlystarting at events which they consider extraordinary. But aphilosopher acknowledges only one miracle, and that is life. Politicalrevolutions, changes of empire, wrecks of dynasties and the opinionsthat support them, these are the marvels of the vulgar, but these areonly transient modifications of life. The origin of existence is, therefore, the first object which a true philosopher proposes tohimself. Unable to discover it, he accepts certain results fromhis unbiassed observation of its obvious nature, and on them heestablishes certain principles to be our guides in all socialrelations, whether they take the shape of laws or customs. Nevertheless, until the principle of life be discovered, all theoriesand all systems of conduct founded on theory must be consideredprovisional. '

'And do you believe that there is a chance of its being discovered?'inquired Cadurcis. 

'I cannot, from any reason in my own intelligence, find why it shouldnot, ' said Herbert. 

'You conceive it possible that a man may attain earthly immortality?'inquired Cadurcis. 

'Undoubtedly. '

'By Jove, ' said Cadurcis, 'if I only knew how, I would purchase animmense annuity directly. '

'When I said undoubtedly, ' said Herbert, smiling, 'I meant only toexpress that I know no invincible reason to the contrary. I seenothing inconsistent with the existence of a Supreme Creator in theannihilation of death. It appears to me an achievement worthy of hisomnipotence. I believe in the possibility, but I believe in nothingmore. I anticipate the final result, but not by individual means. Itwill, of course, be produced by some vast and silent and continuousoperation of nature, gradually effecting some profound andcomprehensive alteration in her order, a change of climate, forinstance, the great enemy of life, so that the inhabitants of theearth may attain a patriarchal age. This renovated breed may in turnproduce a still more vigorous offspring, and so we may ascend thescale, from the threescore and ten of the Psalmist to the immortalityof which we speak. Indeed I, for my own part, believe the operationhas already commenced, although thousands of centuries may elapsebefore it is consummated; the threescore and ten of the Psalmist isalready obsolete; the whole world is talking of the general change ofits seasons and its atmosphere. If the origin of America were such asmany profound philosophers suppose, viz. , a sudden emersion of a newcontinent from the waves, it is impossible to doubt that such an eventmust have had a very great influence on the climate of the world. Besides, why should we be surprised that the nature of man shouldchange? Does not everything change? Is not change the law of nature?My skin changes every year, my hair never belongs to me a month, thenail on my hand is only a passing possession. I doubt whether a man atfifty is the same material being that he is at five-and-twenty. '

'I wonder, ' said Lord Cadurcis, 'if a creditor brought an actionagainst you at fifty for goods delivered at five-and-twenty, onecould set up the want of identity as a plea in bar. It would be aconsolation to an elderly gentleman. '

'I am afraid mankind are too hostile to philosophy, ' said Herbert, smiling, 'to permit so desirable a consummation. '

'Should you consider a long life a blessing?' said Cadurcis. 'Wouldyou like, for instance, to live to the age of Methusalem?'

'Those whom the gods love die young, ' said Herbert. 'For the lasttwenty years I have wished to die, and I have sought death. But myfeelings, I confess, on that head are at present very much modified. '

'Youth, glittering youth!' said Cadurcis in a musing tone; 'I rememberwhen the prospect of losing my youth frightened me out of my wits;I dreamt of nothing but grey hairs, a paunch, and the gout or thegravel. But I fancy every period of life has its pleasures, and as weadvance in life the exercise of power and the possession of wealthmust be great consolations to the majority; we bully our children andhoard our cash. '

'Two most noble occupations!' said Herbert; 'but I think in this worldthere is just as good a chance of being bullied by our children first, and paying their debts afterwards. '

'Faith! you are right, ' said Cadurcis, laughing, 'and lucky is he whohas neither creditors nor offspring, and who owes neither money noraffection, after all the most difficult to pay of the two. '

'It cannot be commanded, certainly, ' said Herbert 'There is no usuryfor love. '

'And yet it is very expensive, too, sometimes, said Cadurcis, laughing. 'For my part, sympathy is a puzzler. '

'You should read Cabanis, ' said Herbert, 'if indeed, you have not. I think I may find it here; I will lend it you. It has, from itssubject, many errors, but it is very suggestive. '

'Now, that is kind, for I have not a book here, and, after all, thereis nothing like reading. I wish I had read more, but it is not toolate. I envy you your learning, besides so many other things. However, I hope we shall not part in a hurry; we have met at last, ' he said, extending his hand, 'and we were always friends. '

Herbert shook his hand very warmly. 'I can assure you, Lord Cadurcis, you have not a more sincere admirer of your genius. I am happy in yoursociety. For myself, I now aspire to be nothing better than an idlerin life, turning over a page, and sometimes noting down a fancy. Youhave, it appears, known my family long and intimately, and you were, doubtless, surprised at finding me with them. I have returned tomy hearth, and I am content. Once I sacrificed my happiness to myphilosophy, and now I have sacrificed my philosophy to my happiness. '

'Dear friend!' said Cadurcis, putting his arm affectionately inHerbert's as they walked along, 'for, indeed, you must allow me tostyle you so; all the happiness and all the sorrow of my life alikeflow from your roof!'

In the meantime Lady Annabel and Venetia came forth from the villa totheir morning meal in their amphitheatre of hills. Marmion was notthere to greet them as usual. 

'Was not Plantagenet amusing last night?' said Venetia; 'and are notyou happy, dear mother, to see him once more?'

'Indeed I am now always happy, ' said Lady Annabel. 

'And George was telling me last night, in this portico, of all theirlife. He is more attached to Plantagenet than ever. He says it isimpossible for any one to have behaved with greater kindness, or tohave led, in every sense, a more calm and rational life. When he wasalone at Athens, he did nothing but write. George says that all hisformer works are nothing to what he has written now. '

'He is very engaging, ' said Lady Annabel. 

'I think he will be such a delightful companion for papa. I am surepapa must like him. I hope he will stay some time; for, after all, poor dear papa, he must require a little amusement besides oursociety. Instead of being with his books, he might be walking andtalking with Plantagenet. I think, dearest mother, we shall be happierthan ever!'

At this moment Herbert, with Cadurcis leaning on his arm, andapparently speaking with great earnestness, appeared in the distance. 'There they are, ' said Venetia; 'I knew they would be friends. Come, dearest mother, let us meet them. '

'You see, Lady Annabel, ' said Lord Cadurcis, 'it is just as I said:Mr. George is not here; he is having tea and toast on board the brig. '

'I do not believe it, ' said Venetia, smiling. 

They seated themselves at the breakfast-table. 

'You should have seen our Apennine breakfasts in the autumn, LordCadurcis, ' said Herbert. 'Every fruit of nature seemed crowded beforeus. It was indeed a meal for a poet or a painter like Paul Veronese;our grapes, our figs, our peaches, our mountain strawberries, theymade a glowing picture. For my part, I have an original prejudiceagainst animal food which I have never quite overcome, and I believeit is only to please Lady Annabel that I have relapsed into the heresyof cutlets. '

'Do you think I have grown fatter, Lady Annabel?' said Lord Cadurcis, starting up; 'I brought myself down at Athens to bread and olives, butI have been committing terrible excesses lately, but only fish. '

'Ah! here is George!' said Lady Annabel. 

And Captain Cadurcis appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, bearing a huge case. 

'George, ' said Venetia, 'I have been defending you againstPlantagenet; he said you would not come. '

'Never mind, George, it was only behind your back, ' said LordCadurcis; 'and, under those legitimate circumstances, why even ourbest friends cannot expect us to spare them. '

'I have brought Venetia her toys, ' said Captain Cadurcis, 'and she wasright to defend me, as I have been working for her. '

The top of the case was knocked off, and all the Turkish buffooneries, as Cadurcis called them, made their appearance: slippers, and shawls, and bottles of perfumes, and little hand mirrors, beautifullyembroidered; and fanciful daggers, and rosaries, and a thousand otherarticles, of which they had plundered the bazaars of Constantinople. 

'And here is a Turkish volume of poetry, beautifully illuminated; andthat is for you, ' said Cadurcis giving it to Herbert. 'Perhaps it is atranslation of one of our works. Who knows? We can always say it is. '

'This is the second present you have made me this morning. Here is avolume of my works, ' said Herbert, producing the book that Cadurcishad before given him. 'I never expected that anything I wrote would beso honoured. This, too, is the work of which I am the least ashamedfor my wife admired it. There, Annabel, even though Lord Cadurcis ishere, I will present it to you; 'tis an old friend. '

Lady Annabel accepted the book very graciously, and, in spite of allthe temptations of her toys, Venetia could not refrain from peepingover her mother's shoulder at its contents. 'Mother, ' she whispered, in a voice inaudible save to Lady Annabel, 'I may read this!'

Lady Annabel gave it her. 

'And now we must send for Pauncefort, I think, ' said Lady Annabel, 'tocollect and take care of our treasures. '

'Pauncefort, ' said Lord Cadurcis, when that gentlewoman appeared, 'Ihave brought you a shawl, but I could not bring you a turban, becausethe Turkish ladies do not wear turbans; but if I had thought we shouldhave met so soon, I would have had one made on purpose for you. '

'La! my lord, you always are so polite!'

CHAPTER V. 

When the breakfast was over, they wandered about the valley, whichCadurcis could not sufficiently admire. Insensibly he drew Venetiafrom the rest of the party, on the pretence of showing her a view atsome little distance. They walked along by the side of a rivulet, which glided through the hills, until they were nearly a mile from thevilla, though still in sight. 

'Venetia, ' he at length said, turning the conversation to a moreinteresting topic, 'your father and myself have disburthened our mindsto each, other this morning; I think we know each other now as well asif we were as old acquaintances as myself and his daughter. '

'Ah! I knew that you and papa must agree, ' said Venetia; 'I was sayingso this morning to my mother. '

'Venetia, ' said Cadurcis, with a laughing eye, 'all this is verystrange, is it not?'

'Very strange, indeed, Plantagenet; I should not be surprised if itappeared to you as yet even incredible. '

'It is miraculous, ' said Cadurcis, 'but not incredible; an angelinterfered, and worked the miracle. I know all. '

Venetia looked at him with a faint flush upon her cheek; she gathereda flower and plucked it to pieces. 

'What a singular destiny ours has been, Venetia! 'said Cadurcis. 'Doyou know, I can sit for an hour together and muse over it. '

'Can you, Plantagenet?'

'I have such an extraordinary memory; I do not think I ever forgotanything. We have had some remarkable conversations in our time, eh, Venetia? Do you remember my visit to Cherbury before I went toCambridge, and the last time I saw you before I left England? And nowit all ends in this! What do you think of it, Venetia?'

'Think of what, Plantagenet?'

'Why, of this reconciliation?'

'Dear Plantagenet, what can I think of it but what I have expressed, that it is a wonderful event, but the happiest in my life. '

'You are quite happy now?'

'Quite. '

'I see you do not care for me the least. '

'Plantagenet, you are perverse. Are you not here?'

'Did you ever think of me when I was away?'

'You know very well, Plantagenet, that it is impossible for me tocease to be interested in you. Could I refrain from thinking of such afriend?'

'Friend! poh! I am not your friend; and, as for that, you never oncementioned my name to your father, Miss Venetia. '

'You might easily conceive that there were reasons for such silence, 'said Venetia. 'It could not arise on my part from forgetfulness orindifference; for, even if my feelings were changed towards you, youare not a person that one would, or even could, avoid speaking of, especially to papa, who must have felt such interest in you! I amsure, even if I had not known you, there were a thousand occasionswhich would have called your name to my lips, had they beenuncontrolled by other considerations. '

'Come, Venetia, I am not going to submit to compliments from you, 'said Lord Cadurcis; 'no blarney. I wish you only to think of me asyou did ten years ago. I will not have our hearts polluted by thevulgarity of fame. I want you to feel for me as you did when we werechildren. I will not be an object of interest, and admiration, andfiddlestick to you; I will not submit to it. '

'Well, you shall not, ' said Venetia, laughing. 'I will not admire youthe least; I will only think of you as a good little boy. '

'You do not love me any longer, I see that, ' said Cadurcis. 

'Yes I do, Plantagenet. '

'You do not love me so much as you did the night before I went toEton, and we sat over the fire? Ah! how often I have thought of thatnight when I was at Athens!' he added in a tone of emotion. 

'Dear Plantagenet, ' said Venetia, 'do not be silly. I am in thehighest spirits in the world; I am quite gay with happiness, and allbecause you have returned. Do not spoil my pleasure. '

'Ah, Venetia! I see how it is; you have forgotten me, or worse thanforgotten me. '

'Well, I am sure I do not know what to say to satisfy you, ' saidVenetia. 'I think you very unreasonable, and very ungrateful too, forI have always been your friend, Plantagenet, and I am sure you knowit. You sent me a message before you went abroad. '

'Darling!' said Lord Cadurcis, seizing her hand, 'I am not ungrateful, I am not unreasonable. I adore you. You were very kind then, when allthe world was against me. You shall see how I will pay them off, thedogs! and worse than dogs, their betters far; dogs are faithful. Doyou remember poor old Marmion? How we were mystified, Venetia! Littledid we think then who was Marmion's godfather. '

Venetia smiled; but she said, 'I do not like this bitterness of yours, Plantagenet. You have no cause to complain of the world, and youmagnify a petty squabble with a contemptible coterie into a quarrelwith a nation. It is not a wise humour, and, if you indulge it, itwill not be a happy one. '

'I will do exactly what you wish on every subject, said Cadurcis, 'ifyou will do exactly what I wish on one. '

'Well!' said Venetia. 

'Once you told me, ' said Cadurcis, 'that you would not marry mewithout the consent of your father; then, most unfairly, you added toyour conditions the consent of your mother. Now both your parents arevery opportunely at hand; let us fall down upon our knees, and begtheir blessing. '

'O! my dear Plantagenet, I think it will be much better for me neverto marry. We are both happy now; let us remain so. You can live here, and I can be your sister. Will not that do?'

'No, Venetia, it will not. '

'Dear Plantagenet!' said Venetia with a faltering voice, 'if you knewhow much I had suffered, dear Plantagenet!'

'I know it; I know all, ' said Cadurcis, taking her arm and placing ittenderly in his. 'Now listen to me, sweet girl; I loved you when achild, when I was unknown to the world, and unknown to myself; I lovedyou as a youth not utterly inexperienced in the world, and when myrising passions had taught me to speculate on the character of women;I loved you as a man, Venetia, with that world at my feet, thatworld which I scorn, but which I will command; I have been constant, Venetia; your heart assures you, of that. You are the only being inexistence who exercises over me any influence; and the influence youpossess is irresistible and eternal. It springs from some deep andmysterious sympathy of blood which I cannot penetrate. It can neitherbe increased nor diminished by time. It is entirely independent ofits action. I pretend not to love you more at this moment than whenI first saw you, when you entered the terrace-room at Cherbury andtouched my cheek. From that moment I was yours. I declare to you, mostsolemnly I declare to you, that I know not what love is except to you. The world has called me a libertine; the truth is, no other woman cancommand my spirit for an hour. I see through them at a glance. I readall their weakness, frivolity, vanity, affectation, as if they weretouched by the revealing rod of Asmodeus. You were born to be mybride. Unite yourself with me, control my destiny, and my course shallbe like the sun of yesterday; but reject me, reject me, and I devoteall my energies to the infernal gods; I will pour my lava over theearth until all that remains of my fatal and exhausted nature is ablack and barren cone surrounded by bitter desolation. '

'Plantagenet; be calm!'

'I am perfectly calm, Venetia. You talk to me of your sufferings. What has occasioned them? A struggle against nature. Nature has nowtriumphed, and you are happy. What necessity was there for all thismisery that has fallen on your house? Why is your father an exile? Donot you think that if your mother had chosen to exert her influenceshe might have prevented the most fatal part of his career?Undoubtedly despair impelled his actions as much as philosophy, thoughI give him credit for a pure and lofty spirit, to no man more. But nota murmur against your mother from me. She received my overtures ofreconciliation last night with more than cordiality. She is yourmother, Venetia, and she once was mine. Indeed, I love her; indeed, you would find that I would study her happiness. For after all, sweet, is there another woman in existence better qualified to fill theposition of my mother-in-law? I could not behave unkindly to her; Icould not treat her with neglect or harshness; not merely for thesake of her many admirable qualities, but from other considerations, Venetia, considerations we never can forget. By heavens! I love yourmother; I do, indeed, Venetia! I remember so many things; her lastwords to me when I went to Eton. If she would only behave kindlyto me, you would see what a son-in-law I should make. You would bejealous, that you should, Venetia. I can bear anything from you, Venetia, but, with others, I cannot forget who I am. It makes mebitter to be treated as Lady Annabel treated me last year in London:but a smile and a kind word and I recall all her maternal love; I doindeed, Venetia; last night when she was kind I could have kissedher!'

Poor Venetia could not answer, her tears were flowing so plenteously. 'I have told your father all, sweetest, ' said Cadurcis; 'I concealednothing. '

'And what said he?' murmured Venetia. 

'It rests with your mother. After all that has passed, he willnot attempt to control your fate. And he is right. Perhaps hisinterference in my favour might even injure me. But there is no causefor despair; all I wanted was to come to an understanding with you; tobe sure you loved me as you always have done. I will not be impatient. I will do everything to soothe and conciliate and gratify LadyAnnabel; you will see how I will behave! As you say, too, we are happybecause we are together; and, therefore, it would be unreasonable notto be patient. I never can be sufficiently grateful for this meeting. I concluded you would be in England, though we were on our way toMilan to inquire after you. George has been a great comfort to me inall this affair, Venetia; he loves you, Venetia, almost as much asI do. I think I should have gone mad during that cursed affair inEngland, had it not been for George. I thought you would hate me; but, when George brought me your message, I cared for nothing; and then hisvisit to the lake was so devilish kind! He is a noble fellow and atrue friend. My sweet, sweet Venetia, dry your eyes. Let us rejointhem with a smile. We have not been long away, I will pretend we havebeen violet hunting, ' said Cadurcis, stooping down and plucking up ahandful of flowers. 'Do you remember our violets at home, Venetia?Do you know, Venetia, I always fancy every human being is like someobject in nature; and you always put me in mind of a violet so freshand sweet and delicate!'

CHAPTER VI. 

'We have been exploring the happy valley, ' said Lord Cadurcis to LadyAnnabel, 'and here is our plunder, ' and he gave her the violets. 

'You were always fond of flowers, ' said Lady Annabel. 

'Yes, I imbibed the taste from you, ' said Cadurcis, gratified by thegracious remark. 

He seated himself at her feet, examined and admired her work, andtalked of old times, but with such infinite discretion, that he didnot arouse a single painful association. Venetia was busied with herfather's poems, and smiled often at the manuscript notes of Cadurcis. Lying, as usual, on the grass, and leaning his head on his left arm, Herbert was listening to Captain Cadurcis, who was endeavouring togive him a clear idea of the Bosphorus. Thus the morning wore away, until the sun drove them into the villa. 

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

Cadurcis followed him into a spacious apartment, where he found acollection so considerable that he could not suppress his surprise. 'Italian spoils chiefly, ' said Herbert; 'a friend of mine purchasedan old library at Bologna for me, and it turned out richer than Iimagined: the rest are old friends that have been with me, many ofthem at least, at college. I brought them back with me from America, for then they were my only friends. '

'Can you find Cabanis?' said Lord Cadurcis. 

Herbert looked about. It is in this neighbourhood, I imagine, ' hesaid. Cadurcis endeavoured to assist him. 'What is this?' he said;'Plato!'

'I should like to read Plato at Athens, ' said Herbert. 'My ambitionnow does not soar beyond such elegant fortune. '

'We are all under great obligations to Plato, ' said Cadurcis. 'Iremember, when I was in London, I always professed myself hisdisciple, and it is astonishing what results I experienced. Platoniclove was a great invention. '

Herbert smiled; but, as he saw Cadurcis knew nothing about thesubject, he made no reply. 

'Plato says, or at least I think he says, that life is love, ' saidCadurcis. 'I have said it myself in a very grand way too; I believe Icribbed it from you. But what does he mean? I am sure I meant nothing;but I dare say you did. '

'I certainly had some meaning, ' said Herbert, stopping in his search, and smiling, 'but I do not know whether I expressed it. The principleof every motion, that is of all life, is desire or love: at present;I am in love with the lost volume of Cabanis, and, if it were notfor the desire of obtaining it, I should not now be affording anytestimony of my vitality by looking after it. '

'That is very clear, ' said Cadurcis, 'but I was thinking of love inthe vulgar sense, in the shape of a petticoat. Certainly, when I am inlove with a woman, I feel love is life; but, when I am out of love, which often happens, and generally very soon, I still contrive tolive. '

'We exist, ' said Herbert, 'because we sympathise. If we did notsympathise with the air, we should die. But, if we only sympathisedwith the air, we should be in the lowest order of brutes, baser thanthe sloth. Mount from the sloth to the poet. It is sympathy that makesyou a poet. It is your desire that the airy children of your brainshould be born anew within another's, that makes you create;therefore, a misanthropical poet is a contradiction in terms. '

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

'He desires that the majority, who are not lampooned, should share hishate, ' said Herbert. 

'But Swift lampooned the species, ' said Cadurcis. 'For my part, Ithink life is hatred. '

'But Swift was not sincere, for he wrote the Drapier's Letters at thesame time. Besides, the very fact of your abusing mankind proves thatyou do not hate them; it is clear that you are desirous of obtainingtheir good opinion of your wit. You value them, you esteem them, youlove them. Their approbation causes you to act, and makes you happy. As for sexual love, ' said Herbert, 'of which you were speaking, itsquality and duration depend upon the degree of sympathy that subsistsbetween the two persons interested. Plato believed, and I believe withhim, in the existence of a spiritual antitype of the soul, so thatwhen we are born, there is something within us which, from the instantwe live and move, thirsts after its likeness. This propensity developsitself with the development of our nature. The gratification of thesenses soon becomes a very small part of that profound and complicatedsentiment, which we call love. Love, on the contrary, is an universalthirst for a communion, not merely of the senses, but of our wholenature, intellectual, imaginative, and sensitive. He who finds hisantitype, enjoys a love perfect and enduring; time cannot change it, distance cannot remove it; the sympathy is complete. He who loves anobject that approaches his antitype, is proportionately happy, thesympathy is feeble or strong, as it may be. If men were properlyeducated, and their faculties fully developed, ' continued Herbert, 'the discovery of the antitype would be easy; and, when the dayarrives that it is a matter of course, the perfection of civilisationwill be attained. '

'I believe in Plato, ' said Lord Cadurcis, 'and I think I have found myantitype. His theory accounts for what I never could understand. '

CHAPTER VII. 

In the course of the evening Lady Annabel requested Lord Cadurcis andhis cousin to take up their quarters at the villa. Independent of thedelight which such an invitation occasioned him, Cadurcis was doublygratified by its being given by her. It was indeed her unpromptedsolicitation; for neither Herbert nor even Venetia, however muchthey desired the arrangement, was anxious to appear eager for itsfulfilment. Desirous of pleasing her husband and her daughter; alittle penitent as to her previous treatment of Cadurcis, now thattime and strange events had combined to soften her feelings; and wonby his engaging demeanour towards herself, Lady Annabel had of mereimpulse resolved upon the act; and she was repaid by the general airof gaiety and content which it diffused through the circle. 

Few weeks indeed passed ere her ladyship taught herself even tocontemplate the possibility of an union between her daughter andLord Cadurcis. The change which had occurred in her own feelings andposition had in her estimation removed very considerable barriers tosuch a result. It would not become her again to urge the peculiarityof his temperament as an insuperable objection to the marriage; thatwas out of the question, even if the conscience of Lady Annabelherself, now that she was so happy, were perfectly free from anyparticipation in the causes which occasioned the original estrangementbetween Herbert and herself. Desirous too, as all mothers are, thather daughter should be suitably married, Lady Annabel could not shuther eyes to the great improbability of such an event occurring, nowthat Venetia had, as it were, resigned all connection with her nativecountry. As to her daughter marrying a foreigner, the very idea wasintolerable to her; and Venetia appeared therefore to have resumedthat singular and delicate position which she occupied at Cherbury inearlier years, when Lady Annabel had esteemed her connection with LordCadurcis so fortunate and auspicious. Moreover, while Lord Cadurcis, in birth, rank, country, and consideration, offered in every view ofthe ease so gratifying an alliance, he was perhaps the only Englishmanwhose marriage into her family would not deprive her of the society ofher child. Cadurcis had a great distaste for England, which he seizedevery opportunity to express. He continually declared that he wouldnever return there; and his habits of seclusion and study so entirelyaccorded with those of her husband, that Lady Annabel did not doubtthey would continue to form only one family; a prospect so engaging toher, that it would perhaps have alone removed the distrust which shehad so unfortunately cherished against the admirer of her daughter;and although some of his reputed opinions occasioned her doubtlessconsiderable anxiety, he was nevertheless very young, and far fromemancipated from the beneficial influence of his early education. Shewas sanguine that this sheep would yet return to the fold where oncehe had been tended with so much solicitude. When too she called tomind the chastened spirit of her husband, and could not refrain fromfeeling that, had she not quitted him, he might at a much earlierperiod have attained a mood so full of promise and to her so cheering, she could not resist the persuasion that, under the influence ofVenetia, Cadurcis might speedily free himself from the dominion ofthat arrogant genius to which, rather than to any serious conviction, the result of a studious philosophy, she attributed his indifferenceon the most important of subjects. On the whole, however, it was withno common gratification that Lady Annabel observed the strong andintimate friendship that arose between her husband and Cadurcis. Theywere inseparable companions. Independently of the natural sympathybetween two highly imaginative minds, there were in the superiorexperience, the noble character, the vast knowledge, and refined tasteof Herbert, charms of which Cadurcis was very susceptible Cadurcis hadnot been a great reader himself, and he liked the company of one whosemind was at once so richly cultured and so deeply meditative: thus heobtained matter and spirit distilled through the alembic of another'sbrain. Jealousy had never had a place in Herbert's temperament; now hewas insensible even to emulation. He spoke of Cadurcis as he thought, with the highest admiration; as one without a rival, and in whosepower it was to obtain an imperishable fame. It was his liveliestpleasure to assist the full development of such an intellect, and topour to him, with a lavish hand, all the treasures of his taste, hislearning, his fancy, and his meditation. His kind heart, his winningmanners, his subdued and perfect temper, and the remembrance of therelation which he bore to Venetia, completed the spell which boundCadurcis to him with all the finest feelings of his nature. It was, indeed, an intercourse peculiarly beneficial to Cadurcis, whose careerhad hitherto tended rather to the development of the power, than therefinement of his genius; and to whom an active communion with anequal spirit of a more matured intelligence was an incident rather tobe desired than expected. Herbert and Cadurcis, therefore, spent theirmornings together, sometimes in the library, sometimes wandering inthe chestnut woods, sometimes sailing in the boat of the brig, forthey were both fond of the sea: in these excursions, George was ingeneral their companion. He had become a great favourite with Herbert, as with everybody else. No one managed a boat so well, althoughCadurcis prided himself also on his skill in this respect; and Georgewas so frank and unaffected, and so used to his cousin's habits, thathis presence never embarrassed Herbert and Cadurcis, and they read orconversed quite at their ease, as if there were no third person tomar, by his want of sympathy, the full communion of their intellect. The whole circle met at dinner, and never again parted until at a latehour of night. This was a most agreeable life; Cadurcis himself, goodhumoured because he was happy, doubly exerted himself to ingratiatehimself with Lady Annabel, and felt every day that he was advancing. Venetia always smiled upon him, and praised him delightfully for hisdelightful conduct. 

In the evening, Herbert would read to them the manuscript poem ofCadurcis, the fruits of his Attic residence and Grecian meditations. The poet would sometimes affect a playful bashfulness on this head, perhaps not altogether affected, and amuse Venetia, in a whisper, withhis running comments; or exclaim with an arch air, 'I say, Venetia, what would Mrs. Montague and the Blues give for this, eh? I can fancyHannah More in decent ecstasies!'

CHAPTER VIII. 

'It is an odd thing, my dear Herbert, ' said Cadurcis to his friend, inone of these voyages, 'that destiny should have given you and me thesame tutor. '

'Masham!' said Herbert, smiling. 'I tell you what is much moresingular, my dear Cadurcis; it is, that, notwithstanding being ourtutor, a mitre should have fallen upon his head. '

'I am heartily glad, ' said Cadurcis. 'I like Masham very much; Ireally have a sincere affection for him. Do you know, during myinfernal affair about those accursed Monteagles, when I went to theHouse of Lords, and was cut even by my own party; think of that, thepolished ruffians! Masham was the only person who came forward andshook hands with me, and in the most marked manner. A bishop, too! andthe other side! that was good, was it not? But he would not see hisold pupil snubbed; if he had waited ten minutes longer, he might havehad a chance of seeing him massacred. And then they complain of myabusing England, my mother country; a step-dame, I take it. '

'Masham is in politics a Tory, in religion ultra-orthodox, ' Herbert. 'He has nothing about him of the latitudinarian; and yet he is themost amiable man with whom I am acquainted. Nature has given him akind and charitable heart, which even his opinions have not succeededin spoiling. '

'Perhaps that is exactly what he is saying of us two at this moment, 'said Cadurcis. 'After all, what is truth? It changes as you changeyour clime or your country; it changes with the century. The truth ofa hundred years ago is not the truth of the present day, and yet itmay have been as genuine. Truth at Rome is not the truth of London, and both of them differ from the truth of Constantinople. For my part, I believe everything. '

'Well, that is practically prudent, if it be metaphysically possible, 'said Herbert. 'Do you know that I have always been of opinion, thatPontius Pilate has been greatly misrepresented by Lord Bacon in thequotation of his celebrated question. 'What is truth?' said jestingPilate, and would not wait for an answer. Let us be just to PontiusPilate, who has sins enough surely to answer for. There is noauthority for the jesting humour given by Lord Bacon. Pilate wasevidently of a merciful and clement disposition; probably anEpicurean. His question referred to a declaration immediatelypreceding it, that He who was before him came to bear witness to thetruth. Pilate inquired what truth?'

'Well, I always have a prejudice against Pontius Pilate, ' said LordCadurcis; 'and I think it is from seeing him, when I was a child, on an old Dutch tile fireplace at Marringhurst, dressed like aburgomaster. One cannot get over one's early impressions; but when youpicture him to me as an Epicurean, he assumes a new character. I fancyhim young, noble, elegant, and accomplished; crowned with a wreath andwaving a goblet, and enjoying his government vastly. '

'Before the introduction of Christianity, ' said Herbert, 'thephilosophic schools answered to our present religious sects. You saidof a man that he was a Stoic or an Epicurean, as you say of a man nowthat he is a Calvinist or a Wesleyan. '

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

'I would sooner have known him and Plato than any of the ancients, 'said Herbert. 'I look upon Plato as the wisest and the profoundest ofmen, and upon Epicurus as the most humane and gentle. '

'Now, how do you account for the great popularity of Aristotle inmodern ages?' said Cadurcis; 'and the comparative neglect of these, atleast his equals? Chance, I suppose, that settles everything. '

'By no means, ' said Herbert. 'If you mean by chance an absence ofaccountable cause, I do not believe such a quality as chance exists. Every incident that happens, must be a link in a chain. In the presentcase, the monks monopolised literature, such as it might be, and theyexercised their intellect only in discussing words. They, therefore, adopted Aristotle and the Peripatetics. Plato interfered with theirheavenly knowledge, and Epicurus, who maintained the rights of man topleasure and happiness, would have afforded a dangerous and seducingcontrast to their dark and miserable code of morals. '

'I think, of the ancients, ' said Cadurcis; 'Alcibiades and Alexanderthe Great are my favourites. They were young, beautiful, andconquerors; a great combination. '

'And among the moderns?' inquired Herbert. 

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

'Oh! I have many; but I confess I should like to pass a day withMilton, or Sir Philip Sidney. '

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

'And old Montaigne for me, ' said Herbert. 

'Well, I would fain visit him in his feudal chateau, ' said Cadurcis. 'His is one of the books which give a spring to the mind. Of moderntimes, the feudal ages of Italy most interest me. I think that was aspringtide of civilisation, all the fine arts nourished at the samemoment. '

'They ever will, ' said Herbert. 'All the inventive arts maintain asympathetic connection between each other, for, after all, they areonly various expressions of one internal power, modified by differentcircumstances either of the individual or of society. It was so inthe age of Pericles; I mean the interval which intervened betweenthe birth of that great man and the death of Aristotle; undoubtedly, whether considered in itself, or with reference to the effects whichit produced upon the subsequent destinies of civilised man, the mostmemorable in the history of the world. '

'And yet the age of Pericles has passed away, ' said Lord Cadurcismournfully, 'and I have gazed upon the mouldering Parthenon. OHerbert! you are a great thinker and muse deeply; solve me theproblem why so unparalleled a progress was made during that periodin literature and the arts, and why that progress, so rapid and sosustained, so soon received a check and became retrograde?'

'It is a problem left to the wonder and conjecture of posterity, ' saidHerbert. 'But its solution, perhaps, may principally be found in theweakness of their political institutions. Nothing of the Atheniansremains except their genius; but they fulfilled their purpose. Thewrecks and fragments of their subtle and profound minds obscurelysuggest to us the grandeur and perfection of the whole. Their languageexcels every other tongue of the Western world; their sculpturesbaffle all subsequent artists; credible witnesses assure us that theirpaintings were not inferior; and we are only accustomed to considerthe painters of Italy as those who have brought the art to its highestperfection, because none of the ancient pictures have been preserved. Yet of all their fine arts, it was music of which the Greeks werethemselves most proud. Its traditionary effects were far more powerfulthan any which we experience from the compositions of our times. Andnow for their poetry, Cadurcis. It is in poetry, and poetry alone, that modern nations have maintained the majesty of genius. Do we equalthe Greeks? Do we even excel them?'

'Let us prove the equality first, ' said Cadurcis. 'The Greeks excelledin every species of poetry. In some we do not even attempt to rivalthem. We have not a single modern ode, or a single modern pastoral. Wehave no one to place by Pindar, or the exquisite Theocritus. As forthe epic, I confess myself a heretic as to Homer; I look upon theIliad as a remnant of national songs; the wise ones agree that theOdyssey is the work of a later age. My instinct agrees with the resultof their researches. I credit their conclusion. The Paradise Lost is, doubtless, a great production, but the subject is monkish. Dante isnational, but he has all the faults of a barbarous age. In general themodern epic is framed upon the assumption that the Iliad is an orderlycomposition. They are indebted for this fallacy to Virgil, who calledorder out of chaos; but the Aeneid, all the same, appears to me aninsipid creation. And now for the drama. You will adduce Shakspeare?'

'There are passages in Dante, ' said Herbert, 'not inferior, in myopinion, to any existing literary composition, but, as a whole, I willnot make my stand on him; I am not so clear that, as a lyric poet, Petrarch may not rival the Greeks. Shakspeare I esteem of ineffablemerit. '

'And who is Shakspeare?' said Cadurcis. 'We know of him as much as wedo of Homer. Did he write half the plays attributed to him? Did heever write a single whole play? I doubt it. He appears to me to havebeen an inspired adapter for the theatres, which were then not asgood as barns. I take him to have been a botcher up of old plays. His popularity is of modern date, and it may not last; it would havesurprised him marvellously. Heaven knows, at present, all that bearshis name is alike admired; and a regular Shaksperian falls intoecstasies with trash which deserves a niche in the Dunciad. For mypart, I abhor your irregular geniuses, and I love to listen to thelittle nightingale of Twickenham. '

'I have often observed, ' said Herbert, 'that writers of an unbridledimagination themselves, admire those whom the world, erroneously, in my opinion, and from a confusion of ideas, esteems correct. I ammyself an admirer of Pope, though I certainly should not ever think ofclassing him among the great creative spirits. And you, you are thelast poet in the world, Cadurcis, whom one would have fancied hisvotary. '

'I have written like a boy, ' said Cadurcis. 'I found the public bite, and so I baited on with tainted meat. I have never written for fame, only for notoriety; but I am satiated; I am going to turn over a newleaf. '

'For myself, ' said Herbert, 'if I ever had the power to impress mycreations on my fellow-men, the inclination is gone, and perhaps thefaculty is extinct. My career is over; perhaps a solitary echo from mylyre may yet, at times, linger about the world like a breeze that haslost its way. But there is a radical fault in my poetic mind, and I amconscious of it. I am not altogether void of the creative faculty, butmine is a fragmentary mind; I produce no whole. Unless you do this, you cannot last; at least, you cannot materially affect your species. But what I admire in you, Cadurcis, is that, with all the faultsof youth, of which you will free yourself, your creative power isvigorous, prolific, and complete; your creations rise fast and fair, like perfect worlds. '

'Well, we will not compliment each other, ' said Cadurcis; 'for, afterall, it is a miserable craft. What is poetry but a lie, and what arepoets but liars?'

'You are wrong, Cadurcis, ' said Herbert, 'poets are the unacknowledgedlegislators of the world. '

'I see the towers of Porto Venere, ' said Cadurcis directing the sail;'we shall soon be on shore. I think, too, I recognise Venetia. Ah! mydear Herbert, your daughter is a poem that beats all our inspiration!'

CHAPTER IX. 

One circumstance alone cast a gloom over this happy family, and thatwas the approaching departure of Captain Cadurcis for England. Thishad been often postponed, but it could be postponed no longer. Noteven the entreaties of those kind friends could any longer preventwhat was inevitable. The kind heart, the sweet temper, and the livelyand companionable qualities of Captain Cadurcis, had endeared him toeveryone; all felt that his departure would occasion a blank intheir life, impossible to be supplied. It reminded the Herberts alsopainfully of their own situation, in regard to their native country, which they were ever unwilling to dwell upon. George talked ofreturning to them, but the prospect was necessarily vague; theyfelt that it was only one of those fanciful visions with which anaffectionate spirit attempts to soothe the pang of separation. Hisposition, his duties, all the projects of his life, bound him toEngland, from which, indeed, he had been too long absent. It wasselfish to wish that, for their sakes, he should sink down into a mereidler in Italy; and yet, when they recollected how little his futurelife could be connected with their own, everyone felt dispirited. 

'I shall not go boating to-day, ' said George to Venetia; 'it is mylast day. Mr. Herbert and Plantagenet talk of going to Lavenza; let ustake a stroll together. '

Nothing can be refused to those we love on the last day, and Venetiaimmediately acceded to his request. In the course of the morning, therefore, herself and George quitted the valley, in the directionof the coast towards Genoa. Many a white sail glittered on the bluewaters; it was a lively and cheering scene; but both Venetia and hercompanion were depressed. 

'I ought to be happy, ' said George, and sighed. 'The fondest wishof my heart is attained. You remember our conversation on the LagoMaggiore, Venetia? You see I was a prophet, and you will be LadyCadurcis yet. '

'We must keep up our spirits, ' said Venetia; 'I do not despair of ourall returning to England yet. So many wonders have happened, that Icannot persuade myself that this marvel will not also occur. I am suremy uncle will do something; I have a secret idea that the Bishop isall this time working for papa; I feel assured I shall see Cherburyand Cadurcis again, and Cadurcis will be your home. '

'A year ago you appeared dying, and Plantagenet was the most miserableof men, ' said Captain Cadurcis. 'You are both now perfectly well andperfectly happy, living even under the same roof, soon, I feel, to beunited, and with the cordial approbation of Lady Annabel. Your fatheris restored to you. Every blessing in the world seems to cluster roundyour roof. It is selfish for me to wear a gloomy countenance. '

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

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

'You know how much you contribute to our happiness, ' said Venetia, 'and you feel for our sufferings at your absence. '

'No, Venetia, I feel for myself, ' said Captain Cadurcis with energy;'I am certain that I never can be happy, except in your society andPlantagenet's. I cannot express to you how I love you both. Nothingelse gives me the slightest interest. '

'You must go home and marry, ' said Venetia, smiling 'You must marry anheiress. '

'Never, ' said Captain Cadurcis. 'Nothing shall ever induce me tomarry. No! all my dreams are confined to being the bachelor uncle ofthe family. '

'Well, now I think, ' said Venetia, 'of all the persons I know, thereis no one so qualified for domestic happiness as yourself. I thinkyour wife, George, would be a very fortunate woman, and I only wish Ihad a sister, that you might marry her. '

'I wish you had, Venetia; I would give up my resolution againstmarriage directly. '

'Alas!' said Venetia, 'there is always some bitter drop in the cup oflife. Must you indeed go, George?'

'My present departure is inevitable, ' he replied; 'but I have somethoughts of giving up my profession and Parliament, and then I willreturn, never to leave you again. '

'What will Lord ---- say? That will never do, ' said Venetia. 'No; Ishould not be content unless you prospered in the world, George. Youare made to prosper, and I should be miserable if you sacrificed yourexistence to us. You must go home, and you must marry, and writeletters to us by every post, and tell us what a happy man you are. Thebest thing for you to do would be to live with your wife at the abbey;or Cherbury, if you liked. You see I settle everything. '

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

'Yes you will, ' said Venetia. 

'I am quite serious, Venetia. Now, mark my words, and remember thisday. I never will marry. I have a reason, and a strong and good one, for my resolution. '

'What is it?'

'Because my marriage will destroy the intimacy that subsists betweenme and yourself, and Plantagenet, ' he added. 

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

'Happy woman!' said George. 

'Let us indulge for a moment in a dream of domestic bliss, ' saidVenetia gaily. 'Papa and mamma at Cherbury; Plantagenet and myself atthe abbey, where you and your wife must remain until we could buildyou a house; and Dr. Masham coming down to spend Christmas with us. Would it not be delightful? I only hope Plantagenet would be tame. Ithink he would burst out a little sometimes. '

'Not with you, Venetia, not with you, ' said George 'you have a holdover him which nothing can ever shake. I could always put him in anamiable mood in an instant by mentioning your name. '

'I wish you knew the abbey, George, ' said Venetia. 'It is the mostinteresting of all old places. I love it. You must promise me when youarrive in England to go on a pilgrimage to Cadurcis and Cherbury, andwrite me a long account of it. '

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

'You shall find me a most faithful correspondent, which, I dare say, Plantagenet would not prove. '

'Oh! I beg your pardon, ' said George; 'you have no idea of thequantity of letters he wrote me when he first quitted England. And such delightful ones! I do not think there is a more livelyletter-writer in the world! His descriptions are so vivid; a fewtouches give you a complete picture; and then his observations, theyare so playful! I assure you there is nothing in the world more easyand diverting than a letter from Plantagenet. '

'If you could only see his first letter from Eton to me?' saidVenetia. 'I have always treasured it. It certainly was not verydiverting; and, if by easy you mean easy to decipher, ' she addedlaughing, 'his handwriting must have improved very much lately. DearPlantagenet, I am always afraid I never pay him sufficient respect;that I do not feel sufficient awe in his presence; but I cannotdisconnect him from the playfellow of my infancy; and, do you know, itseems to me, whenever he addresses me, his voice and air change, andassume quite the tone and manner of childhood. '

'I have never known him but as a great man, ' said Captain Cadurcis;'but he was so frank and simple with me from the very first, that Icannot believe that it is not two years since we first met. '

'Ah! I shall never forget that night at Ranelagh, ' said Venetia, halfwith a smile and half with a sigh. 'How interesting he looked! I lovedto see the people stare at him, and to hear them whisper his name. '

Here they seated themselves by a fountain, overshadowed by aplane-tree, and for a while talked only of Plantagenet. 

'All the dreams of my life have come to pass, ' said Venetia. 'Iremember when I was at Weymouth, ill and not very happy, I used toroam about the sands, thinking of papa, and how I wished Plantagenetwas like him, a great man, a great poet, whom all the world admired. Little did I think that, before a year had passed, Plantagenet, myunknown Plantagenet, would be the admiration of England; little did Ithink another year would pass, and I should be living with my fatherand Plantagenet together, and they should be bosom friends. You see, George, we must never despair. '

'Under this bright sun, ' said Captain Cadurcis, 'one is naturallysanguine, but think of me alone and in gloomy England. '

'It is indeed a bright sun, ' said Venetia; 'how wonderful to wakeevery morning, and be sure of meeting its beam. '

Captain Cadurcis looked around him with a sailor's eye. Over theApennines, towards Genoa, there was a ridge of dark clouds piled upwith such compactness, that they might have been mistaken in a hastysurvey for part of the mountains themselves. 

'Bright as is the sun, ' said Captain Cadurcis, 'we may have yet asquall before night. '

'I was delighted with Venice, ' said his companion, not noticing hisobservation; 'I think of all places in the world it is one whichPlantagenet would most admire. I cannot believe but that even hisdelicious Athens would yield to it. '

'He did lead the oddest life at Athens you can conceive, ' said CaptainCadurcis. 'The people did not know what to make of him. He lived inthe Latin convent, a fine building which he had almost to himself, for there are not half a dozen monks. He used to pace up and down theterrace which he had turned into a garden, and on which he kept allsorts of strange animals. He wrote continually there. Indeed he didnothing but write. His only relaxation was a daily ride to Piraeus, about five miles over the plain; he told me it was the only time inhis life he was ever contented with himself except when he was atCherbury. He always spoke of London with disgust. '

'Plantagenet loves retirement and a quiet life, ' said Venetia; 'but hemust not be marred with vulgar sights and common-place duties. That isthe secret with him. '

'I think the wind has just changed, ' said Captain Cadurcis. 'It seemsto me that we shall have a sirocco. There, it shifts again! We shallhave a sirocco for certain. '

'What did you think of papa when you first saw him?' said Venetia. 'Was he the kind of person you expected to see?'

'Exactly, ' said Captain Cadurcis. 'So very spiritual! Plantagenet saidto me, as we went home the first night, that he looked like a goldenphantom. I think him very like you, Venetia; indeed, there can be nodoubt you inherited your face from your father. '

'Ah! if you had seen his portrait at Cherbury, when he was onlytwenty!' said Venetia. 'That was a golden phantom, or rather he lookedlike Hyperion. What are you staring at so, George?'

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

'You cannot see the wind, George?'

'Yes, I can, Venetia, and I do not like it at all. Do you see thatblack spot flitting like a shade over the sea? It is like thereflection of a cloud on the water; but there is no cloud. Well, thatis the wind, Venetia, and a very wicked wind too. '

'How strange! Is that indeed the wind?'

'We had better return home, ' said Captain Cadurcis I wish they had notgone to Lavenza. '

'But there is no danger?' said Venetia. 

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

They walked on; but Captain Cadurcis was rather distrait: his eye wasalways watching the wind; at last he said, 'I tell you, Venetia, wemust walk quickly; for, by Jove, we are going to have a white squall. '

They hurried their pace, Venetia mentioned her alarm again about theboat; but her companion reassured her; yet his manner was not soconfident as his words. 

A white mist began to curl above the horizon, the blueness of the dayseemed suddenly to fade, and its colour became grey; there was a swellon the waters that hitherto had been quite glassy, and they werecovered with a scurfy foam. 

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

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

'Danger! How can there be danger, Venetia? Perhaps they are in port bythis time. I dare say we shall find them at Spezzia. I will see youhome and run down to them. Only hurry, for your own sake, for you donot know what a white squall in the Mediterranean is. We have but afew moments. '

And even at this very instant, the wind came roaring and rushing withsuch a violent gush that Venetia could scarcely stand; George put hisarm round her to support her. The air was filled with thick whitevapour, so that they could no longer see the ocean, only the surfrising very high all along the coast. 

'Keep close to me, Venetia, ' said Captain Cadurcis; 'hold my arm and Iwill walk first, for we shall not be able to see a yard before us in aminute. I know where we are. We are above the olive wood, and we shallsoon be in the ravine. These Mediterranean white squalls are nastythings; I had sooner by half be in a south-wester; for one cannot runbefore the wind in this bay, the reefs stretch such a long way out. '

The danger, and the inutility of expressing fears which could onlyperplex her guide, made Venetia silent, but she was terrified. She could not divest herself of apprehension about her father andPlantagenet. In spite of all he said, it was evident that hercompanion was alarmed. 

They had now entered the valley; the mountains had in some degree keptoff the vapour; the air was more clear. Venetia and Captain Cadurcisstopped a moment to breathe. 'Now, Venetia, you are safe, ' saidCaptain Cadurcis. 'I will not come in; I will run down to the bay atonce. ' He wiped the mist off his face: Venetia perceived him deadlypale. 

'George, ' she said, 'conceal nothing from me; there is danger, imminent danger. Tell me at once. '

'Indeed, Venetia, ' said Captain Cadurcis, 'I am sure everything willbe quite right. There is some danger, certainly, at this moment; butof course, long ago, they have run into harbour. I have no doubt theyare at Spezzia at this moment. Now, do not be alarmed; indeed thereis no cause. God bless you!' he said, and bounded away. 'No cause, 'thought he to himself, as the wind sounded like thunder, and thevapour came rushing up the ravine. 'God grant I may be right; butneither between the Tropics nor on the Line have I witnessed a severersquall than this! What open boat can live in this weather Oh! that Ihad been with them. I shall never forgive myself!'

CHAPTER X. 

Venetia found her mother walking up and down the room, as was hercustom when she was agitated. She hurried to her daughter. 'You mustchange your dress instantly, Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel. 'Where isGeorge?'

'He has gone down to Spezzia to papa and Plantagenet; it is a whitesquall; it comes on very suddenly in this sea. He ran down to Spezziainstantly, because he thought they would be wet, ' said the agitatedVenetia, speaking with rapidity and trying to appear calm. 

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

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

'No doubt!' exclaimed Lady Annabel, in great distress. 'God grant theymay be only wet. '

'Dearest mother, ' said Venetia, approaching her, but speech desertedher. She had advanced to encourage Lady Annabel, but her own fearchecked the words on her lips. 

'Change your dress, Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel; 'lose no time indoing that. I think I will send down to Spezzia at once, '

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

'Go, dearest, ' said Lady Annabel; 'I dare say, we have no cause forfear, but I am exceedingly alarmed about your father, about them: Iam, indeed. I do not like these sudden squalls, and I never liked thisboating; indeed, I never did. George being with them reconciled me toit. Now go, Venetia; go, my love. '

Venetia quitted the room. She was so agitated that she made Paunceforta confidant of her apprehensions. 

'La! my dear miss, ' said Mistress Pauncefort, 'I should never havethought of such a thing! Do not you remember what the old man saidat Weymouth, "there is many a boat will live in a rougher sea than aship;" and it is such an unlikely thing, it is indeed, Miss Venetia. Iam certain sure my lord can manage a boat as well as a common sailor, and master is hardly less used to it than he. La! miss, don't makeyourself nervous about any such preposterous ideas. And I dare say youwill find them in the saloon when you go down again. Really I shouldnot wonder. I think you had better wear your twill dress; I have putthe new trimming on. '

They had not returned when Venetia joined her mother. That indeed shecould scarcely expect. But, in about half an hour, a message arrivedfrom Captain Cadurcis that they were not at Spezzia, but fromsomething he had heard, he had no doubt they were at Sarzana, and hewas going to ride on there at once. He felt sure, however, from whathe had heard, they were at Sarzana. This communication afforded LadyAnnabel a little ease, but Venetia's heart misgave her. She recalledthe alarm of George in the morning, which it was impossible for him todisguise, and she thought she recognised in this hurried message andvague assurances of safety something of the same apprehension, and thesame fruitless efforts to conceal it. 

Now came the time of terrible suspense. Sarzana was nearly twentymiles distant from Spezzia. The evening must arrive before they couldreceive intelligence from Captain Cadurcis. In the meantime the squalldied away, the heavens became again bright, and, though the waves werestill tumultuous, the surf was greatly decreased. Lady Annabel hadalready sent down more than one messenger to the bay, but they broughtno intelligence; she resolved now to go herself, that she might havethe satisfaction of herself cross-examining the fishermen who had beendriven in from various parts by stress of weather. She would not letVenetia accompany her, who, she feared, might already suffer from theexertions and rough weather of the morning. This was a most anxioushour, and yet the absence of her mother was in some degree a relief toVenetia; it at least freed her from the perpetual effort of assumedcomposure. While her mother remained, Venetia had affected to read, though her eye wandered listlessly over the page, or to draw, thoughthe pencil trembled in her hand; anything which might guard her fromconveying to her mother that she shared the apprehensions which hadalready darkened her mother's mind. But now that Lady Annabel wasgone, Venetia, muffling herself up in her shawl, threw herself on asofa, and there she remained without a thought, her mind a chaos ofterrible images. 

Her mother returned, and with a radiant countenance, Venetia sprangfrom the sofa. 'There is good news; O mother! have they returned?'

'They are not at Spezzia, ' said Lady Annabel, throwing herself into achair panting for breath; 'but there is good news. You see I was rightto go, Venetia. These stupid people we send only ask questions, andtake the first answer. I have seen a fisherman, and he says he heardthat two persons, Englishmen he believes, have put into Lerici in anopen boat. '

'God be praised!' said Venetia. 'O mother, I can now confess to youthe terror I have all along felt. '

'My own heart assures me of it, my child, ' said Lady Annabel weeping;and they mingled their tears together, but tears not of sorrow. 

'Poor George!' said Lady Annabel, 'he will have a terrible journey toSarzana, and be feeling so much for us! Perhaps he may meet them. '

'I feel assured he will, ' said Venetia; 'and perhaps ere long theywill all three be here again. Joy! joy!'

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

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

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

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

'No!' said Lady Annabel; 'men treat the danger that is past verylightly. We shall not hear from them except in person. '

Time now flew more lightly. They were both easy in their minds. Themessenger was despatched to Lerici; but even Lerici was a considerabledistance, and hours must elapse before his return. Still there was thehope of seeing them, or hearing from them in the interval. 

'I must go out, dear mother, ' said Venetia. 'Let us both go out. Itis now very fine. Let us go just to the ravine, for indeed it isimpossible to remain here. '

Accordingly they both went forth, and took up a position on the coastwhich commanded a view on all sides. All was radiant again, andcomparatively calm. Venetia looked upon the sea, and said, 'Ah! Inever shall forget a white squall in the Mediterranean, for all thissplendour. '

It was sunset: they returned home. No news yet from Lerici. LadyAnnabel grew uneasy again. The pensive and melancholy hour encouragedgloom; but Venetia, who was sanguine, encouraged her mother. 

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

'It is impossible, mother. What other two persons in thisneighbourhood could have been in an open boat? Besides, the man saidEnglishmen. You remember, he said Englishmen. You are quite sure hedid? It must be they. I feel as convinced of it as of your presence. '

'I think there can be no doubt, ' said Lady Annabel. 'I wish that themessenger would return. '

The messenger did return. No two persons in an open boat had put intoLerici; but a boat, like the one described, with every stitch ofcanvas set, had passed Lerici just before the squall commenced, and, the people there doubted not, had made Sarzana. 

Lady Annabel turned pale, but Venetia was still sanguine. 'They areat Sarzana, ' she said; 'they must be at Sarzana: you see George wasright. He said he was sure they were at Sarzana. Besides, dear mother, he heard they were at Sarzana. '

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

And so they were, dear mother; it all agrees. The accounts areconsistent. Do not you see how very consistent they are? They wereseen at Lerici, and were off Lerici, but they made Sarzana; and Georgeheard they were at Sarzana. I am certain they are at Sarzana. I feelquite easy; I feel as easy as if they were here. They are safe atSarzana. But it is too far to return to-night. We shall see them atbreakfast to-morrow, all three. '

'Venetia, dearest! do not you sit up, ' said her mother. 'I think thereis a chance of George returning; I feel assured he will send to-night;but late, of course. Go, dearest, and sleep. '

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

'Good-night, my child, ' said Lady Annabel. 'The moment any onearrives, you shall be aroused. '

CHAPTER XI. 

Venetia, without undressing, lay down on her bed, watching for somesound that might give her hope of George's return. Dwelling on everyinstant, the time dragged heavily along, and she thought that thenight had half passed when Pauncefort entered her room, and shelearnt, to her surprise, that only an hour had elapsed since she hadparted from her mother. This entrance of Pauncefort had given Venetiaa momentary hope that they had returned. 

'I assure you, Miss Venetia, it is only an hour, ' said Pauncefort, 'and nothing could have happened. Now do try to go to sleep, that isa dear young lady, for I am certain sure that they will all return inthe morning, as I am here. I was telling my lady just now, I said, says I, I dare say they are all very wet, and very fatigued. '

'They would have returned, Pauncefort, ' said Venetia, 'or they wouldhave sent. They are not at Sarzana. '

'La! Miss Venetia, why should they be at Sarzana? Why should they nothave gone much farther on! For, as Vicenzo was just saying to me, andVicenzo knows all about the coast, with such a wind as this, I shouldnot be surprised if they were at Leghorn. '

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

'Now really, Miss Venetia, do not take on so!' said Pauncefort; 'fordo not you remember when his lordship ran away from the abbey, andwent a gipsying, nothing would persuade poor Mrs. Cadurcis that he wasnot robbed and murdered, and yet you see he was as safe and sound allthe time, as if he had been at Cherbury. '

'Does Vicenzo really think they could have reached Leghorn?' saidVenetia, clinging to every fragment of hope. 

'He is morally sure of it, Miss Venetia, ' said Pauncefort, 'and I feelquite as certain, for Vicenzo is always right. '

'I had confidence about Sarzana, ' said Venetia; 'I really did believethey were at Sarzana. If only Captain Cadurcis would return; if heonly would return, and say they were not at Sarzana, I would try tobelieve they were at Leghorn. '

'Now, Miss Venetia, ' said Pauncefort, 'I am certain sure that they arequite safe; for my lord is a very good sailor; he is, indeed; all themen say so; and the boat is as seaworthy a boat as boat can be. Thereis not the slightest fear, I do assure you, miss. '

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

'Quite professional!' said Mistress Pauncefort; 'and can command aship as well as the best of them. They all say that. '

'Hush! Pauncefort, I hear something. '

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

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

'Yes, ' said Pauncefort, 'my lady sent me here to see after you. I wishI could tell her you were asleep. '

'It is impossible to sleep, ' said Venetia, rising up from the bed, withdrawing the curtain, and looking at the sky. 'What a peacefulnight! I wish my heart were like the sky. I think I will go to mamma, Pauncefort!'

'Oh! dear, Miss Venetia, I am sure I think you had better not. If youand my lady, now, would only just go to sleep, and forget every thingtill morning, it would be much better for you. Besides, I am sure ifmy lady knew you were not gone to bed already, it would only make herdoubly anxious. Now, really, Miss Venetia, do take my advice, and justlie down, again. You may be sure the moment any one arrives I will letyou know. Indeed, I shall go and tell my lady that you are lying downas it is, and very drowsy;' and, so saying, Mistress Pauncefort caughtup her candle, and bustled out of the room. 

Venetia took up the volume of her father's poems, which Cadurcis hadfilled with his notes. How little did Plantagenet anticipate, when hethus expressed at Athens the passing impressions of his mind, that, ere a year had glided away, his fate would be so intimately blendedwith that of Herbert! It was impossible, however, for Venetia to loseherself in a volume which, under any other circumstances, might havecompelled her spirit! the very associations with the writers addedto the terrible restlessness of her mind. She paused each instantto listen for the wished-for sound, but a mute stillness reignedthroughout the house and household. There was something in this deep, unbroken silence, at a moment when anxiety was universally diffusedamong the dwellers beneath that roof, and the heart of more than oneof them was throbbing with all the torture of the most awful suspense, that fell upon Venetia's excited nerves with a very painful and eveninsufferable influence. She longed for sound, for some noise thatmight assure her she was not the victim of a trance. She closed hervolume with energy, and she started at the sound she had herselfcreated. She rose and opened the door of her chamber very softly, andwalked into the vestibule. There were caps, and cloaks, and whips, andcanes of Cadurcis and her father, lying about in familiar confusion. It seemed impossible but that they were sleeping, as usual, under thesame roof. And where were they? That she should live and be unable toanswer that terrible question! When she felt the utter helplessness ofall her strong sympathy towards them, it seemed to her that she mustgo mad. She gazed around her with a wild and vacant stare. At thebottom of her heart there was a fear maturing into conviction toohorrible for expression. She returned to her own chamber, and theexhaustion occasioned by her anxiety, and the increased coolness ofthe night, made her at length drowsy. She threw herself on the bed andslumbered. 

She started in her sleep, she awoke, she dreamed they had come home. She rose and looked at the progress of the night. The night was waningfast; a grey light was on the landscape; the point of day approached. Venetia stole softly to her mother's room, and entered it with asoundless step. Lady Annabel had not retired to bed. She had sat upthe whole night, and was now asleep. A lamp on a small table wasburning at her side, and she held, firmly grasped in her hand, theletter of her husband, which he had addressed to her at Venice, andwhich she had been evidently reading. A tear glided down the cheek ofVenetia as she watched her mother retaining that letter with fondnesseven in her sleep, and when she thought of all the misery, andheartaches, and harrowing hours that had preceded its receipt, andwhich Venetia believed that letter had cured for ever. What miseryawaited them now? Why were they watchers of the night? She shudderedwhen these dreadful questions flitted through her mind. She shudderedand sighed. Her mother started, and woke. 

'Who is there?' inquired Lady Annabel. 

'Venetia. '

'My child, have you not slept?'

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

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

'It is just upon dawn, mother. '

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

'The house is still, mother. '

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

'Mother, I can sleep no more. I wish to be with you;' and Venetiaseated herself at her mother's feet, and reclined her head upon hermother's knee. 

'I am glad the night has passed, Venetia, ' said Lady Annabel, in asuppressed yet solemn tone. 'It has been a trial. ' And here she placedthe letter in her bosom. Venetia could only answer with a sigh. 

'I wish Pauncefort would come, ' said Lady Annabel; 'and yet I do notlike to rouse her, she was up so late, poor creature! If it be thedawn I should like to send out messengers again; something may beheard at Spezzia. '

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

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

'No, but he is an excellent judge, ' said Venetia, repeating allPauncefort's consolatory chatter. 'He knows the coast so well. He sayshe is sure the wind would carry them on to Leghorn; and that accounts, you know, mother, for George not returning. They are all at Leghorn. '

'Would that George would return, ' murmured Lady Annabel; 'I wish Icould see again that sailor who said they were at Lerici. He was anintelligent man. '

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

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

Venetia sprung up and opened the door, but it was only Pauncefort inthe vestibule. 

'The household are all up, my lady, ' said that important personageentering; ''tis a beautiful morning. Vicenzo has run down to the bay, my lady; I sent him off immediately. Vicenzo says he is certain surethey are at Leghorn, my lady; and, this time three years, the verysame thing happened. They were fishing for anchovies, my lady, closeby, my lady, near Sarzana; two young men, or rather one about the sameage as master, and one like my lord; cousins, my lady, and just in thesame sort of boat, my lady; and there came on a squall, just the samesort of squall, my lady; and they did not return home; and everyonewas frightened out of their wits, my lady, and their wives andfamilies quite distracted; and after all they were at Leghorn; forthis sort of wind always takes your open boats to Leghorn, Vicenzosays. '

The sun rose, the household were all stirring, and many of themabroad; the common routine of domestic duty seemed, by some generalyet not expressed understanding, to have ceased. The ladies descendedbelow at a very early hour, and went forth into the valley, once thehappy valley. What was to be its future denomination? Vicenzo returnedfrom the bay, and he contrived to return with cheering intelligence. The master of a felucca who, in consequence of the squall had put inat Lerici, and in the evening dropped down to Spezzia, had met an openboat an hour before he reached Sarzana, and was quite confident that, if it had put into port, it must have been, from the speed at which itwas going, a great distance down the coast. No wrecks had been heardof in the neighbourhood. This intelligence, the gladsome time of day, and the non-arrival of Captain Cadurcis, which according to their moodwas always a circumstance that counted either for good or for evil, and the sanguine feelings which make us always cling to hope, altogether reassured our friends. Venetia dismissed from her mind thedark thought which for a moment had haunted her in the noon of night;and still it was a suspense, a painful, agitating suspense, but onlysuspense that yet influenced them. 

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

Venetia consoled her mother; she affected even a gaiety of spirit;she was sure that Vicenzo would turn out to be right, after all;Pauncefort said he always was right, and that they were at Leghorn. 

The day wore apace; the noon arrived and passed; it was evenapproaching sunset. Lady Annabel was almost afraid to counterorder theusual meals, lest Venetia should comprehend her secret terror; thevery same sentiment influenced Venetia. Thus they both had submittedto the ceremony of breakfast, but when the hour of dinner approachedthey could neither endure the mockery. They looked at each other, andalmost at the same time they proposed that, instead of dining, theyshould walk down to the bay. 

'I trust we shall at least hear something before the night, ' said LadyAnnabel. 'I confess I dread the coming night. I do not think I couldendure it. '

'The longer we do not hear, the more certain I am of their being atLeghorn, ' said Venetia. 

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

As they were stepping into the portico, Venetia recognised CaptainCadurcis in the distance. She turned pale; she would have fallen hadshe not leaned on her mother, who was not so advanced, and who had notseen him. 

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

'He is here, he is here!'

'Marmion?'

'No, George. Let me sit down. '

Her mother tried to support her to a chair. Lady Annabel took off herbonnet. She had not strength to walk forth. She could not speak. Shesat down opposite Venetia, and her countenance pictured distress to sopainful a degree, that at any other time Venetia would have flown toher, but in this crisis of suspense it was impossible. George was insight; he was in the portico; he was in the room. 

He looked wan, haggard, and distracted. More than once he essayed tospeak, but failed. 

Lady Annabel looked at him with a strange, delirious expression. Venetia rushed forward and seized his arm, and gazed intently on hisface. He shrank from her glance; his frame trembled. 

CHAPTER XII. 

In the heart of the tempest Captain Cadurcis traced his way in a seaof vapour with extreme danger and difficulty to the shore. On hisarrival at Spezzia, however, scarcely a house was visible, and theonly evidence of the situation of the place was the cessation of animmense white surf which otherwise indicated the line of the sea, butthe absence of which proved his contiguity to a harbour. In the thickfog he heard the cries and shouts of the returning fishermen, andof their wives and children responding from the land to theirexclamations. He was forced, therefore, to wait at Spezzia, in anagony of impotent suspense, until the fury of the storm was over andthe sky was partially cleared. At length the objects became graduallyless obscure; he could trace the outline of the houses, and catch aglimpse of the water half a mile out, and soon the old castles whichguard the entrance of the strait that leads into the gulf, loomingin the distance, and now and then a group of human beings in thevanishing vapour. Of these he made some inquiries, but in vain, respecting the boat and his friends. He then made the brig, but couldlearn nothing except their departure in the morning. He at lengthobtained a horse and galloped along the coast towards Lerici, keepinga sharp look out as he proceeded and stopping at every village in hisprogress for intelligence. When he had arrived in the course of threehours at Lerici, the storm had abated, the sky was clear, and noevidence of the recent squall remained except the agitated stateof the waves. At Lerici he could hear nothing, so he hurried on toSarzana, where he learnt for the first time that an open boat, with its sails set, had passed more than an hour before the squallcommenced. From Sarzana he hastened on to Lavenza, a little port, thenearest sea-point to Massa, and where the Carrara marble is shippedfor England. Here also his inquiries were fruitless, and, exhaustedby his exertions, he dismounted and rested at the inn, not only forrepose, but to consider over the course which he should now pursue. The boat had not been seen off Lavenza, and the idea that they hadmade the coast towards Leghorn now occurred to him. His horse was sowearied that he was obliged to stop some time at Lavenza, for he couldprocure no other mode of conveyance; the night also was fast comingon, and to proceed to Leghorn by this dangerous route at this hour wasimpossible. At Lavenza therefore he remained, resolved to hastento Leghorn at break of day. This was a most awful night. Althoughphysically exhausted, Captain Cadurcis could not sleep, and, aftersome vain efforts, he quitted his restless bed on which he had laiddown without undressing, and walked forth to the harbour. Betweenanxiety for Herbert and his cousin, and for the unhappy women whom hehad left behind, he was nearly distracted. He gazed on the sea, as ifsome sail in sight might give him a chance of hope. His professionalexperience assured him of all the danger of the squall. He could notconceive how an open boat could live in such a sea, and an instantreturn to port so soon as the squall commenced, appeared the onlychance of its salvation. Could they have reached Leghorn? It seemedimpossible. There was no hope they could now be at Sarzana, or Lerici. When he contemplated the full contingency of what might have occurred, his mind wandered, and refused to comprehend the possibility of theterrible conclusion. He thought the morning would never break. 

There was a cavernous rock by the seashore, that jutted into the waterlike a small craggy promontory. Captain Cadurcis climbed to its top, and then descending, reclined himself upon an inferior portion of it, which formed a natural couch with the wave on each side. There, lyingat his length, he gazed upon the moon and stars whose brightness hethought would never dim. The Mediterranean is a tideless sea, but theswell of the waves, which still set in to the shore, bore occasionallymasses of sea-weed and other marine formations, and deposited themaround him, plashing, as it broke against the shore, with a melancholyand monotonous sound. The abstraction of the scene, the hour, and thesurrounding circumstances brought, however, no refreshment to theexhausted spirit of George Cadurcis. He could not think, indeed he didnot dare to think; but the villa of the Apennines and the open boat inthe squall flitted continually before him. His mind was feeble thoughexcited, and he fell into a restless and yet unmeaning reverie. Aslong as he had been in action, as long as he had been hurrying alongthe coast, the excitement of motion, the constant exercise of hissenses, had relieved or distracted the intolerable suspense. But thispause, this inevitable pause, overwhelmed him. It oppressed his spiritlike eternity. And yet what might the morning bring? He almost wishedthat he might remain for ever on this rock watching the moon andstars, and that the life of the world might never recommence. 

He started; he had fallen into a light slumber; he had been dreaming;he thought he had heard the voice of Venetia calling him; he hadforgotten where he was; he stared at the sea and sky, and recalledhis dreadful consciousness. The wave broke with a heavy plash thatattracted his attention: it was, indeed, that sound that had awakenedhim. He looked around; there was some object; he started wildly fromhis resting-place, sprang over the cavern, and bounded on the beach. It was a corpse; he is kneeling by its side. It is the corpse of hiscousin! Lord Cadurcis was a fine swimmer, and had evidently madestrong efforts for his life, for he was partly undressed. In all theinsanity of hope, still wilder than despair, George Cadurcis seizedthe body and bore it some yards upon the shore. Life had been longextinct. The corpse was cold and stark, the eyes closed, an expressionof energy, however, yet lingering in the fixed jaw, and the hairsodden with the sea. Suddenly Captain Cadurcis rushed to the inn androused the household. With a distracted air, and broken speech andrapid motion, he communicated the catastrophe. Several persons, somebearing torches, others blankets and cordials, followed him instantlyto the fatal spot. They hurried to the body, they applied all the ruderemedies of the moment, rather from the impulse of nervous excitementthan with any practical purpose; for the case had been indeed longhopeless. While Captain Cadurcis leant over the body, chafingthe extremities in a hurried frenzy, and gazing intently on thecountenance, a shout was heard from one of the stragglers who hadrecently arrived. The sea had washed on the beach another corpse: theform of Marmion Herbert. It would appear that he had made no struggleto save himself, for his hand was locked in his waistcoat, where, atthe moment, he had thrust the Phaedo, showing that he had been readingto the last, and was meditating on immortality when he died. 

END OF BOOK VI. 

BOOK VII

CHAPTER I. 

It was the commencement of autumn. The verdure of summer stilllingered on the trees; the sky, if not so cloudless, was almost asrefulgent as Italy; and the pigeons, bright and glancing, clustered onthe roof of the hall of Cherbury. The steward was in attendance; thehousehold, all in deep mourning, were assembled; everything was inreadiness for the immediate arrival of Lady Annabel Herbert. 

''Tis nearly four years come Martinmas, ' said the grey-headed butler, 'since my lady left us. '

'And no good has come of it, ' said the housekeeper. 'And for my part Inever heard of good coming from going to foreign parts. '

'I shall like to see Miss Venetia again, ' said a housemaid. 'Bless hersweet face. '

'I never expected to see her Miss Venetia again from all we heard, 'said a footman. 

'God's will be done!' said the grey-headed butler; 'but I hope shewill find happiness at home. 'Tis nigh on twenty years since I firstnursed her in these arms. '

'I wonder if there is any new Lord Cadurcis, ' said the footman. 'Ithink he was the last of the line. '

'It would have been a happy day if I had lived to have seen the pooryoung lord marry Miss Venetia, ' said the housekeeper. 'I alwaysthought that match was made in heaven. '

'He was a sweet-spoken young gentleman, ' said the housemaid. 

'For my part, ' said the footman, 'I should like to have seen our realmaster, Squire Herbert. He was a famous gentleman by all accounts. '

'I wish they had lived quietly at home, ' said the housekeeper. 

'I shall never forget the time when my lord returned, ' said thegrey-headed butler. 'I must say I thought it was a match. '

'Mistress Pauncefort seemed to think so, ' said the housemaid. 

'And she understands those things, ' said the footman. 

'I see the carriage, ' said a servant who was at a window in the hall. All immediately bustled about, and the housekeeper sent a message tothe steward. 

The carriage might be just discovered at the end of the avenue. It wassome time before it entered the iron gates that were thrown open forits reception. The steward stood on the steps with his hat off, theservants were ranged in order at the entrance. Touching their horseswith the spur, and cracking their whips, the postilions dashedround the circular plot and stopped at the hall-door. Under anycircumstances a return home after an interval of years is rather anawful moment; there was not a servant who was not visibly affected. On the outside of the carriage was a foreign servant and MistressPauncefort, who was not so profuse as might have been expected in herrecognitions of her old friends; her countenance was graver than ofyore. Misfortune and misery had subdued even Mistress Pauncefort. Theforeign servant opened the door of the carriage; a young man, who wasa stranger to the household, but who was in deep mourning, alighted, and then Lady Annabel appeared. The steward advanced to welcome her, the household bowed and curtseyed. She smiled on them for a momentgraciously and kindly, but her countenance immediately reassumed aserious air, and whispering one word to the strange gentleman, sheentered the hall alone, inviting the steward to follow her. 

'I hope your ladyship is well; welcome home, my lady; welcome again toCherbury; a welcome return, my lady; hope Miss Venetia is quite well;happy to see your ladyship amongst us again, and Miss Venetia too, mylady. ' Lady Annabel acknowledged these salutations with kindness, andthen, saying that Miss Herbert was not very well and was fatigued withher journey, she dismissed her humble but trusty friends. Lady Annabelthen turned and nodded to her fellow-traveller. 

Upon this Lord Cadurcis, if we must indeed use a title from which hehimself shrank, carried a shrouded form in his arms into the hall, where the steward alone lingered, though withdrawn to the back partof the scene; and Lady Annabel, advancing to meet him, embraced histreasured burden, her own unhappy child. 

'Now, Venetia! dearest Venetia!' she said, ''tis past; we are athome. '

Venetia leant upon her mother, but made no reply. 

'Upstairs, dearest, ' said Lady Annabel: 'a little exertion, a verylittle. ' Leaning on her mother and Lord Cadurcis, Venetia ascended thestaircase, and they reached the terrace-room. Venetia looked aroundher as she entered the chamber; that scene of her former life, endeared to her by so many happy hours, and so many sweet incidents;that chamber where she had first seen Plantagenet. Lord Cadurcissupported her to a chair, and then, overwhelmed by irresistibleemotion, she sank back in a swoon. 

No one was allowed to enter the room but Pauncefort. They revived her;Lord Cadurcis holding her hand, and touching, with a watchful finger, her pulse. Venetia opened her eyes, and looked around her. Hermind did not wander; she immediately recognised where she was, andrecollected all that had happened. She faintly smiled, and said, in alow voice 'You are all too kind, and I am very weak. After our trials, what is this, George?' she added, struggling to appear animated; 'youare at length at Cherbury. '

Once more at Cherbury! It was, indeed, an event that recalled athousand associations. In the wild anguish of her first grief, whenthe dreadful intelligence was broken to her, if anyone had whisperedto Venetia that she would yet find herself once more at Cherbury, shewould have esteemed the intimation as mockery. But time and hope willstruggle with the most poignant affliction, and their influence isirresistible and inevitable. From her darkened chamber in theirMediterranean villa, Venetia had again come forth, and crossedmountains, and traversed immense plains, and journeyed through manycountries. She could not die, as she had supposed at first that shemust, and therefore she had exerted herself to quit, and to quitspeedily, a scene so terrible as their late abode. She was the veryfirst to propose their return to England, and to that spot where shehad passed her early life, and where she now wished to fulfil, inquiet and seclusion, the allotment of her remaining years; tomeditate over the marvellous past, and cherish its sweet and bitterrecollections. The native firmness of Lady Annabel, her long exercisedcontrol over her emotions, the sadness and subdued tone which theearly incidents of her career had cast over her character, herprofound sympathy with her daughter, and that religious consolationwhich never deserted her, had alike impelled and enabled her to bearup against the catastrophe with more fortitude than her child. Thearrow, indeed, had struck Venetia with a double barb. She was thevictim; and all the cares of Lady Annabel had been directed to sootheand support this stricken lamb. Yet perhaps these unhappy women musthave sunk under their unparalleled calamities, had it not been for thedevotion of their companion. In the despair of his first emotions, George Cadurcis was nearly plunging himself headlong into the wavethat had already proved so fatal to his house. But when he thought ofLady Annabel and Venetia in a foreign land, without a single friend intheir desolation, and pictured them to himself with the dreadful newsabruptly communicated by some unfeeling stranger; and called upon, in the midst of their overwhelming agony, to attend to all theheart-rending arrangements which the discovery of the bodies of thebeings to whom they were devoted, and in whom all their feelings werecentred, must necessarily entail upon them, he recoiled from what hecontemplated as an act of infamous desertion. He resolved to live, ifonly to preserve them from all their impending troubles, and with thehope that his exertions might tend, in however slight a degree, notto alleviate, for that was impossible; but to prevent the increaseof that terrible woe, the very conception of which made his brainstagger. He carried the bodies, therefore, with him to Spezzia, andthen prepared for that fatal interview, the commencement of which wefirst indicated. Yet it must be confessed that, though the bravestof men, his courage faltered as he entered the accustomed ravine. Hestopped and looked down on the precipice below; he felt it utterlyimpossible to meet them; his mind nearly deserted him. Death, somegreat and universal catastrophe, an earthquake, a deluge, that wouldhave buried them all in an instant and a common fate, would have beenhailed by George Cadurcis, at that moment, as good fortune. 

He lurked about the ravine for nearly three hours before he couldsummon up heart for the awful interview. The position he had takenassured him that no one could approach the villa, to which he himselfdared not advance. At length, in a paroxysm of energetic despair, hehad rushed forward, met them instantly, and confessed with a whirlingbrain, and almost unconscious of his utterance, that 'they could nothope to see them again in this world. '

What ensued must neither be attempted to be described, nor evenremembered. It was one of those tragedies of life which enfeeble themost faithful memories at a blow shatter nerves beyond the faculty ofrevival, cloud the mind for ever, or turn the hair grey in an instant. They carried Venetia delirious to her bed. The very despair, andalmost madness, of her daughter forced Lady Annabel to self-exertion, of which it was difficult to suppose that even she was capable. AndGeorge, too, was obliged to leave them. He stayed only the night. Afew words passed between Lady Annabel and himself; she wished thebodies to be embalmed, and borne to England. There was no time to belost, and there was no one to be entrusted except George. He had tohasten to Genoa to make all these preparations, and for two days hewas absent from the villa. When he returned, Lady Annabel saw him, butVenetia was for a long time invisible. The moment she grew composed, she expressed a wish to her mother instantly to return to Cherbury. All the arrangements necessarily devolved upon George Cadurcis. Itwas his study that Lady Annabel should be troubled upon no point. Thehousehold were discharged, all the affairs were wound up, the feluccahired which was to bear them to Genoa, and in readiness, before henotified to them that the hour of departure had arrived. The mostbitter circumstance was looking again upon the sea. It seemed sointolerable to Venetia, that their departure was delayed more than oneday in consequence; but it was inevitable; they could reach Genoa inno other manner. George carried Venetia in his arms to the boat, withher face covered with a shawl, and bore her in the same manner to thehotel at Genoa, where their travelling carriage awaited them. 

They travelled home rapidly. All seemed to be impelled, as it were, by a restless desire for repose. Cherbury was the only thought inVenetia's mind. She observed nothing; she made no remark during theirjourney; they travelled often throughout the night; but no obstaclesoccurred, no inconveniences. There was one in this miserable societywhose only object in life was to support Venetia under her terriblevisitation. Silent, but with an eye that never slept, George Cadurciswatched Venetia as a nurse might a child. He read her thoughts, heanticipated her wishes without inquiring them; every arrangement wasunobtrusively made that could possibly consult her comfort. 

They passed through London without stopping there. George would notleave them for an instant; nor would he spare a thought to his ownaffairs, though they urgently required his attention. The change inhis position gave him no consolation; he would not allow his passportto be made out with his title; he shuddered at being called LordCadurcis; and the only reason that made him hesitate about attendingthem to Cherbury was its contiguity to his ancestral seat, which heresolved never to visit. There never in the world was a less selfishand more single-hearted man than George Cadurcis. Though the death ofhis cousin had invested him with one of the most ancient coronets inEngland, a noble residence and a fair estate, he would willingly havesacrificed his life to have recalled Plantagenet to existence, and tohave secured the happiness of Venetia Herbert. 

CHAPTER II. 

The reader must not suppose, from the irresistible emotion thatovercame Venetia at the very moment of her return, that she wasentirely prostrated by her calamities. On the contrary, her mind hadbeen employed, during the whole of her journey to England, in a silenteffort to endure her lot with resignation. She had resolved to bear upagainst her misery with fortitude, and she inherited from her mothersufficient firmness of mind to enable her to achieve her purpose. Shecame back to Cherbury to live with patience and submission; and thoughher dreams of happiness might be vanished for ever, to contribute asmuch as was in her power to the content of that dear and remainingrelative who was yet spared to her, and who depended in this worldonly upon the affection of her child. The return to Cherbury was apang, and it was over. Venetia struggled to avoid the habits of aninvalid; she purposed resuming, as far as was in her power, all thepursuits and duties of her life; and if it were neither possible, noreven desirable, to forget the past, she dwelt upon it neither to sighnor to murmur, but to cherish in a sweet and musing mood the ties andaffections round which all her feelings had once gathered with so muchenjoyment and so much hope. 

She rose, therefore, on the morning after her return to Cherbury, atleast serene; and she took an early opportunity, when George and hermother were engaged, and absent from the terrace-room, to go forthalone and wander amid her old haunts. There was not a spot about thepark and gardens, which had been favourite resorts of herself andPlantagenet in their childhood, that she did not visit. They wereunchanged; as green, and bright, and still as in old days, but whatwas she? The freshness, and brilliancy, and careless happiness of herlife were fled for ever. And here he lived, and here he roamed, andhere his voice sounded, now in glee, now in melancholy, now in wildand fanciful amusement, and now pouring into her bosom all hisdomestic sorrows. It was but ten years since he first arrived atCherbury, and who could have anticipated that that little, silent, reserved boy should, ere ten years had passed, have filled a wide andlofty space in the world's thought; that his existence should haveinfluenced the mind of nations, and his death eclipsed their gaiety!His death! Terrible and disheartening thought! Plantagenet was nomore. But he had not died without a record. His memory was embalmedin immortal verse, and he had breathed his passion to his Venetia inlanguage that lingered in the ear, and would dwell for ever on thelips, of his fellow-men. 

Among these woods, too, had Venetia first mused over her father;before her rose those mysterious chambers, whose secret she hadpenetrated at the risk of her life. There were no secrets now. Wasshe happier? Now she felt that even in her early mystery there wasdelight, and that hope was veiled beneath its ominous shadow. Therewas now no future to ponder over; her hope was gone, and memory aloneremained. All the dreams of those musing hours of her hidden reverieshad been realised. She had seen that father, that surpassing parent, who had satisfied alike her heart and her imagination; she had beenclasped to his bosom; she had lived to witness even her mother yieldto his penitent embrace. And he too was gone; she could never meet himagain in this world; in this world in which they had experienced suchexquisite bliss; and now she was once more at Cherbury! Oh! give herback her girlhood, with all its painful mystery and harassing doubt!Give her again a future!

She returned to the hall; she met George on the terrace, she welcomedhim with a sweet, yet mournful smile. 'I have been very selfish, 'she said, 'for I have been walking alone. I mean to introduce you toCherbury, but I could not resist visiting some old spots. ' Her voicefaltered in these last words. They re-entered the terrace-roomtogether, and joined her mother. 

'Nothing is changed, mamma, ' said Venetia, in a more cheerful tone. 'It is pleasant to find something that is the same. '

Several days passed, and Lord Cadurcis evinced no desire to visit hisinheritance. Yet Lady Annabel was anxious that he should do so, andhad more than once impressed upon him the propriety. Even Venetiaat length said to him, 'It is very selfish in us keeping you here, George. Your presence is a great consolation, and yet, yet, ought younot to visit your home?' She avoided the name of Cadurcis. 

'I ought, dear Venetia. ' said George, 'and I will. I have promisedLady Annabel twenty times, but I feel a terrible disinclination. To-morrow, perhaps. '

'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, ' murmured Venetia toherself, 'I scarcely comprehend now what to-morrow means. ' And thenagain addressing him, and with more liveliness, she said, 'We haveonly one friend in the world now, George, and I think that we ought tobe very grateful that he is our neighbour. '

'It is a consolation to me, ' said Lord Cadurcis, 'for I cannot remainhere, and otherwise I should scarcely know how to depart. '

'I wish you would visit your home, if only for one morning, ' saidVenetia; 'if only to know how very near you are to us. '

'I dread going alone, ' said Lord Cadurcis. 'I cannot ask Lady Annabelto accompany me, because--' He hesitated. 

'Because?' inquired Venetia. 

'I cannot ask or wish her to leave you. '

'You are always thinking of me, dear George, ' said Venetia, artlessly. 'I assure you, I have come back to Cherbury to be happy. I must visityour home some day, and I hope I shall visit it often. We will all go, soon, ' she added. 

'Then I will postpone my visit to that day, ' said George. 'I am inno humour for business, which I know awaits me there. Let me enjoy alittle more repose at dear Cherbury. '

'I have become very restless of late, I think, ' said Venetia, 'butthere is a particular spot in the garden that I wish to see. Come withme, George. '

Lord Cadurcis was only too happy to attend her. They proceeded througha winding walk in the shrubberies until they arrived at a smalland open plot of turf, where Venetia stopped. 'There are someassociations, ' she said, 'of this spot connected with both thosefriends that we have lost. I have a fancy that it should be in somevisible manner consecrated to their memories. On this spot, George, Plantagenet once spoke to me of my father. I should like to raisetheir busts here; and indeed it is a fit place for such a purpose;for poets, ' she added, faintly smiling, 'should be surrounded withlaurels. '

'I have some thoughts on this head that I am revolving in my fancymyself, ' said Lord Cadurcis, 'but I will not speak of them now. '

'Yes, now, George; for indeed it is a satisfaction for me to speak ofthem, at least with you, with one who understood them so well, andloved them scarcely less than I did. '

George tenderly put his arm into hers and led her away. As they walkedalong, he explained to her his plans, which yet were somewhat crude, but which greatly interested her; but they were roused from theirconversation by the bell of the hall sounding as if to summon them, and therefore they directed their way immediately to the terrace. Aservant running met them; he brought a message from Lady Annabel. Their friend the Bishop of ---- had arrived. 

CHAPTER III. 

'Well, my little daughter, ' said the good Masham, advancing as Venetiaentered the room, and tenderly embracing her. The kind-hearted old manmaintained a conversation on indifferent subjects with animation forsome minutes; and thus a meeting, the anticipation of which would havecost Venetia hours of pain and anxiety, occurred with less uneasyfeelings. 

Masham had hastened to Cherbury the moment he heard of the return ofthe Herberts to England. He did not come to console, but to enliven. He was well aware that even his eloquence, and all the influence ofhis piety, could not soften the irreparable past; and knowing, fromexperience, how in solitude the unhappy brood over sorrow, he fanciedthat his arrival, and perhaps his arrival only, might tend in somedegree at this moment to their alleviation and comfort. He broughtLady Annabel and Venetia letters from their relations, with whom hehad been staying at their country residence, and who were anxious thattheir unhappy kinsfolk should find change of scene under their roof. 

'They are very affectionate, ' said Lady Annabel, 'but I rather thinkthat neither Venetia nor myself feel inclined to quit Cherbury atpresent. '

'Indeed not, mamma, ' said Venetia. 'I hope we shall never leave homeagain. '

'You must come and see me some day, ' said the Bishop; then turning toGeorge, whom he was glad to find here, he addressed him in a heartytone, and expressed his delight at again meeting him. 

Insensibly to all parties this arrival of the good Masham exercised abeneficial influence on their spirits. They could sympathise with hischeerfulness, because they were convinced that he sympathised withtheir sorrow. His interesting conversation withdrew their minds fromthe painful subject on which they were always musing. It seemedprofanation to either of the three mourners when they were togetheralone, to indulge in any topic but the absorbing one, and their utmosteffort was to speak of the past with composure; but they all feltrelieved, though at first unconsciously, when one, whose interest intheir feelings could not be doubted, gave the signal of withdrawingtheir reflections from vicissitudes which it was useless to deplore. Even the social forms which the presence of a guest renderedindispensable, and the exercise of the courtesies of hospitality, contributed to this result. They withdrew their minds from the past. And the worthy Bishop, whose tact was as eminent as his good humourand benevolence, evincing as much delicacy of feeling as cheerfulnessof temper, a very few days had elapsed before each of his companionswas aware that his presence had contributed to their increasedcontent. 

'You have not been to the abbey yet, Lord Cadurcis, ' said Masham tohim one day, as they were sitting together after dinner, the ladieshaving retired. 'You should go. '

'I have been unwilling to leave them, ' said George, 'and I couldscarcely expect them to accompany me. It is a visit that must revivepainful recollections. '

'We must not dwell on the past, ' said Masham; 'we must think only ofthe future. '

'Venetia has no future, I fear, ' said Lord Cadurcis. 

'Why not?' said Masham; 'she is yet a girl, and with a prospect of along life. She must have a future, and I hope, and I believe, it willyet be a happy one. '

'Alas!' said Lord Cadurcis, 'no one can form an idea of the attachmentthat subsisted between Plantagenet and Venetia. They were not commonfeelings, or the feelings of common minds, my dear lord. '

'No one knew them both better than I did, ' said Masham, 'not evenyourself: they were my children. '

'I feel that, ' said George, 'and therefore it is a pleasure to us allto see you, and to speak with you. '

'But we must look for consolation, ' said Masham; 'to deplore isfruitless. If we live, we must struggle to live happily. To tell youthe truth, though their immediate return to Cherbury was inevitable, and their residence here for a time is scarcely to be deprecated, Istill hope they will not bury themselves here. For my part, after thenecessary interval, I wish to see Venetia once more in the world. '

Lord Cadurcis looked very mournful, and shook his head. 

'As for her dear mother, she is habituated to sorrow anddisappointment, ' said Masham. 'As long as Venetia lives Lady Annabelwill be content. Besides, deplorable as may be the past, there must besolace to her in the reflection that she was reconciled to her husbandbefore his death, and contributed to his happiness. Venetia is thestricken lamb, but Venetia is formed for happiness, and it is in thenature of things that she will be happy. We must not, however, yieldunnecessarily to our feelings. A violent exertion would be unwise, butwe should habituate ourselves gradually to the exercise of our duties, and to our accustomed pursuits. It would be well for you to go toCadurcis. If I were you I would go to-morrow. Take advantage of mypresence, and return and give a report of your visit. HabituateVenetia to talk of a spot with which ultimately she must renew herintimacy. '

Influenced by this advice, Lord Cadurcis rose early on the nextmorning and repaired to the seat of his fathers, where hitherto hisfoot had never trod. When the circle at Cherbury assembled at theirbreakfast table he was missing, and Masham had undertaken the officeof apprising his friends of the cause of his absence. He returned todinner, and the conversation fell naturally upon the abbey, and theimpressions he had received. It was maintained at first by LadyAnnabel and the Bishop, but Venetia ultimately joined in it, and withcheerfulness. Many a trait and incident of former days was alluded to;they talked of Mrs. Cadurcis, whom George had never seen; they settledthe chambers he should inhabit; they mentioned the improvementswhich Plantagenet had once contemplated, and which George must nowaccomplish. 

'You must go to London first, ' said the Bishop; 'you have a great dealto do, and you should not delay such business. I think you had betterreturn with me. At this time of the year you need not be long absent;you will not be detained; and when you return, you will find yourselfmuch more at ease; for, after all, nothing is more harassing than thefeeling, that there is business which must be attended to, and which, nevertheless, is neglected. '

Both Lady Annabel and Venetia enforced this advice of their friend;and so it happened that, ere a week had elapsed, Lord Cadurcis, accompanying Masham, found himself once more in London. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Venetia was now once more alone with her mother; it was as in oldtimes. Their life was the same as before the visit of Plantagenetprevious to his going to Cambridge, except indeed that they had nolonger a friend at Marringhurst. They missed the Sabbath visits ofthat good man; for, though his successor performed the duties of theday, which had been a condition when he was presented to the living, the friend who knew all the secrets of their hearts was absent. Venetia continued to bear herself with great equanimity, and theanxiety which she observed instantly impressed on her mother'scountenance, the moment she fancied there was unusual gloom on thebrow of her child, impelled Venetia doubly to exert herself to appearresigned. And in truth, when Lady Annabel revolved in her mind themournful past, and meditated over her early and unceasing effortsto secure the happiness of her daughter, and then contrasted heraspirations with the result, she could not acquit herself of havingbeen too often unconsciously instrumental in forwarding a verydifferent conclusion than that for which she had laboured. Thisconviction preyed upon the mother, and the slightest evidence ofreaction in Venetia's tranquilised demeanour occasioned her the utmostremorse and grief. The absence of George made both Lady Annabel andVenetia still more finely appreciate the solace of his society. Leftto themselves, they felt how much they had depended on his vigilantand considerate attention, and how much his sweet temper and hisunfailing sympathy had contributed to their consolation. He wrote, however, to Venetia by every post, and his letters, if possible, endeared him still more to their hearts. Unwilling to dwell upontheir mutual sorrows, yet always expressing sufficient to prove thatdistance and absence had not impaired his sympathy, he contrived, withinfinite delicacy, even to amuse their solitude with the adventures ofhis life of bustle. The arrival of the post was the incident of theday; and not merely letters arrived; one day brought books, anothermusic; continually some fresh token of his thought and affectionreached them. He was, however, only a fortnight absent; but when hereturned, it was to Cadurcis. He called upon them the next day, andindeed every morning found him at Cherbury; but he returned to hishome at night; and so, without an effort, from their guest he hadbecome their neighbour. 

Plantagenet had left the whole of his property to his cousin: hismother's fortune, which, as an accessory fund, was not inconsiderable, besides the estate. And George intended to devote a portion of this tothe restoration of the abbey. Venetia was to be his counsellor in thisoperation, and therefore there were ample sources of amusement for theremainder of the year. On a high ridge, which was one of the beaconsof the county, and which, moreover, marked the junction of the domainsof Cherbury and Cadurcis, it was his intention to raise a monument tothe united memories of Marmion Herbert and Plantagenet Lord Cadurcis. He brought down a design with him from London, and this was theproject which he had previously whispered to Venetia. With George forher companion, too, Venetia was induced to resume her rides. It washer part to make him acquainted with the county in which he was soimportant a resident. Time therefore, at Cherbury, on the whole, flowed on in a tide of tranquil pleasure; and Lady Annabel observed, with interest and fondness, the continual presence beneath her roofof one who, from the first day she had met him, had engaged her kindfeelings, and had since become intimately endeared to her. 

The end of November was, however, now approaching, and Parliamentwas about to reassemble. Masham had written more than once to LordCadurcis, impressing upon him the propriety and expediency of takinghis seat. He had shown these letters, as he showed everything, toVenetia, who was his counsellor on all subjects, and Venetia agreedwith their friend. 

'It is right, ' said Venetia; 'you have a duty to perform, and you mustperform it. Besides, I do not wish the name of Cadurcis to sink againinto obscurity. I shall look forward with interest to Lord Cadurcistaking the oaths and his seat. It will please me; it will indeed. '

'But Venetia, ' said George, 'I do not like to leave this place. I amhappy, if we may be happy. This life suits me. I am a quiet man. Idislike London. I feel alone there. '

'You can write to us; you will have a great deal to say. And I shallhave something to say to you now. I must give you a continual reporthow they go on at the abbey. I will be your steward, and superintendeverything. '

'Ah!' said George, 'what shall I do in London without you, withoutyour advice? There will be something occurring every day, and I shallhave no one to consult. Indeed I shall feel quite miserable; I shallindeed. '

'It is quite impossible that, with your station, and at your time oflife, you should bury yourself in the country, ' said Venetia. 'Youhave the whole world before you, and you must enjoy it. It is verywell for mamma and myself to lead this life. I look upon ourselves astwo nuns. If Cadurcis is an abbey, Cherbury is now a convent. '

'How can a man wish to be more than happy? I am quite content here, 'said George, 'What is London to me?'

'It may be a great deal to you, more than you think, ' said Venetia. 'Agreat deal awaits you yet. However, there can be no doubt you shouldtake your seat. You can always return, if you wish. But take yourseat, and cultivate dear Masham. I have the utmost confidence in hiswisdom and goodness. You cannot have a friend more respectable. Nowmind my advice, George. '

'I always do, Venetia. '

CHAPTER V. 

Time and Faith are the great consolers, and neither of these precioussources of solace were wanting to the inhabitants of Cherbury. Theywere again living alone, but their lives were cheerful; and if Venetiano longer indulged in a worldly and blissful future, nevertheless, inthe society of her mother, in the resources of art and literature, inthe diligent discharge of her duties to her humble neighbours, and incherishing the memory of the departed, she experienced a life that wasnot without its tranquil pleasures. She maintained with Lord Cadurcisa constant correspondence; he wrote to her every day, and althoughthey were separated, there was not an incident of his life, andscarcely a thought, of which she was not cognisant. It was with greatdifficulty that George could induce himself to remain in London; butMasham, who soon obtained over him all the influence which Venetiadesired, ever opposed his return to the abbey. The good Bishop was notunaware of the feelings with which Lord Cadurcis looked back to thehall of Cherbury, and himself of a glad and sanguine temperament, heindulged in a belief in the consummation of all that happiness forwhich his young friend, rather sceptically, sighed. But Masham wasaware that time could alone soften the bitterness of Venetia's sorrow, and prepare her for that change of life which he felt confidentwould alone ensure the happiness both of herself and her mother. Hetherefore detained Lord Cadurcis in London the whole of the sessionsthat, on his return to Cherbury, his society might be esteemed a noveland agreeable incident in the existence of its inhabitants, and not beassociated merely with their calamities. 

It was therefore about a year after the catastrophe which had sosuddenly changed the whole tenor of their lives, and occasioned sounexpected a revolution in his own position, that Lord Cadurcisarrived at his ancestral seat, with no intention of again speedilyleaving it. He had long and frequently apprised his friends of hisapproaching presence, And, arriving at the abbey late at night, he wasat Cherbury early on the following morning. 

Although no inconsiderable interval had elapsed since Lord Cadurcishad parted from the Herberts, the continual correspondence that hadbeen maintained between himself and Venetia, divested his visit of theslightest embarrassment. They met as if they had parted yesterday, except perhaps with greater fondness. The chain of their feelingswas unbroken. He was indeed welcomed, both by Lady Annabel and herdaughter, with warm affection; and his absence had only rendered himdearer to them by affording an opportunity of feeling how much hissociety contributed to their felicity. Venetia was anxious to know hisopinion of the improvements at the abbey, which she had superintended;but he assured her that he would examine nothing without her company, and ultimately they agreed to walk over to Cadurcis. 

It was a summer day, and they walked through that very wood whereinwe described the journey of the child Venetia, at the commencementof this very history. The blue patches of wild hyacinths had alldisappeared, but there were flowers as sweet. What if the firstfeelings of our heart fade, like the first flowers of spring, succeeding years, like the coming summer, may bring emotions not lesscharming, and, perchance, far more fervent!

'I can scarcely believe, ' said Lord Cadurcis, 'that I am once morewith you. I know not what surprises me most, Venetia, that we shouldbe walking once more together in the woods of Cherbury, or that I evershould have dared to quit them. '

'And yet it was better, dear George, ' said Venetia. 'You must nowrejoice that you have fulfilled your duty, and yet you are here again. Besides, the abbey never would have been finished if you had remained. To complete all our plans, it required a mistress. '

'I wish it always had one, ' said George. 'Ah, Venetia! once you toldme never to despair. '

'And what have you to despair about, George?'

'Heigh ho!' said Lord Cadurcis, 'I never shall be able to live in thisabbey alone. '

'You should have brought a wife from London, ' said Venetia. 

'I told you once, Venetia, that I was not a marrying man, ' said LordCadurcis; 'and certainly I never shall bring a wife from London. '

'Then you cannot accustom yourself too soon to a bachelor's life, 'said Venetia. 

'Ah, Venetia!' said George, 'I wish I were clever; I wish I were agenius; I wish I were a great man. '

'Why, George?'

'Because, Venetia, perhaps, ' and Lord Cadurcis hesitated, 'perhaps youwould think differently of me? I mean perhaps your feelings towards memight; ah, Venetia! perhaps you might think me worthy of you; perhapsyou might love me. '

'I am sure, dear George, if I did not love you, I should be the mostungrateful of beings: you are our only friend. '

'And can I never be more than a friend to you, Venetia?' said LordCadurcis, blushing very deeply. 

'I am sure, dear George, I should be very sorry for your sake, if youwished to be more, ' said Venetia. 

'Why?' said Lord Cadurcis. 

'Because I should not like to see you unite your destiny with that ofa very unfortunate, if not a very unhappy, person. '

'The sweetest, the loveliest of women!' said Lord Cadurcis. 'OVenetia! I dare not express what I feel, still less what I could hope. I think so little of myself, so highly of you, that I am convinced myaspirations are too arrogant for me to breathe them. '

'Ah! dear George, you deserve to be happy, ' said Venetia. 'Would thatit were in my power to make you!'

'Dearest Venetia! it is, it is, ' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis; thenchecking himself, as if frightened by his boldness, he added in a moresubdued tone, 'I feel I am not worthy of you. '

They stood upon the breezy down that divided the demesnes of Cherburyand the abbey. Beneath them rose, 'embosomed in a valley of greenbowers, ' the ancient pile lately renovated under the studious care ofVenetia. 

'Ah!' said Lord Cadurcis, 'be not less kind to the master of thesetowers, than to the roof that you have fostered. You have renovatedour halls, restore our happiness! There is an union that will bringconsolation to more than one hearth, and baffle all the crosses ofadverse fate. Venetia, beautiful and noble-minded Venetia, condescendto fulfil it!'

Perhaps the reader will not be surprised that, within a few months ofthis morning walk, the hands of George, Lord Cadurcis, and VenetiaHerbert were joined in the chapel at Cherbury by the good Masham. Peace be with them.