THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Walter 0. Schneider
 
 COLLECTED EDITION 
 
 OF THE 
 
 NOVELS AND TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 THE EIGHT HONOEABLE 
 B. DISEAELI. 
 
 VOL. V. VENETIA.
 
 LOSDO1C: P3I3TTED BY 
 
 6POTTISWOODB AND CO.. W1TW-STBEET SQUAE5 
 AITD PABlIAitKJT 8TBKB7
 
 VENETIA. 
 
 EIGHT HONORABLE B. DISRAELI. 
 
 ' Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ? ' 
 
 ' The child of love, though born in bitterness 
 And nurtured in convulsion.' 
 
 NEW EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 LONGMANS, OKEEN, AND CO. 
 
 1871. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 V55" 
 
 TO |g7( 
 
 LORD LYNDHUBST. 
 
 IN happier hours, when I first mentioned to you the idea 
 of this Work, it was my intention, while inscribing it with 
 your name, to have entered into some details as to the 
 principles which had guided me in its composition, and 
 the feelings with which I had attempted to shadow forth, 
 though as 'in a glass darkly,' two of the most renowned 
 and refined spirits that have adorned these our latter days. 
 But now I will only express a hope that the time may 
 come when, in these pages, you may find some relaxation 
 from the cares, and some distraction from the sorrows, 
 of existence, and that you will then receive this dedication 
 
 as a record of my respect and my affection. 
 
 A. 
 
 1116971
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 This Work was first published in the year 1837.
 
 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SOME ten years before the revolt of our American colonies, 
 there was situate in one of our midland counties, on the 
 borders of an extensive forest, an ancient hall that belonged 
 to the Herberts, but which, though ever well preserved, had 
 not until that period been visited by any member of the 
 family, since the exile of the Stuarts. It was an edifice of 
 considerable size, built of grey stone, much covered with 
 ivy, and placed upon the last gentle elevation of a long ridge 
 of hills, in the centre of a crescent of woods, that far over- 
 topped its clusters of tall chimneys and turreted gables. 
 Although the principal chambers were on the first story, 
 you could nevertheless step forth from their windows on a 
 broad terrace, whence you descended into the gardens by a 
 double flight of stone steps, exactly in the middle of its 
 length. These gardens were of some extent, and filled with 
 evergreen shrubberies of remarkable overgrowth, while- 
 occasionally turfy vistas, cut in the distant woods, came 
 sloping down to the south, as if they opened to receive th& 
 sunbeam that greeted the genial aspect of the mansion. 
 The ground-floor was principally occupied by the hall itself, 
 which was of great dimensions, hung round with many a 
 family portrait and rural picture, furnished with long oaken 
 seats covered with scarlet cushions, and ornamented with 
 a parti-coloured floor of alternate diamonds of black and 
 white marble. From the centre of the roof of the mansion, 
 
 B
 
 2 VENETIA. 
 
 which was always covered with pigeons, rose the clock- 
 tower of the chapel, surmounted by a vane ; and before the 
 mansion itself was a large plot of grass, with a fountain in 
 the centre, surrounded by a hedge of honeysuckle. 
 
 This plot of grass was separated from an extensive park, 
 that opened in front of the hall, by tall iron gates, on each 
 of the pillars of which was a lion rampant supporting the 
 escutcheon of the family. The deer wandered in this en- 
 closed and well- wooded demesne, and about a mile from the 
 mansion, in a direct line with the iron gates, was an old- 
 fashioned lodge, which marked the limit of the park, and 
 from which you emerged into a fine avenue of limes bounded 
 on both sides by fields. At the termination of this avenue 
 was a strong but simple gate, and a woodman's cottage ; 
 and then spread before you a vast landscape of open, wild 
 lands, which seemed on one side interminable, while on the 
 other the eye rested on the dark heights of the neighbour- 
 ing forest. 
 
 This picturesque and secluded abode was the residence 
 of Lady Annabel Herbert and her daughter, the young and 
 beautiful Venetia, a child, at the time when our history 
 commences, of very tender age. It was nearly seven years 
 since Lady Annabel and her infant daughter had sought 
 the retired shades of Cherbury, which they had never since 
 quitted. They lived alone and for each other ; the mother 
 educated her child, and the child interested her mother by 
 her affectionate disposition, the development of a mind of 
 no ordinary promise, and a sort of captivating grace and 
 charming playfulness of temper, which were extremely 
 delightful. Lady Annabel was still young and lovely. That 
 she was wealthy her establishment clearly denoted, and 
 she was a daughter of one of the haughtiest houses in the 
 kingdom. It was strange then that, with all the brilliant 
 accidents of birth, and beauty, and fortune, she should still, 
 as it were in the morning of her life, have withdrawn to 
 this secluded mansion, in a county where she was personally 
 unknown, distant from the metropolis, estranged from all
 
 VENETIA. 3 
 
 her own relatives and connexions, and without the resource 
 of even a single neighbour, for the only place of importance 
 in her vicinity was uninhabited. The general impression 
 of the villagers was that Lady Annabel was a widow ; and 
 yet there were some speculators who would shrewdly re- 
 mark, that her ladyship had never worn weeds, although 
 her husband could not have been long dead when she first 
 arrived at Cherbury. On the whole, however, these good 
 people were not very inquisitive ; and it was fortunate for 
 them, for there was h'ttle chance and slight means of gra- 
 tifying their curiosity. The whole of the establishment had 
 been formed at Cherbury, with the exception of her lady- 
 ship's waiting- woman, Mistress Pauncefort, and she was by 
 far too great a personage to condescend to reply to any ques- 
 tion which was not made to her by Lady Annabel herself. 
 
 The beauty of the young Venetia was not the hereditary 
 gift of her beautiful mother. It was not from Lady Annabel 
 that Venetia Herbert had derived those seraphic locks that 
 fell over her shoulders and down her neck in golden streams, 
 nor that clear grey eye even, whose childish glance might 
 perplex the gaze of manhood, nor that little aquiline nose, 
 that gave a haughty expression to a countenance that had 
 never yet dreamed of pride, nor that radiant complexion, 
 that dazzled with its brilliancy, like some winged minister 
 of Raffael or Correggio. The peasants that passed the lady 
 and her daughter in their walks, and who blessed her as 
 they passed, for all her grace and goodness, often marvelled 
 why so fair a mother and so fair a child should be so dissi- 
 milar, that one indeed might be compared to a starry night, 
 and the other to a sunny day. 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 IT was a bright and soft spring morning : the dewy vistas 
 of Cherbury sparkled in the sun, the cooing of the pigeons 
 sounded around, the peacocks strutted about the terrace 
 
 B2
 
 4 VENETIA. 
 
 and spread their tails with infinite enjoyment and conscious 
 pride, and Lady Annabel came forth with her little daughter, 
 to breathe the renovating odours of the season. The air 
 was scented with the violet, tufts of daffodils were scattered 
 all about, and though the snowdrop had vanished, and the 
 primroses were fast disappearing, their wild and shaggy 
 leaves still looked picturesque and glad. 
 
 ' Mamma,' said the little Venetia, ' is this spring ? ' 
 
 ' This is spring, my child,' replied Lady Annabel, ' beau- 
 tiful spring ! The year is young and happy, like my little 
 girl.' 
 
 ' If Venetia be like the spring, mamma is like the sum- 
 mer ! ' replied the child ; and the mother smiled. ' And is 
 not the summer young and happy ? ' resumed Venetia. 
 
 'It is not quite so young as the spring,' said Lady Anna- 
 bel, looking down with fondness on her little companion, 
 ' and, I fear, not quite so happy.' 
 
 * But it is as beautiful,' said Venetia. 
 
 * It is not beauty that makes us happy,' said Lady Annabel ; 
 ' to be happy, my love, we must be good.' 
 
 ' Am I good ? ' said Veuetia. 
 
 ' Very good,' said Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' I am very happy,' said Venetia ; ' I wonder whether, if 
 I be always good, I shall always be happy ? ' 
 
 ' You cannot be happy without being good, my love ; but 
 happiness depends upon the will of God. If you be good he 
 will guard over you.' 
 
 'What can make me unhappy, mamma?' inquired 
 Venetia. 
 
 ' An evil conscience, my love.' 
 
 ' Conscience ! ' said Venetia ; ' what is conscience ? ' 
 
 ' You are not yet quite old enough to understand,' said 
 Lady Annabel, ' but some day I will teach you. Mamma 
 is now going to take a long walk, and Venetia shall walk 
 with her.' 
 
 So saying, the Lady Annabel summoned Mistress Paunce- 
 fort, a gentlewoman of not more discreet years than might
 
 VENETIA. 5 
 
 have been expected in the attendant of so young a mistress ; 
 but one well qualified for her office, very zealous and devoted, 
 somewhat consequential, full of energy and decision, capable 
 of directing, fond of giving advice, and habituated to com- 
 mand. The Lady Annabel, leading her daughter, and ac- 
 companied by her faithful bloodhound, Marmion, ascended 
 one of those sloping vistas that we have noticed, Mistress 
 Pauncefort following them about a pace behind, and after 
 her a groom, at a respectful distance, leading Miss Herbert's 
 donkey. 
 
 They soon entered a winding path through the wood 
 which was the background of their dwelling. Lady Anna- 
 bel was silent, and lost in her reflections ; Venetia plucked 
 the beautiful wild hyacinths that then abounded in the 
 wood in such profusion, that their beds spread like patches 
 of blue enamel, and gave them to Mistress Pauncefort, who, 
 as the collection increased, handed them over to the groom; 
 who, in turn, deposited them in the wicker seat prepared 
 for his young mistress. The bright sun bursting through 
 the tender foliage of the year, the clear and genial air, the 
 singing of the birds, and the wild and joyous exclamations 
 of Venetia, as she gathered her flowers, made it a cheerful 
 party, notwithstanding the silence of its mistress. 
 
 When they emerged from the wood, they found themselves 
 on the brow of the hill, a small down, over which Venetia 
 ran, exulting in the healthy breeze which, at this exposed 
 height, was strong and fresh. As they advanced to the 
 opposite declivity to that which they had ascended, a wide 
 and peculiar landscape opened before them. The extreme 
 distance was formed by an undulating ridge of lofty and 
 savage hills ; nearer than these were gentler elevations, 
 partially wooded ; and at their base was a rich valley, its 
 green meads fed by a clear and rapid stream, which glit- 
 tered in the sun as it coursed on, losing itself at length in 
 a wild and sedgy lake that formed the furthest limit of a 
 widely-spreading park. In the centre of this park, and not 
 very remote from the banks of the rivulet, was an ancient
 
 6 VENETIA. 
 
 gothic building, that had once been an abbey of great re- 
 pute and wealth, and had not much suffered in its external 
 character, by having served for nearly two centuries and a 
 half as the principal dwelling of an old baronial family. 
 
 Descending the downy hill, that here and there was stud- 
 ded with fine old trees, enriching by their presence the view 
 from the abbey, Lady Annabel and her party entered the 
 meads, and, skirting the lake, approached the venerable 
 walls without crossing the stream. 
 
 It was difficult to conceive a scene more silent and more 
 desolate. There was no sign of life, and not a sound save 
 the occasional cawing of a rook. Advancing towards the 
 abbey, they passed a pile of buildings that, in the summer, 
 might be screened from sight by the foliage of a group of 
 elms, too scanty at present to veil their desolation. Wide 
 gaps in the roof proved that the vast and dreary stables 
 were no longer used ; there were empty granaries, whose 
 doors had fallen from their hinges ; the gate of the court- 
 yard was prostrate on the ground ; and the silent clock that 
 once adorned the cupola over the noble entrance arch, had 
 long lost its index. Even the litter of the yard appeared 
 dusty and grey with age. You felt sure no human foot 
 could have disturbed it for years. At the back of these 
 buildings were nailed the trophies of the gamekeeper : 
 hundreds of wild cats, dried to blackness, stretched their 
 downward heads and legs from the mouldering wall ; hawks, 
 magpies, and jays hung in tattered remnants! but all 
 grey, and even green, with age; and the heads of birds in 
 plenteous rows, nailed beak upward, and so dried and 
 shrivelled by the suns and winds and frosts of many 
 seasons, that their distinctive characters were lost. 
 
 * Do you know, my good Pauncefort,' said Lady Annabel, 
 ' that I have an odd fancy to-day to force an entrance into 
 the old abbey. It is strange, fond as I am of this walk, 
 that we have never yet entered it. Do you recollect our 
 last vain efforts ? Shall we be more fortunate this time, 
 think you ? '
 
 VENETIA. 7 
 
 - 
 
 Mistress Pauncefort smiled and smirked, and, advancing 
 to the old gloomy porch, gave a determined ring at the 
 bell. Its sound might be heard echoing through the old 
 cloisters, but a considerable time elapsed without any other 
 effect being produced. Perhaps Lady Annabel would have 
 now given up the attempt, but the little Venetia expressed 
 so much regret at the disappointment, that her mother 
 directed the groom to reconnoitre in the neighbourhood, 
 and see if it were possible to discover any person connected 
 with the mansion. 
 
 * I doubt our luck, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort, 
 ' for they do say that the abbey is quite uninhabited.' 
 
 ' ' Tis a pity,' said Lady Annabel, ' for, with all its deso- 
 lation, there is something about this spot which ever greatly 
 interests me.' 
 
 ' Mamma, why does no one live here ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 ' The master of the abbey lives abroad, my child.' 
 
 * Why does he, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Never ask questions, Miss Venetia,' said Mistress 
 Pauncefort, in a hushed and solemn tone ; ' it is not pretty.' 
 Lady Annabel had moved away. 
 
 The groom returned, and said he had met an old man, 
 picking water-cresses, and he was the only person who 
 lived in the abbey, except his wife, and she was bedridden. 
 The old man had promised to admit them when he had 
 completed his task, but not before, and the groom feared it 
 would be some time before he arrived. 
 
 ' Come, Pauncefort, rest yourself on this bench,' said 
 Lady Annabel, seating herself in the porch ; ' and Venetia, 
 my child, come hither to me.' 
 
 ' Mamma,' said Venetia, ' what is the name of the gentle- 
 man to whom this abbey belongs ? ' 
 
 ' Lord Cadurcis, love.' 
 
 * I should like to know why Lord Cadurcis lives abroad?' 
 said Venetia, musingly. 
 
 ' There are many reasons why persons may choose to quit 
 their native country, and dwell in another, my love,' said
 
 8 VENETIA. 
 
 Lady Annabel, very quietly ; ' some change the climate for 
 their health.' 
 
 1 Did Lord Cadurcis, mamma ? ' asked Venetia. 
 
 ' I do not know Lord Cadurcis, dear, or anything of him, 
 excep~ tthat he is a very old man, and has no family.' 
 
 At this moment there was a sound of bars and bolts with- 
 . drawn, and the falling of a chain, and at length the massy 
 door slowly opened, and the old man appeared and beckoned 
 to them to enter. 
 
 * "Pis eight years, come Martinmas, since I opened this 
 door,' said the old man, ' and it sticks a bit. You must 
 walk about by yourselves, for I have no breath, and my 
 mistress is bedridden. There, straight down the cloister, 
 you can't miss your way ; there is not much to see.' 
 
 The interior of the abbey formed a quadrangle, sur- 
 rounded by the cloisters, and in this inner court was a 
 curious fountain, carved with exquisite skill by some gothio 
 artist in one of those capricious moods of sportive inven- 
 tion that produced those grotesque medleys for which the 
 feudal sculptor was celebrated. Not a sound was heard 
 except the fall of the fountain and the light echoes that its 
 voice called up. 
 
 The staircase led Lady Annabel and her party through 
 several small rooms, scantily garnished with ancient furni- 
 ture, in some of which were portraits of the family, until 
 they at length entered a noble saloon, once the refectory of 
 the abbey, and not deficient in splendour, though sadly 
 soiled and worm-eaten. It was hung with tapestry repre- 
 senting the Cartoons of Raffael, and their still vivid colours 
 contrasted with the faded hangings and the dingy damask 
 .of the chairs and sofas. A mass of Cromwellian armour 
 was huddled together in a corner of a long monkish gallery, 
 with a standard, encrusted with dust, and a couple of old 
 drums, one broken. From one of the windows they had a 
 good view of the old walled garden, which did not tempt 
 them to enter it ; it was a wilderness, the walks no longer 
 distinguishable from the rank vegetation of the once culti-
 
 VENETIA. 9 
 
 vated lawns ; the terraces choked up with the unchecked 
 shrubberies ; and here and there a leaden statue, a goddess 
 or a satyr, prostrate, and covered with moss and lichen. 
 
 ' It makes me melancholy,' said Lady Annabel ; ' let us 
 return.' 
 
 ' Mamma,' said Venetia, ' are there any ghosts in this 
 abbey ? ' 
 
 ' You may well ask me, love,' replied Lady Annabel ; ' it 
 seems a spell-bound place. But, Venetia, I have often 
 told you there are no such things as ghosts.' 
 
 ' Is it naughty to believe in ghosts, mamma, for I cannot 
 help believing in them ? ' 
 
 ' When you are older, and have more knowledge, you 
 will not believe in them, Venetia,' replied Lady Annabel. 
 
 Our friends left Cadurcis Abbey. Venetia mounted her 
 donkey, her mother walked by her side ; the sun was be- 
 ginning to decline when they again reached Cherbury, and 
 the air was brisk. Lady Annabel was glad to find herself 
 by her fireside in her little terrace-room, and Venetia fetch- 
 ing her book, read to her mother until their dinner hour. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Two serene and innocent years had glided away at Cher- 
 bury since this morning ramble to Cadurcis Abbey, and 
 Venetia had grown in loveliness, in goodness, and intelli- 
 gence. Her lively and somewhat precocious mind had 
 become greatly developed ; and, though she was only nine 
 years of age, it scarcely needed the affection of a mother 
 to find in her an interesting and engaging companion. 
 Although feminine education was little regarded in those 
 days, that of Lady Annabel had been an exception to the 
 general practice of society. She had been ^brought up with 
 the consciousness of other objects of female attainment and 
 accomplishment than embroidery, ' the complete art of
 
 10 VENETIA. 
 
 making pastry,' and reading ' The Whole Duty of Man.' 
 She had profited, when a child, by the guidance of her 
 brother's tutor, who had bestowed no unfruitful pains upon 
 no ordinary capacity. She was a good linguist, a fine 
 musician, was well read in our elder poets and their Italian 
 originals, was no unskilful artist, and had acquired some 
 knowledge of botany when wandering, as a girl, in her 
 native woods. Since her retirement to Cherbury, reading 
 had been her chief resource. The hall contained a library 
 whose shelves, indeed, were more full than choice ; but, 
 amid folios of theological controversy and civil law, there 
 might be found the first editions of most of the celebrated 
 writers of the reign of Anne, which the contemporary pro- 
 prietor of Cherbury, a man of wit and fashion in his day, 
 had duly collected in his yearly visits to the metropolis, and 
 finally deposited in the family book-room. 
 
 The education of her daughter was not only the principal 
 duty of Lady Annabel, but her chief delight. To cultivate 
 the nascent intelligence of a child, in those days, was not 
 the mere piece of scientific mechanism that the admirable 
 labours of so many ingenious writers have since permitted 
 it comparatively to become. In those days there was no 
 Mrs. Barbauld, no Madame de Genlis, no Miss Edgeworth ; 
 no ' Evenings at Home,' no ' Children's Friend,' no ' Parent's 
 Assistant.' Venetia loved her book ; indeed, she was never 
 happier than when reading ; but she soon recoiled from 
 the gilt and Lilliputian volumes of the good Mr. Newbury, 
 and her mind required some more substantial excitement than 
 Tom Thumb,' or even ' Goody Two-Shoes.' ' The Seven 
 Champions ' was a great resource and a great favourite ; 
 but it required all the vigilance of a mother to eradicate the 
 false impressions which' such studies were continually mak- 
 ing on so tender a student ; and to disenchant, by rational 
 discussion, the fascinated imagination of her child. Lady 
 Annabel endeavoured to find some substitute in the essays 
 of Addison and Steele ; but they required more knowledge 
 of the every-day world for their enjoyment than an infant,
 
 VENETIA. 11 
 
 bred in such seclusion, could at present afford ; and at last 
 Venetia lost herself in the wildering pages of Clelia and the 
 Arcadia, which she pored over with a rapt and ecstatic 
 spirit, that would not comprehend the warning scepticism 
 of her parent. Let us picture to ourselves the high-bred 
 Lady Annabel in the terrace-room of her ancient hall, work- 
 ing at her tapestry, and, seated at her feet, her little daughter 
 Venetia, reading aloud the Arcadia ! The peacocks have 
 jumped up on the window-sill, to look at their friends, who 
 love to feed them, and by their pecking have aroused the 
 bloodhound crouching at Lady Annabel's feet. And Venetia 
 looks up from her folio with a flushed and smiling face to 
 catch the sympathy of her mother, who rewards her 
 daughter's study with a kiss. Ah ! there are no such 
 mothers and no such daughters now ! 
 
 Thus it will be seen that the life and studies of Venetia 
 tended rather dangerously, in spite of all the care of her 
 mother, to the development of her imagination, in case in- 
 deed she possessed that terrible and fatal gift. She passed 
 her days in unbroken solitude, or broken only by affections 
 which softened her heart, and in a scene which itself might 
 well promote any predisposition of the kind ; beautiful and 
 picturesque objects surrounded her on all sides ; she wan- 
 dered, at it were, in an enchanted wilderness, and watched 
 the deer reposing under the green shadow of stately trees ; 
 the old hall itself was calculated to excite mysterious curi- 
 osity ; one wing was uninhabited and shut up ; each morn- 
 ing and evening she repaired with her mother and the 
 household through long galleries to the chapel, where she 
 knelt to her devotions, illumined by a window blazoned 
 with the arms of that illustrious family of which she was 
 a member, and of which she knew nothing. She had an 
 indefinite and painful consciousness that she had been early 
 checked in the natural inquiries which occur to every child ; 
 she had insensibly been trained to speak only of what she 
 saw ; and when she listened, at night, to the long ivy rust- 
 ling about the windows, and the wild owls hooting about
 
 12 VENETIA. 
 
 the mansion, with their pining, melancholy voices, she 
 might have been excused for believing in those spirits, 
 which her mother warned her to discredit ; or she for- 
 got these mournful impressions in dreams, caught from 
 her romantic volumes, of bright knights and beautiful 
 damsels. 
 
 Only one event of importance had occurred at Cherbury 
 during these two years, if indeed that be not too strong a 
 phrase to use in reference to an occurrence which occa- 
 sioned so slight and passing an interest. Lord Cadurcis 
 had died. He had left his considerable property to his 
 natural children, but the abbey had descended with the 
 title to a very distant relative. The circle at Cherbury 
 had heard, and that was all, that the new lord was a minor, 
 a little boy, indeed very little older than Venetia herself ; 
 but this information produced no impression. The abbey 
 was still deserted and desolate as ever. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 EVERY Sunday afternoon, the rector of a neighbouring 
 though still somewhat distant parish, of which the rich 
 living was in the gift of the Herberts, came to perform 
 divine service at Cherbury. It was a subject of deep regret 
 to Lady Annabel that herself and her family were debarred 
 from the advantage of more frequent and convenient 
 spiritual consolation ; but, at this time, the parochial dis- 
 cipline of the Church of England was not so strict as it 
 fortunately is at present. Cherbury, though a vicarage, 
 possessed neither parish church, nor a residence for the 
 clergyman ; nor was there indeed a village. The peasants 
 on the estate, or labourers as they are now styled, a term 
 whose introduction into our rural world is much to be 
 lamented, lived in the respective farmhouses on the lands 
 which they cultivated. These were scattered about at
 
 VENETIA. 13 
 
 considerable distances, and many of their inmates found it 
 more convenient to attend the church of the contiguous 
 parish than to repair to the hall chapel, where the house- 
 hold and the dwellers in the few cottages scattered about 
 the park and woods always assembled. The Lady Annabel, 
 whose lot it had been in life to find her best consolation in 
 religion, and who was influenced by not only a sincere but 
 even a severe piety, had no other alternative, therefore, but 
 engaging a chaplain ; but this, after much consideration, she 
 had resolved not to do. She was indeed her own chaplain, 
 herself performing each day such parts of our morning and 
 evening service whose celebration becomes a laic, and 
 reading portions from the writings of those eminent divines 
 who, from the Restoration to the conclusion of the last 
 reign, have so eminently distinguished the communion of 
 our national Church. 
 
 Each Sunday, after the performance of divine service, 
 the Rev. Dr. Masham dined with the family, and he was 
 the only guest at Cherbury Venetia ever remembered 
 seeing. The Doctor was a regular orthodox divine of the 
 eighteenth century ; with a large cauliflower wig, shovel- 
 hat, and huge knee-buckles, barely covered by his top- 
 boots ; learned, jovial, humorous, and somewhat courtly ; 
 truly pious, but not enthusiastic ; not forgetful of his tithes, 
 but generous and charitable when they were once paid ; 
 never neglecting the sick, yet occasionally following a fox ; 
 a fine scholar, an active magistrate, and a good shot ; 
 dreading the Pope, and hating the Presbyterians. 
 
 The Doctor was attached to the Herbert family not 
 merely because they had given him a good living. He 
 had a great reverence for an old English race, and turned 
 up his nose at the Walpolian loanmongers. Lady Annabel, 
 too, so beautiful, so dignified, so amiable, and highly bred, 
 and, above all, so pious, had won his regard. He was not 
 a little proud, too, that he was the only person in the 
 county who had the honour of her acquaintance, and yet 
 was disinterested enough to regret that she led so secluded
 
 14 VENETIA. 
 
 a life, and often lamented that nothing would induce her to 
 show her elegant person on a racecourse, or to attend an 
 assize ball, an assembly which was then becoming much 
 the fashion. The little Venetia was a charming child, and 
 the kind-hearted Doctor, though a bachelor, loved children. 
 
 ! matre pulchrd, filia pulchrior, 
 
 was the Rev. Dr. Masham's apposite and favourite quota- 
 tion after his weekly visit to Cherbury. 
 
 Divine service was concluded ; the Doctor had preached 
 a capital sermon ; for he had been one of the shining lights 
 of his university until his rich but isolating preferment had 
 apparently closed the great career which it was once sup- 
 posed awaited him. The accustomed walk on the terrace 
 was completed, and dinner was announced. This meal was 
 always celebrated at Cherbury, where new fashions stole 
 down with a lingering pace, in the great hall itself. An 
 ample table was placed in the centre on a mat of rushes, 
 sheltered by a large screen covered with huge maps of the 
 shire and the neighbouring counties. The Lady Annabel 
 and her good pastor seated themselves at each end of the 
 table, while Venetia, mounted on a high chair, was waited 
 on by Mistress Pauncefort, who never condescended by any 
 chance attention to notice the presence of any other indi- 
 vidual but her little charge, on whose chair she just leaned 
 with an air of condescending devotion. The butler stood 
 behind his lady, and two other servants watched the Doctor ; 
 rural bodies all, but decked on this day in gorgeous livery 
 coats of blue and silver, which had been made originally 
 for men of very different size and bearing. Simple as was 
 the usual diet at Cherbury the cook was permitted on 
 Sunday full play to her art, which, in the eighteenth 
 century, indulged in the production of dishes more nume- 
 rous and substantial than our refined tastes could at present 
 tolerate. The Doctor appreciated a good dinner, and his 
 countenance glistened with approbation as he surveyed the 
 ample tureen of potage royal, with a boned duck swimming
 
 YENETIA. 15 
 
 in its centre. Before him still scowled in death the grim 
 countenance of a huge roast pike, flanked on one side by a 
 leg of mutton a-la-daube, and on the other by the tempting 
 delicacies of bombarded veal. To these succeeded that 
 masterpiece of the culinary art, a grand battalia pie, in 
 which the bodies of chickens, pigeons, and rabbits Avere 
 embalmed in spices, cocks' combs, and savoury balls, and 
 well bedewed with one of those rich sauces of claret, an- 
 chovy, and sweet herbs, in which our great-grandfathers 
 delighted, and which was technically termed a Lear. But 
 the grand essay of skill was the cover of this pasty, whereon 
 the curious cook had contrived to represent all the once- 
 living forms that were now entombed in that gorgeous 
 sepulchre. A Florentine tourte, or tansy, an old English 
 custard, a more refined blamango, and a riband jelly of 
 many colours, offered a pleasant relief after these vaster 
 inventions, and the repast closed with a dish of oyster 
 loaves and a pompetone of larks. 
 
 Notwithstanding the abstemiousness of his hostess, the 
 Doctor was never deterred from doing justice to her hospi- 
 tality. Pew were the dishes that ever escaped him. The 
 demon dyspepsia had not waved its fell wings over the 
 eighteenth century, and wonderful were the feats then 
 achieved by a country gentleman with the united aid of a 
 good digestion and a good conscience. 
 
 The servants had retired, and Dr. Masham had taken his 
 last glass of port, and then he rang a bell on the table, and, 
 I trust my fair readers will not be frightened from pro- 
 ceeding with this history, a servant brought him his pipe. 
 The pipe was well stuffed, duly lighted, and duly puffed ; 
 and then, taking it from his mouth, the Doctor spoke. 
 
 ' And so, my honoured lady, you have got a neighbour 
 at last.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' exclaimed Lady Annabel. 
 
 But the claims of the pipe prevented the good Doctor 
 from too quickly satisfying her natural curiosity. Another 
 puff or two, and he then continued.
 
 16 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Yes,' said he, ' the old abbey has at last found a tenant.' 
 
 'A tenant, Doctor ? ' 
 
 ' Ay ! the best tenant in the world : its proprietor.' 
 
 ' Yon quite surprise me. When did this occur ? ' 
 
 ' They have been there these three days ; I have paid 
 them a visit. Mrs. Cadurcis has come to live at the abbey 
 with the little lord.' 
 
 ' This is indeed news to us,' said Lady Annabel ; ' and 
 what kind of people are they ? ' 
 
 ' You know, my dear madam,' said the Doctor, just 
 touching the ash of his pipe with his tobacco- stopper of 
 chased silver, ' that the present lord is a very distant 
 relative of the late one ? ' 
 
 Lady Annabel bowed assent. 
 
 ' The late lord,' continued the Doctor, ' who was as 
 strange and wrong-headed a man as ever breathed, though 
 I trust he is in the kingdom of heaven for all that, left all 
 his property to his unlawful children, with the exception of 
 this estate entailed on the title, as all estates should be. 
 'Tis a fine place, but no great rental. I doubt whether 'tis 
 more than a clear twelve hundred a-year.' 
 
 ' And Mrs. Cadurcis ? ' inquired Lady Annabel. 
 
 'Was an heiress,' replied the Doctor, ' and the late Mr. 
 Cadurcis a spendrift. He was a bad manager, and, worse, 
 a bad husband. Providence was pleased to summon him 
 suddenly from this mortal scene, but not before he had 
 dissipated the greater part of his wife's means. Mrs. 
 Cadurcis, since she was a widow, has lived in strict seclusion 
 with her little boy, as you may, my dear lady, with your 
 dear little girl. But I am afraid,' said the Doctor, shaking 
 his head, ' she has not been in the habit of dining so well 
 as we have to-day. A very limited income, my dear madam ; 
 a very limited income indeed. And the guardians. I am 
 told, will only allow the little lord a hundred a-year ; but, 
 on her own income, whatever it may be, and that addition, 
 she has resolved to live at the abbey ; and I believe, ] 
 believe she has it rent-free ; but I don't know.'
 
 VENETIA. 17 
 
 ' Poor -woman ! ' said Lady Annabel, and not without a 
 sigh. ' I trust her child is her consolation.' 
 
 Venetia had not spoken during this conversation, but 
 she had listened to it very attentively. At length she said, 
 * Mamma, is not a widow a wife that has lost her husband?' 
 
 ' You are right, my dear,' said Lady Annabel, rather 
 gravely. 
 
 Venetia mused a moment, and then replied, ' Pray, 
 mamma, are you a widow ? ' 
 
 'My dear little girl,' said Dr. Masham, ' go and give that 
 beautiful peacock a pretty piece of cake.' 
 
 Lady Annabel and the Doctor rose from the table with 
 Venetia, and took a turn in the park, while the Doctor's 
 horses were getting ready. 
 
 ' I think, my good lady,' said the Doctor, ' it would be 
 but an act of Christian charity to call upon Mrs. Cadurcis.' 
 
 ' I was thinking the same,' said Lady Annabel ; ' I am 
 interested by what you have told me of her history and 
 fortunes. We have some woes in common ; I hope some 
 joys. It seems that this case should indeed be an exception 
 to my rule.' 
 
 ' I would not ask you to sacrifice your inclinations to the 
 mere pleasures of the world,' said the Doctor : ' but duties, 
 my dear lady, duties ; there are such things as duties to our 
 neighbour; and here is a case where, believe me, they 
 might be fulfilled.' 
 
 The Doctor's horses now appeared. Both master and 
 groom wore their pistols in their holsters. The Doctor 
 shook hands warmly with Lady Annabel, and patted 
 Venetia on her head, as she ran np from a little distance, 
 with an eager countenance, to receive her accustomed bless- 
 ing. Then mounting his stout mare, he once more waived 
 his hand with an air of courtliness to his hostess, and was 
 soon out of sight. Lady Annabel and Venetia returned to 
 the terrace-room.
 
 18 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 'AND so I would, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort, 
 when Lady Annabel communicated to her faithful attendant, 
 at night, the news of the arrival of the Cadurcis family at 
 the abbey, and her intention of paying Mrs. Cadurcis a 
 visit ; ' and so I would, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort, 
 * and it would be but an act of Christian charity after all, 
 as the Doctor says ; for although it is not for me to com- 
 plain when my betters are satisfied, and after all I am 
 always content, if your ladyship be ; still there is no deny- 
 ing the fact, that this is a terrible lonesome life after all. 
 And I cannot help thinking your ladyship has not been 
 looking so well of late, and a little society would do your 
 ladyship good ; and Miss Venetia too, after all, she wants a 
 playfellow ; I am certain sure that I was as tired of playing 
 at ball with her this morning as if I had never sat down in 
 my born days ; and I dare say the little lord will play with 
 her all day long.' 
 
 ' If I thought that this visit would lead to what is under- 
 stood by the word society, my good Pauncefort, I certainly 
 should refrain from paying it,' said Lady Annabel, very 
 quietly. 
 
 'Oh! Lord, dear my lady, I was not for a moment 
 dreaming of any such thing,' replied Mistress Pauncefort ; 
 ' society, I know as well as any one, means grand balls, 
 Ranelagh, and the masquerades. I can't abide the thought 
 of them, I do assure your ladyship ; all I meant was that a 
 quiet dinner now and then with a few friends, a dance 
 perhaps in the evening, or a hand of whist, or a game of 
 romps at Christmas, when the abbey will of course be quite 
 fall, a ' 
 
 * I believe there is as little chance of the abbey being full 
 at Christmas, or any other time, as there is of Cherbury,' 
 said Lady Annabel. ' Mrs. Cadurcis is a widow, with a 
 very slender fortune. Her son will not enjoy bis estate
 
 VENETIA. 19 
 
 until lie is of age, and its rental is small. I am led to 
 believe that they \vill live quite as quietly as ourselves ; 
 and when I spoke of Christian charity, I was thinking only 
 of kindness towards them, and not of amusement for our- 
 selves.' 
 
 ' "Well, my lady, your la' ship knows best,' replied Mistress 
 Pauncefort, evidently very disappointed; for she had in- 
 dulged in momentary visions of noble visitors and noble 
 valets ; 'I am always content, you know, when your la' ship 
 is ; but, I must say, I think it is very odd for a lord to be 
 so poor. I never heard of such a thing. I think they will 
 turn out richer than you have an idea, my lady. Your 
 la' ship knows 'tis quite a saying, " As rich as a lord." ' 
 
 Lady Annabel smiled, but did not reply. 
 
 The next morning the fawn-coloured chariot, which had 
 rarely been used since Lady Annabel's arrival at Cherbury, 
 and four black long-tailed coach-horses, that from absolute 
 necessity had been degraded, in the interval, to the service of 
 the cart and the plough, made their appearance, after much 
 bustle and effort, before the hall-door. Although a morn- 
 ing's stroll from Cherbury through the woods, Cadurcis 
 was distant nearly ten miles by the road, and that road was 
 in great part impassable, save in favourable seasons. This 
 visit, therefore, was an expedition ; and Lady Annabel^ 
 fearing the fatigue for a child, determined to leave Venetia 
 at home, from whom she had actually never been separated 
 one hour in her life. Venetia could not refrain from shed- 
 ding a tear when her mother embraced and quitted her, and 
 begged, as a last favour, that she might accompany her 
 through the park to the avenue lodge. So Pauncefort and 
 herself entered the chariot, that rocked like a ship, in spite 
 of all the skill of the coachman and the postilion. 
 
 Venetia walked home with Mistress Pauncefort, but 
 Lady Annabel's little daughter was not in her usual lively 
 spirits ; many a butterfly glanced around without attracting 
 her pursuit, and the deer trooped by without eliciting a 
 single observation. At length she said, in a thoughtful 
 
 c 2
 
 20 VENETIA. 
 
 tone, 'Mistress Pauncefort, I should have liked to have gone 
 and seen the little boy.' 
 
 ' You shall go and see him another day, Miss,' replied 
 her attendant. 
 
 ' Mistress Pauncefort,' said Venetia, ' are you a widow ? ' 
 
 Mistress Pauncefort almost started ; had the inquiry 
 been made by a man ; she would almost have supposed he 
 was going to be very rude. She was indeed much sur- 
 prised. 
 
 ' And pray, Miss Venetia, what could put it in your head 
 to ask such an odd question ? ' exclaimed Mistress Paunce- 
 fort. ' A widow ! Miss Venetia ; I have 'never yet changed 
 my name, and I shall not in a hurry, that I can tell 
 you.' 
 
 * Do widows change their names ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 ' All women change their names when they marry,' re- 
 sponded Mistress Pauncefort. 
 
 * Is mamma married ? ' inquired Venetia. 
 
 ' La ! Miss Venetia. Well, to be sure, you do ask the 
 strangest questions. Married ! to be sure she is married,' 
 said Mistress Pauncefort, exceedingly flustered. 
 
 ' And whom is she married to ? ' pursued the unwearied 
 Venetia. 
 
 'Your papa, to be sure,' said Mistress Pauncefort, blush- 
 ing up to her eyes, and looking very confused ; ' that is to 
 say, Miss Venetia, you are never to ask questions about such 
 subjects. Have not I often told you it is not pretty ? ' 
 
 ' Why is it not pretty ? ' said Venetia 
 
 'Because it is not proper,' said Mistress Pauncefort; 
 ' because your mamma does not like you to ask such ques- 
 tions, and she will be very angry with me for answering 
 them, I can tell you that.' 
 
 * I tell you what, Mistress Pauncefort,' said Venetia, ' I 
 think mamma is a widow.' 
 
 ' And what then, Miss Venetia ? There is no shame in 
 that.' 
 
 ' Shame ! ' exclaimed Venetia. * What is shame ? '
 
 VENETIA. 21 
 
 ' 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 Paunce- 
 fort ; I like to talk about widows.' 
 
 ' Was there ever such a child ! ' exclaimed Mistress 
 Pauncefort, with a wondering glance. 
 
 ' I must have had a papa,' Said Venetia ; ' all the ladies I 
 read about had papas, and married husbands. Then whom 
 did my mamma marry ? ' 
 
 ' Lord ! Miss Venetia, you know very well your mamma 
 always tells you that all those books you read are a pack 
 of stories,' observed Mistress Pauncefort, with an air of 
 triumphant art. 
 
 ' There never were such persons, perhaps,' said Yenetia, 
 ' but it is not true that there never were such things as 
 papas and husbands, for all people have papas ; you must 
 have had a papa, Mistress Pauncefort ? ' 
 
 ' To be sure. I had,' said Mistress Pauncefort, bridling 
 up. 
 
 ' And a mamma too ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 ' As honest a woman as ever lived,' said Mistress Paunce- 
 fort. 
 
 ' Then if I have no papa, mamma must be a wife that 
 has lost her husband, and that, mamma told me at dinner 
 yesterday, was a widow.' 
 
 ' Was the like ever seen ! ' exclaimed Mistress Paunce- 
 fort. ' And what then, Miss Venetia ? ' 
 
 ' It seems to me so odd that only two people should live 
 here, and both be widows,' said Venetia, ' and both have a 
 little child ; the only difference is, that one is a little boy, 
 and I am a little girl.' 
 
 'When ladies lose their husbands, they do not like to 
 have their names mentioned,' said Mistress Pauncefort ; 
 ' and so you must never talk of your papa to my lady, and 
 that is the truth.' 
 
 ' I will not now,' said Venetia. 
 
 When they returned home, Mistress Pauncefort brought
 
 22 VENETIA. 
 
 her work, and seated herself on the terrace, that she might 
 not lose sight of her charge. Venetia played about for 
 some little time ; she made a castle behind a tree, and 
 fancied she was a knight, and then a lady, and conjured up 
 an ogre in the neighbouring shrubbery ; but these day- 
 dreams did not amuse her as much as usual. She went and 
 fetched her book, but even ' The Seven Champions ' could 
 not interest her. Her eye was fixed upon the page, and 
 apparently she was absorbed in her pursuit, but her mind 
 wandered, and the page was never turned. She indulged 
 in an unconscious reverie ; her fancy was with her mother 
 on her visit ; the old abbey rose up before her : she painted 
 the scene without an effort : the court, with the fountain ; 
 the grand room, with the tapestry hangings ; that desolate 
 garden, with the fallen statues ; and that long, gloomy 
 gallery. And in all these scenes appeared that little boy, 
 who, somehow or other, seemed wonderfully blended with 
 her imaginings. It was a very long day this ; Venetia 
 dined along with Mistress Pauncefort ; the time hung very 
 heavy ; at length she fell asleep in Mistress Pauncefort's 
 lap. A sound roused her : the carriage had returned ; she 
 ran to greet her mother, but there was no news ; Mrs. 
 Cadurcis had been absent ; she had gone to a distant town 
 to buy some furniture ; and, after all, Lady Annabel had 
 not seen the little boy. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A FEW days after the visit to Cadurcis, when Lady Annabel 
 was sitting alone, a postchaise drove up to the hall, 
 whence issued a short and stout woman with a rubicund 
 countenance, and dressed in a style which remarkably 
 blended the shabby with the tawdry. She was accompanied 
 by a boy between eleven and twelve years of age, whose 
 appearance, however, much contrasted with that of his
 
 VENETIA. 23 
 
 mother, for he was pale and slender, with long curling 
 black hair and large black eyes, which occasionally, by 
 their transient flashes, agreeably relieved a face the general 
 expression of which might be esteemed somewhat shy 
 and sullen. The lady, of course, was Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 who was received by Lady Annabel with the greatest 
 courtesy. 
 
 ' A terrible journey,' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis. fanning 
 herself as she took her seat, ' and so very hot ! Planta- 
 genet, my love, make your bow ! Have not I always told you 
 to make a bow when you enter a room, especially where 
 there are strangers ? This is Lady Annabel Herbert, who 
 was so kind as to call upon us. Make your bow to Lady 
 Annabel.' 
 
 The boy gave a sort of sulky nod, but Lady Annabel re- 
 ceived it so graciously and expressed herself so kindly to 
 him that his features relaxed a little, though he was quite 
 silent and sat on the edge of his chair, the picture of 
 dogged indifference. 
 
 ' Charming country, Lady Annabel,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 ' but worse roads, if possible, than we had in Northumber- 
 land, where, indeed, there were no roads at all. Cherbury 
 a delightful place, very unlike the abbey ; dreadfully lone- 
 some I assure you I find it, Lady Annabel. Great change 
 for us from a little town and all our kind neighbours. 
 Very different from Morpeth ; is it not, Plantagenet ? ' 
 
 * I hate Morpeth,' said the boy. 
 
 ' Hate Morpeth ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis ; ' well, I am 
 sure, that is very ungrateful, with so many kind friends as 
 we always found. Besides, Plantagenet, have I not always 
 told you that you are to hate nothing ? It is very wicked. 
 The trouble it costs me, Lady Annabel, to educate this dear 
 child ! ' continued Mrs. Cadurcis, turning to Lady Annabel, 
 and speaking in a semi- tone. ' I have done it all myself, I 
 assure you ; and, when he likes, he can be as good as any 
 one. Can't you, Plantagenet ? ' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis gave a grim smile ; seated himself at the
 
 24 VENETIA. 
 
 very back of the deep chair and swung his feet, which no 
 longer reached the ground, to and fro. 
 
 ' I am sure that Lord Cadurcis always behaves well,' said 
 Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' There, Plantagenet,' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, ' only 
 listen to that. Hear what Lady Annabel Herbert says; 
 she is sure you always behave well. Now mind, never give 
 her ladyship cause to change her opinion.' 
 
 Plantagenet curled his lip, and half turned his back on 
 his companions. 
 
 * I regretted so much that I was not at home when yon 
 did me the honour to call,' resumed Mrs. Cadurcis ; ' but I 
 had gone over for the day to Southport, buying furniture. 
 What a business it is to buy furniture, Lady Annabel ! * 
 added Mrs. Cadurcis, with a piteous expression. 
 
 ' It is indeed very troublesome,' said Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' Ah ! you have none of these cares,' continued Mrs. 
 Cadurcis, surveying the pretty apartment. ' What a 
 difference between Cherbury and the abbey ! I suppose 
 you have never been there ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, it is one of my favourite walks,' answered Lady 
 Annabel ; ' and, some two years ago, I even took the liberty 
 of walking through the house.' 
 
 ' Was there ever such a place ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis. 
 ' I assure you my poor head turns whenever I try to find 
 my way about it. But the trustees offered it us, and I 
 thought it my duty to my son to reside there. Besides, it 
 was a great offer to a widow ; if poor Mr. Cadurcis had been 
 alive it would have been different. I hardly know what I 
 shall do there, particularly in winter. My spirits are always 
 dreadfully low. I only hope Plantagenet will behave well. 
 If he goes into his tantarums at the abbey, and particularly 
 in winter, I hardly know what will become of me ! ' 
 
 ' I am sure Lord Cadurcis will do everything to make the 
 abbey comfortable to you. Besides, it is but a short walk 
 from Cherbury, and you must come often and see us.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Plantagenet can be good if he likes, I can assure
 
 VENETIA. 25 
 
 yon, Lady Annabel ; and behaves as properly as any little 
 boy I know. Plantagenet, my dear, speak. Have not I 
 always told you, when you pay a visit, that you should 
 open your mouth now and then. I don't like chattering 
 children,' added Mrs. Cadurcis, ' but I like them to answer 
 when they are spoken to.' 
 
 ' Nobody has spoken to me,' said Lord Cadurcis, in a 
 sullen tone. 
 
 ' Plantagenet, my love !' said his mother in a solemn voice. 
 
 ' Well, mother, what do you want ? ' 
 
 ' Plantagenet, my love, you know you promised me to be 
 good ! ' 
 
 ' Well ! what have I done ? ' 
 
 ' Lord Cadurcis,' said Lady Annabel, interfering, ' do you 
 like to look at pictures ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you,' replied the little lord, in a more courteous 
 tone ; ' I like to be left alone.' 
 
 ' Did you ever know such an odd child ! ' said Mrs. 
 Cadurcis ; ' and yet, Lady Annabel, you must not judge him 
 by what you see. I do assure you he can behave, when he 
 likes, as pretty as possible.' 
 
 ' Pretty ! ' muttered the little lord between his teeth. 
 
 ' If you had only seen him at Morpeth sometimes at a 
 little tea party,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, 'he really was quite 
 the ornament of the company.' 
 
 ' No, I wasn't,' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' Plantagenet ! ' said his mother again in a solemn tone, 
 ' have I not always told you that you are never to contradict 
 any one ? ' 
 
 The little lord indulged in a suppressed growl. 
 
 ' There was a little play last Christmas,' continued Mrs. 
 Cadurcis, ' and he acted quite delightfully. Now you would 
 not think that, from the way he sits upon that chair. 
 Plantagenet, my dear, I do insist upon your behaving- 
 yourself. Sit like a man.' 
 
 ' I am not a man,' said Lord Cadurcis, very quietly ; ' I 
 wish I were.'
 
 26 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Plantagenet ! ' said the mother, ' have not I always told 
 you that you. are never to answer me ? It is not proper for 
 children to answer ! Lady Annabel, if you knew what it 
 cost me to educate iny son. He never does anything I wish, 
 and it is so provoking, because I know that he can behave 
 as properly as possible if he likes. He does it to provoke 
 me. You know you do it to provoke me, you little brat ; 
 now, sit properly, sir ; I do desire you to sit properly. 
 How vexatious that you should call at Cherbury for the 
 first time, and behave in this manner ! Plantagenet, do you 
 hear me ? ' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, with a face reddening 
 to scarlet, and almost menacing a move from her seat. 
 
 ' Yes, everybody hears you, Mrs. Cadurcis,' said the little 
 lord. 
 
 ' Don't call me Mrs. Cadurcis,' exclaimed the mother, in 
 a dreadful rage. ' That is not the way to speak to your 
 mother ; I will not be called Mrs. Cadurcis by you. Don't 
 answer me, sir; I desire you not to answer me. I have 
 half a mind to get up and give you a good shake, that I 
 have. O Lady Annabel,' sighed Mrs. Cadurcis, while a tear 
 trickled down her cheek, ' if you only knew the life I lead, 
 and what trouble it costs me to educate that child ! ' 
 
 ' My dear madam,' said Lady Annabel, ' I am sure that 
 Lord Cadurcis has no other wish but to please you. 
 Indeed you have misunderstood him.' 
 
 ' Yes ! she always misunderstands me,' said Lord Ca- 
 durcis, in a softer tone, but with pouting lips and suffused 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Now he is going on,' said his mother, beginning herself 
 to cry dreadfully. ' He knows my weak heart ; he knows 
 nobody in the world loves him like his mother ; and this is 
 the way he treats me.' 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Cadurcis,' said Lady Annabel, ' pray take 
 luncheon after your long drive ; and Lord Cadurcis, I am 
 sure you must be fatigued.' 
 
 ' Thank you, I never eat, my dear lady,' said Mrs. Ca- 
 durcis, ' except at my meals. But one glass of Mountain,
 
 VENETIA. 27 
 
 if you please, I would just take the liberty of tasting, for 
 the weather is so dreadfully hot, and Plantagenet has so 
 aggravated me, I really do not feel myself.' 
 
 Lady Annabel sounded her silver hand-bell, and the 
 butler brought some cakes and the Mountain. Mrs. Ca- 
 durcis revived by virtue of her single glass, and the provi- 
 dential co-operation of a subsequent one or two. Even 
 the cakes and the Mountain, however, would not tempt her 
 son to open his mouth ; and this, in spite of her returning 
 composure, drove her to desperation. A conviction that 
 the Mountain and the cakes were delicious, an amiable 
 desire that the palate of her spoiled child should be gra- 
 tified, some reasonable maternal anxiety that after so long 
 and fatiguing a drive he in fact needed some refreshment, 
 and the agonising consciousness that all her own physical 
 pleasure at the moment was destroyed by the mental 
 sufferings she endured at having quarrelled with her son, 
 and that he was depriving himself of Avhat was so agreeable 
 only to pique her, quite overwhelmed the ill-regulated mind 
 of this fond mother. Between each sip and each mouthful, 
 she appealed to him to follow her example, now with ca- 
 jolery, now with menace, till at length, worked up by the 
 united stimulus of the Mountain and her own ungovernable 
 rage, she dashed down the glass and unfinished slice of 
 cake, and, before the astonished Lady Annabel, rushed 
 forward to give him what she had long threatened, and 
 what she in general ultimately had recourse to, a good 
 shake. 
 
 Her agile son, experienced in these storms, escaped in 
 time, and pushed his chair before his infuriated mother ; 
 Mrs. Cadurcis, however, rallied, and chased him round the 
 room ; once more she flattered herself she had captured 
 him, once more he evaded her ; in her despair she took up 
 Venetia's ' Seven Champions,' and threw the volume at his 
 head; he laughed a fiendish laugh, as, ducking his head, 
 the book flew on, and dashed through a pane of glass ; 
 Mrs. Cadurcis made a desperate charge, and her son, a little
 
 28 VENETIA. 
 
 frightened at her almost maniacal passion, saved himself 
 by suddenly seizing Lady Annabel's work-table, and whirl- 
 ing it before her ; Mrs. Cadurcis fell over the leg of the 
 table, and went into hysterics ; while the bloodhound, who 
 had long started from his repose, looked at his mistress for 
 instructions, and in the meantime continued barking. The 
 astonished and agitated Lady Annabel assisted Mrs. Ca- 
 durcis to rise, and led her to a couch. Lord Cadurcis, 
 pale and dogged, stood in a corner, and after all this 
 uproar there was a comparative calm, only broken by" the 
 sobs of the mother, each instant growing fainter and 
 fainter. 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Mistress Pauncefort 
 ushered in the little Yenetia. She really looked like an 
 angel of peace sent from heaven on a mission of concord, 
 with her long golden hair, her bright face, and smile of in- 
 effable loveliness. 
 
 ' Mamma ! ' said Yenetia, in the sweetest tone. 
 
 ' Hush ! darling,' said Lady Annabel, ' this lady is not very 
 well.' 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis opened her eyes and sighed. She beheld 
 Yenetia, and stared at her with a feeling of wonder. ' O 
 Lady Annabel,' she faintly exclaimed, ' what must you think 
 of me ? But was there ever such an unfortunate mother ? 
 and I have not a thought in the world but for that boy. I 
 have devoted my life to him, and never would have buried 
 myself in this abbey but for his sake. And this is the way 
 he treats me, and his father before him treated me even 
 worse. Am I not the most unfortunate woman you ever 
 knew ? ' 
 
 ' My dear madam,' said the kind Lady Annabel, in a 
 soothing tone, ' you will be very happy yet ; all will be 
 quite right and quite happy.' 
 
 ' Is this angel your child ? ' inquired Mrs. Cadurcis, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 ' This is my little girl, Yenetia. Come hither, Yenetia, 
 and speak to Mrs. Cadurcis.'
 
 VENETIA. 20 
 
 4 How do you do, Mrs. Cadurcis ? ' said Venetia. ' I am 
 so glad you have come to live at the abbey.' 
 
 ' The angel ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis. ' The sweet 
 seraph ! Oh ! why did not my Plantagenet speak to you, 
 Lady Annabel, in the same tone ? And he can, if he likes ; 
 he can, indeed. It was his silence that so mortified me ; it 
 was his silence that led to all. I am so proud of him ! and 
 then he comes here, and never speaks a word. Planta- 
 genet, I am sure you will break my heart.' 
 
 Yenetia went up to the little lord in the corner, and 
 gently stroked his dark cheek. ' Are you the little boy ? ' 
 she said. 
 
 Cadurcis looked at her ; at first the glance was rather 
 fierce, but it instantly relaxed. ' What is your name ? ' he 
 said in a low, but not unkind, tone. 
 
 ' Venetia ! ' 
 
 ' I like you, Yenetia,' said the boy. ' Do you live here ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, with my mamma.' 
 
 ' I like your mamma, too ; but not so much as you. I 
 like your gold hair.' 
 
 ' Oh, how funny ! to like my gold hair ! ' 
 
 ' If you had come in sooner,' said Cadurcis, ' we should 
 not have had this row.' 
 
 * What is a row, little boy ? ' said Yenetia. 
 
 ' Do not call me little boy,' he said, but not in an unkind 
 tone ; ' call me by my name.' 
 
 ' What is your name ? ' 
 
 ' Lord Cadurcis ; but you may call me by my Christian 
 name, because I like you.' 
 
 ' What is your Christian name ? ' 
 
 ' Plantagenet.' 
 
 ' Plantagenet ! What a long name ! ' said Yenetia. 
 ' Tell me then, Plantagenet, what is a row ? ' 
 
 ' What often takes place between me and my mother, but 
 which I am sorry now has happened here, for I like this 
 place, and should like to come often. A row is a quarrel.' 
 
 ' A quarrel ! What ! do you quarrel with your mamma?'
 
 30 VENETIA. 
 
 1 Often.' 
 
 ' Why, then, you are not a good boy.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my mamma is not like yonrs,' said the little lord, 
 with a sigh. ' It is not my fault. But now I want to 
 make it up ; how shall I do it ? ' 
 
 ' Go and give her a kiss.' 
 
 ' Poh ! that is not the way.' 
 
 ' Shall I go and ask my mamma what is best to do ? ' 
 said Venetia ; and she stole away on tiptoe, and whispered 
 to Lady Annabel that Plantagenet wanted her. Her 
 mother came forward and invited Lord Cadurcis to walk 
 on the terrace with her, leaving Venetia to amuse her 
 other guest. 
 
 Lady Annabel, though kind, was frank and firm in her 
 unexpected confidential interview with her new friend. 
 She placed before him clearly the enormity of his conduct, 
 which no provocation could justify ; it was a violation of 
 divine law, as well as human propriety. She found the 
 little lord attentive, tractable, and repentant, and, what 
 might not have been expected, exceedingly ingenious and 
 intelligent. His observations, indeed, were distinguished 
 by remarkable acuteness ; and though he could not, and 
 indeed did not even attempt to vindicate his conduct, he 
 incidentally introduced much that might be urged in its 
 extenuation. There was indeed in this, his milder moment, 
 something very winning in his demeanour, and Lady An- 
 nabel deeply regretted that a nature of so much promise 
 and capacity should, by the injudicious treatment of a 
 parent, at once fond and violent, afford such slight hopes of 
 future happiness. It was arranged between Lord Cadurcis 
 and Lady Annabel that she should lead him to his mother, 
 and that he should lament the past, and ask her forgive- 
 ness ; so they re-entered the room. Venetia was listening 
 to a long story from Mrs. Cadurcis, who appeared to have 
 entirely recovered herself ; but her countenance assumed a 
 befitting expression of grief and gravity when she observed 
 her son.
 
 VEKETIA. 31 
 
 * My dear madam,' said Lady Annabel, ' your son is un- 
 happy that he should have offended you, and he has asked 
 my kind offices to effect a perfect reconciliation between a 
 child who wishes to be dutiful to a parent who, he feels, 
 has always been so affectionate.' 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis began crying. 
 
 * Mother,' said her son, ' I am sorry for what has 
 occurred ; mine was the fault. I shall not be happy till 
 you pardon me.' 
 
 ' No, yours was not the fault,' said poor Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 crying bitterly. ' Oh ! no, it was not ! I was in fault, only 
 I. There, Lady Annabel, did I not tell you he was the 
 sweetest, dearest, most generous-hearted creature that ever 
 lived ? Oh ! if he would only always speak so, I am sure 
 I should be the happiest woman that ever breathed ! He 
 puts me in mind quite of his poor dear father, who was an 
 angel upon earth ; he was indeed, when he was not vexed. 
 O my dear Plantagenet ! my only hope and joy ! you are 
 the treasure and consolation of my life, and always will be. 
 God bless you, my darling child ! You shall have that 
 pony you wanted ; I am sure I can manage it : I did not 
 think I could.' 
 
 As Lady Annabel thought it was as well that the mother 
 and the son should not be immediately thrown together 
 after this storm, she kindly proposed that they should remain, 
 and pass the day at Cherbury ; and, as Plantagenet's eyes 
 brightened at the proposal, it did not require much trouble 
 to persuade his mother to accede to it. The day, that had 
 commenced so inauspiciously, turned out one of the most 
 agreeable, both to Mrs. Cadurcis and her child. The two 
 mothers conversed together, and, as Mrs. Cadurcis was a 
 great workwoman, there was at least one bond of sympathy 
 between. her and the tapestry of her hostess. Then they all 
 took a stroll in the park ; and as Mrs. Cadurcis was not 
 able to walk for any length of time, the children were per- 
 mitted to stroll about together, attended by Mistress 
 Paancefort, while Mrs. Cadurcis, chatting without ceasing,
 
 32 VENETIA. 
 
 detailed to Lady Annabel all the history of her life, all the 
 details of her various complaints and her economical 
 arrangements, and all the secrets of her husband's treat- 
 ment of her, that favourite subject on which she ever 
 waxed most eloquent. Plantagenet, equally indulging in 
 confidence, which with him, however, was unusual, poured 
 all his soul into the charmed ear of Venetia. He told her 
 how he and his mother had lived at Morpeth, and how he 
 hated it ; how poor they had. been, and how rich he should 
 be ; how he loved the abbey, and especially the old gallery, 
 and the drums and armour ; how he had been a day- scholar 
 at a little school which he abhorred, and how he was to go 
 some day to Eton, of which he was very proud. 
 
 At length they were obliged to return, and when dinner 
 was over the postchaise was announced. Mrs. Cadurcis 
 parted from Lady Annabel with all the warm expressions 
 of a heart naturally kind and generous ; and Plantagenet 
 embraced Venetia, and promised that the next day he 
 would find his way alone from Cadurcis, through the wood, 
 and come and take another walk with her. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 THIS settlement of Mrs. Cadurcis and her son in the neigh- 
 bourhood was an event of no slight importance in the life of 
 the family at Cherbury. Venetia at length found a com- 
 panion of her own age, itself an incident which, in its 
 influence upon her character and pursuits, was not to be 
 disregarded. There grew up between the little lord and 
 the daughter of Lady Annabel that fond intimacy which 
 not rarely occurs in childhood. Plantagenet and Venetia 
 quickly imbibed for each other a singular affection, not dis- 
 pleasing to Lady Annabel, who observed, without dissatis- 
 faction, the increased happiness of her child, and encouraged 
 by her kindness the frequent visits of the boy, who soon.
 
 VENETIA. 33 
 
 learnt the shortest road from the abbey, and almost daily 
 scaled the hill, and traced his way through the woods to the 
 hall. There was much, indeed, in the character and the 
 situation of Lord Cadurcis which interested Lady Annabel 
 Herbert. His mild, engaging, and affectionate manners, 
 when he was removed from the injudicious influence of his 
 mother, won upon her feelings ; she felt for this lone child, 
 whom nature had gifted with so soft a heart and with a 
 thoughtful mind whose outbreaks not unfrequently attracted 
 her notice ; with none to guide him, and with only one 
 heart to look up to for fondness ; and that, too, one that 
 had already contrived to forfeit the respect even of so young 
 a child. 
 
 Yet Lady Annabel was too sensible of the paramount 
 claims of a mother ; herself, indeed, too jealous of any en- 
 croachment on the full privileges of maternal love ; to sanc- 
 tion in the slightest degree, by her behaviour, any neglect 
 of Mrs. Cadurcis by her son. For his sake, therefore, she 
 courted the society of her new neighbour ; and although 
 Mrs. Cadurcis offered little to engage Lady Annabel's 
 attention as a companion, though she was violent in her 
 temper, far from well informed, and, from the society in. 
 which, in spite of her original good birth, her later years 
 had passed, very far from being refined, she was not with- 
 out her good qualities. She was generous, kind-hearted, 
 and grateful ; not insensible of her own deficiencies, and 
 respectable from her misfortunes. Lady Annabel was one 
 of those who always judged individuals rather by their good 
 qualities than their bad. With the exception of her violent 
 temper, which, under the control of Lady Annabel's pre- 
 sence, and by the aid of all that kind person's skilful 
 management, Mrs. Cadurcis generally contrived to bridle, her 
 principal faults were those of manner, which, from the force 
 of habit, every day became less painful. Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 who, indeed, was only a child of a larger growth, became 
 scarcely less attached to the Herbert family than her son ; 
 she felt that her life, under their influence, was happier and 
 
 D
 
 34 VENETIA. 
 
 serener than of yore ; that there were less domestic broils 
 than in old days ; that her son was more dutiful ; and, as 
 she could not help suspecting, though she found it difficult 
 to analyse the cause, herself more amiable. The truth was, 
 Lady Annabel always treated Mrs. Cadnrcis with studied 
 respect ; and the children, and especially Venetia, followed 
 her example. Mrs. Cadurcis' self-complacency was not only 
 less shocked, but more gratified, than before ; and this was 
 the secret of her happiness. For no one was more mor- 
 tified by her rages, when they were past, than Mrs. Cadur- 
 cis herself; she felt they compromised her dignity, and 
 had lost her all moral command over a child whom she 
 loved at the bottom of her heart with a kind of wild pas- 
 sion, though she would menace and strike him, and who 
 often precipitated these paroxysms by denying his mother 
 that duty and affection which were, after all, the great 
 charm and pride of her existence. 
 
 As Mrs. Cadurcis was unable to walk to Cherbury, and 
 as Plantagenet soon fell into the habit of passing every 
 morning at the hall, Lady Annabel was frequent in her 
 visits to the mother, and soon she persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis 
 to order the old postchaise regularly on Saturday, and 
 remain at Cherbury until the following Monday ; by these 
 means both families united together in the chapel at divine 
 service, while the presence of Dr. Masham, at their now 
 increased Sunday dinner, was an incident in the monotonous 
 life of Mrs. Cadurcis far from displeasing to her. The Doctor 
 gave her a little news of the neighbourhood, and of the 
 country in general; amused her with an occasional anec- 
 dote of the Queen and the young Princesses, and always 
 lent her the last number of ' Sylvanus Urban.' 
 
 This weekly visit to Cherbury, the great personal atten- 
 tion which she always received there, and the frequent 
 morning walks of Lady Annabel to the abbey, effectually 
 repressed on the whole the jealousy which was a character- 
 istic of Mrs. Cadurcis' nature, and which the constant ab- 
 sence of her son from her in the mornings might otherwise
 
 VENETIA. 35 
 
 have fatally developed. But Mrs. Cadurcis could not resist 
 the conviction that the Herberts were as much her friends 
 as her child's ; her jealousy was balanced by her gratitude ; 
 she was daily, almost hourly, sensible of some kindness of 
 Lady Annabel, for there were a thousand services in the 
 power of the opulent and ample establishment of Cherbury 
 to afford the limited and desolate household at the abbey. 
 Living in seclusion, it is difficult to refrain from imbibing 
 even a strong regard for our almost solitary companion, 
 however incompatible may be our pursuits, and however 
 our tastes may vary, especially when that companion is 
 grateful, and duly sensible of the condescension of our inti- 
 macy. And so it happened that, before a year had elapsed, 
 that very Mrs. Cadurcis, whose first introduction at Cherbury 
 had been so unfavourable to her, and from whose temper 
 and manners the elegant demeanour and the disciplined 
 mind of Lady Annabel Herbert might have been excused 
 for a moment recoiling, had succeeded in establishing a 
 strong hold upon the affections of her refined neighbour, 
 who sought, on every occasion, her society, and omitted few 
 opportunities of contributing to her comfort and welfare. 
 
 In the meantime her son was the companion of Venetia, 
 both in her pastimes and studies. The education of Lord 
 Cadurcis had received no further assistance than was 
 afforded by the little grammar-school at Morpeth, where he 
 had passed three or four years as a day-scholar, and where 
 his mother had invariably taken his part on every occasion 
 that he had incurred the displeasure of his master. There 
 he had obtained some imperfect knowledge of Latin ; yet 
 the boy was fond of reading, and had picked up, in an odd 
 way, more knowledge than might have been supposed. He 
 had read ' Baker's Chronicle,' and ' The Old Universal 
 History,' and 'Plutarch;' and had turned over, in the book 
 room of an old gentleman at Morpeth, who had been at- 
 tracted by his intelligence, not a few curious old folios, 
 from which he had gleaned no contemptible store of curious 
 instances of human nature. His guardian, whom he had 
 
 P 2
 
 36 VENETIA. 
 
 never seen, and who was a great nobleman and lived in 
 London, had signified to Mrs. Cadurcis his intention of send- 
 ing his ward to Eton ; but that time had not yet arrived, 
 and Mrs. Cadurcis, who dreaded parting with her son, de- 
 termined to postpone it by every maternal artifice in her 
 power. At present it would have seemed that her son's 
 intellect was to be left utterly uncultivated, for there was 
 no school in the neighbourhood which he could attend, 
 and no occasional assistance which could be obtained ; 
 and to the constant presence of a tutor in the house Mrs, 
 Cadurcis was not less opposed than his lordship could have 
 been himself. 
 
 It was by degrees that Lord Cadurcis became the part- 
 ner of Venetia in her studies. Lady Annabel had consulted 
 Dr. Masham about the poor little boy, whose neglected 
 state she deplored ; and the good Doctor had offered to 
 ride over to Cherbury at least once a week, besides Sunday, 
 provided Lady Annabel would undertake that his directions, 
 in his absence, should be attended to. This her ladyship 
 promised cheerfully ; nor had she any difficulty in per- 
 suading Cadurcis to consent to the arrangement. He 
 listened with docility and patience to her representation of 
 the fatal effects, in his after- life, of his neglected education ; 
 of the generous and advantageous offer of Dr. Masham ,- 
 and how cheerfully she would exert herself to assist his 
 endeavours, if Plantagenet would willingly submit to her 
 supervision. The little lord expressed to her his deter- 
 mination to do all that she desired, and voluntarily pro- 
 mised her that she should never repent her goodness. 
 And he kept his word. So every morning, with the full 
 concurrence of Mrs. Cadurcis, whose advice and opinion on 
 the affair were most formally solicited by Lady Annabel, 
 Plantagenet arrived early at the hall, and took his writing 
 and French lessons with Venetia, and then they alternately 
 read aloud to Lady Annabel from the histories of Hooke 
 and Echard. When Venetia repaired to her drawing, 
 Cadurcis sat down to his Latin exercise, and, in encourag-
 
 VENETIA. 37 
 
 ing and assisting him, Lady Annabel, a proficient in Italian, 
 began herself to learn the ancient language of the Romans. 
 With puch a charming mistress even these Latin exercises 
 were achieved. In vain Cadurcis, after turning leaf over 
 leaf, would look round with a piteous air to his fair assistant, 
 * Lady Annabel, I am sure the word is not in the 
 dictionary ; ' Lady Annabel was in a moment at his side, 
 and, by some magic of her fair fingers, the word would 
 somehow or other make its appearance. After a little ex- 
 posure of this kind, Plantagenet would labour with double 
 energy, until, heaving a deep sigh of exhaustion and vexa- 
 tion, he would burst forth, ' Lady Annabel, indeed there 
 is not a nominative case in this sentence.' And then Lady 
 Annabel would quit her easel, with her pencil in her hand, 
 and give all her intellect to the puzzling construction ; at 
 length, she would say, ' I think, Plantagenet, this must be 
 our nominative case ; ' and so it always was. 
 
 Thus, when Wednesday came, the longest and most 
 laborious morning of all Lord Cadurcis' studies, and when 
 he neither wrote, nor read, nor learnt French with Venetia, 
 but gave up all his soul to Dr. Masham, he usually acquitted 
 Mmself to that good person's satisfaction, who left him, in 
 general, with commendations that were not lost on the 
 pupil, and plenty of fresh exercises to occupy him and Lady 
 Annabel until the next week. When a year had thus passed 
 away, the happiest year yet in Lord Cadurcis' life, in spite 
 of all his disadvantages, he had contrived to make no in- 
 considerable progress. Almost deprived of a tutor, he had 
 advanced in classical acquirement more than during the 
 "whole of his preceding years of scholarship, while his hand- 
 writing began to become intelligible, he could read French 
 with comparative facility, and had turned over many a 
 volume in the well-stored library at Cherbury.
 
 38 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 WHEN tlie hours of study were past, the children, with that 
 zest for play which occupation can alone secure, would go 
 forth together, and wander in the park. Here they had 
 made a little world for themselves, of which no one dreamed ; 
 for Venetia had poured forth all her Arcadian lore into the 
 ear of Plantagenet, and they acted together many of the 
 adventures of the romance, under the fond names of Musi- 
 dorus and Philoclea. Cherbury was Arcadia, and Cadurcis 
 Macedon ; while the intervening woods figured as the forests 
 of Thessaly, and the breezy downs were the heights of 
 Pindus. Unwearied was the innocent sport of their virgin 
 imaginations ; and it was a great treat if Venetia, attended 
 by Mistress Pauncefort, were permitted to accompany 
 Plantagenet some way on his return. Then they parted 
 with an embrace in the woods of Thessaly, and Musidorus 
 strolled home with a heavy heart to his Macedonian realm. 
 
 Parted from Venetia, the magic suddenly seemed to cease, 
 and Musidorus was instantly transformed into the little 
 Lord Cadurcis, exhausted by the unconscious efforts of his 
 fancy, depressed by the separation from his sweet com- 
 panion, and shrinking from the unpoetical reception which 
 at the best awaited him in his ungenial home. Often, when 
 thus alone, would he loiter on his way and seat himself on 
 the ridge, and watch the setting sun, as its dying glory 
 illumined the turrets of his ancient house, and burnished the 
 waters of the lake, until the tears stole down his cheek ; and 
 yet he knew not why. No thoughts of sorrow had flitted 
 through his mind, nor indeed had ideas of any description 
 occurred to him. It was a trance of unmeaning abstrac- 
 tion ; all that he felt was a mystical pleasure in watching 
 the sunset, and a conviction that, if he were not with 
 Venetia, that which he loved next best, was to be alone. 
 
 The little Cadurcis in general returned home moody and 
 silent, and his mother too often, irritated by his demeanour,
 
 VENETIA. 39 
 
 indulged in all the expressions of a quick and ofibnded 
 temper ; but since Ms intimacy with, the Herberts, Planta- 
 genet had learnt to control his emotions, and often success- 
 fully laboured to prevent those scenes of domestic recrimi- 
 nation once so painfully frequent. There often, too, was a 
 note from Lady Annabel to Mrs. Cadurcis, or some other 
 slight memorial, borne by her son, which enlisted all the 
 kind feelings of that lady in favour of her Cherbury friends, 
 and then the evening was sure to pass over in peace ; and, 
 when Plantagenet was not thus armed, he exerted himself 
 to be cordial ; and so, on the whole, with some skill in 
 management, and some trials of temper, the mother and 
 child contrived to live together with far greater comfort 
 than they had of old. 
 
 Bedtime was always a great relief to Plantagenet, for it 
 secured him solitude. He would lie awake for hours, in- 
 dulging in sweet and unconscious reveries, and brooding 
 over the future morn, that always brought happiness. All 
 that he used to sigh for, was to be Lady Annabel's son ; 
 were he Venetia's brother, then he was snre he never 
 should be for a moment unhappy ; that parting frem Cher- 
 bury, and the gloomy evenings at Cadurcis, would then be 
 avoided. In such a mood, and lying awake upon his pillow, 
 he sought refuge from the painful reality that surrounded 
 him in the creative solace of his imagination. Alone, in his 
 little bed, Cadurcis was Venetia's brother, and he conjured 
 up a thousand scenes in which they were never separated, 
 and wherein he always played an amiable and graceful part. 
 Yet he loved the abbey ; his painful infancy was not asso- 
 ciated with that scene ; it was not connected with any of 
 those grovelling common-places of his life, from which he 
 had shrunk back with instinctive disgust, even at a very 
 tender age. Cadurcis was the spot to which, in his most 
 miserable moments at Morpeth, he had always looked for- 
 ward, as the only chance of emancipation from the distress- 
 ing scene that surrounded him. He had been brought up 
 with a due sense of his future position, and although he had
 
 40 VENETIA. 
 
 ever affected a haughty indifference on the subject, from his 
 disrelish for the coarse acquaintances who were perpetually 
 reminding him, with chuckling self-complacency, of his 
 future greatness, in secret he had ever brooded over his 
 destiny as his only consolation. He had imbibed from 
 his own reflections, at a very early period of life, a due 
 sense of the importance of his lot ; he was proud of his 
 hereditary honours, blended, as they were, with some 
 glorious passages in the history of his country, and prouder 
 of his still more ancient line. The eccentric exploits and 
 the violent passions, by which his race had been ever cha- 
 racterised, were to him a source of secret exultation. Even 
 the late lord, who certainly had no claims to his gratitude, 
 for he had robbed the inheritance to the utmost of his 
 power, commanded, from the wild decision of his life, the 
 savage respect of his successor. In vain Mrs. Cadurcis 
 would pour forth upon this, the favourite theme for her 
 wrath and her lamentations, all the bitter expressions of 
 her rage and woe. Plantagenet had never imbibed her 
 prejudices against the departed, and had often irritated his 
 mother by maintaining that the late lord was perfectly 
 justified in his conduct. 
 
 But in these almost daily separations between Plantagenet 
 and Venetia, how different was her lot to that of her com- 
 panion ! She was the confidante of all his domestic sorrows, 
 and often he had requested her to exert her influence to 
 obtain some pacifying missive from Lady Annabel, which 
 might secure him a quiet evening at Cadurcis ; and when- 
 ever this had not been obtained, the last words of Venetia 
 were ever not to loiter, and to remember to speak to his 
 mother as much as he possibly could. Venetia returned 
 to a happy home, welcomed by the smile of a soft and 
 beautiful parent, and with words of affection sweeter than 
 music. She found an engaging companion, who had no 
 thought but for her welfare, her amusement, and her in- 
 struction : and often, when the curtains were drawn, the 
 candles lit, and Venetia, holding her mother's hand, opened 
 her book, she thought of poor Plantagenet, so differently
 
 VENETIA. 41 
 
 situated, with no one to be kind to him, with no one to 
 sympathise with his thoughts, and perhaps at the very mo- 
 ment goaded into some unhappy quarrel with his mother. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE appearance of the Cadurcis family on the limited stage 
 of her life, and the engrossing society of her companion, 
 had entirely distracted the thoughts of Venetia from a sub- 
 ject to which in old days they were constantly recurring, 
 and that was her father. By a process which had often 
 perplexed her, and which she could never succeed in 
 analysing, there had arisen in her mind, without any osten- 
 sible agency on the part of her mother which she could 
 distinctly recall, a conviction that this was a topic on which 
 she was never to speak. This idea had once haunted her, 
 and she had seldom found herself alone without almost un- 
 consciously musing over it. Notwithstanding the unvary- 
 ing kindness of Lady Annabel, she exercised over her child 
 a complete and unquestioned control. Venetia was brought 
 up with strictness, which was only not felt to be severe, 
 because the system was founded on the most entire affec- 
 tion, but, fervent as her love was for her mother, it was 
 equalled by her profound respect, which every word and 
 action of Lady Annabel tended to maintain. 
 
 In all the confidential effusions with Plantagenet, Venetia 
 had never dwelt upon this mysterious subject ; indeed, in 
 these conversations, when they treated of their real and not 
 ideal life, Venetia was a mere recipient : all that she could 
 communicate, Plantagenet could observe; he it was who 
 avenged himself at these moments for his habitual silence 
 before third persons ; it was to Venetia that he poured forth 
 all his soul, and she was never weary of hearing his stories 
 about Morpeth, and all his sorrows, disgusts, and afflictions. 
 There was scarcely an individual in that little town with 
 whom, from his lively narratives, she was not familiar ; and 
 it was to her sympathising heart that he confided all his
 
 42 VENETIA. 
 
 future hopes and prospects, and confessed the strong pride 
 he experienced in being a Cadurcis, which from all others 
 was studiously concealed. 
 
 It had happened that the first Christmas Day after the 
 settlement of the Cadurcis family at the abbey occurred in 
 the middle of the week ; and as the weather was severe, in 
 order to prevent two journeys at such an inclement season, 
 Lady Annabel persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to pass the whole 
 week at the hall. This arrangement gave such pleasure to 
 Plantagenet that the walls of the abbey, as the old post- 
 chaise was preparing for their journey, quite resounded with 
 his merriment. In vain his mother, harassed with all the 
 mysteries of packing, indulged in a thousand irritable ex- 
 pressions, which at any other time might have produced a 
 broil or even a fray ; Cadurcis did nothing but laugh. There 
 was at the bottom of this boy's heart, with all his habitual 
 gravity and reserve, a fund of humour which would occa- 
 sionally break out, and which nothing could withstand. 
 When he was alone with Venetia, he would imitate the old 
 maids of Morpeth, and all the ceremonies of a provincial 
 tea party, with so much life and genuine fun, that Venetia 
 was often obliged to stop in their rambles to indulge her 
 overwhelming mirth. When they were alone, and he was 
 gloomy, she was often accustomed to say, ' Now, dear Plan- 
 tagenet, tell me how the old ladies at Morpeth drink tea.' 
 
 This morning at the abbey, Cadnrcis was irresistible, and 
 the more excited his mother became with the difficulties 
 which beset her, the more gay and fluent were his quips 
 and cranks. Puffing, panting, and perspiring, now direct- 
 ing her waiting- woman, now scolding her man-servant, and 
 now ineffectually attempting to box her son's ears, Mrs. 
 Cadurcis indeed offered a most ridiculous spectacle. 
 
 ' John ! ' screamed Mrs. Cadurcis, in a voice of bewildered 
 passion, and stamping with rage, ' is that the place for my 
 cap-box ? You do it on purpose, that you do ! ' 
 
 ' John,' mimicked Lord Cadurcis, ' how dare you do it on 
 purpose ? '
 
 VENETIA. 43 
 
 ' Take that, you brat,' shrieked the mother, and she 
 struck her own hand against the doorway. ' Oh ! I'll give 
 it you, I'll give it you,' she bellowed under the united in- 
 fluence of rage and pain, and she pursued her agile child, 
 who dodged her on the other side of the postchaise, which 
 he persisted in calling the family carriage. 
 
 ! Oh ! ma'am, my lady,' exclaimed the waiting- woman, 
 sallying forth from the abbey, ' what is to be done with the 
 parrot when we are away ? Mrs. Brown says she won't see 
 to it, that she won't ; 'taynt her place.' 
 
 This rebellion of Mrs. Brown was a diversion in favour of 
 Plantagenet. Mrs. Cadurcis waddled down the cloisters 
 with precipitation, rushed into the kitchen, seized the sur- 
 prised Mrs. Brown by the shoulder, and gave her a good 
 shake ; and darting at the cage, which held the parrot, she 
 bore it in triumph to the carriage. ' I will take the bird 
 with me,' said Mrs. Cadurcis. 
 
 ' We cannot take the bird inside, madam,' said Planta- 
 genet, ' for it will overhear all our conversation, and repeat 
 it. We shall not be able to abuse our friends.' 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis threw the cage at her son's head, who, for 
 the sake of the bird, dexterously caught it, but declared at 
 the same time he would immediately throw it into the lake. 
 Then Mrs. Cadurcis began to cry with rage, and, seating 
 herself on the open steps of the chaise, sobbed hysterically. 
 Plantagenet stole round on tip-toe, and peeped in her face : 
 ' A merry Christmas and a happy new year, Mrs. Cadurcis,' 
 said her son. 
 
 ' How can I be merry and happy, treated as I am ? ' 
 sobbed the mother. 'You do not treat Lady Annabel 
 so. Oh ! no ; it is only your mother whom you use in this 
 manner ! Go to Cherbury. Go by all means, but go by 
 yourself; I shall not go : go to your friends, Lord Cadurcis ; 
 they are your friends, not mine, and I hope they are satis- 
 fied, now that they have robbed me of the affections of my 
 child. I have seen what they have been after all this time. 
 I am not so blind as some people think. No ! I see how it
 
 44 VENETIA. 
 
 is. I am nobody. Your poor mother, who brought you 
 up, and educated you, is nobody. This is the end of all 
 your Latin and French, and your fine lessons. Honour 
 your father and your mother, Lord Cadurcis ; that's a finer 
 lesson than all. Oh ! oh ! oh ! ' 
 
 This allusion to the Herberts suddenly calmed Planta- 
 genet. He felt in an instant the injudiciousness of foster- 
 ing by his conduct the latent jealousy which always lurked 
 at the bottom of his mother's heart, and which nothing but 
 the united talent and goodness of Lady Annabel could have 
 hitherto baffled. . So he rejoined in a kind yet playful tone, 
 * If you will be good, I will give you a kiss for a Christmas- 
 box, mother ; and the parrot shall go inside if you like.' 
 
 ' The parrot may stay at home, I do not care about it : 
 but I cannot bear quarrelling ; it is not my temper, you 
 naughty, very naughty boy.' 
 
 ' My dear mother,' continued his lordship, in a soothing 
 tone, ' these scenes always happen when people are going 
 to travel. I assure you it is quite a part of packing up.' 
 
 ' You will be the death of me, that you will,' said the 
 mother, 'with all your violence. You are worse than your 
 father, that you are.' 
 
 ' Come, mother,' said her son, drawing nearer, and just 
 touching her shoulder with his hand, 'will you not have 
 TQy Christmas-box ? ' . 
 
 The mother extended her cheek, which the son slightly 
 touched with his lip, and then Mrs. Cadurcis jumped up as 
 lively as ever, called for a glass of Mountain, and began 
 rating the footboy. 
 
 At length the postchaise was packed ; they had a long 
 journey before them, because Cadurcis would go round by 
 Southport, to call upon a tradesman whom a month before 
 he had commissioned to get a trinket made for him in 
 London, according to the newest fashion, as a present for 
 Yenetia. The commission was executed; Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 who had been consulted in confidence by her son on the 
 subject, was charmed with the result of their united taste.
 
 VENETIA. 45 
 
 She had good-naturedly contributed one of her own few, 
 but fine, emeralds to the gift ; upon the back of the brooch 
 was engraved : 
 
 TO YENETIA, FKOM HER AFFECTIONATE BROTHER, PLANTAGENET. 
 
 ' I hope she will be a sister, and more than a sister, to 
 you,' said Mrs. Cadurcis. 
 
 ' Why ? ' inquired her son, rather confused. 
 
 ' You may look farther, and fare worse,' said Mrs. Cadurcis. 
 
 Plantagenet blushed ; and yet he wondered why he 
 blushed : he understood his mother, but he could not pur- 
 sue the conversation ; his heart fluttered. 
 
 A most cordial greeting awaited them at Cherbury ; Dr. 
 Masham was there, and was to remain until Monday. Mrs. 
 Cadurcis would have opened about the present immediately, 
 but her son warned her on the threshold that if she said a 
 word about it, or seemed to be aware of its previous ex- 
 istence, even when it was shown, he would fling it instantly 
 away into the snow; and her horror of this catastrophe 
 bridled her tongue. Mrs. Cadurcis, however, was happy, 
 and Lady Annabel was glad to see her so ; the Doctor, too, 
 paid her some charming compliments ; the good lady was 
 in the highest spirits, for she was always in extremes, and 
 at this moment she would willingly have laid down her life 
 if she had thought the sacrifice could have contributed to 
 the welfare of the Herberts. 
 
 Cadurcis himself drew Venetia aside, and then, holding 
 the brooch reversed, he said, with rather a confused air, 
 ' Read that, Venetia.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Plantagenet ! ' she said, very much astonished. 
 
 ' You see, Venetia,' he added, leaving it in her hand, ' it 
 is yours.' 
 
 Venetia turned the jewel ; her eye was dazzled with its 
 brilliancy. 
 
 ' It is too grand for a little girl, Plantagenet,' she ex- 
 claimed, a little pale. 
 
 ' No, it is not,' said Plantagenet, firmly ; ' besides, you
 
 46 VENETIA. 
 
 will not always be a little girl ; and then, if ever we do not 
 live together as we do now, you will always remember you 
 have a brother.' 
 
 ' I must show it mamma ; I must ask her permission to 
 take it, Plantagenet.' 
 
 Venetia went up to her mother, who was talking to Mrs. 
 Cadurcis. She had not courage to speak before that lady 
 and Dr. Masham, so she called her mother aside. 
 
 ' Mamma,' she said, ' something has happened.' 
 
 ' What, my dear ? ' said Lady Annabel, somewhat sur- 
 prised at the seriousness of her tone. 
 
 ' Look at this, mamma ! ' said Yenetia, giving her the 
 brooch. 
 
 Lady Annabel looked at the jewel, and read the inscrip- 
 tion. It was a more precious offering than the mother 
 would willingly have sanctioned, but she was too highly 
 bred, and too thoughtful of the feelings of others, to hesi- 
 tate for a moment to admire it herself, and authorise its 
 acceptance by her daughter. So she walked up to Cadurcis 
 and gave him a mother's embrace for his magnificent pre- 
 sent to his sister, placed the brooch itself near Yenetia's 
 heart, and then led her daughter to Mrs. Cadurcis, that the 
 gratified mother might admire the testimony of her son's 
 taste and affection. It was a most successful present, and 
 Cadurcis felt grateful to his mother for her share in its 
 production, and the very proper manner in which she re- 
 ceived the announcement of its offering 1 . 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THIS was Christmas Eve ; the snow was falling briskly. 
 After dinner they were glad to cluster round the large fire 
 in the green drawing-room. Dr. Masham had promised to 
 read the evening service in the chapel, which was now lit 
 up, and the bell was sounding, that the cottagers might 
 have the opportunity of attending.
 
 VENETIA. 47 
 
 Plantagenet and Venetia followed the elders to the chapel ; 
 they walked hand-in-hand down the long galleries. 
 
 ' I should like to go all over this house,' said Plantagenet 
 to his companion. ' Have you ever been ? ' 
 
 ' Never,' said Venetia ; ' half of it is shut up. Nobody 
 ever goes into it, except mamma.' 
 
 In the night there was a violent snowstorm ; not only 
 was the fall extremely heavy, but the wind was so high, 
 that it carried the snow off the hills, and all the roads were 
 blocked up, in many places ten or twelve feet deep. All 
 communication was stopped. This was an adventure 
 that amused the children, though the rest looked rather 
 grave. Plantagenet expressed to Yenetia his wish that the 
 snow would never melt, and that they might remain at 
 Cherbury for ever. 
 
 The children were to have a holiday this week, and they 
 had planned some excursions in the park and neighbourhood, 
 but now they were all prisoners to the house. They wan- 
 dered about, turning the staircase into mountains, the great 
 hall into an ocean, and the different rooms into so many 
 various regions. They amused themselves with their ad- 
 ventures, and went on endless voyages of discovery. Every 
 moment Plantagenet longed still more for the opportunity 
 of exploring the uninhabited chambers ; but Venetia shook 
 her head, because she was sure Lady Annabel would not 
 grant them permission. 
 
 ' Did you ever live at any place before you came to Cher- 
 bury ? ' inquired Lord Cadurcis of Venetia. 
 
 ' I know I was not born here,' said Venetia ; ' but I was 
 so young that I have no recollection of any other place.' 
 
 ' And did any one live here before you came ? ' said Plan- 
 tagenet. 
 
 ' 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.
 
 48 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Then lie must have died almost as soon as you were born,' 
 said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' I suppose he must,' said Venetia, and her heart trembled. 
 
 ' I wonder if he ever lived here ! ' said Plantagenet. 
 
 'Mamma does not like me to ask questions about my 
 papa,' said Venetia, ' and I cannot tell you anything.' 
 
 'Ah ! your papa was different from mine, Venetia,' said 
 Cadurcis ; ' my mother talks of him often enough. They 
 did not agree very well ; and, when we quarrel, she always 
 says I remind her of him. I dare say Lady Annabel loved 
 your papa very much.' 
 
 ' I am sure mamma did,' replied Venetia. 
 
 The children returned to the drawing-room, and joined 
 their friends : Mrs. Cadurcis was sitting on the sofa, occa- 
 sionally dozing over a sermon ; Dr. Masham was standing 
 with Lady Annabel in the recess of a distant window. Her 
 ladyship's countenance was averted ; she was reading a 
 newspaper, which the Doctor had given her. As the door 
 opened, Lady Annabel glanced round ; her countenance was 
 agitated ; she folded up the newspaper rather hastily, and 
 gave it to the Doctor. 
 
 'And what have you been doing, little folks ? ' inquired the 
 Doctor of the new comers. 
 
 'We have been playing at the history of Rome,' said 
 Venetia, ' and now that we have conquered every place, we 
 do not know what to do.' 
 
 ' The usual result of conquest,' said the Doctor, smiling. 
 ' This snowstorm is a great trial for you ; I begin to believe 
 that, after all, you would be more pleased to take your 
 holidays at another opportunity.' 
 
 ' We could amuse ourselves very well,' said Plantagenet, 
 ' if Lady Annabel would be so kind as to permit us to ex- 
 plore the part of the house that is shut up.' 
 
 ' That would be a strange mode of diversion,' said Lady 
 Annabel, quietly, ' and I do not think by any means a suit- 
 able one. There cannot be much amusement in roaming 
 over a number of dusty unfurnished rooms.'
 
 VENETIA. 49 
 
 ' And so nicely dressed as you are too ! ' said Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 rousing herself : 'I wonder how such an idea could enter 
 your head ! ' 
 
 ' It snows harder than ever,' said Venetia ; ' I think, after 
 all, I shall learn my French vocabulary.' 
 
 ' If it snows to-morrow,' said Plantagenet, ' we will do our 
 lessons as usual. Holidays, I find, are not so amusing as I 
 Supposed.' 
 
 The snow did continue, and the next day the children 
 voluntarily suggested that they should resume their usual 
 course of life. With their mornings occupied, they found 
 their sources of relaxation ample ; and in the evening they 
 acted plays, and Lady Annabel dressed them up in her 
 shawls, and Dr. Masham read Shakspeare to them. 
 
 It was about the fourth day of the visit that Plantagenet, 
 loitering in the hall with Venetia, said to her, ' I saw your 
 mamma go into the locked-up rooms last night. I do so 
 wish that she would let us go there.' 
 
 ' Last night ! ' said Yenetia ; ' when could you have seen 
 her last night ? ' 
 
 ' Very late : the fact is, I could not sleep, and I took it 
 into my head to walk up and down the gallery. I often do 
 so at the abbey. I like to walk up and down an old gallery 
 alone at night. I do not know why; but I like it very much. 
 Everything is so still, and then you hear the owls. I cannot 
 make out why it is ; but nothing gives me more pleasure 
 than to get up when everybody is asleep. It seems as if 
 one were the only living person in the world. I sometimes 
 think, when I am a man, I will always get up in the night, 
 and go to bed in the daytime. Is not that odd ? ' 
 
 ' But mamma ! ' said Venetia, ' how came you to see 
 mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I am certain of it,' said the boy ; ' for, to tell you. 
 the truth, I was rather frightened at first ; only I thought 
 it would not do for a Cadurcis to be afraid, so I stood against 
 the wall, in the shade, and I was determined, whatever 
 happened, not to cry out.' 
 
 E
 
 50 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Oh ! you frighten me so, Plantagenet ! ' said Venetia. 
 
 'Ah! you might well have been frightened if you had been 
 there ; past midnight, a tall white figure, and a light ! How- 
 ever, there is nothing to be alarmed about ; it was Lady 
 Annabel, nobody else. I saw her as clearly as I see you now. 
 She walked along the gallery, and went to the very door 
 you showed me the other morning. I marked the door; 
 I could not mistake it. She unlocked it, and she went in.' 
 
 'And then ? ' inquired Yenetia, eagerly. 
 
 ' Why, then, like a fool, I went back to bed,' said Plan- 
 tagenet. ' I thought it would seem so silly if I were caught, 
 and I might not have had the good fortune to escape twice. 
 I know no more.' 
 
 Venetia could not reply. She heard a laugh, and then 
 her mother's voice. They were called with a gay summons 
 to see a colossal snow-ball, that some of the younger servants 
 had made and rolled to the window of the terrace-room. 
 It was ornamented with a crown of holly and mistletoe, and 
 the parti- coloured berries looked bright in a straggling sun- 
 beam which had fought its way through the still- loaded sky, 
 and fell upon the terrace. 
 
 In the evening, as they sat round the fire, Mrs. Cadurcis 
 began telling Venetia a long rambling ghost story, which 
 she declared was a real ghost story, and had happened in 
 her own family. Such communications were not very plea- 
 sing to Lady Annabel, but she was too well bred to interrupt 
 her guest. When, however, the narrative was finished, and 
 Venetia, by her observations, evidently indicated the effect 
 that it had produced upon her mind, her mother took the oc- 
 casion of impressing upon her the little credibility which 
 should be attached to such legends, and the rational process 
 by which many unquestionable apparitions might be ac- 
 counted for. Dr. Masham, following this train, recounted 
 a story of a ghost which had been generally received in a 
 neighbouring village for a considerable period, and attested 
 by the most veracious witnesses, but which was explained 
 afterwards by turning out to be an instance of somnambu- 
 lism. Venetia appeared to be extremely interested in the
 
 VENETIA. 51 
 
 subject ; she inquired much about sleep-walkers and sleep- 
 walking ; and a great many examples of the habit were 
 cited. At length she said, ' Mamma, did you. ever walk in 
 your sleep ? ' 
 
 ' Not to my knowledge,' said Lady Annabel, smiling ; ' I 
 should hope not.' 
 
 ' "Well, do you know,' said Plantagenet, who had hitherto 
 listened in silence, ' it is very curious, but I once dreamt 
 that you did, Lady Annabel.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said the lady. 
 
 ' Yes ! and I dreamt it last night, too,' continued Cadurcis. 
 ' I thought I was sleeping in the uninhabited rooms here, 
 and the door opened, and you. walked in with a light.' 
 
 ' No ! Plantagenet,' said Venetia, who was seated by him, 
 and who spoke in a whisper, ' it was not ' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' said Cadurcis, in a low voice. 
 
 ' Well, that was a strange dream,' said Mrs. Cadurcis ; 
 ' was it not, Doctor ? ' 
 
 ' Now, children, I will tell you a very curious story,' said 
 the Doctor ; ' and it is quite a true one, for it happened to 
 myself.' 
 
 The Doctor was soon embarked in his tale, and his 
 audience speedily became interested in the narrative ; but 
 Lady Annabel for some time maintained complete silence. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE spring returned; the intimate relations between the 
 two families were each day more confirmed. Lady Annabel 
 had presented her daughter and Plantagenet each with a 
 beautiful pony, but their rides were at first to be confined 
 to the park, and to be ever attended by a groom. In time, 
 however, duly accompanied, they were permitted to extend 
 their progress so far as Cadurcis. Mrs. Cadurcis had con- 
 sented to the wishes of her son to restore the old garden, 
 and Venetia was his principal adviser and assistant in the 
 
 E 2
 
 52 VENETIA. 
 
 enterprise. Plantagenet was fond of the abbey, and nothing 
 but the agreeable society of Cherbury on the one hand, and 
 the relief of escaping from his mother on the other, could 
 have induced him to pass so little of his time at home ; but, 
 with Venetia for his companion, his mornings at the abbey 
 passed charmingly, and, as the days were now at their full 
 length again, there was abundance of time, after their studies 
 at Cherbury, to ride together through the woods to Cadurcis, 
 spend several hours there, and for Venetia to return to the 
 hall before sunset. Plantagenet always accompanied her to 
 the limits of the Cherbury grounds, and then returned by 
 himself, solitary and full of fancies. 
 
 Lady Annabel had promised the children that they should 
 some day ride together to Marringhurst, the rectory of Dr. 
 Masham, to eat strawberries and cream. This was to be a 
 great festival, and was looked forward to with corresponding 
 interest. Her ladyship had kindly offered to accompany 
 Mrs. Cadurcis in the carriage, but that lady was an invalid 
 and declined the journey ; so Lady Annabel, who was her- 
 self a good horsewoman, mounted her jennet with Venetia 
 and Plantagenet. 
 
 Marringhurst was only five miles from Cherbury by a 
 cross-road, which was scarcely passable for carriages. The 
 rectory house was a substantial, square-built, red brick 
 mansion, shaded by gigantic elms, but the southern front 
 covered with a famous vine, trained over it with elaborate 
 care, and of which, and his espaliers, the Doctor was very 
 proud. The garden was thickly stocked with choice fruit- 
 trees ; there was not the slightest pretence to pleasure 
 grounds ; but there was a capital bowling-green, and, above 
 all, a grotto, where the Doctor smoked his evening pipe, 
 and moralised in the midst of his cucumbers and cabbages. 
 On each side extended the meadows of his glebe, where his 
 kine ruminated at will. It was altogether a scene as devoid 
 of the picturesque as any that could be well imagined ; flat, 
 but not low, and rich, and green, and still. 
 
 His expected guests met as warm a reception as such a
 
 VENETIA. 53 
 
 hearty friend might be expected to afford. Dr. Masham was 
 scarcely less delighted at the excursion than the children 
 themselves, and rejoiced in the sunny day that made every- 
 thing more glad and bright. The garden, the grotto, the 
 bowling-green, and all the novelty of the spot, greatly di- 
 verted his young companions ; they visited his farmyard, 
 were introduced to his poultry, rambled over his meadows, 
 and admired his cows, which he had collected with equal 
 care and knowledge. Nor was the interior of this bachelor's 
 residence devoid of amusement. Every nook and corner 
 was filled with objects of interest ; and everything was in 
 admirable order. The goddess of neatness and precision 
 reigned supreme, especially in his hall, which, though barely 
 ten feet square, was a cabinet of rural curiosities. His guns, 
 his fishing-tackle, a cabinet of birds stuffed by himself, a 
 fox in a glass-case that seemed absolutely running, and an 
 otter with a real fish in its mouth, in turn delighted them ; 
 but chiefly, perhaps, his chimney-corner of Dutch tiles, all 
 Scriptural subjects, which "Venetia and Plantagenet emulated 
 each other in discovering. 
 
 Then his library, which was rare and splendid, for the 
 Doctor was one of the most renowned scholars in the king- 
 dom, and his pictures, his prints, and his gold fish, and his 
 canary birds ; it seemed they never could exhaust such 
 sources of endless amusement ; to say nothing of every other 
 room in the house, for, from the garret to the dairy, his 
 guests encouraged him in introducing them to every thing, 
 every person, and every place. 
 
 'And this is the way we old bachelors contrive to pass 
 our lives,' said the good Doctor ; ' and now, my dear lady, 
 Goody Blount will give us some dinner.' 
 
 The Doctor's repast was a substantial one ; he seemed re- 
 solved, at one ample swoop, to repay Lady Annabel for all 
 her hospitality ; and he really took such delight in their 
 participation of it, that his principal guest was constrained 
 to check herself in more than one warning intimation that 
 moderation was desirable, were it only for the sake of the
 
 54 VEXETIA, 
 
 strawberries and cream. All this time his housekeeper, 
 Goody Blount, as he called her, in her lace cap and ruffles, 
 as precise and starch as an old picture, stood behind his 
 chair with pleased solemnity, directing, with unruffled com- 
 posure, the movements of the liveried bumpkin \vho this 
 day was promoted to the honour of 'waiting at table.' 
 
 ' Come,' said the Doctor, as the cloth was cleared, 'I must 
 bargain for one toast, Lady Annabel : " Church and State." ' 
 
 * What is Church and State ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 'As good things, Miss Yenetia, as strawberries and cream,' 
 said the Doctor, laughing ; ' and, like them, always best 
 united.' 
 
 After their repast, the children went into the garden to 
 amuse themselves. They strolled about some time, until 
 Plantagenet at length took it into his head that he should 
 like to learn to play at bowls ; and he said, if Venetia would 
 wait in the grotto, where they then were talking, he would 
 run back and ask the Doctor if the servant might teach him. 
 He was not long absent ; but appeared, on his return, a 
 little agitated. Venetia inquired if he had been successful, 
 but he shook his head, and said he had not asked. 
 
 ' Why did you not ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 'I did not like,' he replied, looking very serious ; 'some- 
 thing happened.' 
 
 ' What could have happened ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 * Something strange,' was his answer. 
 
 * Oh, do tell me, Plantagenet ! ' 
 
 ' Why,' said he, in a low voice, 'your mamma is crying.' 
 
 ' Crying ! ' exclaimed Venetia ; 'my dear mamma crying! 
 I must go to her directly.' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' said Plantagenet, shaking his head, 'you must 
 not go.' 
 
 ' I must.' 
 
 ' No, you must not go, Venetia,' was his reply; ' I am sure 
 she does not want us to know she is crying.' 
 
 ' What did she say to you? ' 
 
 ' She did not see me ; the Doctor did, and he gave me a 
 nod to go away.'
 
 VENETIA. 55 
 
 * I never saw mamma cry,' said Venetia. 
 
 'Don't you say anything about it, Venetia,' said Planta- 
 genet, with a manly air ; 'listen to what I say.' 
 
 ' I do, Plantagenet, always ; but still I should like to know 
 what mamma can be crying about. Do tell me all about it.' 
 
 ' Why, I came to the room by the open windows, and your 
 mamma was standing up, with her back to me, and leaning 
 on the mantel- piece, with her face in her handkerchief; and 
 the Doctor was standing up too, only his back was to the 
 fireplace ; and when he saw me, he made me a sign to go 
 away, and I went directly.' 
 
 'Are you sure mamma was crying ?' 
 
 'I heard her sob.' 
 
 ' I think I shall cry,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' You must not ; you must know nothing about it. If you 
 let your mamma know that I saw her crying, I shall never 
 tell you anything again.' 
 
 ' What do you think she was crying about, Plantagenet ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot say ; perhaps she had been talking about your 
 papa. I do not want to play at bowls now,' added Planta- 
 genet ; ' let us go and see the cows.' 
 
 In the course of half an hour the servant summoned the 
 children to the house. The horses were ready, and they were 
 now to return. Lady Annabel received them with her usual 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 ' Well, dear children,' said she, ' have you been very much 
 amused ? ' 
 
 Venetia ran forward, and embraced her mother with even 
 unusual fondness. She was mindful of Plantagenet' s in- 
 junctions, and was resolved not to revive her mother's 
 grief by any allusion that could recall the past ; but her 
 heart was, nevertheless, full of sympathy, and she could not 
 have rode home, had she not thus expressed her love for her 
 mother. 
 
 With the exception of this strange incident, over which, 
 afterwards, Venetia often pondered, and which made her 
 rather serious the whole of the ride home, this expedition to 
 Marringhurst was a very happy day.
 
 56 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THIS happy summer was succeeded by a singularly wet 
 autumn. Weeks of continuous rain rendered it difficult 
 even for the little Cadurcis, who defied the elements, to be 
 so constant as heretofore in his daily visits to Cherbury. 
 His mother, too, grew daily a greater invalid, and, with 
 increasing sufferings and infirmities, the natural captious- 
 ness of her temper proportionably exhibited itself. She 
 insisted upon the companionship of her son, and that he 
 should not leave the house in such unseasonable weather. 
 If he resisted, she fell into one of her jealous rages, and 
 taunted him with loving strangers better than his own 
 mother. Cadurcis, on the whole, behaved very well ; he 
 thought of Lady Annabel's injunctions, and restrained his 
 passion. Yet he was not repaid for the sacrifice ; his mother 
 made no effort to render their joint society agreeable, or 
 even endurable. She was rarely in an amiable mood, and 
 generally either irritable or sullen. If the weather held up 
 a little, and he ventured to pay a visit to Cherbury, he was 
 sure to be welcomed back with a fit of passion ; either Mrs. 
 Cadurcis was angered for being left alone, or had fermented 
 herself into fury by the certainty of his catching a fever. 
 If Plantagenet remained at the abbey, she was generally 
 sullen ; and, as he himself was naturally silent under any 
 circumstances, his mother would indulge in that charming 
 monologue, so conducive to domestic serenity, termed 
 ' talking at a person,' and was continually insinuating that 
 she supposed he found it very dull to pass his day with her,, 
 and that she dared say that somebody could be lively enough 
 if he were somewhere else. 
 
 Cadurcis would turn pale, and bite his lip, and then leave 
 the room ; and whole days would sometimes pass with barely 
 a monosyllable being exchanged between this parent and 
 child. Cadurcis had found some opportunities of pouring 
 forth his griefs and mortification into the ear of Venetia,
 
 VENETIA. 57 
 
 and they had reached her mother; but Lady Annabel, 
 though she sympathised with this interesting boy, invari- 
 ably counselled duty. The morning studies were aban- 
 doned, but a quantity of books were sent over from 
 Cherbury for Plantagenet, and Lady Annabel seized every 
 opportunity of conciliating Mrs. Cadurcis' temper in favour of 
 her child, by the attention which she paid the mother. The 
 weather, however, prevented either herself or Venetia from 
 visiting the abbey ; and, on the whole, the communications 
 between the two establishments and their inmates had be- 
 come rare. 
 
 Though now a continual inmate of the abbey, Cadurcis 
 was seldom the companion of his mother. They met at 
 their meals, and that was all. He entered the room every 
 day with an intention of conciliating ; but the mutual 
 tempers of the mother and the son were so quick and 
 sensitive, that he always failed in his purpose, and could 
 only avoid a storm by dogged silence. This enraged Mrs. 
 Cadurcis more even than his impertinence ; she had no con- 
 duct ; she lost all command over herself, and did not hesitate 
 to address to her child terms of reproach and abuse, which a 
 vulgar mind could only conceive, and a coarse tongue alone 
 express. What a contrast to Cherbury, to the mild mater- 
 nal elegance and provident kindness of Lady Annabel, and 
 the sweet tones of Venetia's ever- sympathising voice. Ca- 
 durcis, though so young, was gifted with an innate fasti- 
 diousness, that made him shrink from a rude woman. His 
 feelings were different in regard to men ; he sympathised 
 at a very early age with the bold and the energetic ; his 
 favourites among the peasantry were ever those who excelled 
 in athletic sports ; and, though he never expressed the 
 opinion, he did not look upon the poacher with the evil eye 
 of his class. But a coarse and violent woman jarred even 
 his young nerves ; and this woman was his mother, his only 
 parent, almost his only relation ; for he had no near relative 
 except a cousin whom he had never even seen, the penniless 
 orphan of a penniless brother of his father, and who had
 
 58 VENETIA. 
 
 been sent to sea ; so that, after all, his mother was the only 
 natural friend he had. This poor little boy would fly from 
 that mother with a sullen brow, or, perhaps, even with a 
 harsh and cutting repartee ; and then he would lock himself 
 up in his room, and weep. But he allowed no witnesses of 
 this weakness. The lad was very proud. If any of the 
 household passed by as he quitted the saloon, and stared for 
 a moment at his pale and agitated face, he would coin a 
 smile for the instant, and say even a kind word, for he was 
 very courteous to his inferiors, and all the servants loved 
 him, and then take refuge in his solitary woe. 
 
 Relieved by this indulgence of his mortified heart, Cadurcis 
 looked about him for resources. The rain was pouring in 
 torrents, and the plash of the troubled and swollen lake 
 might be heard even at the abbey. At night the rising 
 gusts of wind, for the nights were always clear and stormy, 
 echoed down the cloisters with a wild moan to which he 
 loved to listen. In the morning he beheld with interest the 
 savage spoils of the tempest ; mighty branches of trees 
 strewn about, and sometimes a vast trunk uprooted from its 
 ancient settlement. Irresistibly the conviction impressed 
 itself upon his mind that, if he were alone in this old abbey, 
 with no mother to break that strange fountain of fancies 
 that seemed always to bubble up in his solitude, he might 
 be happy. He wanted no companions ; he loved to be 
 alone, to listen to the winds, and gaze upon the trees and 
 waters, and wander in those dim cloisters and that gloomy 
 gallery. 
 
 From the first hour of his arrival he had loved the vene- 
 rable hall of his fathers. Its appearance harmonised with 
 all the associations of his race. Power and pomp, ancestral 
 fame, the legendary respect of ages, all that was great, ex- 
 citing, and heroic, all that was marked out from the common- 
 place current of human events, hovered round him. In the 
 halls of Cadurcis he was the Cadurcis ; though a child, he 
 was keenly sensible of his high race ; his whole being sym- 
 pathised with their glory ; he was capable of dying sooner
 
 VENETIA. 59 
 
 than of disgracing them ; and then came the memory of his 
 mother's sharp voice and harsh vulgar words, and he shivered 
 with disgust. 
 
 Forced into solitude, forced to feed upon his own mind, 
 Cadurcis found in that solitude each day a dearer charm, 
 and in that mind a richer treasure of interest and curiosity. 
 He loved to wander about, dream of the past, and conjure 
 up a future as glorious. What was he to be ? What should 
 be his career ? Whither should he wend his course ? Even 
 at this early age, dreams of far lands flitted over his mind, 
 and schemes of fantastic and adventurous life. But now 
 he was a boy, a wretched boy, controlled by a vulgar and 
 narrow-minded woman ! And this servitude must last for 
 years ; yes ! years must elapse before he was his own master. 
 Oh! if he could only pass them alone, without a human 
 voice to disturb his musings, a single form to distract his 
 vision ! 
 
 Under the influence of such feelings, even Cherbury 
 figured to his fancy in somewhat faded colours. There, in- 
 deed, he was loved and cherished ; there, indeed, no sound 
 was ever heard, no sight ever seen, that could annoy or 
 mortify the high pitch of his unconscious ideal ; but still. 
 even at Cherbury, he was a child. Under the influence of 
 daily intercourse, his tender heart had balanced, perhaps 
 even outweighed, his fiery imagination. That constant yet 
 delicate affection had softened all his soul : he had no time 
 but to be grateful and to love. He returned home only to 
 muse over their sweet society, and contrast their refined and 
 gentle life with the harsh rude hearth that awaited him. 
 Whatever might be his reception at home, he was thrown 
 back for solace on their memory, not upon his own heart ; 
 and he felt the delightful conviction that to-morrow would 
 renew the spell whose enchantment had enabled him to en- 
 dure the present vexation. But now the magic of that 
 intercourse had ceased ; after a few days of restlessness and 
 repining, he discovered that he must find in his desolation 
 sterner sources of support than the memory of Venetia, and
 
 60 VENETIA. 
 
 the recollections of the domestic joys of Cherbury. It -was 
 astonishing with what rapidity the character of Cadurcis 
 developed itself in solitude ; and strange was the contrast 
 between the gentle child who, a few weeks before, had 
 looked forward with so much interest to accompanying 
 "Venetia to a childish festival, and the stern and moody being 
 who paced the solitary cloisters of Cadurcis, and then would 
 withdraw to his lonely chamber and the amusement of a 
 book. He was at this time deeply interested in Purchas's 
 Pilgrimage, one of the few books of which the late lord had 
 not despoiled him. Narratives of travels and voyages always 
 particularly pleased him ; he had an idea that he was laying 
 up information which might be useful to him hereafter; 
 the Cherbury collection was rich in this class of volumes, 
 and Lady Annabel encouraged their perusal. 
 
 In this way many weeks elapsed at the abbey, during 
 which the visits of Plantagenet to Cherbury were very few. 
 Sometimes, if the weather cleared for an hour during the 
 morning, he would mount his pony, and gallop, without 
 stopping, to the hall. The rapidity of the motion excited 
 his mind ; he fancied himself, as he embraced Venetia, some 
 chieftain who had escaped for a moment from his castle to 
 visit his mistress ; his imagination conjured up a war between 
 the opposing towers of Cadurcis and Cherbury ; and when 
 his mother fell into a passion on his return, it passed with 
 him only, according to its length and spirit, as a brisk skir- 
 mish or a general engagement. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ONE afternoon, on his return from Cherbury, Plantagenet 
 found the fire extinguished in the little room which he had 
 appropriated to himself, and where he kept his books. As he 
 had expressed his wish to the servant that the fire should 
 be kept up, he complained to him of the neglect, but was 
 informed, in reply, that the fire had been allowed to go out
 
 VENETIA. 61 
 
 by liis mother's orders, and that she desired in future that 
 he would always read in the saloon. Plaiitagenet had suffi- 
 cient self-control to make no observation before the servant, 
 and soon after joined his mother, who looked very sullen, 
 as if she were conscious that she had laid a train for an 
 explosion. 
 
 Dinner was now served, a short and silent meal. Lord 
 Cadurcis did not choose to speak because he felt aggrieved, 
 and his mother because she was husbanding her energies 
 for the contest which she believed impending. At length, 
 when the table was cleared, and the servant departed, 
 Cadurcis said in a quiet tone, ' I think T. shall write to my 
 guardian to-morrow about my going to Eton.' 
 
 ' You shall do no such thing,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, bris- 
 tling up ; ' I never heard such a ridiculous idea in my life 
 as a boy like you writing letters on such subjects to a 
 person you have never yet seen. When I think it proper 
 that you should go to Eton, I shall write.' 
 
 ' I wish you would think it proper now then, ma'am.' 
 
 * I won't be dictated to,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, fiercely. 
 ' I was not dictating,' replied her son, calmly. 
 'You would if you could,' said his mother. 
 
 * Time enough to find fault with me when I do, ma'am.' 
 ' There is enough to find fault about at all times, sir.' 
 
 ' On which side, Mrs. Cadurcis ? ' inquired Plantagenet, 
 with a sneer. 
 
 ' Don't aggravate me, Lord Cadurcis,' said his mother. 
 
 ' How am I aggravating you, ma'am ? ' 
 
 ' I won't be answered,' said the mother. 
 
 ' I prefer silence myself,' said the son. 
 
 ' I won't be insulted in my own room, sir,' said Mrs. 
 Cadurcis. 
 
 ' I am not insulting you, Mrs. Cadurcis,' said Plantagenet, 
 rather fiercely ; ' and, as for your own room, I never wish to 
 enter it. Indeed I should not be here at this moment, had 
 you not ordered my fire to be put out, and particularly re- 
 quested that I should sit in the saloon.'
 
 62 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Oh! you are a vastly obedient person, I dare say,' re- 
 plied Mrs. Cadurcis, very pettishly. ' Ho\v long, I should 
 like to know, have my requests received such particular 
 attention ? Pooh ! ' 
 
 ' Well, then, I will order my fire to be lighted again,' 
 said Plantagenet. 
 
 ' You shall do no such thing,' said the mother ; ' I am 
 mistress in this house. No one shall give orders here but 
 me, and you may write to your guardian and tell him that, 
 if you like.' 
 
 ' I shall certainly not write to my guardian for the first 
 time,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'about any such nonsense.' 
 
 'Nonsense, sir! Nonsense you said, did you? Your 
 mother nonsense ! This is the way to treat a parent, is it ? 
 I am nonsense, am I ? I will teach you what nonsense is. 
 Nonsense shall be very good sense ; you shall find that, sir, 
 that you shall. Nonsense, indeed! I'll write to your 
 guardian, that I will! You call your mother nonsense, do 
 you ? And where did you learn that, I should like to know? 
 Nonsense, indeed! This comes of your going to Cherbury! 
 So your mother is nonsense ; a pretty lesson for Lady Anna- 
 bel to teach you. Oh ! I'll speak my mind to her, that I will.' 
 
 ' What has Lady Annabel to do with it ? ' inquired 
 Cadurcis, in a loud tone. 
 
 ' Don't threaten me, sir,' said Mrs. Cadurcis, with violent 
 gesture. ' I won't be menaced ; I won't be menaced by my 
 son. Pretty goings on, indeed ! But I will put a stop to 
 them ; will I not ? that is all. Nonsense, indeed ; your 
 mother nonsense ! ' 
 
 ' Well, you do talk nonsense, and the greatest,' said 
 Plantagenet, doggedly ; ' you are talking nonsense now, jon 
 are always talking nonsense, and you never open your 
 mouth about Lady Annabel without talking nonsense.' 
 
 ' If I was not very ill I would give it you,' said his 
 mother, grinding her teeth. ' O you brat ! You wicked 
 brat, you ! Is this the way to address me ? I have half a 
 mind to shake your viciousness out of you, that I have!
 
 VENETIA. 63 
 
 You are worse than your father, that you are ! ' and here 
 she wept with rage. 
 
 ' I dare say my father was not so bad, after all ! ' said 
 Cadurcis. 
 
 ' What should you know about your father, sir ? ' said 
 Mrs. Cadurcis. ' How dare you speak about your father!' 
 
 ' Who should speak about a father but a son ? ' 
 
 ' Hold your impudence, sir ! ' 
 
 ' I am not impudent, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Tou aggravating brat ! ' exclaimed the enraged woman. 
 ' I wish I had something to throw at you! ' 
 
 ' Did you throw things at my father ? ' asked his lordship. 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis went into an hysterical rage ; then, sud- 
 denly jumping up, she rushed at her son. Lord Cadurcis 
 took up a position behind the table, but the sportive and 
 mocking air which he generally instinctively assumed on 
 these occasions, and which, while it irritated his mother 
 more, was in reality affected by the boy from a sort of 
 nervous desire of preventing these dreadful exposures from 
 assuming a too tragic tone, did not characterise his coun- 
 tenance on the present occasion ; on the contrary, it was 
 pale, but composed and very serious. Mrs. Cadurcis, after 
 one or two ineffectual attempts to catch him, paused and 
 panted for breath. He took advantage of this momentary 
 cessation, and spoke thus, ' Mother, I am in no humour for 
 frolics. I moved out of your way that you might not strike 
 me, because I have made up my mind that, if you ever 
 strike me again, I will live with you no longer. Now, I 
 have given you warning ; do what you please ; I shall sit 
 down in this chair, and not move. If you strike me, you 
 know the consequences.' So saying, his lordship resumed 
 his chair. 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis simultaneously sprang forward and boxed 
 his ears ; and then her son rose without the slightest ex- 
 pression of any kind, and slowly quitted the chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis remained alone in a savage sulk ; hours 
 passed away, and her son never made his appearance.
 
 4 VENETIA. 
 
 Then slie rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell 
 Lord Cadurcis that tea was ready ; but the servant re- 
 turned, and reported that his lordship had locked himself 
 up in his room, and would not reply to his inquiries. De- 
 termined not to give in, Mrs. Cadurcis, at length, retired 
 for the night, rather regretting her violence, but still 
 sullen. Having well scolded her waiting-woman, she at 
 length fell asleep. 
 
 The morning brought breakfast, but no Lord Cadurcis ; 
 in vain were all the messages of his mother, her son would 
 make no reply to them. Mrs. Cadurcis, at length, person- 
 ally repaired to his room and knocked at the door, but she 
 was as unsuccessful as the servants ; she began to think he 
 would starve, and desired the servant to offer from himself 
 to bring his meal. Still silence. Indignant at his treat- 
 ment of these overtures of conciliation, Mrs. Cadurcis re- 
 turned to the saloon, confident that hunger, if no other 
 impulse, would bring her wild cub out of his lair ; but, just be- 
 fore dinner, her waiting- woman came running into the room. 
 
 ' Oh, ma'am, ma'am, I don't know where Lord Cadurcis 
 has gone ; but I have just seen John, and he says there 
 was no pony in the stable this morning.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Cadurcis sprang up, rushed to her son's chamber, 
 found the door still locked, ordered it to be burst open, and 
 then it turned out that his lordship had never been there at 
 all, for the bed was unused. Mrs. Cadurcis was frightened 
 out of her life ; the servants, to console her, assured her 
 that Plantagenet must be at Cherbury ; and while she be- 
 lieved their representations, which were probable, she 
 became not only more composed, but resumed her jealousy 
 and sullenness. ' Gone to Cherbury, indeed ! No doubt of 
 it ! Let him remain at Cherbury.' Execrating Lady Anna- 
 bel, she flung herself into an easy chair, and dined alone, 
 preparing herself to speak her mind on her son's return. 
 
 The night, however, did not bring him, and Mrs. Cadurcis 
 began to recur to her alarm. Much as she now disliked 
 Lady Annabel, she could not resist the conviction that her 
 ladyship would not permit Plantagenet to remain at Cher-
 
 VENETIA. 65 
 
 bury. Nevertheless, jealous, passionate, and obstinate, she 
 stifled her fears, vented her spleen on her unhappy domestics, 
 and, finally, exhausting herself by a storm of passion about 
 some very unimportant subject, again sought refuge in sleep. 
 
 She awoke early in a fright, and inquired immediately 
 for her son. He had not been seen. She ordered the 
 abbey bell to be sounded, sent messengers throughout the 
 demesne, and directed all the offices to be searched. At 
 first she thought he must have returned, and slept, perhaps 
 in a barn ; then she adopted the more probable conclusion, 
 that he had drowned himself in the lake. Then she went 
 into hysterics ; called Plantagenet her lost darling ; de- 
 clared he was the best and most dutiful of sons, and the 
 image of his poor father, then abused all the servants, and 
 then abused herself. 
 
 About noon she grew quite distracted, and rushed about 
 the house with her hair dishevelled, and in a dressing-gown, 
 looked in all the closets, behind the screens, under the 
 chairs, into her work-box, but, strange to say, with no suc- 
 cess. Then she went off into a swoon, and her servants, 
 alike frightened about master and mistress, mother and son, 
 dispatched a messenger immediately to Cherbury for intel- 
 ligence, advice, and assistance. In less than an hour's 
 time the messenger returned, and informed them that Lord 
 Cadurcis had not been at Cherbury since two days back, 
 but that Lady Annabel was very sorry to hear that their 
 mistress was so ill, and would come on to see her imme- 
 diately. In the meantime, Lady Annabel added that she 
 had sent to Dr. Masham, and had great hopes that Lord 
 Cadurcis was at Marringhurst. Mrs. Cadurcis, who had 
 now come to, as her waiting- woman described the return- 
 ing consciousness of her mistress, eagerly embraced the 
 hope held out of Plantagenet being at Marringhurst, 
 poured forth a thousand expressions of gratitude, admira- 
 tion, and affection for Lady Annabel, who, she declared, 
 was her best, her only friend, and the being in the world 
 whom she loved most, next to her unhappy and injured child.
 
 66 VENETIA. 
 
 After another hour of suspense Lady Annabel arrived, 
 and her entrance was the signal for a renewed burst of 
 hysterics from Mrs. Cadurcis, so wild and terrible that 
 they must have been contagious to any female of less dis- 
 ciplined emotions than her guest. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 TOWAKDS evening Dr. Masham arrived at Cadurcis. He 
 could give no intelligence of Plantagenet, who had not 
 called at Marringhurst ; but he offered, and was prepared, 
 to undertake his pursuit. The good Doctor had his saddle- 
 bags well stocked, and was now on his way to Southport, 
 that being the nearest town, and where he doubted not to 
 gain some tidings of the fugitive. Mrs. Cadurcis he found 
 so indisposed, that he anticipated the charitable intentions 
 of Lady Annabel not to quit her ; and after having bid 
 them place their confidence in Providence and his humble 
 exertions, he at once departed on his researches. 
 
 In the meantime let us return to the little lord himself. 
 Having secured the advantage of a long start, by the device 
 of turning the key of his chamber, he repaired to the stables, 
 and finding no one to observe him, saddled his pony and 
 galloped away without plan or purpose. An instinctive 
 love of novelty and adventure induced him to direct his 
 course by a road which he had never before pursued ; and, 
 nfter two or three miles progress through a wild open 
 country of brushwood, he found that he had entered that 
 considerable forest which formed the boundary of many of 
 the views from Cadurcis. The afternoon was clear and 
 still, the sun shining in the light blue sky, and the wind 
 altogether hushed. On each side of the winding road 
 spread the bright green turf, occasionally shaded by pic- 
 turesque groups of doddered oaks. The calm beauty of 
 the sylvan scene wonderfully touched the fancy of the 
 youthful fugitive ; it soothed and gratified him. He pulled 
 up his pony ; patted itslively neck, as if in gratitude for
 
 VENETIA. 67 
 
 its good service, and, confident that he could not be suc- 
 cessfully pursued, indulged in a thousand dreams of Robin 
 Hood and his merry men. As for his own position and 
 prospects, he gave himself no anxiety about them : satisfied 
 with his escape from a revolting thraldom, his mind seemed 
 to take a bound from the difficulty of his situation and the 
 wildness of the scene, and he felt himself a man, and one, 
 too, whom nothing could daunt or appal. 
 
 Soon the road itself quite disappeared and vanished in a 
 complete turfy track ; but the continuing marks of cart- 
 wheels assured him that it was a thoroughfare, although he 
 was now indeed journeying in the heart of a forest of oaks, 
 and he doubted not it would lead to some town or village, 
 or at any rate to some farmhouse. Towards sunset, he de- 
 termined to make use of the remaining light, and pushed 
 on apace ; but it soon grew so dark, that he found it neces- 
 sary to resume his walking pace, from fear of the over- 
 hanging branches and the trunks of felled trees which occa- 
 sionally crossed his way. 
 
 Notwithstanding the probable prospect of passing his 
 night in the forest, our little adventurer did not lose heart. 
 Cadurcis was an intrepid child, and when in the company 
 of those with whom he was not familiar, and free from those 
 puerile associations to which those who had known and 
 lived with him long were necessarily subject, he would 
 assume a staid and firm demeanour unusual with one of 
 such tender years. A light in the distance was now not 
 only a signal that the shelter he desired was at hand, but 
 reminded him that it was necessary, by his assured port, 
 to prove that he was not unused to travel alone, and that 
 he was perfectly competent and qualified to be his own 
 master. 
 
 As he drew nearer, the lights multiplied, and the moon, 
 which now rose over the forest, showed to him that the 
 trees, retiring on both sides to some little distance, left a 
 circular plot of ground, on which were not only the lights 
 which had at first attracted his attention, but the red flames 
 
 F 2
 
 68 VENETIA. 
 
 of a watch-fire, round which some dark figures had hitherto 
 been clustered. The sound of horses' feet had disturbed 
 them, and the fire was now more and more visible. As 
 Cadnrcis approached, he observed some low tents, and in a 
 few minutes he was in the centre of an encampment of gip- 
 sies. He was for a moment somewhat dismayed, for he had 
 been brought up with the usual terror of these wild people ; 
 nevertheless, he was not unequal to the occasion. He was 
 surrounded in an instant, but only with women and chil- 
 dren ; for the gipsy -men never immediately appear. They 
 smiled with their bright eyes, and the flames of the watch- 
 fire threw a lurid glow over their dark and flashing coun- 
 tenances ; they held out their practised hands ; they uttered 
 unintelligible, but not unfriendly sounds. The heart of 
 Cadurcis faltered, but his voice did not betray him. 
 
 ' I am cold, good people,' said the undaunted boy ; ' will 
 you let me warm myself by your fire ? ' 
 
 A beautiful girl, with significant gestures, pressed her 
 hand to her heart, then pointed in the direction of the tents, 
 and then rushed away, soon reappearing with a short thin 
 man, inclining to middle age, but of a compact and appa- 
 rently powerful frame, lithe, supple, and sinewy. His com- 
 plexion was dark, but clear ; his eye large, liquid, and black ; 
 but his other features small, though precisely moulded. He 
 wore a green jacket and a pair of black velvet breeches, his 
 legs and feet being bare, with the exception of slippers. 
 Bound his head was twisted a red handkerchief, which, 
 perhaps, might not have looked like a turban on a counte- 
 nance less oriental. 
 
 ' What would the young master ? ' inquired the gipsy- 
 man, in a voice far from disagreeable, and with a gesture 
 of courtesy ; but, at the same time, he shot a scrutinising 
 glance first at Plantagenet, and then at his pony. 
 
 ' I would remain with you,' said Cadurcis ; ' that is, if 
 you will let me.' 
 
 The gipsy- man made a sign to the women, and Planta- 
 genet was lifted by them off his pony, before he could be
 
 VENETIA. 69 
 
 aware of their purpose ; the children led the pony away, 
 and the gipsy-man conducted Plaiitagenet to the fire, where 
 an old .woman sat, presiding over the mysteries of an enor- 
 mous flesh-pot. Immediately his fellows, who had origi- 
 nally been clustered around it, re-appeared ; fresh blocks 
 and branches were thrown on, the flames crackled and rose, 
 the men seated themselves around, and Plantagenet, excited 
 by the adventure, rubbed his hands before the fire, and de- 
 termined to fear nothing. 
 
 A savoury steam exuded from the flesh-pot. 
 
 ' That smells well,' said Plantagenet. 
 
 ' "Pis a dimber cove,' * whispered one of the younger men 
 to a companion. 
 
 ' Our supper has but rough seasoning for such as you,' 
 said the man who had first saluted him, and who was ap- 
 parently the leader; ' but the welcome is hearty.' 
 
 The woman and girls now came with wooden bowls and 
 platters, and, after serving the men, seated themselves in. 
 an exterior circle, the children playing round them. 
 
 ' Come, old mort,' said the leader, in a very different tone 
 to the one in which he addressed his young guest, ' tout the 
 cobble-colter ; are we to have darkmans upon us ? And, 
 Beruna, flick the panam.' f 
 
 Upon this, that beautiful girl, who had at first attracted 
 the notice of Cadurcis, called out in a sweet lively voice, 
 ' Ay ! ay ! Morgana ! ' and in a moment handed over the 
 heads of the women a pannier of bread, which the leader 
 took, and offered its contents to our fugitive. Cadurcis 
 helped himself, with a bold but gracious air. The pannier 
 was then passed round, and the old woman, opening the 
 pot, drew out, with a huge iron fork, a fine turkey, which 
 she tossed into a large wooden platter, and cut up with 
 great quickness. First she helped Morgana, but only gained 
 a reproof for her pains, who immediately yielded his portion 
 to Plantagenet. Each man was provided with his knife, but 
 
 * 'Tis a lively lad. 
 
 t Come, old woman, look after the turkey. Are we to wait till night? 
 And, Beruna, cut the bread.
 
 70 VENETIA. 
 
 the guest had none. Morgana immediately gave up his 
 own. 
 
 ' Beruna! ' he shouted, 'gibel a chiv for the gentry cove.'* 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! Morgana ! ' said the girl ; and she brought 
 the knife to Plantagenet himself, saying at the same time, 
 with sparkling eyes, ' Yam, yam, gentry cove.' f 
 
 Cadurcis really thought it was the most delightful meal 
 he had ever made in his life. The flesh-pot held something 
 besides turkeys. Rough as was the fare, it was good and 
 plentiful. As for beverage, they drank humpty-dumpty, 
 which is ale boiled with brandy, and which is not one of the 
 slightest charms of a gipsy's life. When the men were 
 satisfied, their platters were filled, and given to the women 
 and children ; and Beruna, with her portion, came and 
 seated herself by Plantagenet, looking at him with a blen- 
 ded glance of delight and astonishment, like a beautiful 
 young savage, and then turning to her female companions 
 to stifle a laugh. The flesh-pot was carried away, the men 
 lit their pipes, the fire was replenished, its red shadow 
 mingled with the silver beams of the moon ; around were the 
 glittering tents and the silent woods ; on all sides flashing 
 eyes and picturesque forms. Cadurcis glanced at his com- 
 panions, and gazed upon the scene with feelings of ravish- 
 ing excitement ; and then, almost unconscious of what he 
 was saying, exclaimed, ' At length I have found the life 
 that suits me ! ' 
 
 ' Indeed, squire ! ' said Morgana. ' Would you be one 
 of us ? ' 
 
 ' From this moment,' said Cadurcis, ' if you will admit 
 me to your band. But what can I do ? And I have nothing 
 to give you. You must teach me to earn my right to our 
 supper.' 
 
 ' We'll make a Turkey merchant J of you yet,' said an 
 old gipsy, ' never fear that.' 
 
 ' Bah, Peter ! ' said Morgana, with an angry look, ' your 
 
 * Bring a knife for the gentleman. 
 
 t Eat, eat, gentleman. J i. e. We will teach you to steal a turkey
 
 VENETIA. 71 
 
 red rag will never lie still. And what was the purpose of 
 your present travel ? ' lie continued to Plantagenet. 
 
 ' None ; I was sick of silly home.' 
 
 ' The gentry cove will be romboyled by his dam,' said a 
 third gipsy. ' Queer Cuffin will be the word yet, if we don't 
 tout.' * 
 
 ' Well, you shall see a little more of us before you decide,' 
 said Morgana, thoughtfully, and turning the conversation. 
 ' Beruna.' 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! Morgana ! ' 
 
 ' Tip me the clank, like a dimber mort as you are ; trim 
 a ken for the gentry cove ; he is no lanspresado, or I am a 
 kinchin.' "f 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! Morgana,' gaily exclaimed the girl, and she 
 ran off to prepare a bed for the Lord of Cadurcis. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 DR. MASHAM could gain no tidings of the object of his 
 pursuit at Southport : here, however, he ascertained that 
 Plantagenet could not have fled to London, for in those 
 days pubKc conveyances were rare. There was only one 
 coach that ran, or rather jogged, along this road, and it 
 went but once a week, it being expected that very night ; 
 while the innkeeper was confident that so far as Southport 
 was concerned, his little lordship had not sought refuge in 
 the waggon, which was more frequent, though somewhat 
 slower, in its progress to the metropolis. Unwilling to 
 return home, although the evening was now drawing in, 
 the Doctor resolved to proceed to a considerable town about 
 twelve miles further, which Cadurcis might have reached 
 by a cross road ; so drawing his cloak around him, looking 
 
 * His mother will make a hue and cry after the gentleman yet ; 
 justice of the peace will be the word, if we don't look sharp. 
 
 t Give me the tankard, like a pretty girl. Get a bed ready for the 
 gentleman. He is no informer, or I am an infant.
 
 72 VENETIA. 
 
 to Ms pistols, and desiring his servant to follow his ex- 
 ample, the stout-hearted Rector of Marringhurst pursued 
 his way. 
 
 It was dark when the Doctor entered the town, and he 
 proceeded immediately to the inn where the coach was ex- 
 pected, with some faint hope that the fugitive might be 
 discovered abiding within its walls ; but, to all his inquiries 
 about young gentlemen and ponies, he received very un- 
 satisfactory answers ; so, reconciling himself as well as he 
 could to the disagreeable posture of affairs, he settled him- 
 self in the parlour of the inn, with a good fire, and, lighting 
 his pipe, desired his servant to keep a sharp look-out. 
 
 In due time a great uproar in the inn-yard announced 
 the arrival of the stage, an unwieldy machine, carrying six 
 inside, and dragged by as many horses. The Doctor, open- 
 ing the door of his apartment, which led on to a gallery 
 that ran round the inn-yard, leaned over the balustrade 
 with his pipe in his mouth, and watched proceedings. It 
 so happened that the stage was to discharge one of its pas- 
 sengers at this town, who had come from the north, and the 
 Doctor recognised in him a neighbour and brother magis- 
 trate, one Squire Mountmeadow, an important personage in 
 his way, the terror of poachers, and somewhat of an oracle 
 on the bench, as it was said that he could take a deposition 
 without the assistance of his clerk. Although, in spite of 
 the ostler's lanterns, it was very dark, it was impossible 
 ever to be unaware of the arrival of Squire Mountmeadow ; 
 for he was one of those great men who take care to remind 
 the world of their dignity by the attention which they re- 
 quire on every occasion. 
 
 ' Coachman ! ' said the authoritative voice of the Squire. 
 ' Where is the coachman ? Oh ! you are there, sir, are 
 you ? Postilion ! Where is the postilion ? Oh ! you are 
 there, sir, are you ? Host ! Where is the host ? Oh ! 
 you are there, sir, are you ? Waiter ! Where is the 
 waiter ? I say where is the waiter ? ' 
 
 ' Coming, please your worship ! ' 

 
 VENETIA. 73 
 
 ' 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 ! ' 
 
 1 1 am going to alight ! ' 
 
 All four attendants immediately bowed, and extended 
 their arms to assist this very great man ; but Squire Mount- 
 meadow, scarcely deigning to avail himself of their proffered 
 assistance, and pausing on each step, looking around him 
 with his long, lean, solemn visage, finally reached terra 
 firma in safety, and slowly stretched his tall, ungainly 
 figure. It was at this moment that Dr. Masham's servant 
 approached him, and informed his worship that his master 
 was at the inn, and would be happy to see him. The coun- 
 tenance of the great Mountmeadow relaxed at the mention 
 of the name of a brother magistrate, and in an audible voice 
 he bade the groom ' tell my worthy friend, his worship, 
 your worthy master, that I shall be rejoiced to pay my re- 
 spects to an esteemed neighbour and a brother magistrate.' 
 
 With slow and solemn steps, preceded by the host, and 
 followed by the waiter, Squire Mountmeadow ascended the 
 staircase of the external gallery, pausing occasionally, and 
 looking around him with thoughtful importance, and making 
 an occasional inquiry as to the state of the town and neigh- 
 bourhood during his absence, in this fashion : ' Stop ! 
 where are you, host ? Oh ! you are there, sir, are you ? 
 Well, Mr. Host, and how have we been ? orderly, eh ? ' 
 
 ' Quite orderly, your worship.' 
 
 ' Hoh ! Orderly ! Hem ! Well, very well ! Never easy, 
 if absent only four-and-twenty hours. The law must be 
 obeyed.' 
 
 ' Yes, your worship.'
 
 74 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Lead on, sir. And, waiter ; where are you, waiter ? 
 Oh ! you are there, sir, are you ? And so my brother 
 magistrate is here ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, your honour's worship.' 
 
 ' Hem ! What can he want ? something in the wind ; 
 wants my advice, I dare say ; shall have it. Soldiers ruly ; 
 king's servants ; must be obeyed.' 
 
 ' Yes, your worship ; quite ruly, your worship,' said the 
 host. 
 
 ' As obliging and obstreperous as can be,' said the waiter. 
 
 ' Well, very well ; ' and here the Sqnire had gained the 
 gallery, where the Doctor was ready to receive him. 
 
 ' It always gives me pleasure to meet a brother magis- 
 trate,' said Squire Mountmeadow, bowing with cordial con- 
 descension ; ' and a gentleman of yonr cloth, too. The clergy 
 must be respected ; I stand or fall by the Church. After 
 yon, Doctor, after you.' So saying, the two magistrates 
 entered the room. 
 
 1 An unexpected pleasure, Doctor,' said the Squire ; ' and 
 what brings your worship to town ? ' 
 
 ' A somewhat strange business,' said the Doctor ; ' and 
 indeed I am not a little glad to have the advantage of your 
 advice and assistance.' 
 
 * Hem ! I thought so,' said the Squire ; 'your worship is 
 very complimentary. What is the case ? Larceny ? ' 
 
 * Nay, my good sir, 'tis a singular affair ; and, if you 
 please, we will order supper first, and discuss it afterwards. 
 'Tis for your private ear.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ho ! ' said the Squire, looking very mysterious and 
 important. 'With your worship's permission,' he added, 
 fining a pipe. 
 
 The host was no laggard in waiting on two such impor- 
 tant guests. The brother magistrates despatched their 
 rump-steak ; the foaming tankard was replenished ; the fire 
 renovated. At length, the table and the room being alike 
 clear, Squire Mountmeadow drew a long puff, and said, 
 ' Now for business, Doctor.'
 
 VENETIA. 75 
 
 His companion then informed him of the exact object of 
 his visit, and narrated to him so much of the preceding in- 
 cidents as was necessary. The Squire listened in solemn 
 silence, elevating his eyebrows, nodding his head, trimming 
 his pipe, with profound interjections ; and finally, being ap- 
 pealed to for his opinion by the Doctor, delivered himself 
 of a most portentous ' Hem ! ' 
 
 ' I question, Doctor,' said the Squire, 'whether we should 
 not communicate with the Secretary of State. 'Tis no 
 ordinary business. 'Tis a spiriting away of a Peer of the 
 realm. It smacks of treason.' 
 
 ' Egad ! ' said the Doctor, suppressing a smile, ' I think 
 we can hardly make a truant boy a Cabinet question.' 
 
 The Squire glanced a look of pity at his companion. 
 ' Prove the truancy, Doctor ; prove it. 'Tis a case of dis- 
 appearance ; and how do we know that there is not a Jesuit 
 at the bottom of it ? ' 
 
 ' There is something in that,' said the Doctor. 
 
 4 There is everything in it,' said the Squire, triumphantly. 
 ' We must offer rewards ; we must raise the posse comi- 
 tatus.' 
 
 ' For the sake of the family, I would make as little stir as 
 necessary,' said Dr. Masham. 
 
 ' For the sake of the family ! ' said the Squire. ' Think 
 of the nation, sir ! For the sake of the nation we must 
 make as much stir as possible. 'Tis a Secretary of State's 
 business ; 'tis a case for a general warrant.' 
 
 'He is a well-meaning lad enough,' said the Doctor. 
 
 'Ay, and therefore more easily played upon,' said the 
 Squire. ' Rome is at the bottom of it, brother Masham, 
 and I am surprised that a good Protestant like yourself, 
 one of the King's Justices of the Peace, and a Doctor of 
 Divinity to boot, should doubt the fact for an instant.' 
 
 ' We have not heard much of the Jesuits of late years,' 
 said the Doctor. 
 
 The very reason that they are more active,' said the 
 Squire.
 
 76 YENETIA. 
 
 ' 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 ex- 
 tremities,' said Dr. Masham. 
 
 'Nothing is to be done without extremities,' said Squire 
 Mountmeadow. 
 
 ' But this poor child ? ' said the Doctor, leading back the 
 conversation. * What can we do ? ' 
 
 ' The law of the case is clear,' said the Squire ; ' we must 
 move a habeas corpus.' 
 
 ' But shall we be nearer getting him for that ? ' inquired 
 the Doctor. 
 
 ' Perhaps not, sir ; but 'tis the regular way. "We must 
 proceed by rule.' 
 
 ' I am sadly distressed,' said Dr. Masham. ' The worst 
 is, he has gained such a start upon us; and yet he can 
 hardly have gone to London ; he would have been recog- 
 nised here or at Southport.' 
 
 ' With his hair cropped, and in a Jesuit's cap ? ' inquired 
 the Squire, with a slight sneer. ' Ah ! Doctor, Doctor, you 
 know not the gentry you have to deal with ! ' 
 
 'We must hope,' said Dr. Masham. 'To-morrow we 
 must organise some general search.' 
 
 ' I fear it will be of no use,' said the Squire, replenishing 
 his pipe. ' These Jesuits are deep fellows.' 
 
 ' But we are not sure about the Jesuits, Squire.' 
 ' I am,' said the Squire ; ' the case is clear, and the 
 sooner you break it to his mother the better. You asked 
 me for my advice, and I give it you.'
 
 VENETIA. 77 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IT was on the following morning, as the Doctor was under 
 the operation of the barber, that his groom ran into the room 
 with a pale face and agitated air, and exclaimed, 
 
 ' Oh ! master, master, what do you think ? Here is a man 
 in the yard with my lord's pony.' 
 
 ' Stop him, Peter,' exclaimed the Doctor. ' No ! watch 
 him, watch him ; send for a constable. Are you certain 'tis 
 the pony ? ' 
 
 ' I could swear to it out of a thousand,' said Peter. 
 
 ' There, never mind my beard, my good man,' said the 
 Doctor. ' There is no time for appearances. Here is a 
 robbery, at least ; God grant no worse. Peter, my boots ! ' 
 So saying, the Doctor, half equipped, and followed by Peter 
 and the barber, went forth on the gallery. ' Where is he ? ' 
 said the Doctor. 
 
 ' He is down below, talking to the ostler, and trying to 
 sell the pony,' said Peter. 
 
 ' There is no time to lose,' said the Doctor ; ' follow me, 
 like true men : ' and the Doctor ran downstairs in his silk 
 nightcap, for his wig was not yet prepared. 
 
 ' There he is,' said Peter ; and true enough there was a 
 man in a smock-frock and mounted on the very pony which 
 Lady Annabel had presented to Plantagenet. 
 
 ' Seize this man in the King's" name,' said the Doctor, 
 hastily advancing to him. ' Ostler, do your duty ; Peter, 
 be firm. I charge you all ; I am a justice of the peace. I 
 charge you arrest this man.' 
 
 The man seemed very much astonished ; but he was com- 
 posed, and offered no resistance. He was dressed like a 
 small farmer, in top-boots and a smock-frock. His hat was 
 rather jauntily placed on his curly red hair. 
 
 ' Why am I seized ? ' at length said the man. 
 
 ' Where did you get that pony ? ' said the Doctor. 
 
 ' I bought it,' was the reply.
 
 78 VENETIA. 
 
 'Of whom?' 
 
 ' A stranger at market.' 
 
 ' You are accused of robbery, and suspected of murder, 
 said Dr. Masham. ' Mr. Constable,' said the Doctor, turn- 
 ing to that functionary, who had now arrived, ' handcuff 
 this man, and keep him in strict custody until further 
 orders.' 
 
 The report that a man was arrested for robbery, and 
 suspected of murder, at the Red Dragon, spread like wild- 
 fire through the town ; and the inn-yard was soon crowded 
 with the curious and excited inhabitants. 
 
 Peter and the barber, to whom he had communicated 
 everything, were well qualified to do justice to the im- 
 portant information of which they were the sole deposi- 
 taries ; the tale lost nothing by their telling ; and a circum- 
 stantial narrative of the robbery and murder of no less a 
 personage than Lord Cadurcis, of Cadurcis Abbey, was 
 soon generally prevalent. 
 
 The stranger was secured in a stable, before which the 
 constable kept guard ; mine host, and the waiter, and the 
 ostlers acted as a sort of supernumerary police, to repress 
 the multitude ; while Peter held the real pony by the 
 bridle, whose identity, which he frequently attested, was 
 considered by all present as an incontrovertible evidence of 
 the commission of the crime. 
 
 In the meantime Dr. Masham, really agitated, roused his 
 brother magistrate, and communicated to his worship the 
 important discovery. The Squire fell into a solemn flutter. 
 ' We must be regular, brother Masham ; we must proceed 
 by rule ; we are a bench in ourselves. Would that my 
 clerk were here ! We must send for Signsealer forthwith. 
 I will not decide without the statutes. The law must be 
 consulted, and it must be obeyed. The fellow hath not 
 brought my wig. 'Tis a case of murder no doubt. A Peer 
 of the realm murdered ! You must break the intelligence 
 to his surviving parent, and I will communicate to the 
 Secretary of State. Can the body be found ? That will
 
 VENETIA. 79 
 
 prove the murder. Unless the body be found, the murdei- 
 will not be proved, save the villain confess, -which he will 
 not do unless he hath sudden compunctions. I have known 
 sudden compunctions go a great way. We had a case 
 before our bench last month ; there was no evidence. It 
 was not a case of murder ; it was of woodcutting ; there 
 was no evidence ; but the defendant had compunctions. 
 Oh ! here is my wig. We must send for Signsealer. He 
 is clerk to our bench, and he must bring the statutes. "Tis 
 not simple murder this ; it involves petty treason.' 
 
 By this time his worship had completed his toilet, and ho 
 and his colleague took their way to the parlour they had 
 inhabited the preceding evening. Mr. Signsealer was in 
 attendance, much to the real, though concealed, satisfaction 
 of Squire Mountmeadow. Their worships were seated like 
 two consuls before the table, which Mr. Signsealer had 
 duly arranged with writing materials and various piles of 
 calf-bound volumes. Squire Mountmeadow then, arranging 
 his countenance, announced that the bench was prepared, 
 and mine host was instructed forthwith to summon the 
 constable and his charge, together with Peter and the 
 ostler as witnesses. There was a rush among some of the 
 crowd who were nighest the scene to follow the prisoner 
 into the room ; and, sooth to say, the great Mountmeadow 
 was much too enamoured of his own self-importance to be 
 by any means a patron of close courts and private hearings ; 
 but then, though he loved his power to be witnessed, he 
 was equally desirous that his person should be reverenced. 
 It was his boast that he could keep a court of quarter 
 sessions as quiet as a church ; and now, when the crowd 
 rushed in with all those sounds of tumult incidental to such 
 a movement, it required only Mountmeadow slowly to rise, 
 and drawing himself up to the full height of his gaunt 
 figure, to knit his severe brow, and throw one of his pecu- 
 liar looks around the chamber, to insure a most awful still- 
 ness. Instantly everything was so hushed, that you might 
 have heard Signsealer nib his pen.
 
 80 VENETIA. 
 
 The witnesses were sworn ; Peter proved that the pony 
 belonged to Lord Cadurcis, and that his lordship had been 
 missing from home for several days, and was believed to 
 have quitted the abbey on this identical pony. Dr. Masham 
 was ready, if necessary, to confirm this evidence. The ac- 
 cused adhered to his first account, that he had purchased 
 the animal the day before at a neighbouring fair, and dog- 
 gedly declined to answer any cross-examination. Squire 
 Mountmeadow looked alike pompous and puzzled ; whis- 
 pered to the Doctor ; and then shook his head at Mr. Sign- 
 sealer. 
 
 ' I doubt whether there be satisfactory evidence of the 
 murder, brother Masham,' said the Squire ; ' what shall be 
 our next step ? ' 
 
 ' There is enough evidence to keep this fellow in custody,' 
 said the Doctor. 'We must remand him, and make in- 
 quiries at the market town. I shall proceed there imme- 
 diately. He is a strange-looking fellow,' added the Doctor : 
 ' were it not for his carroty locks, I should scarcely take 
 him for a native.' 
 
 ' Hem ! ' said the Squire, ' I have my suspicions. Fellow,' 
 continued his worship, in an awful tone, ' you say that you 
 are a stranger, and that your name is Morgan ; very sus- 
 picious all this : you have no one to speak to your character 
 or station, and you are found in possession of stolen goods. 
 The bench will remand you for the present, and will at any 
 rale commit you for trial for the robbery. But here is a 
 Peer of the realm missing, fellow, and you are most griev- 
 ously suspected of being concerned in his spiriting away, 
 or even murder. You are upon tender ground, prisoner ; 
 'tis a case verging on petty treason, if not petty treason 
 itself. Eh ! Mr. Signsealer ? Thus runs the law, as I 
 take it ? Prisoner, it would be well for you to consider 
 your situation. Have you no compunctions ? Compunc- 
 tions might save you, if not a principal offender. It is 
 your duty to assist the bench in executing justice. The 
 Crown is merciful ; you may be king's evidence.'
 
 VENETIA. 81 
 
 Mr. Signsealer whispered the bench ; he proposed that 
 the prisoner's hat should be examined, as the name of its 
 maker might afford a clue to his residence. 
 
 ' Trne, true, Mr. Clerk,' said Squire Mountmeadow, ' I 
 am coming to that. "Tis a sound practice ; I have known 
 such a circumstance lead to great disclosures. But we 
 must proceed in order. Order is everything. Constable, 
 take the prisoner's hat off.' 
 
 The constable took the hat off somewhat rudely; so 
 rudely, indeed, that the carroty locks came off in company 
 with it, and revealed a profusion of long plaited hair, which 
 had been adroitly twisted under the wig, more in character 
 with the countenance than its previous covering. 
 
 ' A Jesuit, after all ! ' exclaimed the Squire. 
 
 'A gipsy, as it seems to me,' whispered the Doctor. 
 
 ' Still worse,' said the Squire. 
 
 ' Silence in the Court ! ' exclaimed the awful voice of 
 Squire Mountmeadow, for the excitement of the audience 
 was considerable. The disguise was generally esteemed as 
 incontestable evidence of the murder. ' Silence, or I will 
 order the Court to be cleared. Constable, proclaim silence. 
 This is an awful business,' added the Squire, with a very 
 long face. ' Brother Masham, we must do our duty ; but 
 this is an awful business. At any rate we must try to dis- 
 cover the body. A Peer of the realm must not be suffered 
 to lie murdered in a ditch. He must have Christian burial, 
 if possible, in the vaults of his ancestors.' 
 
 When Morgana, for it was indeed he, observed the course 
 affairs were taking, and ascertained that his detention 
 under present circumstances was inevitable, he relaxed from 
 his doggedness, and expressed a willingness to make a com- 
 munication to the bench. Squire Mountmeadow lifted up 
 his eyes to Heaven, as if entreating the interposition of 
 Providence to guide him in his course ; then turned to his 
 brother magistrate, and then nodded to the clerk. 
 
 ' He has compunctions, brother Masham,' said his wor- 
 ship : ' I told you so ; he has compunctions. Trust me to 
 
 a
 
 82 VENETIA. 
 
 deal with these fellows. He knew not his perilous situa- 
 tion ; the hint of petty treason staggered him. Mr. Clerk, 
 take down the prisoner's confession ; the Court must be 
 cleared; constable, clear the Court. Let a stout man stand 
 on each side of the prisoner, to protect the bench. The 
 magistracy of England will never shrink from doing their 
 duty, but they must be protected. Now, prisoner, the 
 bench is ready to hear your confession. Conceal nothing, 
 and if you were not a principal in the murder, or an acces- 
 sory before the fact ; eh, Mr. Clerk, thus runs the law, as I 
 take it ? there may be mercy; at any rate, if you be hanged, 
 you will have the satisfaction of having cheerfuEy made 
 the only atonement to society in your power.' 
 
 ' Hanging be damned ! ' said Morgana. 
 
 Squire Mountmeadow started from his seat, his cheeks 
 distended with rage, his dull eyes for once flashing fire. 
 ' Did you ever witness such atrocity, brother Masham ? ' 
 exclaimed his worship. ' Did you hear the villain ? I'll 
 teach him to respect the bench. I'll fine him before he is 
 executed, that I will ! ' 
 
 ' The young gentleman to whom this pony belongs,' con- 
 tinued the gipsy, 'may or may not be a lord. I never 
 asked him his name, and he never told it me; but he sought 
 hospitality of me and my people, and we gave it him, and 
 he lives with us, of his own free choice. The pony is of 
 no use to him now, and so I came to sell it for our common 
 good.' 
 
 ' A Peer of the realm turned gipsy ! ' exclaimed the Squire. 
 * A very likely tale ! I'll teach you to come here and tell 
 your cock-and-bull stories to two of his majesty's justices 
 of the peace. 'Tis a flat case of robbery and murder, and 
 I venture to say something else. You shall go to gaol 
 directly, and the Lord have mercy on your soul ! ' 
 
 'Nay,' said the gipsy, appealing to Dr. Marsham; 'you, 
 sir, appear to be a friend of this youth. You will not re- 
 gain him by sending me to gaol. Load me, if you will, 
 with irons, surround me with armed men, but at least give 

 
 VENETIA. 83 
 
 me the opportunity of proving the truth of what I say. I 
 offer in two hours to produce to you the youth, and you 
 shall find he is living -with my people in content and 
 peace.' 
 
 ' Content and fiddlestick ! ' said the Squire, in a rage. 
 
 ' Brother Mountmeadow,' said the Doctor, in. a low tone, 
 to his colleague, ' I have private duties to perform to this 
 family. Pardon me if, with all deference to your sounder 
 judgment and greater experience, I myself accept the 
 prisoner's offer.' 
 
 ' Brother Masham, you are one of his majesty's justices 
 of the peace, you are a brother magistrate, and you are a 
 Doctor of Divinity ; you owe a duty to your country, and 
 you owe a duty to yourself. Is it wise, is it decorous, that 
 one of the Quorum should go a-gipsying ? Is it pos- 
 sible that you can credit this preposterous tale ? Brother 
 Masham, there will be a rescue, or my name is not Mount- 
 meadow.' 
 
 In spite, however, of all these solemn warnings, the good 
 Doctor, who was not altogether unaware of the character of 
 his pupil, and could comprehend that it was very possible 
 the statement of the gipsy might be genuine, continued 
 without very much offending his colleague, who looked upon 
 his conduct indeed rather with pity than resentment, to 
 accept the offer of Morgana ; and consequently, well-secured 
 and guarded, and preceding the Doctor, who rode behind 
 the cart with his servant, the gipsy soon sallied forth from 
 the inn-yard, and requested the driver to guide his course 
 in the direction of the forest. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IT was the afternoon of the third day after the arrival of 
 Cadurcis at the gipsy encampment, and nothing had yet 
 occurred to make him repent his flight from the abbey, and 
 the choice of life he had made. He had experienced nothing 
 
 o 2
 
 84 VENETIA. 
 
 but kindness and hospitality, while the beautiful Beruna 
 seemed quite content to pass her life in studying his amuse- 
 ment. The weather, too, had been extremely favourable to 
 his new mode of existence ; and stretched at his length upon 
 the rich turf, with his head on Beruna's lap, and his eyes 
 fixed upon the rich forest foliage glowing in the autumnal 
 sunset, Plantagenet only wondered that he could have en- 
 dured for so many years the shackles of his common- place 
 home. 
 
 His companions were awaiting the return of their leader, 
 Morgana, who had been absent since the preceding day, 
 and who had departed on Plantagenet's pony. Most of 
 them were lounging or strolling in the vicinity of their 
 tents ; the children were playing ; the old woman was cook- 
 ing at the fire ; and altogether, save that the hour was not 
 so late, the scene presented much the same aspect as when 
 Cadurcis had first beheld it. As for his present occupation, 
 Beruna was giving him a lesson in the gipsy language, 
 which he was acquiring with a rapid facility, which quite 
 exceeded all his previous efforts in such acquisitions. 
 
 Suddenly a scout sang out that a party was in sight. The 
 men instantly disappeared; the women were on the alert ; 
 and one ran forward as a spy, on pretence of telling fortunes. 
 This bright-eyed professor of palmistry soon, however, re- 
 turned running, and out of breath, yet chatting all the time 
 with inconceivable rapidity, and accompanying the startling 
 communication she was evidently making with the most 
 animated gestures. Beruna started up, and, leaving the 
 astonished Cadurcis, joined them. She seemed alarmed. 
 Cadurcis was soon convinced there was consternation in the 
 camp. 
 
 Suddenly a horseman galloped up, and was immediately 
 followed by a companion. They called out, as if encourag- 
 ing followers, and one of them immediately galloped away 
 again, as if to detail the results of their reconnaissance. Be- 
 fore Cadurcis could well rise and make inquiries as to what 
 was going on, a light cart, containing several men, drove
 
 VENETIA. 85 
 
 up, and in it, a prisoner, he detected Morgana. The branches 
 of the trees concealed for a moment two other horsemen 
 who followed the cart ; but Cadurcis, to his infinite alarm 
 and mortification, soon recognised Dr. Masham and Peter. 
 
 When the gipsies found their leader was captive, they no 
 longer attempted to conceal themselves ; they all came for- 
 ward, and would have clustered round the cart, had not the 
 riders, as well as those who more immediately guarded the 
 prisoner, prevented them. Morgana spoke some words in 
 a loud voice to the gipsies, and they immediately appeared 
 less agitated ; then turning to Dr. Masham, he said in Eng- 
 lish, ' Behold your child ! ' 
 
 Instantly two gipsy men seized Cadurcis, and led him to 
 the Doctor. 
 
 ' How now, my lord ! ' said the worthy Rector, in a 
 stern voice, ' is this your duty to your mother and your 
 friends ?' 
 
 Cadurcis looked down, but rather dogged than ashamed. 
 
 ' You have brought an innocent man into great peril,' 
 continued the Doctor. ' This person, no longer a prisoner, 
 has been arrested on suspicion of robbery, and even murder, 
 through your freak. Morgana, or whatever your name may 
 be, here is some reward for your treatment of this child, 
 and some compensation for your detention. Mount your 
 pony, Lord Cadurcis, and return to your home with me.' 
 
 ' This is my home, sir,' said Plantagenet. 
 
 ' Lord Cadurcis, this childish nonsense must cease ; it has 
 already endangered the life of your mother, nor can I answer 
 for her safety, if you lose a moment in returning.' 
 
 1 Child, you must return,' said Morgana. 
 
 ' Child ! ' said Plantagenet, and he walked some steps 
 away, and leant against a tree. ' You promised that I 
 should remain,' said he f addressing himself reproachfully to 
 Morgana. 
 
 'You are not your own master,' said the gipsy; 'your 
 remaining here will only endanger and disturb us. Fortu- 
 nately we have nothing to fear from laws we have never
 
 86 VENETIA. 
 
 outraged ; but had there been a judge less wise and gentle 
 than the master here, our peaceful family might have been 
 all harassed and hunted to the very death.' 
 
 He waved his hand, and addressed some words to his 
 tribe, whereupon two brawny fellows seized Cadurcis, and 
 placed him again, in spite of his struggling, upon his pony, 
 with the same irresistible facility with which they had a 
 few nights before dismounted him. The little lord looked 
 very sulky, but his position was beginning to get ludicrous. 
 Morgana, pocketing his five guineas, leaped over the side of 
 the cart, and offered to guide the Doctor and his attendants 
 through the forest. They moved on accordingly. It was 
 the work of an instant, and Cadurcis suddenly found him- 
 self returning home between the Rector and Peter. Not a 
 word, however, escaped his lips ; once only he moved ; the 
 light branch of a tree, aimed with delicate precision, touched 
 his back ; he looked round ; it was Beruna. She kissed her 
 hand to him, and a tear stole down his pale, sullen cheek, 
 as, taking from his breast his handkerchief, he threw it be- 
 hind him, unperceived, that she might pick it up, and keep 
 it for his sake. 
 
 After proceeding two or three miles under the guidance 
 of Morgana, the equestrians gained the road, though it still 
 ran through the forest. Here the Doctor dismissed the 
 gipsy- man, with whom he had occasionally conversed during 
 their progress ; but not a sound ever escaped from the mouth 
 of Cadurcis, or rather, the captive, who was now substituted 
 in Morgana's stead. The Doctor, now addressing himself 
 to Plantagenet, informed him that it was of importance that 
 they should make the best of their way, and so he put spurs 
 to his mare, and Cadurcis sullenly complied with the intima- 
 tion. At this rate, in the course of little more than another 
 "hour, they arrived in sight of the demesne of Cadurcis, where 
 they pulled up their steeds. 
 
 They entered the park, they approached the portal of the 
 abbey ; at length they dismounted. Their coming was an- 
 nounced by a servant, who had recognised his lord at a
 
 VENETIA. 87 
 
 distance, and had ran on before with, the tidings. When 
 they entered the abbey, they were met by Lady Annabel in 
 the cloisters ; her countenance was very serious. She shook 
 hands with Dr. Masham, but did not speak, and immediately 
 led him aside. Cadurcis remained standing in the very spot 
 where Doctor Masham left him, as if he were quite a stranger 
 in the place, and was no longer master of his own conduct. 
 Suddenly Doctor Masham, who was at the end of the cloister, 
 while Lady Annabel was mounting the staircase, looked 
 round with a pale face, and said in an agitated voice, ' Lord 
 Cadurcis, Lady Annabel wishes to speak to you in the 
 saloon.' 
 
 Cadurcis immediately, but slowly, repaired to the saloon. 
 Lady Annabel was walking up and down in it. She seemed 
 greatly disturbed. When she saw him, she put her arm 
 round his neck affectionately, and said in a low voice, ' My 
 dearest Plantagenet, it has devolved upon me to communi- 
 cate to you some distressing intelligence.' Her voice faltered, 
 and the tears stole down her cheek. 
 
 ' My mother, then, is dangerously ill ?' he inquired in a 
 calm but softened tone. 
 
 ' It is even sadder news than that, dear child.' 
 
 Cadurcis looked about him wildly, and then with an in- 
 quiring glance at Lady Annabel : 
 
 ' There can be but one thing worse than that,' he at length 
 said. 
 
 ' What if it have happened ? ' said Lady Annabel. 
 
 He threw himself into a chair, and covered his face with 
 his hands. After a few minutes he looked up and said, in. 
 a low but distinct voice, ' It is too terrible to think of ; it 
 is too terrible to mention ; but, if it have happened, let me 
 be alone.' 
 
 Lady Annabel approached him with a light step ; she 
 embraced him, and, whispering that she should be found in 
 the next room, she quitted the apartment. 
 
 Cadurcis remained seated for more than half an hour 
 without changing in the slightest degree his position. The
 
 88 VENETIA. 
 
 twilight died away ; it grew quite dark ; he looked up with 
 a slight shiver, and then quitted the apartment. 
 
 In the adjoining room, Lady Annabel was seated with 
 Doctor Masham, and giving him the details of the fatal 
 event. It had occurred that morning. Mrs. Cadurcis, who 
 had never slept a wink since her knowledge of her son's 
 undoubted departure, and scarcely for an hour been free 
 from violent epileptic fits, had fallen early in the morning 
 into a doze, which lasted about half an hour, and from which 
 her medical attendant, who with Pauncefort had sat up with 
 her during the night, augured the most favourable conse- 
 quences. About half-past six o'clock she woke, and inquired 
 whether Plantagenet had returned. They answered her 
 that Doctor Masham. had not yet arrived, but would pro- 
 bably be at the abbey in the course of the morning. She 
 said it would be too late. They endeavoured to encourage 
 her, but she asked to see Lady Annabel, who was imme- 
 diately called, and lost no time in repairing to her. When 
 Mrs. Cadurcis recognised her, she held out her hand, and 
 said in a dying tone, ' It was my fault ; it was ever my 
 fault ; it is too late now ; let him find a mother in you.* 
 She never spoke again, and in the course of an hour expired. 
 
 While Lady Annabel and the Doctor were dwelling on 
 these sad circumstances, and debating whether he should 
 venture to approach Plantagenet, and attempt to console 
 him, for the evening was now far advanced, and nearly 
 three hours had elapsed since the fatal communication had 
 been made to him, it happened that Mistress Pauncefort 
 chanced to pass Mrs. Cadurcis' room, and as she did so 
 she heard some one violently sobbing. She listened, and 
 hearing the sounds frequently repeated, she entered the 
 room, which, but for her candle, would have been quite 
 dark, and there she found Lord Cadurcis kneeling and 
 weeping by his mother's bedside. He seemed annoyed at 
 being seen and disturbed, but his spirit was too broken to 
 murmur. ' La ! my lord,' said Mistress Pauncefort, ' you 
 must not take on so ; you must not indeed. I am sure this
 
 VENETIA. 89 
 
 dark room is enough to put any one in low spirits. Now 
 do go downstairs, and sit with my lady and the Doctor, 
 and try to be cheerful ; that is a dear good young gentle- 
 man. I wish Miss Venetia were here, and then she would 
 amuse you. But you must not take on, because there is no 
 use in it. You must exert yourself, for what is done can- 
 not be undone ; and, as the Doctor told us last Sunday, we 
 must all die ; and well for those who die with a good con- 
 science ; and I am sure the poor dear lady that is gone must 
 have had a good conscience, because she had a good heart, 
 and I never heard any one say the contrary. Now do exert 
 yourself, my dear lord, and try to be cheerful, do ; for there 
 is nothing like a little exertion in these cases, for God's 
 will must be done, and it is not for us to say yea or nay, 
 and taking on is a murmuring against God's providence/ 
 And so Mistress Pauncefort would have continued urging 
 the usual topics of coarse and common-place consolation ; 
 but Cadurcis only answered with a sigh that came from the 
 bottom of his heart, and said with streaming eyes, ' Ah ! 
 Mrs. Pauncefort, God had only given me one friend in this 
 world, and there she lies.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE first conviction that there is death in the house is 
 perhaps the most awful moment of youth. When we are 
 young, we think that not only ourselves, but that all about 
 us, are immortal. Until the arrow has struck a victim 
 round our own hearth, death is merely an unmeaning word ; 
 until then, its casual mention has stamped no idea upon our 
 brain. There are few, even among those least susceptible 
 of thought and emotion, in whose hearts and minds the first 
 death in the family does not act as a powerful revelation of 
 the mysteries of life, and of their own being ; there are few 
 who, after such a catastrophe, do not look upon the world 
 and the world's ways, at least for a time, with changed and
 
 90 VENETIA. 
 
 tempered feelings. It recalls the past ; it makes us ponder 
 over the future ; and youth, gay and light-hearted youth, is 
 taught, for the first time, to regret and to fear. 
 
 On Cadurcis, a child of pensive temperament, and in 
 whose strange and yet undeveloped character there was, 
 amid lighter elements, a constitutional principle of melan- 
 choly, the sudden decease of his mother produced a profound 
 effect. All was forgotten of his parent, except the intimate 
 and natural tie, and her warm and genuine affection. He 
 was now alone in the world ; for reflection impressed upon 
 him at this moment what the course of existence too gene- 
 rally teaches to us all, that mournful truth, that, after all, 
 we have no friends that we can depend upon in this life but 
 our parents. All other intimacies, however ardent, are 
 liable to cool ; all other confidence, however unlimited, to 
 be violated. In the phantasmagoria of life, the friend with 
 whom we have cultivated mutual trust for years is often 
 suddenly or gradually estranged from us, or becomes, from 
 painful, yet irresistible circumstances, even our deadliest 
 foe. As for women, as for the mistresses of our hearts, who 
 has not learnt that the links of passion are fragile as they 
 are glittering ; and that the bosom on which we have re- 
 posed with idolatry all our secret sorrows and sanguine 
 hopes, eventually becomes the very heart that exults in our 
 misery and baffles our welfare ? Where is the enamoured 
 face that smiled upon our early love, and was to shed tears 
 over our grave ? Where are the choice companions of our 
 youth, with whom we were to breast the difficulties and 
 share the triumphs of existence ? Even in this inconstant 
 world, what changes like the heart ? Love is a dream, and 
 friendship a delusion. No wonder we grow callous ; for 
 how few have the opportunity of returning to the hearth 
 which they quitted in levity or thoughtless weariness, yet 
 which alone is faithful to them ; whose sweet affections re- 
 quire not the stimulus of prosperity or fame, the lure of 
 accomplishments, or the tribute of flattery ; but which are 
 constant to us in distress, and console us even in disgrace !
 
 VENETIA. 91 
 
 Before she retired for the night, Lady Annabel was 
 anxious to see Plantagenet. Mistress Pauncefort had in- 
 formed her of his visit to his mother's room. Lady Anna- 
 bel found Cadurcis in the gallery, now partially lighted by 
 the moon which had recently risen. She entered with her 
 light, as if she were on her way to her own room, and not 
 seeking him. 
 
 ' Dear Plantagenet,' she said, ' will you not go to bed ? ' 
 
 ' I do not intend to go to bed to-night,' he replied. 
 
 She approached him and took him by the hand, which 
 he did not withdraw from her, and they walked together 
 once or twice up and down the gallery. 
 
 ' I think, dear child,' said Lady Annabel, ' you had better 
 come and sit with us.' 
 
 ' I like to be alone,' was his answer ; but not in a sullen 
 voice, low and faltering. 
 
 ' But in sorrow we should be with our friends,' said Lady 
 Annabel. 
 
 ' I have no friends,' he answered. ' I only had one.' 
 
 ' I am your friend, dear child ; I am your mother now, 
 and you shall find me one if you like. And Yenetia, have 
 you forgotten your sister ? Is she not your friend ? And 
 Dr. Masham, surely you cannot doubt his friendship ? ' 
 
 Cadurcis tried to stifle a sob. 'Ay, Lady Annabel,' he 
 said, ' you are my friend now, and so are you all ; and you 
 know I love you much. But you were not my friends two 
 years ago ; and things will change again ; they will, indeed. 
 A mother is your friend as long as she lives ; she cannot 
 help being your friend.' 
 
 ' You shall come to Cherbury and live with us,' said Lady 
 Annabel. ' You know you love Cherbury, and you shall 
 find it a home, a real home.' 
 
 He pressed her hand to his lips ; the hand was covered 
 with his tears. 
 
 ' We will go to Cherbury to-morrow, dear Plantagenet ; 
 remaining here will only make you sad.' 
 
 ' I will never leave Cadurcis again while my mother is in
 
 92 VENETIA. 
 
 this house,' he said, in a firm and serious voice. And then, 
 after a moment's pause, he added, ' I wish to know when 
 the burial is to take place.' 
 
 ' We will ask Dr. Masham,' replied Lady Annabel. ' Come, 
 let us go to him ; come, my own child.' 
 
 He permitted himself to be led away. They descended 
 to the small apartment where Lady Annabel had been pre- 
 viously sitting. They found the Doctor there ; he rose and 
 pressed Plantagenet's hand with great emotion. They made 
 room for him at the fire between them ; he sat in silence, 
 with his gaze intently fixed upon the decaying embers, yet 
 did not quit bis hold of Lady Annabel's hand. He found 
 it a consolation to him ; it linked him to a being who seemed 
 to love him. As long as he held her hand he did not seem 
 quite alone in the world. 
 
 Now nobody spoke ; for Lady Annabel felt that Cadurcis 
 was in some degree solaced ; and she thought it unwise to 
 interrupt the more composed train of his thoughts. It was, 
 indeed, Plantagenet himself who first broke silence. 
 
 ' I do not think I can go to bed, Lady Annabel,' he said. 
 ' The thought of this night is terrible to me. I do not 
 think it ever can end. I would much sooner sit up in this 
 room.' 
 
 ' Nay ! my child, sleep is a great consoler ; try to go to 
 bed, love.' 
 
 'I should like to sleep in my mother's room,' was his 
 strange reply. ' It seems to me that I could sleep there. 
 And if I woke in the night, I should like to see her.' 
 
 Lady Annabel and the Doctor exchanged looks. 
 
 'I think,' said the Doctor, 'you had better sleep in my 
 room, and then, if you wake in the night, you will have 
 some one to speak to. You will find that a comfort.' 
 
 ' Yes, that you will,' said Lady Annabel. ' I will go and 
 have the sofa bed made up in the Doctor's room for you. 
 Indeed that will be the very best plan.' 
 
 So at last, but not without a struggle, they persuaded 
 Cadurcis to retire. Lady Annabel embraced him tenderly
 
 VENETIA. 93 
 
 when she bade him good night ; and, indeed, he felt con- 
 soled by her affection. 
 
 As nothing could persuade Plantagenet to leave the abbey 
 until his mother was buried, Lady Annabel resolved to take 
 up her abode there, and she sent the next morning for 
 Venetia. There were a great many arrangements to make 
 about the burial and the mourning ; and Lady Annabel and 
 Dr. Masham were obliged, in consequence, to go the next 
 morning to Southport ; but they delayed their departure 
 until the arrival of Venetia, that Cadurcis might not be 
 left alone. 
 
 The meeting between himself and Venetia was a very 
 sad one, and yet her companionship was a great solace. 
 Venetia urged every topic that she fancied could reassure 
 his spirits, and upon the happy home he would find at 
 Cherbury. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Cadurcis, ' they will not leave me here ; 
 I am sure of that. I think our happy days are over, 
 Venetia.' 
 
 What mourner has not felt the magic of time ? Before 
 the funeral could take place, Cadurcis had recovered some- 
 what of his usual cheerfulness, and would indulge with 
 Venetia in plans of their future life. And living, as they 
 all were, under the same roof, sharing the same sorrows, 
 participating in the same cares, and all about to wear the 
 same mournful emblems of their domestic calamity, it was 
 difficult for him to believe that he was indeed that desolate 
 being he had at first correctly estimated himself. Here 
 were true friends, if such could exist ; here were fine sym- 
 pathies, pure affections, innocent and disinterested hearts ! 
 Every domestic tie yet remained perfect, except the spell- 
 bound tie of blood. That wanting, all was a bright and 
 happy vision, that might vanish in an instant, and for ever; 
 that perfect, even the least graceful, the most repulsive 
 home, had its irresistible charms ; and its loss, when once 
 experienced, might be mourned for ever, and could never 
 be restored.
 
 94 VEXETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 AFTER the funeral of Mrs. Cadurcis, the family returned to 
 Cherbury with Plantagenet, who was hereafter to consider 
 it his home. All that the most tender solicitude could 
 devise to reconcile him to the change in his life was fulfilled 
 by Lady Annabel and her daughter, and, under their be- 
 nignant influence, he soon regained his usual demeanour. 
 His days were now spent as in the earlier period of their 
 acquaintance, with the exception of those painful returns to 
 home, which had once been a source to him of so much 
 gloom and unhappiness. He pursued his studies as of old, 
 and shared the amusements of Venetia. His allotted room 
 was ornamented by her drawings, and in the evenings they 
 read aloud by turns to Lady Annabel the volume which she 
 selected. The abbey he never visited again after his mother's 
 funeral. 
 
 Some weeks had passed in this quiet and contented man- 
 ner, when one day Doctor Masham, who, since the death of 
 his mother, had been in correspondence with his guardian, 
 received a letter from that nobleman, to announce that he 
 had made arrangements for sending his ward to Eton, and 
 to request that he would accordingly instantly proceed to 
 the metropolis. This announcement occasioned both Ca- 
 durcis and Venetia poignant affliction. The idea of separa- 
 tion was to both of them most painful ; and although Lady 
 Annabel herself was in some degree prepared for an arrange- 
 ment, which sooner or later she considered inevitable, she 
 was herself scarcely less distressed. The good Doctor, in 
 some degree to break the bitterness of parting, proposed ac- 
 companying Plantagenet to London, and himself personally 
 delivering the charge, in whose welfare they were so much 
 interested, to his guardian. Nevertheless, it was a very 
 sad affair, and the week which was to intervene before his 
 departure found both himself and Venetia often in tears. 
 They no longer took any delight in their mutual studies
 
 VENETIA. 95 
 
 but passed the day walking about and visiting old haunts, 
 and endeavouring to console each other for what they both 
 deemed a great calamity, and which was, indeed, the only 
 serious misfortune Venetia had herself experienced in the 
 whole course of her serene career. 
 
 ' But if I were really your brother,' said Plantagenet, 
 'I must have quitted you the same, Venetia. Boys al- 
 ways go to school ; and then we shall be so happy when I 
 return.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but we are so happy now, Plantagenet. I cannot 
 believe that we are going to part. And are you sure that 
 you will return ? Perhaps your guardian will not let you, 
 and will wish you to spend your holidays at his house. His 
 house will be your home now.' 
 
 It was impossible for a moment to forget the sorrow that 
 was impending over them. There were so many prepara- 
 tions to be made for his departure, that every instant some- 
 thing occurred to remind them of their sorrow. Venetia 
 sat with tears in her eyes marking his new pocket-handker- 
 chiefs which they had all gone to Southport to purchase, 
 for Plantagenet asked, as a particular favour, that no one 
 should mark them but Venetia. Then Lady Annabel gave 
 Plantagenet a writing-case, and Venetia filled it with pens 
 and paper, that he might never want means to communicate 
 with them ; and her evenings were passed in working him 
 a purse, which Lady Annabel took care should be well 
 stocked. All day long there seemed something going on 
 to remind them of what was about to happen ; and as for 
 Pauncefort, she flounced in and out the room fifty times 
 a- day, with ' What is to be done about my lord's shirts, my 
 lady ? I think his lordship had better have another dozen, 
 your la'ship. Better too much than too little, I always 
 say;' or, '0! my lady, your la'ship cannot form an idea 
 of what a state my lord's stockings are in, my lady. I 
 think I had better go over to Southport with John, my 
 lady, and buy him some ; ' or, ' Please, my lady, did I 
 understand your la'ship spoke to the tailor on Thursday
 
 96 VENETIA. 
 
 about my lord's things ? I suppose your la' ship knows my 
 lord has got no great-coat ? ' 
 
 Every one of these inquiries made Venetia's heart tremble. 
 Then there was the sad habit of dating every coming day 
 by its distance from the fatal one. There was the last day 
 but four, and the last day but three, and the last day but 
 two. The last day but one at length arrived ; and at length, 
 too, though it seemed incredible, the last day itself. 
 
 Plantagenet and Venetia both rose very early, that they 
 might make it as long as possible. They sighed involun- 
 tarily when they met, and then they went about to pay last 
 visits to every creature and object of which they had been 
 so long fond. Plantagenet went to bid farewell to the 
 horses and adieu to the cows, and then walked down to 
 the woodman's cottage, and then to shake hands with the 
 keeper. He would not say ' Good-bye' to the household 
 until the very last moment ; and as for Marmion, the blood- 
 hound, he accompanied both of them so faithfully in this 
 melancholy ramble, and kept so close to both, that it was 
 useless to break the sad intelligence to him yet. 
 
 ' I think now, Venetia, we have been to see everything,' 
 said Plantagenet, ' I shall see the peacocks at breakfast 
 time. I wish Eton was near Cherbury, and then I could 
 come home on Sunday. I cannot bear going to Cadurcis 
 again, but I should like you to go once a week, and try to 
 keep up our garden, and look after everything, though there 
 is not much that will not take care of itself, except the 
 garden. We made that together, and I could not bear its 
 being neglected.' 
 
 Venetia could not assure him that no wish of his should 
 be neglected, because she was weeping. 
 
 1 1 am glad the Doctor,' he continued, ' is g6ing to take 
 me to town. I should be very wretched by myself. But 
 he will put me in mind of Cherbury, and we can talk to- 
 gether of Lady Annabel and you. Hark ! the bell rings ; 
 we must go to breakfast, the last breakfast but one.' 
 
 Lady Annabel endeavoured, by unusual good spirits, to
 
 VENETIA. 97 
 
 cheer up her little friends. She spoke of Plantagenet's 
 speedy return so much as a matter of course, and the plea- 
 sant things they were to do when he came back, that she 
 really succeeded in exciting a smile in Venetia's April face, 
 for she was smiling amid tears. 
 
 Although it was the last day, time hung heavily on their 
 hands. After breakfast they went over the house together; 
 and Cadurcis, half with genuine feeling, and half in a spirit 
 of mockery of their sorrow, made a speech to the inanimate 
 walls, as if they were aware of his intended departure. At 
 length, in their progress, they passed the door of the closed 
 apartments, and here, holding Yenetia's hand, he stopped, 
 and, with an expression of irresistible humour, making a 
 low bow to them, he said, very gravely, ' And good-bye 
 rooms that I have never entered ; perhaps, before I come 
 back, Venetia will find out what is locked up in you ! ' 
 
 Dr. Masham arrived for dinner, and in a postchaise. 
 The unusual conveyance reminded them of the morrow very 
 keenly. Venetia could not bear to see the Doctor's port- 
 manteau taken out and carried into the hall. She had 
 hopes, until then, that something would happen and pre- 
 vent all this misery. Cadurcis whispered her, ' I say, 
 Venetia, do not you wish this was winter ? ' 
 
 ' Why, Plantagenet ? ' 
 
 ' Because then we might have a good snowstorm, and be 
 blocked up again for a week.' 
 
 Venetia looked at the sky, but not a cloud was to be seen. 
 
 The Doctor was glad to warm himself at the hall-fire, for 
 it was a fresh autumnal afternoon. 
 
 ' Are you cold, sir ? ' said Venetia, approaching him. 
 
 * I am, my little maiden,' said the Doctor. 
 
 ' Do you think there is any chance of its snowing, Doctor 
 Masham ? ' 
 
 ' Snowing ! my little maiden ; what can you be thinking 
 of?' 
 
 The dinner was rather gayer than might have been ex- 
 pected. The Doctor was jocular, Lady Annabel lively, and 
 
 H
 
 98 VENETIA. 
 
 Plantagenet excited by an extraordinary glass of wine. 
 Venetia alone remained dispirited. The Doctor made 
 mock speeches and proposed toasts, and told Plantagenet 
 that he must learn to make speeches too, or what would he 
 do when he was in the House of Lords ? And then Plan- 
 tagenet tried to make a speech, and proposed Yenetia's 
 health ; and then Venetia, who could not bear to hear her- 
 self praised by him on such a day, the last day, burst into 
 tears. Her mother called her to her side and consoled her, 
 and Plantagenet jumped up and wiped her eyes with one 
 of those very pocket-handkerchiefs on which she had em- 
 broidered his cipher and coronet with her own beautiful hair. 
 
 Towards evening Plantagenet began to experience the 
 re-action of his artificial spirits. The Doctor had fallen 
 into a gentle slumber, Lady Annabel had quitted the room, 
 Venetia sat with her hand in Plantagenet's on a stool by 
 the fireside. Both were sad and silent. At last Venetia 
 said, ' Plantagenet, I wish I were your real sister ! Per- 
 haps, when I see you again, you will forget this,' and she 
 turned the jewel that was suspended round her neck, and 
 showed him the inscription. 
 
 ' I am sure when I see you again, Venetia,' he replied, 
 ' the only difference will be, that I shall love you more than 
 ever.' 
 
 ' I hope so,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' I am sure of it. Now remember what we are talking 
 about. "When we meet again, we shall see which of us two 
 will love each other the most.' 
 
 ' Plantagenet, I hope they will be kind to you at Eton.' 
 
 * I will make them.' 
 
 * And, whenever you are the least unhappy, you will 
 write to us ? ' 
 
 ' I shall never be unhappy about anything but being away 
 from you. As for the rest, I will make people respect me ; 
 I know what I am.' 
 
 'Because if they do not behave well to you, mamma 
 could ask Dr. Masham to go and see you, and they will
 
 VENETIA. 99 
 
 attend to him ; and I would ask him too. I wonder,' she 
 continued after a moment's pause, ' if you have everything 
 you want. I am quite sure the instant you are gone, we 
 shall remember something you ought to have ; and then I 
 shall be quite brokenhearted.' 
 
 ' I have got everything.' 
 
 'You said you wanted a large knife.' 
 
 'Yes! but I am going to buy one in London. Dr. 
 Masham says he will take me to a place where the finest 
 knives in the world are to be bought. It is a great thing 
 to go to London with Dr. Masham.' 
 
 ' I have never written your name in your Bible and 
 Prayer-book. I will do it this evening.' 
 
 ' Lady Annabel is to write it in the Bible, and you are 
 to write it in the Prayer-book.' 
 
 ' You are to write to us from London by Dr. Masham, if 
 only a line.' 
 
 I shall not fail.' 
 
 ' Never mind about your handwriting ; but mind you 
 write.' 
 
 At this moment Lady Annabel's step was heard, and 
 Plantagenet said, ' Give me a kiss, Venetia, for I do not 
 mean to bid good-bye to-night.' 
 
 ' But you will not go to-morrow before we are up ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, we shall.' 
 
 ' Now, Plantagenet, I shall be up to bid you good-bye, 
 mind that.' 
 
 Lady Annabel entered, the Doctor woke, lights followed, 
 the servant made up th'e fire, and the room looked cheerful 
 again. After tea, the names were duly written in the Bible 
 and Prayer-book ; the*last arrangements were made, all the 
 baggage was brought down into the hall, all ransacked their 
 memory and fancy, to see if it were possible that anything 
 that Plantagenet could require was either forgotten or had 
 been omitted. The clock struck ten ; Lady Annabel rose. 
 The travellers were to part at an early hour : she shook 
 
 H 2
 
 100 VENETIA. 
 
 hands with Dr. Masham, but Cadurcis was to bid her fare- 
 well in her dressing-room, and then, with heavy hearts and 
 glistening eyes, they all separated. And thus ended the 
 last day ! . 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 VENETIA passed a restless night. She was so resolved to be 
 awake in time for Plantagenet's departure, that she could 
 not sleep ; and at length, towards morning, fell, from ex- 
 haustion, into a light slumber, from which she sprang up 
 convulsively, roused by the sound of the wheels of the post- 
 chaise. She looked out of her window, and saw the servant 
 strapping on the portmanteaus. Shortly after this she 
 heard Plantagenet's step in the vestibule ; he passed her 
 room, and proceeded to her mother's dressing-room, at the 
 door of which she heard him knock, and then there was 
 silence. 
 
 ' Tou are in good time,' said Lady Annabel, who was 
 seated in an easy chair when Plantagenet entered her room. 
 Is the Doctor up?' 
 
 ' He is breakfasting.' 
 
 ' And have you breakfasted ? ' 
 
 ' I have no appetite.' 
 
 'You should take something, my child, before you go. 
 Now, come hither, my dear Plantagenet,' she said, extend- 
 ing her hand ; ' listen to me, one word. When you arrive 
 in London, you will go to your guardian's. He is a great 
 man, and I believe a very good one, and the law and your 
 father's will have placed him in the position of a parent to 
 you. You must therefore love, honour, and obey him ; and' 
 I doubt not he will deserve all your affection, respect, and 
 duty. Whatever he desires or counsels you will perform 
 and follow. So long as you act according to his wishes, 
 you cannot be wrong. But, my dear Plantagenet, if by 
 any chance it ever happens, for strange things sometimes
 
 VENETIA. 101 
 
 happen in this world, that you are in trouble and require a 
 friend, remember that Cherbury is also your home ; the 
 home of your heart, if not of the law ; and that not merely 
 from my own love for you, but because I promised your 
 poor mother on her death-bed, I esteem myself morally, 
 although not legally, in the light of a parent to you. You 
 will find Eton a great change ; you will experience many 
 trials and temptations ; but you will triumph over and 
 withstand them -all, if you will attend to these few direc- 
 tions. Fear God ; morning and night let nothing induce 
 you ever to omit your prayers to Him ; you will find 
 that praying will make you happy. Obey your superiors ; 
 always treat your masters with respect. Ever speak the 
 truth. So long as you adhere to this rule, you never can 
 be involved in any serious misfortune. A deviation from 
 truth is, in general, the foundation of all misery. Be kind 
 to your companions, but be firm. Do not be laughed into 
 doing that which you know to be wrong. Be modest and 
 humble, but ever respect yourself. Remember who you 
 are, and also that it is your duty to excel. Providence has 
 given you a great lot. Think ever that you are born to 
 perform great duties. 
 
 ' God bless you, Plantagenet ! ' she continued, after a slight 
 pause, with a faltering voice, ' God bless you, my sweet 
 child. And God will bless you if you remember Him. Try 
 also to remember us,' she added, as she embraced him, and 
 placed in his hand Venetia's well-lined purse. ' Do not for- 
 get Cherbury and all it contains ; hearts that love you dearly, 
 and will pray ever for your welfare.' 
 
 Plantagenet leant upon her bosom. He had entered the 
 room resolved to be composed, with an air even of cheer- 
 fulness, but his tender heart yielded to the first appeal to 
 his affections. He could only murmur out some broken 
 syllables of devotion, and almost unconsciously found that 
 he had quitted the chamber. 
 
 With streaming eyes and hesitating steps he was proceed- 
 ing along the vestibule, when he heard his name called by
 
 102 VENETIA. 
 
 a low sweet voice. He looked around; it was Venetia. 
 Never had he beheld such a beautiful vision. She was 
 muffled up in her dressing-gown, her small white feet only 
 guarded from the cold by her slippers. Her golden hair 
 seemed to reach her waist, her cheek was flushed, her large 
 blue eyes glittered with tears. 
 
 'Plantagenet,' she said 
 
 Neither of them could speak. They embraced, they 
 mingled their tears together, and every instant they wept 
 more plenteously. At length a footstep was heard ; Venetia 
 murmured a blessing, and vanished. 
 
 Cadurcis lingered on the stairs a moment to compose him- 
 self. He wiped his eyes ; he tried to look undisturbed. All 
 the servants were in the hall ; from Mistress Pauncefort to 
 the scullion there was not a dry eye. All loved the little 
 lord, he was so gracious and so gentle. Every one asked leave 
 to touch his hand before he went. He tried to smile and 
 say something kind to all. He recognised the gamekeeper, 
 and told him to do what he liked at Cadurcis ; said some- 
 thing to the coachman about his pony ; and begged Mistress 
 Pauncefort, quite aloud, to take great care of her young 
 mistress. As he was speaking, he felt something rubbing 
 against his hand : it was Marmion, the old bloodhound. He 
 also came to bid his adieus. Cadurcis patted him with affec- 
 tion, and said, 'Ah ! my old fellow, we shall yet meet again.' 
 
 The Doctor appeared, smiling as usual, made his inquiries 
 whether all were right, nodded to the weeping household, 
 called Plantagenet his brave boy, and patted him on the 
 back, and bade him jump into the chaise. Another moment, 
 and Dr. Masham had also entered ; the door was closed, the 
 fatal ' All right ' sung out, and Lord Cadurcis was whirled 
 away from that Cherbury where he was so loved. 
 
 END OP BOOK I.
 
 VENETIA. 103 
 
 BOOK n. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LIFE is not dated merely by years. Events are sometimes 
 the best calendars. There are epochs in our existence which 
 cannot be ascertained by a formal appeal to the registry. 
 The arrival of the Cadurcis family at their old abbey, their 
 consequent intimacy at Cherbury, the death of the mother, 
 and the departure of the son : these were events which had 
 been crowded into a space of less than two years ; but those 
 two years were not only the most eventful in the life of 
 Venetia Herbert, but in their influence upon the develop- 
 ment of her mind, and the formation of her character, far 
 exceeded the effects of all her previous existence. 
 
 Venetia once more found herself with no companion but her 
 mother, but in vain she attempted to recall the feelings she 
 had before experienced under such circumstances, and to 
 revert to the resources she had before commanded. No 
 longer could she wander in imaginary kingdoms, or trans- 
 form the limited world of her experience into a boundless 
 region of enchanted amusement. Her play-pleasure hours 
 were fled for ever. She sighed for her faithful and sym- 
 pathising companion. The empire of fancy yielded without 
 a struggle to the conquering sway of memory. 
 
 For the first few weeks Yenetia was restless and dispirited, 
 and when she was alone she often wept. A mysterious 
 instinct prompted her, however, not to exhibit such emotion 
 before her mother. Yet she loved to hear Lady Annabel 
 talk of Plantagenet, and a visit to the abbey was ever her 
 favourite walk. Sometimes, too, a letter arrived from Lord 
 Cadnrcis, and this was great joy ; but such communications
 
 104 VENETIA. 
 
 were rare. Nothing is more difficult than for a junior boy 
 at a public school to maintain a correspondence ; yet his 
 letters were most affectionate, and always dwelt upon the 
 prospect of his return. The period for this hoped-for return 
 at length arrived, but.it brought no Plantagenet. His guar- 
 dian wished that the holidays should be spent under his roof. 
 Still at intervals Cadnrcis wrote to Cherbury, to which, as 
 time flew on, it seemed destined he never was to return. 
 Vacation followed vacation, alike passed with his guardian, 
 either in London, or at a country seat still more remote from 
 Cherbury, until at length it became so much a matter of 
 course that his guardian's house should be esteemed his 
 home, that Plantagenet ceased to allude even to the pro- 
 spect of return. In time his letters became rarer and rarer, 
 until, at length, they altogether ceased. Meanwhile Venetia 
 had overcome the original pang of separation ; if not as gay 
 as in old days, she was serene and very studious ; delighting 
 less in her flowers and birds, but much more in her books, 
 and pursuing her studies with an earnestness and assiduity 
 which her mother was rather fain to check than to encourage, 
 Venetia Herbert, indeed, promised to become a most accom- 
 plished woman. She had a fine ear for music, a ready tongue 
 for languages ; already she emulated her mother's skill in 
 the arts ; while the library of Cherbury afforded welcome 
 and inexhaustible resources to a girl whose genius deserved 
 the richest and most sedulous cultivation, and whose peculiar 
 situation, independent of her studious predisposition, ren- 
 dered reading a pastime to her rather than a task. Lady 
 Annabel watched the progress of her daughter with lively 
 interest, and spared no efforts to assist the formation of her 
 principles and her taste. That deep religious feeling which 
 was the characteristic of the mother had been carefully and 
 early cherished in the heart of the child, and in time the un- 
 rivalled writings of the great divines of our Church became 
 a principal portion of her reading. Order, method, severe 
 study, strict religious exercise, with no amusement or re- 
 laxation but of the most simple and natural character, and
 
 VENETIA. 105 
 
 with a complete seclusion from society, altogether formed a 
 system, which, acting upon a singularly susceptible and gifted 
 nature, secured the promise in Venetia Herbert, at fourteen 
 years of age, of an extraordinary woman ; a system, how- 
 ever, against which her lively and somewhat restless mind 
 might probably have rebelled, had not that system been so 
 thoroughly imbued with all the melting spell of maternal 
 affection. It was the inspiration of this sacred love that 
 hovered like a guardian angel over the life of Venetia. It 
 roused her from her morning slumbers with an embrace, it 
 sanctified her evening pillow with a blessing ; it anticipated 
 the difficulty of the student's page, and guided the faltering 
 hand of the hesitating artist ; it refreshed her memory, ifc 
 modulated her voice ; it accompanied her in the cottage, and 
 knelt by her at the altar. Marvellous and beautiful is a 
 mother's love. And when Venetia, with her strong feelings 
 and enthusiastic spirit, would look around and mark that a 
 graceful form and a bright eye were for ever watching over 
 her wants and wishes, instructing with sweetness, and soft 
 even with advice, her whole soul rose to her mother, all 
 thoughts and feelings were concentrated in that sole exist- 
 ence, and she desired no happier destiny than to pass through 
 life living in the light of her mother's smiles, and clinging 
 with passionate trust to that beneficent and guardian form. 
 But with all her quick and profound feelings Venetia was 
 thoughtful and even shrewd, and when she was alone her 
 very love for her mother, and her gratitude for such an inef- 
 fable treasure as parental affection, would force her mind to 
 a subject which at intervals had haunted her even from her 
 earliest childhood. Why had she only one parent ? What 
 mystery was this that enveloped that great tie ? For that 
 there was a mystery Venetia felt as assured as that she was 
 a daughter. By a process which she could not analyse, her 
 father had become a forbidden subject. True, Lady Annabel 
 had placed no formal prohibition upon its mention ; nor at 
 her present age was Venetia one who would be influenced 
 in her conduct by the bygone and arbitrary intimations of
 
 106 VENETIA. 
 
 a menial ; nevertheless, that the mention of her father would 
 afford pain to the being she loved best in the -world, was 
 a conviction which had grown with her years and strength- 
 ened with her strength. Pardonable, natural, even laudable 
 as was the anxiety of the daughter upon such a subject, an 
 instinct with which she could not struggle closed the lips of 
 Venetia for ever upon this topic. His name was never men- 
 tioned, his past existence was never alluded to. Who was 
 he ? That he was of noble family and great position her 
 name betokened, and the state in which they lived. He 
 must have died very early ; perhaps even before her mother 
 gave her birth. A dreadful lot indeed ; and yet was the 
 grief that even such a dispensation might occasion, so keen, 
 so overwhelming, that after fourteen long years his name 
 might not be permitted, even for an instant, to pass the lips 
 of his bereaved wife ? Was his child to be deprived of the 
 only solace for his loss, the consolation of cherishing his 
 memory ? Strange, passing strange indeed, and bitter ! At 
 Cherbury the family of Herbert were honoured only from 
 tradition. Until the arrival of Lady Annabel, as we have 
 before mentioned, they had not resided at the hall for more 
 than half a century. There were no old retainers there from 
 whom Venetia might glean, without suspicion, the informa- 
 tion for which she panted. Slight, too, as was Venetia's 
 experience of society, there were times when she could not 
 resist the impression that her mother was not happy ; that 
 there was some secret sorrow that weighed upon her spirit, 
 some grief that gnawed at her heart. Could it be still the 
 recollection of her lost sire ? Could one so religious, so 
 resigned, so assured of meeting the lost one in a better world, 
 brood with a repining soul over the will of her Creator ? Such 
 conduct was entirely at variance with all the tenets of Lady 
 Annabel. It was not thus she consoled the bereaved, that 
 she comforted the widow, and solaced the orpban. Venetia, 
 too, observed everything and forgot nothing. Not an incident 
 of her earliest childhood that was not as fresh in her memory 
 as if it had occurred yesterday. Her memory was naturally
 
 VENETIA 107 
 
 keen ; living in solitude, with nothing to distract it, its impres- 
 sions never faded away. She had never forgotten her mother's 
 tears the day that she and Plantagenet had visited Marring- 
 hurst. Somehow or other Dr. Masham seemed connected 
 with this sorrow. Whenever Lady Annabel was most 
 dispirited it was after an interview with that gentleman ; 
 yet the presence of the Doctor always gave her pleasure, 
 and he was the most kind-hearted and cheerful of men. 
 Perhaps, after all, it was only her illusion ; perhaps, after 
 all, it was the memory of her father to which her mother 
 was devoted, and which occasionally overcame her ; perhaps 
 she ventured to speak of him to Dr. Masham, though not to 
 her daughter, and this might account for that occasional 
 agitation which Venetia had observed at his visits. And 
 yet, and yet, and yet ; in vain she reasoned. There is a 
 strange sympathy which whispers convictions that no evi- 
 dence can authorise, and no arguments dispel. Venetia 
 Herbert, particularly as she grew older, could not refrain 
 at times from yielding to the irresistible belief that her 
 existence was enveloped in some mystery. Mystery too 
 often presupposes the idea of guilt. Guilt ! Who was guilty ? 
 Venetia shuddered at the current of her own thoughts. She 
 started from the garden seat in which she had fallen into this 
 dangerous and painful reverie ; flew to her mother, who 
 received her with smiles ; and buried her face in the bosom 
 of Lady Annabel. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WE have indicated in a few pages the progress of three 
 years. How differently passed to the two preceding ones, 
 when the Cadurcis family were settled at the abbey ! For 
 during this latter period it seemed that not a single inci- 
 dent had occurred. They had glided away in one unbroken 
 course of study, religion, and domestic love, the enjoyment 
 of nature, and the pursuits of charity ; like a long summer
 
 108 VENETIA. 
 
 sabbath-day, sweet and serene and still, undisturbed by a 
 single passion, hallowed and hallowing. 
 
 If the Cadurcis family were now not absolutely forgotten 
 at Cherbury, they were at least only occasionally remem- 
 bered. These last three years so completely harmonised 
 with the life of Venetia before their arrival, that, taking a 
 general view of her existence, their residence at the abbey 
 figured only as an episode in her career ; active indeed and 
 stirring, and one that had left some impressions not easily 
 discarded ; but, on the whole, mellowed by the magic of 
 time, Yenetia looked back to her youthful friendship as an 
 event that was only an exception in her lot, and she viewed 
 herself as a being born and bred up in a seclusion which 
 she was never to quit, with no aspirations beyond the little 
 world in which she moved, and where she was to die in 
 peace, as she had lived in purity. 
 
 One Sunday, the conversation after dinner fell upon Lord 
 Cadurcis. Doctor Masham had recently met a young 
 Etonian, and had made some inquiries about their friend of 
 old days. The information he had obtained was not very satis- 
 factory. It seemed that Cadurcis was a more popular boy 
 with his companions than his tutors ; he had been rather 
 unruly, and had only escaped expulsion by the influence of 
 his guardian, who was not only a great noble, but a powerful 
 minister. 
 
 This conversation recalled old times. They talked over 
 the arrival of Mrs. Cadurcis at the abbey, her strange 
 character, her untimely end. Lady Annabel expressed her 
 conviction of the natural excellence of Plantagenet's dis- 
 position, and her regret of the many disadvantages under 
 which he laboured ; it gratified Venetia to listen to his 
 praise. 
 
 ' He has quite forgotten us, mamma,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' My love, he was very young when he quitted us,' replied 
 Lady Annabel ; ' and you must remember the influence of a 
 change of life at so tender an age. He lives now in a busy 
 world.'
 
 VENETIA. 109 
 
 ' I wish that he had not forgotten to write to us some- 
 times,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Writing a letter is a great achievement for a schoolboy,' 
 said the Doctor ; ' it is a duty which even grown-up persons 
 too often forget to fulfil, and, when postponed, it is generally 
 deferred for ever. However, I agree with Lady Annabel, 
 Cadurcis was a fine fellow, and had he been properly 
 brought up, I cannot help thinking, might have turned out 
 something.' 
 
 ' Poor Plantagenet ! ' said Venetia, ' how I pity him. His 
 was a terrible lot, to lose both his parents! Whatever 
 were the errors of Mrs. Cadurcis, she was his mother, and, 
 in spite of every mortification, he clung to her. Ah! I 
 shall never forget when Pauncefort met him coming out of 
 her room the night before the burial, when he said, with 
 streaming eyes, " I only had one friend in the world, and 
 now she is gone." I could not love Mrs. Cadurcis, and 
 yet, when I heard of these words, I cried as much as he.' 
 
 ' Poor fellow ! ' said the Doctor, filling his glass. 
 
 'If there be any person in the world whom I pity,' said 
 Venetia, ' 'tis an orphan. Oh ! what should I be without 
 mamma? And Plantagenet, poor Plantagenet! he has no 
 mother, no father.' Venetia added, with a faltering voice : 
 ' I can sympathise with him in some degree ; I, I, I know, I 
 feel the misfortune, the misery ; ' her face became crimson, 
 yet she could not restrain the irresistible words, 'the 
 misery of never having known a father,' she added. 
 
 There was a dead pause, a most solemn silence. In vain 
 Venetia straggled to look calm and unconcerned; every 
 iustant she felt the blood mantling in her cheek with a 
 more lively and spreading agitation. She dared not look 
 up ; it was not possible to utter a word to turn the conver- 
 sation. She felt utterly confounded and absolutely mute. 
 At length, Lady Annabel spoke. Her tone was severe and 
 choking, very different to her usual silvery voice. 
 
 ' I am sorry that my daughter should feel so keenly the 
 want of a parent's love,' said her ladyship.
 
 110 VEXETIA. 
 
 What would not Venetia have given for the power of 
 speech ! but it seemed to have deserted her for ever. There 
 she sat mute and motionless, with her eyes fixed on the 
 table, and with a burning cheek, as if she were conscious 
 of having committed some act of shame, as if she had been 
 detected in some base and degrading deed. Yet, what had 
 she done? A daughter had delicately alluded to her grief 
 at the loss of a parent, and expressed her keen sense of the 
 deprivation. 
 
 It .was an autumnal afternoon : Doctor Masham looked at 
 the sky, and, after a long pause, made an observation about 
 the weather, and then requested permission to order his 
 horses, as the evening came on apace, and he had some 
 distance to ride. Lady Annabel rose ; the Doctor, with a 
 countenance unusually serious, offered her his arm ; and 
 Venetia followed them like a criminal. In a few minutes 
 the horses appeared ; Lady Annabel bid adieu to her friend 
 in her usual kind tone, and with her usual sweet smile ; and 
 then, without noticing Venetia, instantly retired to her own 
 chamber. 
 
 And this was her mother ; her mother who never before 
 quitted her for an instant without some sign and symbol of 
 affection, some playful word of love, a winning smile, a 
 passing embrace, that seemed to acknowledge that the 
 pang of even momentary separation could only be alle- 
 viated by this graceful homage to the heart. What had 
 she done ? Venetia was about to follow Lady Annabel, but 
 she checked herself. Agony at having offended her mother, 
 and, for the first time, was blended with a strange curiosity 
 as to the cause, and some hesitating indignation at her 
 treatment. Venetia remained anxiously awaiting the re- 
 turn of Lady Annabel ; but her ladyship did not reappear. 
 Every instant, the astonishment and the grief of Venetia 
 increased. It was the first domestic difference that had 
 occurred between them. It shocked her much. She 
 thought of Plantagenet and Mrs. Cadurcis. There was a 
 mortifying resemblance, however slight, between the re-
 
 VENETIA. HI 
 
 spective situations of the two families. Venetia, too, had 
 quarrelled with her mother ; that mother who, for fourteen 
 years, had only looked upon her with fondness and joy; 
 who had been ever kind, without being ever weak, and had 
 rendered her child happy by making her good ; that mother 
 AT^nse beneficent wisdom had transformed duty into de- 
 light ; that superior, yet gentle being, so indulgent yet 
 so just, so gifted yet so condescending, who dedicated all 
 her knowledge, and time, and care, and intellect to her 
 daughter. 
 
 Venetia threw herself upon a couch and wept. They 
 were the first tears of unmixed pain that she had ever shed. 
 It was said by the household of Venetia when a child, that 
 she had never cried ; not a single tear had ever sullied that 
 sunny face. Surrounded by scenes of innocence, and images 
 of happiness and content, Venetia smiled on a world that 
 smiled on her, the radiant heroine of a golden age. She 
 had, indeed, wept over the sorrows and the departure of 
 Cadurcis ; but those were soft showers of sympathy and 
 affection sent from a warm heart, like drops from a summer 
 sky. But now this grief was agony : her brow throbbed, 
 her hand was clenched, her heart beat with tumultuous 
 palpitation ; the streaming torrent came scalding down her 
 cheek like fire rather than tears, and instead of assuaging 
 her emotion, seemed, on the contrary, to increase its fierce 
 and fervid power. 
 
 The sun had set, the red autumnal twilight had died 
 away, the shadows of night were brooding over the halls 
 of Cherbury. The moan of the rising wind might be dis- 
 tinctly heard, and ever and anon the branches of neigh- 
 bouring trees swung with a sudden yet melancholy sound 
 against the windows of the apartment, of which the cur- 
 tains had remained undrawn. Venetia looked up ; the room 
 would hare been in perfect darkness but for a glimmer 
 which just indicated the site of the expiring fire, and an 
 uncertain light, or rather modified darkness, that seemed 
 the sky. Alone and desolate! Alone and desolate and
 
 112 VENETIA. 
 
 unhappy! Alone and desolate and unhappy, and for the 
 first time ! Was it a sigh, or a groan, that issued from the 
 stifling heart of Venetia Herbert ? That child of innocence, 
 that bright emanation of love and beauty, that airy creature 
 of grace and gentleness, who had never said an unkind word 
 or done an unkind thing in her whole career, but had 
 glanced and glided through existence, scattering happiness 
 and joy, and receiving the pleasure which she herself im- 
 parted, how overwhelming was her first struggle with that 
 dark stranger, Sorrow! 
 
 Some one entered the room ; it was Mistress Pauncefort. 
 She held a taper in her hand, and came tripping gingerly in, 
 with a new cap streaming with ribands, and scarcely, as it 
 were, condescending to execute the mission with which she 
 was intrusted, which was no greater than fetching her lady's 
 reticule. She glanced at the table, but it was not there ; 
 she turned up her nose at a chair or two, which she even 
 condescended to propel a little with a saucy foot, as if the 
 reticule might be hid under the hanging drapery, and then, 
 unable to find the object of her search, Mistress Pauncefort 
 settled herself before the glass, elevating the taper above 
 her head, that she might observe what indeed she had been 
 examining the whole day, the effect of her new cap. With 
 a complacent simper, Mistress Pauncefort then turned from 
 pleasure to business, and, approaching the couch, gave a 
 faint shriek, half genuine, half affected, as she recognised 
 the recumbent form of her young mistress. 'Well to be 
 sure,' exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, 'was the like ever 
 seen ! Miss Venetia, as I live ! La ! Miss Venetia, what 
 can be the matter? I declare I am all of a palpitation.' 
 
 Venetia, affecting composure, said she was rather unwell ; 
 that she had a headache, and, rising, murmured that she 
 would go to bed. 'A headache ! ' exclaimed Mistress Paunce- 
 fort, ' I hope no worse, for there is my lady, and she is as 
 out of sorts as possible. She has a headache too ; and when 
 I shut the door just now, I am sure as quiet as a lamb, she 
 told me not to make so much noise when I left the room.
 
 VENETIA. 113 
 
 " Noise ! " says I ; " why really, my lady, I don't pretend to 
 
 be a spirit ; but if it comes to noise " " Never answer 
 
 me, Pauncefort," says my lady. " No, my lady," says I, "I 
 never do, and, I am sure, when I have a headache myself, 
 I don't like to be answered." But, to be sure, if you have 
 a headache, and my lady has a headache too, I only hope 
 we have not got the epidemy. I vow, Miss Venetia, that 
 your eyes are as red as if you had been running against the 
 wind. Well, to be sure, if you have not been crying ! I 
 must go and tell my lady immediately.' 
 
 ' Light me to my room,' said Yenetia ; ' I will not disturb 
 my mother, as she is unwell.' 
 
 Venetia rose, and Mistress Pauncefort followed her to her 
 chamber, and lit her candles. Venetia desired her not to 
 remain ; and when she had quitted the chamber, Venetia 
 threw herself in her chair and sighed. 
 
 To sleep, it was impossible ; it seemed to Venetia that 
 she could never rest again. She wept no more, but her 
 distress was very great. She felt it impossible to exist 
 through the night without being reconciled to her mother ; 
 but she refrained from going to her room, from the fear of 
 again meeting her troublesome attendant. She resolved, 
 therefore, to wait until she heard Mistress Pauncefort retire 
 for the night, and she listened with restless anxiety for the 
 sign of her departure in the sound of her footsteps along the 
 vestibule on which the doors of Lady Annabel's and her- 
 daughter's apartments opened. 
 
 An hour elapsed, and at length the sound was heard.. 
 Convinced that Pauncefort had now quitted her mother for 
 the night, Venetia ventured forth, and stopping before th& 
 door of her mother's room, she knocked gently. There was 
 no reply, and in a few minutes Venetia knocked again, and 
 rather louder. Still no answer. ' Mamma,' said Venetia, 
 in a faltering tone, but no sound replied. Venetia then- 
 tried the door, and found it fastened. Then she gave up. 
 the effort in despair, and retreating to her own chamber, 
 she threw herself on her bed, and wept bitterly.
 
 114 VENETIA. 
 
 Some time elapsed before she looked up again ; the candles 
 were flaring in their sockets. It was a wild windy night ; 
 Venetia rose, and withdrew the curtain of her window. 
 The black clouds were scudding along the sky, revealing, in 
 their occasional but transient rifts, some glimpses of the 
 moon, that seemed unusually bright, or of a star that 
 trembled with supernatural brilliancy. She stood a while 
 gazing on the outward scene that harmonised with her own 
 internal agitation : her grief was like the storm, her love 
 like the light of that bright moon and star. There came 
 over her a desire to see her mother, which she felt irre- 
 sistible ; she was resolved that no difficulty, no impediment, 
 should prevent her instantly from throwing herself on her 
 bosom. It seemed to her that her brain would burn, that 
 this awful night could never end without such an interview. 
 She opened her door, went forth again into the vestibule, 
 and approached with a nervous but desperate step her 
 mother's chamber. To her astonishment the door was 
 ajar, but there was a light within. With trembling step 
 and downcast eyes, Venetia entered the chamber, scarcely 
 daring to advance, or to look up. 
 
 ' Mother,' she said, but no one answered ; she heard the 
 tick of the clock ; it was the only sound. ' Mother,' she 
 repeated, and she dared to look up, but the bed was empty. 
 There was no mother. Lady Annabel was not in the room. 
 Following an irresistible impulse, Venetia knelt by the side 
 of her mother's bed and prayed. She addressed, in audible 
 and agitated tones, that Almighty and Beneficent Being of 
 whom she was so faithful and pure a follower. With sanc- 
 tified simplicity, she communicated to her Creator and her 
 Saviour all her distress, all her sorrow, all the agony of 
 her perplexed and wounded spirit. If she had sinned, she 
 prayed for forgiveness, and declared in solitude, to One 
 whom she could not deceive, how unintentional was the 
 trespass ; if she were only misapprehended, she supplicated 
 for comfort and consolation, for support under the heaviest 
 visitation she had yet experienced, the displeasure of that
 
 VENETIA. 115 
 
 eartLly parent whom she revered only second to her heavenly 
 Father. 
 
 ' For thou art my Father,' said Venetia, ' I have no other 
 father but thee, O God ! Forgive me, then, my heavenly 
 parent, if in my wilfulness, if in my thoughtless and sinful 
 blindness, I have sighed for a father on earth, as well as in 
 heaven ! Great have thy mercies been to me, O God ! in a 
 mother's love. Turn, then, again to me the heart of that 
 mother whom I have offended! Let her look upon her 
 child as before ; let her continue to me a double parent, 
 and let me pay to her the duty and the devotion that might 
 otherwise have been divided ! ' 
 
 ' Amen ! ' said a sweet and solemn voice ; and Venetia 
 was clasped in her mother's arms. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IF the love of Lady Annabel for her child were capable of 
 increase, it might have been believed that [it absolutely 
 became more profound and ardent after that short-lived 
 but painful estrangement which we have related in the 
 last chapter. With all Lady Annabel's fascinating qualities 
 and noble virtues, a fine observer of human nature enjoying 
 opportunities of intimately studying her character, might 
 have suspected that an occasion only was wanted to display 
 or develop in that lady's conduct no trifling evidence of a 
 haughty, proud, and even inexorable spirit. Circumstanced 
 as she was at Cherbury, with no one capable or desirous of 
 disputing her will, the more gracious and exalted qualities of 
 her nature were alone apparent. Entertaining a severe, even 
 a sublime sense of the paramount claims of duty in all con- 
 ditions and circumstances of life, her own conduct afforded 
 an invariable and consistent example of her tenet ; from 
 those around her she required little, and that was cheerfully 
 granted ; while, on the other hand, her more eminent situa- 
 tion alike multiplied her own obligations, and enabled her 
 
 i 2
 
 116 VENETIA. 
 
 to fulfil them ; she appeared, therefore, to pass her life in 
 conferring happiness and in receiving gratitude. Strictly 
 religious, of immaculate reputation, rigidly just, systemati- 
 cally charitable, dignified in her manners, yet more than 
 courteous to her inferiors, and gifted at the same time with 
 great self-control and great decision, she was looked up to 
 by all within her sphere with a sentiment of affectionate 
 veneration. Perhaps there was only one person within her 
 little world who, both by disposition and relative situation, 
 was qualified in any way to question her undoubted sway, 
 or to cross by independence of opinion the tenour of the 
 discipline she had established, and this was her child. 
 Venetia, with one of the most affectionate and benevolent 
 natures in the world, was gifted with a shrewd, inquiring 
 mind, and a restless imagination. She was capable of 
 forming her own opinions, and had both reason and 
 feeling at command to gauge their worth. But to gain an 
 influence over this child had been the sole object of Lady 
 Annabel's life, and she had hitherto met that success which 
 usually awaits in this world the strong purpose of a deter- 
 mined spirit. Lady Annabel herself was far too acute a 
 person not to have detected early in life the talents of her 
 child, and she was proud of them. She had cultivated 
 them with exemplary devotion and with admirable profit. 
 But Lady Annabel had not less discovered that, in the 
 ardent and susceptible temperament of Venetia, means 
 were offered by which the heart might be trained not only 
 to cope with but overpower the intellect. With great 
 powers of pleasing, beauty, accomplishments, a sweet voice, 
 a soft manner, a sympathetic heart, Lady Annabel was 
 qualified to charm the world ; she had contrived to fascinate 
 her daughter. She had inspired Venetia with the most 
 romantic attachment for her : such as rather subsists be- 
 tween two female friends of the same age and hearts, than 
 between individuals in the relative situations which they 
 bore to each other. Yet while Venetia thus loved her 
 mother, she could not but also respect and revere the
 
 VENETIA. 117 
 
 superior being whose knowledge was her guide on all sub- 
 jects, and whose various accomplishments deprived her 
 secluded education of all its disadvantages ; and when she 
 felt that one so gifted had devoted her life to the benefit of 
 her child, and that this beautiful and peerless lady had no 
 other ambition but to be her guardian and attendant spirit ; 
 gratitude, fervent and profound, mingled with admiring- 
 reverence and passionate affection, and together formed a 
 spell that encircled the mind of Venetia with talismanic 
 sway. 
 
 Under the despotic influence of these enchanted feelings, 
 Venetia was fast growing into womanhood, without a single 
 cloud having ever disturbed or sullied the pure and splendid 
 heaven of her domestic life. Suddenly the horizon had be- 
 come clouded, a storm had gathered and burst, and an 
 eclipse could scarcely have occasioned more terror to the 
 untutored roamer of the wilderness, than this unexpected 
 catastrophe to one so inexperienced in the power of the 
 passions as our heroine. Her heaven was again serene ; 
 but such was the effect of this ebullition on her character, 
 so keen was her dread of again encountering the agony of 
 another misunderstanding with her mother, that she re- 
 coiled with trembling from that subject which had so often 
 and so deeply engaged her secret thoughts ; and the idea 
 of her father, associated as it now was with pain, mor- 
 tification, and misery, never rose to her imagination but 
 instantly to be shunned as some unhallowed image, of 
 which the bitter contemplation was fraught with not less 
 disastrous consequences than the denounced idolatry of the 
 holy people. 
 
 Whatever, therefore, might be the secret reasons which 
 impelled Lady Annabel to shroud the memory of the lost 
 parent of her child in such inviolate gloom, it is certain 
 that the hitherto restless though concealed curiosity of 
 Venetia upon the subject, the rash demonstration to which 
 it led, and the consequence of her boldness, instead of 
 threatening to destroy in an instant the deep and matured
 
 118 VENETIA. 
 
 system of her mother, had, on the whole, greatly contributed 
 to the fulfilment of the very purpose for which Lady Anna- 
 bel had so long laboured. That lady spared no pains in 
 following up the advantage which her acuteness and know- 
 ledge of her daughter's character assured her that she had 
 secured. She hovered round her child more like an en- 
 amoured lover than a fond mother ; she hung upon her 
 looks, she read her thoughts, she anticipated every want 
 and wish ; her dulcet tones seemed even sweeter than be- 
 fore ; her soft and elegant manners even more tender and 
 refined. Though even in her childhood Lady Annabel had 
 rather guided than commanded Venetia ; now she rather 
 consulted than guided her. She seized advantage of the 
 advanced character and mature appearance of Venetia to 
 treat her as a woman rather than a child, and as a friend 
 rather than a daughter. Venetia yielded herself up to this 
 nattering and fascinating condescension. Her love for her 
 mother amounted to passion ; she had no other earthly 
 object or desire but to pass her entire life in her sole and 
 sweet society ; she could conceive no sympathy deeper or 
 more delightful ; the only unhappiness she had ever known 
 had been occasioned by a moment trenching upon its ex- 
 clusive privilege ; Venetia could not picture to herself that 
 such a pure and entrancing existence could ever experience 
 a change. 
 
 And this mother, this devoted yet mysterious mother, 
 jealous of her child's regret for a father that she had lost, 
 and whom she had never known! shall we ever penetrate 
 the secret of her heart ? 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IT was in the enjoyment of these exquisite feelings that a 
 year, and more than another year, elapsed at our lone hall 
 of Cherbury. Happiness and content seemed at least the 
 blessed destiny of the Herberts. Venetia grew in years,
 
 VENETIA. 1 1 9 
 
 and grace, and loveliness ; each day apparently more her 
 mother's joy, and each day bound to that mother by, if 
 possible, more ardent love. She had never again expe- 
 rienced those uneasy thoughts which at times had haunted 
 her from her infancy ; separated from her mother, indeed, 
 scarcely for an hour together, she had no time to muse. 
 Her studies each day becoming more various and interest- 
 ing, and pursued with so gifted and charming a companion, 
 entirely engrossed her ; even the exercise that was her re- 
 laxation was participated by Lady Annabel; and the 
 mother and daughter, bounding together on their steeds, 
 were fanned by the same breeze, and freshened by the 
 same graceful and healthy exertion. 
 
 One day the post, that seldom arrived at Cherbury, 
 brought a letter to Lady Annabel, the perusal of which 
 evidently greatly agitated her. Her countenance changed 
 as her eye glanced over the pages ; her hand trembled as 
 she held it. But she made no remark ; and succeeded in 
 subduing her emotion so quickly that Venetia, although 
 she watched her mother with anxiety, did not feel justified 
 in interfering with inquiring sympathy. But while Lady 
 Annabel resumed her usual calm demeanour, she relapsed 
 into unaccustomed silence, and, soon rising from the break- 
 fast table, moved to the window, and continued apparently 
 gazing on the garden, with her face averted from Venetia 
 for some time, At length she turned to her, and said, ' I 
 think, Venetia, of calling on the Doctor to-day ; there is 
 business on which I wish to consult him, but I will not 
 trouble you, dearest, to accompany me. I must take the 
 carriage, and it is a long and tiring drive.' 
 
 There was a tone of decision even in the slightest obser- 
 vations of Lady Annabel, which, however sweet might be 
 the voice in which they were uttered, scarcely encouraged 
 their propriety to be canvassed. Now Venetia was far 
 from desirous of being separated from her mother this 
 morning. It was not a vain and idle curiosity, prompted 
 by the receipt of the letter and ;its consequent effects, both
 
 120 VENETIA. 
 
 in the emotion of her mother and the visit which it had 
 rendered necessary, that swayed her breast. The native 
 dignity of a well- disciplined mind exempted Venetia from 
 such feminine weakness. But some consideration might 
 be due to the quick sympathy of an affectionate spirit that 
 had witnessed, with corresponding feeling, the disturbance 
 of the being to whom she was devoted. Why this occa- 
 sional and painful mystery that ever and anon clouded the 
 heaven of their love, and flung a frigid shadow over the 
 path of a sunshiny life ? Why was not Venetia to share the 
 sorrow or the care of her only friend, as well as participate 
 in her joy and her content ? There were other claims, too, 
 to this confidence, besides those of the heart. Lady Anna- 
 bel was not merely her only friend ; she was her parent, her 
 only parent, almost, for aught she had ever heard or learnt, 
 her only relative. For her mother's family, though she 
 was aware of their existence by the freedom with which 
 Lady Annabel ever mentioned them, and though Venetia 
 was conscious that an occasional correspondence was main- 
 tained between them and Cherbury, occupied no station 
 in Venetia' s heart, scarcely in her memory. That noble 
 family were nullities to her ; far distant, apparently es- 
 tranged from her hearth, except in form she had never seen 
 them ; they were associated in her recollection with none 
 of the sweet ties of kindred. Her grandfather was dead 
 without her ever having received his blessing ; his succes- 
 sor, her uncle, was an ambassador, long absent from his 
 country ; her only aunt married to a soldier, and established 
 at a foreign station. Venetia envied Dr. Masham the 
 confidence which was extended to him ; it seemed to her, 
 even leaving out of sight the intimate feelings that subsisted 
 between her and her mother, that the claims of blood to 
 this confidence were at least as strong as those of friend- 
 ship. But Venetia stifled these emotions ; she parted from 
 her mother with a kind, yet somewhat mournful expression. 
 Lady Annabel might have read a slight sentiment of affec- 
 tionate reproach in the demeanour of her daughter when
 
 VENETIA. 121 
 
 she bade her farewell. Whatever might be the conscious- 
 ness of the mother, she was successful in concealing her 
 impression. Very kind, but calm and inscrutable, Lady 
 Annabel, having given directions for postponing the dinner- 
 hour, embraced her child and entered the chariot. 
 
 Venetia, from the terrace, watched her mother's progress 
 through the park. After gazing for some minutes, a tear 
 stole down her cheek. She started, as if surprised at her 
 own emotion. And now the carriage was out of sight, and 
 Venetia would have recurred to some of those resources 
 which were ever at hand for the employment or amuse- 
 ment of her secluded life. But the favourite volume ceased 
 to interest this morning, and almost fell from her hand. 
 She tried her spinet, but her ear seemed to have lost its 
 music; she looked at her easel, but the cunning had fled 
 from her touch. 
 
 Restless and disquieted, she knew not why, Venetia went 
 forth again into the garden. All nature smiled around her ; 
 the flitting birds were throwing their soft shadows over the 
 sunny lawns, and rustling amid the blossoms of the varie- 
 gated groves. The golden wreaths of the laburnum and 
 the silver knots of the chestnut streamed and glittered 
 around ; the bees were as busy as the birds, and the whole 
 scene was suffused and penetrated with brilliancy and 
 odour. It still was spring, and yet the gorgeous approach 
 of summer, like the advancing procession of some trium- 
 phant king, might almost be detected amid the lingering 
 freshness of the year ; a lively and yet magnificent period, 
 blending, as it were, Attic grace with Roman splendour ; a 
 time when hope and fruition for once meet, when existence 
 is most full of delight, alike delicate and voluptuous, and 
 when the human frame is most sensible to the gaiety and 
 grandeur of nature. 
 
 And why was not the spirit of the beautiful and innocent 
 Venetia as bright as the surrounding scene? There are 
 moods of mind that baffle analysis, that arise from a mys- 
 terious sympathy we cannot penetrate. At this moment the
 
 122 VENETIA. 
 
 idea of her father irresistibly recurred to the imagination of 
 Venetia. She could not withstand the conviction that the 
 receipt of the mysterious letter and her mother's agitation 
 were by some inexplicable connexion linked with that for- 
 bidden subject. Strange incidents of her life flitted across 
 her memory : her mother weeping on the day they visited 
 Marringhurst ; the mysterious chambers ; the nocturnal 
 visit of Lady Annabel that Cadurcis had witnessed ; her 
 unexpected absence from her apartment when Venetia, in 
 her despair, had visited her some months ago. What was 
 the secret that enveloped her existence ? Alone, which 
 was unusual ; dispirited, she knew not why ; and brooding 
 over thoughts which haunted her like evil spirits, Venetia 
 at length yielded to a degree of nervous excitement which 
 amazed her. She looked up to the uninhabited wing of the 
 mansion with an almost fierce desire to penetrate its mys- 
 teries. It seemed to her that a strange voice came whis- 
 pering on the breeze, urging her to the fulfilment of a 
 mystical mission. With a vague, yet wild, purpose she 
 entered the house, and took her way to her mother's cham- 
 ber. Mistress Pauncefort was there. Venetia endeavoured 
 to assume her accustomed serenity. The waiting- woman 
 bustled about, arranging the toilet-table, which had been 
 for a moment discomposed, putting away a cap, folding up 
 a shawl, and indulging in a multitude of inane observations 
 which little harmonised with the high-strung tension of 
 Venetia' s mind. Mistress Pauncefort opened a casket with 
 a spring lock, in which she placed some trinkets of her 
 mistress. Venetia stood by her in silence ; her eye, vacant 
 and wandering, beheld the interior of the casket. There 
 must have been something in it, the sight of which greatly 
 agitated her, for Venetia turned pale, and in a moment left 
 the chamber and retired to her own room. 
 
 She locked her door, threw herself in a chair ; almost 
 gasping for breath, she covered her face with her hands. 
 It was some minutes before she recovered comparative 
 composure ; she rose and looked in the mirror ; her face
 
 VENETIA. 123 
 
 was quite white, but her eyes glittering with excitement. 
 She walked up and down her room with a troubled step, 
 and a scarlet flush alternately returned to and retired from 
 her changing cheek. Then she leaned against a cabinet in 
 thought. She was disturbed from her musings by the 
 sound of Pauncefort's step along the vestibule, as she 
 quitted her mother's chamber. In a few minutes Venetia 
 herself stepped forth into the vestibule and listened. All 
 was silent. The golden morning had summoned the whole 
 household to its enjoyment. Not a voice, not a domestic 
 sound, broke the complete stillness. Venetia again re- 
 paired to the apartment of Lady Annabel. Her step was 
 light,, but agitated ; it seemed that she scarcely dared to 
 breathe. She opened the door, rushed to the cabinet, 
 pressed the spring lock, caught at something that it con- 
 tained, and hurried again to her own chamber. 
 
 And what is this prize that the trembling Venetia holds 
 almost convulsively in her grasp, apparently without daring 
 even to examine it ? Is this the serene and light-hearted girl, 
 whose face was like the cloudless splendour of a sunny day ? 
 Why is she so pallid and perturbed ? What strong impulse 
 fills her frame ? She clutches in her hand a key ! 
 
 On that tempestuous night of passionate sorrow which 
 succeeded the first misunderstanding between Venetia and 
 her mother, when the voice of Lady Annabel had suddenly 
 blended with that of her kneeling child, and had ratified 
 with her devotional concurrence her wailing supplications ; 
 even at the moment when Venetia, in a rapture of love and 
 duty, felt herself pressed to her mother's reconciled heart, 
 it had not escaped her that Lady Annabel held in her hand 
 a key ; and though the feelings which that night had so 
 forcibly developed, and which the subsequent conduct of 
 Lady Annabel had so carefully and skilfully cherished, had 
 impelled Venetia to banish and erase from her thought and 
 memory all the associations which that spectacle, however 
 slight, was calculated to awaken, still, in her present mood, 
 the unexpected vision of the same instrument, identical she
 
 124 VENETIA. 
 
 could not doubt, had triumphed in an instant over all the 
 long discipline of her mind and conduct, in an instant had 
 baffled and dispersed her self-control, and been hailed as 
 the providential means by which she might at length 
 penetrate that mystery which she now felt no longer 
 supportable. 
 
 The clock of the belfry of Cherbury at this moment struck, 
 and Venetia instantly sprang from her seat. It reminded 
 her of the preciousness of the present morning. Her mother 
 was indeed absent, but her mother would return. Before 
 that event a great fulfilment was to occur. Venetia, still 
 grasping the key, as if it were the talisman of her existence, 
 looked up to Heaven as if she required for her allotted task 
 an immediate and special protection ; her lips seemed to 
 move, and then she again quitted her apartment. As she 
 passed through an oriel in her way towards the gallery, she 
 observed Pauncefort in the avenue of the park, moving in 
 the direction of the keeper's lodge. This emboldened her. 
 With a hurried step she advanced along the gallery, and at 
 length stood before the long-sealed door that had so often 
 excited her strange curiosity. Once she looked around ; 
 but no one was near, not a sound was heard. "With a fal- 
 tering hand she touched the lock ; but her powers deserted 
 her : for a minute she believed that the key, after all, would 
 not solve the mystery. And yet the difficulty arose only 
 i'rom her own agitation. She rallied her courage; once 
 snore she made the trial ; the key fitted with completeness, 
 and the lock opened with ease, and Venetia found herself 
 in a small and scantily-furnished ante-chamber. Closing 
 the door with noiseless care, Venetia stood trembling in the 
 mysterious chamber, where apparently there was nothing to 
 excite wonder. The chamber into which the ante-room 
 opened was still closed, and it was some minutes before the 
 adventurous daughter of Lady Annabel could summon 
 courage for the enterprise which awaited her. 
 
 The door yielded without an effort. Venetia stepped into a 
 spacious and lofty chamber. For a moment she paused almost
 
 VENETIA. ] 25 
 
 upon the threshold, and looked around her with a vague and 
 misty vision. Anon she distinguished something of the cha- 
 racter of the apartment. In the recess of a large oriel win- 
 dow that looked upon the park, and of which the blinds were 
 nearly drawn, was an old-fashioned yet sumptuous toilet- 
 table of considerable size, arranged as if for use. Opposite 
 this window, in a corresponding recess, was what might be 
 deemed a bridal bed, its furniture being of white satin richly 
 embroidered ; the curtains half closed ; and suspended from 
 the canopy was a wreath of roses that had once emulated, 
 or rather excelled, the lustrous purity of the hangings, but 
 now were wan and withered. The centre of the inlaid and 
 polished floor of the apartment was covered with a Tournay 
 carpet of brilliant yet tasteful decoration. An old cabinet 
 of fanciful workmanship, some chairs of ebony, and some 
 girandoles of silver completed the furniture of the room r 
 save that at its extreme end, exactly opposite to the door 
 by which Yenetia entered, covered with a curtain of green 
 velvet, was what she concluded must be a picture. 
 
 An awful stillness pervaded the apartment : Venetia her- 
 self, with a face paler even than the hangings of the mys- 
 terious bed, stood motionless with suppressed breath, gazing 
 on the distant curtain with a painful glance of agitated 
 fascination. At length, summoning her energies as if for 
 the achievement of some terrible yet inevitable enterprise, 
 she crossed the room, and averting her face, and closing 
 her eyes in a paroxysm of nervous excitement, she stretched 
 forth her arm, and with a rapid motion withdrew the curtain. 
 The harsh sound of the brass rings drawn quickly over th& 
 rod, the only noise that had yet met her ear in this mystical 
 chamber, made her start and tremble. She looked up, she 
 beheld, in a broad and massy frame, the full-length portrait 
 of a man. 
 
 A man in the very spring of sunny youth, and of radiant 
 beauty. Above the middle height, yet with a form that 
 displayed exquisite grace, he was habited in a green tunic 
 that enveloped his figure to advantage, and became the scene
 
 126 VENETIA. 
 
 in which, he was placed : a park, with a castle in the dis- 
 tance ; while a groom at hand held a noble steed, that 
 seemed impatient for the chase. The countenance of its 
 intended rider met fully the gaze of the spectator. It was 
 a countenance of singular loveliness and power. The lips 
 and the moulding of the chin resembled the eager and im- 
 passioned tenderness of the shape of Antinous ; but instead 
 of the effeminate sullenness of the eye, and the narrow 
 smoothness of the forehead, shone an expression of profound 
 and piercing thought. On each side of the clear and open 
 brow descended, even to the shoulders, the clustering locks 
 of golden hair ; while the eyes, large and yet deep, beamed 
 with a spiritual energy, and shone like two wells of crystal- 
 line water that reflect the all-beholding heavens. 
 
 Now when Venetia Herbert beheld this countenance a 
 change came over her. It seemed that when her eyes met 
 the eyes of the portrait, some mutual interchange of sym- 
 pathy occurred between them. She freed herself in an instant 
 from the apprehension and timidity that before oppressed 
 her. Whatever might ensue, a vague conviction of having 
 achieved a great object pervaded, as it were, her being. 
 Some great end, vast though indefinite, had been fulfilled. 
 Abstract and fearless, she gazed upon the dazzling visage 
 with a prophetic heart. Her soul was in a tumult, oppressed 
 with thick-coming fancies too big for words, panting for 
 expression. There was a word which must be spoken : it 
 trembled on her convulsive lip, and would not sound. She 
 looked around her with an eye glittering with unnatural 
 fire, as if to supplicate some invisible and hovering spirit to 
 her rescue, or that some floating and angelic chorus might 
 warble the thrilling word whose expression seemed absolutely 
 necessary to her existence. Her cheek is flushed, her eye 
 wild and tremulous, the broad blue veins of her immaculate 
 brow quivering and distended ; her waving hair falls back 
 over her forehead, and rustles like a wood before the storm. 
 She seems a priestess in the convulsive throes of inspiration, 
 and about to breathe the oracle.
 
 VENETIA. 127 
 
 The picture, as we have mentioned, was hung in a broad 
 and massy frame. In the centre of its base was worked an 
 escutcheon, and beneath the shield this inscription : 
 
 MARMION HERBERT, JS,T. XX. 
 
 Yet there needed not these letters to guide the agitated 
 spirit of Venetia, for, before her eye had reached them, the 
 word was spoken ; and falling on her knees before the por- 
 trait, the daughter of Lady Annabel had exclaimed, ' My 
 father!' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE daughter still kneels before the form of the father, of 
 whom she had heard for the first time in her life. He is at 
 length discovered. It was, then, an irresistible destiny that, 
 after the wild musings and baffled aspirations of so many 
 years, had guided her to this chamber. She is the child of 
 Marmion Herbert ; she beholds her lost parent. That 
 being of supernatural beauty, on whom she gazes with a 
 look of blended reverence and love, is her father. What a 
 revelation ! Its reality exceeded the wildest dreams of her 
 romance ; her brightest visions of grace and loveliness and 
 genius seemed personified in this form ; the form of one to 
 whom she was bound by the strongest of all earthly ties, of 
 one on whose heart she had a claim second only to that of 
 the being by whose lips his name was never mentioned. 
 Was he, then, no more ? Ah ! could she doubt that bit- 
 terest calamity ? Ah ! was it, was it any longer a marvel, 
 that one who had lived in the light of those seraphic eyes, 
 and had watched them until their terrestrial splendour had 
 been for ever extinguished, should shrink from the converse 
 that could remind her of the catastrophe of all her earthly 
 hopes ! This chamber, then, was the temple of her mother's 
 woe, the tomb of her baffled affections and bleeding heart. 
 No wonder that Lady Annabel, the desolate Lady Annabel, 
 that almost the same spring must have witnessed the most
 
 128 VENETIA. 
 
 favoured and the most disconsolate of women, should have 
 fled from the world that had awarded her at the same time 
 a lot so dazzling and so full of despair. Venetia felt that 
 the existence of her mother's child, her own fragile being, 
 could have been that mother's sole link to life. The heart 
 of the young widow of Marmion Herbert must have broken 
 but for Venetia ; and the consciousness of that remaining 
 tie, and the duties that it involved, could alone have sus- 
 tained the victim under a lot of such unparalleled bitter- 
 ness. The tears streamed down her cheek as she thought 
 of her mother's misery, and her mother's gentle love ; the 
 misery that she had been so cautious her child should never 
 share ; the vigilant affection that, with all her own hopes 
 blighted, had still laboured to compensate to her child for a 
 deprivation the fulness of which Venetia could only now 
 comprehend. 
 
 When, where, why did he die ? Oh that she might 
 talk of him to her mother for ever ! It seemed that life 
 might pass away in listening to his praises. Marmion 
 Herbert ! and who was Marmion Herbert ? Young as he 
 was, command and genius, the pride of noble passions, all 
 the glory of a creative mind, seemed stamped upon his 
 brow. With all his marvellous beauty, he seemed a being 
 born for greatness. Dead ! in the very burst of his spring, 
 a spring so sweet and splendid ; could he be dead ? Why, 
 then, was he ever born ? It seemed to her that he could 
 not be dead ; there was an animated look about the form, 
 that seemed as if it could not die without leaving mankind 
 a prodigal legacy of fame. 
 
 Venetia turned and looked upon her parents' bridal bed. 
 Now that she had discovered her father's portrait, every 
 article in the room interested her, for her imagination con- 
 nected everything with him. She touched the wreath of 
 withered roses, and one instantly broke away from the 
 circle, and fell ; she knelt down, and gathered up the 
 scattered leaves, and -placed them in her bosom. She 
 approached the table in the oriel : in its centre was a
 
 VENETIA. 129 
 
 volume, on which reposed a dagger of curious workman- 
 ship ; the volume bound in velvet, and the word ' ANNABEL ' 
 embroidered upon it in gold. Venefcia unclasped it. The 
 volume was MS. ; in a fly-leaf were written these words : 
 
 ' TO THE LADY OF MY LOVE, FROM HEE MAEMION HERBERT.' 
 
 With a fluttering heart, yet sparkling eye, Venetia sank 
 into a chair, which was placed before the table, with all her 
 soul concentred in the contents of this volume. Leaning on 
 her right hand, which shaded her agitated brow, she turned 
 a page of the volume with a trembling hand. It contained 
 a sonnet, delineating the feelings of a lover at the first 
 sight of his beloved, a being to him yet unknown. Venetia 
 perused with breathless interest the graceful and passionate 
 picture of her mother's beauty. A series of similar com- 
 positions detailed the history of the poet's heart, and all the 
 thrilling adventures of his enchanted life. Not an incident, 
 not a word, not a glance, in that spell-bound prime of ex- 
 istence, that was not commemorated by his lyre in strains 
 as sweet and as witching ! Now he poured forth his 
 passion ; now his doubts ; now his hopes ; now came the 
 glowing hour when he was first assured of his felicity ; the 
 next page celebrated her visit to the castle of his fathers ; 
 and another led her to the altar. 
 
 With a flushed cheek and an excited eye, Venetia had 
 rapidly pored over these ardent annals of the heart from 
 whose blood she had sprung. She turns the page ; she 
 starts ; the colour deserts her countenance ; a mist glides 
 over her vision ; she clasps her hands with convulsive 
 energy ; she sinks back in her chair. In a few moments 
 she extends one hand, as if fearful again to touch the book 
 that had excited, so much emotion, raises herself in her seat, 
 looks around her with a vacant and perplexed gaze, appa- 
 rently succeeds in collecting herself, and then seizes, with 
 an eager grasp, the volume, and throwing herself on her 
 knees before the chair, her long locks hanging on each side 
 K
 
 130 VENETIA. 
 
 over a cheek crimson as the sunset, loses her whole soul in 
 the lines which the next page reveals. 
 
 ON THE NIGHT OUR DAUGHTER WAS BORN. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Aly own VENETIA now shall gild our bowers, 
 
 And with her spell enchain our life's enchanted hours ! 
 
 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, 
 
 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 !
 
 VENETIA. 131 
 
 An hour elapsed, and Venetia did not move. Over and 
 over again she conned the only address from the lips of her 
 father that had ever reached her ear. A strange inspiration 
 seconded the exertion of an exercised memory. The duty 
 was fulfilled, the task completed. Then a sound was heard 
 without. The thought that her mother had returned oc- 
 curred to her ; she looked up, the big tears streaming down 
 her face ; she listened, like a young hind just roused by the 
 still-distant huntsman, quivering and wild: she listened, 
 and she sprang up, replaced the volume, arranged the chair, 
 cast one long, lingering, feverish glance at the portrait, 
 skimmed through the room, hesitated one moment in the 
 ante- chamber ; opened, as all was silent, the no longer 
 mysterious door, turned the noiseless lock, tripped lightly 
 along the vestibule ; glided into her mother's empty apart- 
 ment, reposited the key that had opened so many wonders 
 in the casket ; and, then, having hurried to her own cham- 
 ber, threw herself on her bed in a paroxysm of contending 
 emotions, that left her no power of pondering over the 
 strange discovery that had already given a new colour to 
 her existence. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HER mother had not returned ; it was a false alarm ; but 
 Venetia could not quit her bed. There she remained, re- 
 peating to herself her father's verses. Then one thought 
 alone filled her being. Was he dead? Was this fond 
 father, who had breathed this fervent blessing over her 
 birth, and invoked on his own head all the woe and mis- 
 fortunes of her destiny, was he, indeed, no more ? How 
 swiftly must the arrow have sped after he received the 
 announcement that a child was given to him, 
 
 Of all his treasured loves the long-expected heir! 
 He could scarcely have embraced her ere the great Being, 
 to whom he had offered his prayer, summoned him to his 
 
 x 2
 
 132 VENETIA. 
 
 presence ! Of that father she had not the slightest recol- 
 lection ; she had ascertained that she had reached Cherbury 
 a child, even in arms, and she knew that her father had 
 never lived under the roof. What an awful bereavement ! 
 Was it wonderful that her mother was inconsolable? Was 
 it wonderful that she could not endure even his name to be 
 mentioned in her presence ; that not the slightest allusion 
 to his existence could be tolerated by a wife who had been 
 united to such a peerless being, only to behold him torn 
 away from her embraces ? Oh ! could he, indeed, be dead ? 
 That inspired countenance that seemed immortal, had it in 
 a moment been dimmed ? and all the symmetry of that 
 matchless form, had it indeed been long mouldering in the 
 dust ? Why should she doubt it ? Ah ! why, indeed ? 
 How could she doubt it ? Why, ever and anon, amid the 
 tumult of her excited mind, came there an unearthly 
 whisper to her ear, mocking her with the belief that he 
 still lived ? But he was dead ; he must be dead ; and why 
 did she live ? Could she survive what she had seen and 
 learnt this day ? Did she wish to survive it ? But her 
 mother, her mother with all her sealed-up sorrows, had 
 survived him. Why ? For her sake ; for her child ; for 
 ' his own Venetia ! ' His own ! 
 
 She clenched her feverish hand, her temples beat with 
 violent palpitations, her brow was burning hot. Time flew 
 on, and every minute Venetia was more sensible of the im- 
 possibility of rising to welcome her mother. That mother 
 at length returned ; Venetia could not again mistake the 
 wheels of the returning carriage. Some minutes passed, 
 and tli ere was a knock at her door. With a choking voice 
 Venei 'a bade them enter. It was Pauncefort. 
 
 ' Well, Miss,' she exclaimed, ' if you ayn't here, after all ! 
 I told my lady, "My lady," says I, " I am sure Miss Venetia 
 must be in the park, for I saw her go out myself, and I have 
 never seen her come home." And, after all, you are here. 
 My lady has come home, you know, Miss, and has been 
 inquiring for you several times.'
 
 VENETIA. 133 
 
 ' Tell mamma that I am not very well,' said Venetia, in a 
 low voice, 'and that I have been obliged to lie down.' 
 
 ' Not well, Miss,' exclaimed Pauncefort ; ' and what can 
 be the matter with you ? I am afraid you have walked too 
 much ; overdone it, I dare say ; or, mayhap, you have caught 
 cold ; it is an easterly wind : for I was saying to John this 
 morning, " John," says I, " if Miss Venetia will walk about 
 with only a handkerchief tied round her head, why, what 
 can be expected ? " 
 
 ' I have only a headache, a very bad headache, Paunce- 
 fort ; I wish to be quiet,' said Venetia. 
 
 Pauncefort left the room accordingly, and straightway 
 proceeded to Lady Annabel, when she communicated the 
 information that Miss Venetia was in the house, after all, 
 though she had never seen her return, and that she was 
 lying down because she had a very bad headache. Lady 
 Annabel, of course, did not lose a moment in visiting her 
 darling. She entered the room softly, so softly that she 
 was not heard ; Venetia was lying on her bed, with her 
 back to the door. Lady Annabel stood by her bedside for 
 some moments unnoticed. At length Venetia heaved a 
 deep sigh. Her mother then said in a soft voice, ' Are you 
 in pain, darling ? ' 
 
 ' Is that mamma ? ' said Venetia, turning with quickness. 
 
 ' You are ill, dear,' said Lady Annabel, taking her hand. 
 ' Your hand is hot ; you are feverish. How long has my 
 Venetia felt ill ? ' 
 
 Venetia could not answer; she did nothing but sigh. 
 Her strange manner excited her mother's wonder. Lady 
 Annabel sat by the bedside, still holding her daughter's 
 hand in hers, watching her with a glance of great anxiety. 
 
 ' Answer me, my love,' she repeated in a voice of tender- 
 ness. ' What do you feel ? ' 
 
 ' My head, my head,' murmured Venetia. 
 
 Her mother pressed her own hand to her daughter's 
 brow ; it was very hot. ' Does that pain you ? ' inquired 
 Lady Annabel ; but Venetia did not reply ; her look was
 
 134 VENETIA. 
 
 wild and abstracted. Her mother gently withdrew her 
 hand, and then summoned Pauncefort, with whom she 
 communicated without permitting her to enter the room. 
 
 ' Miss Herbert is very ill,' said Lady Annabel, pale, bu 
 in a firm tone. ' I am alarmed about her. She appears to 
 me to have fever ; send instantly to Southport for Mr. 
 Hawkins ; and let the messenger use and urge all possible 
 expedition. Be in attendance in the vestibule, Pauncefort ; 
 I shall not quit her room, but she must be kept perfectly 
 quiet.' 
 
 Lady Annabel then drew her chair to the bedside of her 
 daughter, and bathed her temples at intervals with rose- 
 water ; but none of these attentions apparently attracted 
 the notice of the sufferer. She was, it would seem, utterly 
 unconscious of all that was occurring. She now lay with 
 her face turned towards her mother, but did not exchange 
 even looks with her. She was restless, and occasionally 
 she sighed deeply. 
 
 Once, by way of experiment, Lady Annabel again ad- 
 dressed her, but Venetia gave no answer. Then the 
 mother concluded what, indeed, had before attracted her 
 suspicion, that Venetia's head was affected. But then, 
 what was this strange, this sudden attack, which appeared 
 to have prostrated her daughter's faculties in an instant ? 
 A few hours back, and Lady Annabel had parted from 
 Venetia in all the glow of health and beauty. The season 
 was most genial ; her exercise had doubtless been mode- 
 rate ; as for her general health, so complete was her con- 
 stitution, and so calm the tenour of her life, that Yenetia 
 had scarcely experienced in her whole career a single hour 
 of indisposition. It was an anxious period of suspense 
 until the medical attendant arrived from Southport. For- 
 tunately he was one in whom, from reputation, Lady 
 Annabel was disposed to place great trust ; and his ma- 
 tared years, his thoughtful manner, and acute inquiries, 
 confirmed her favourable opinion of him. All that Mr. - 
 Hawkins could say, however, was, that Miss Herbert had
 
 VENETIA. 135 
 
 a great deal of fever, but the cause was concealed, and the 
 suddenness of the attack perplexed him. He administered 
 one of the usual remedies ; and after an hour had elapsed, 
 and no favourable change occurring, he blooded her. He 
 quitted Cherbury, with the promise of returning late in the 
 evening, having several patients whom he was obliged to 
 visit. 
 
 The night drew on ; the chamber was now quite closed, 
 but Lady Annabel never quitted it. She sat reading, 
 removed from her daughter, that her presence might not 
 disturb her, for Venetia seemed inclined to sleep. Sud- 
 denly Venetia spoke ; but she said only one word, 
 ' Father ! ' 
 
 Lady Annabel started; her book nearly fell from her 
 hand ; she grew very pale. Quite breathless, she listened, 
 and again Venetia spoke, and again called upon her father. 
 Now, with a great effort, Lady Annabel stole on tiptoe to 
 the bedside of her daughter. Venetia was lying on her 
 back, her eyes were closed, her lips still as it were quiver- 
 ing with the strange word they had dared to pronounce. 
 Again her voice sounded ; she chanted, in an unearthly 
 voice, verses. The perspiration stood in large drops on the 
 pallid forehead of the mother as she listened. Still Venetia 
 proceeded ; and Lady Annabel, throwing herself on her 
 knees, held up her hands to Heaven in an agony of astonish- 
 ment, terror, and devotion. 
 
 Now there was again silence ; but her mother remained 
 apparently buried in prayer. Again Venetia spoke ; again 
 she repeated the mysterious stanzas. With convulsive 
 agony her mother listened to every fatal line that she un- 
 consciously pronounced. 
 
 The secret was then discovered. Yes ! Venetia must 
 have penetrated the long-closed chamber ; all the labours of 
 years had in a moment been subverted ; Venetia had dis- 
 covered her parent, and the effects of the discovery might, 
 perhaps, be her death. Then it was that Lady Annabel, in 
 the torture of her mind, poured forth her supplications that
 
 136 VENETIA. 
 
 the life or the heart of her child might never be lost to her. 
 ' Grant, merciful God ! ' she exclaimed, ' that this sole 
 hope of my being may be spared to me. Grant, if she be 
 spared, that she may never desert her mother ! And for 
 him, of whom she has heard this day for the first time, let 
 him be to her as if he were no more ! May she never learn 
 that he lives ! May she never comprehend the secret agony 
 of her mother's life ! Save her, God ! save her from his 
 fatal, his irresistible influence ! May she remain pure and 
 virtuous as she has yet lived ! May she remain true to thee, 
 and true to thy servant, who now bows before thee ! Look 
 down upon me at this moment with gracious mercy ; turn 
 to me my daughter's heart ; and, if it be my dark doom to 
 be in this world a widow, though a wife, add not to this 
 bitterness that I shall prove a mother without a child ! ' 
 
 At this moment the surgeon returned. It was absolutely 
 necessary that Lady Annabel should compose herself. She 
 exerted all that strength of character for which she was 
 remarkable. From this moment she resolved, if her life 
 were the forfeit, not to quit for an instant the bedside of 
 Venetia until she was declared out of danger ; and feeling 
 conscious that if she once indulged her own feelings, she 
 might herself soon be in a situation scarcely less hazardous 
 than her daughter's, she controlled herself with a mighty 
 effort. Calm as a statue, she received the medical atten- 
 dant, who took the hand of the unconscious Venetia with 
 apprehension too visibly impressed upon his grave coun- 
 tenance. As he took her hand, Venetia opened her eyes, 
 stared at her mother and her attendant, and then imme- 
 diately closed them. 
 
 ' She has slept ? ' inquired Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' No,' said the surgeon, ' no : this is not sleep ; it is a 
 feverish trance that brings her no refreshment.' He took 
 out his watch, and marked her pulse with great attention ; 
 then he placed his hand on her brow, and shook his head. 
 ' These beautiful curls must come off,' he said. Lady 
 Annabel glided to the table, and instantly brought the
 
 VENETIA. 137 
 
 scissors, as if the delay of an instant might be fatal. The 
 surgeon cut off those long golden locks. Venetia raised 
 her hand to her head, and said, in a low voice, ' They are 
 for my father.' Lady Annabel leant upon the surgeon's 
 arm and shook. 
 
 Now he led the mother to the window, and spoke in a 
 hushed tone. 
 
 * Is it possible that there is anything on your daughter's 
 micd, Lady Annabel?' he inquired 
 
 The agitated mother looked at the inquirer, and then at 
 her daughter ; and then for a moment she raised her hand 
 to her eyes; then she replied, in a low but firm voice, 
 * Yes.' 
 
 ' Your ladyship must judge whether you wish me to be 
 acquainted with it,' said Mr. Hawkins, calmly. 
 
 ' My daughter has suddenly become acquainted, sir, with 
 some family incidents of a painful nature, and the know- 
 ledge of which I have hitherto spared her. They are events 
 long past, and their consequences are now beyond all 
 control.' 
 
 ' She knows, then, the worst ? ' 
 
 ' Without her mind, I cannot answer that question,' said 
 Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' It is my duty to tell you that Miss Herbert is in im- 
 minent danger ; she has every appearance of a fever of a 
 malignant character. I cannot answer for her life.' 
 
 ' God ! ' exclaimed Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' Yet you must compose yourself, my dear lady. Her 
 chance of recovery greatly depends upon the vigilance of 
 her attendants. I shall bleed her again, and place leeches 
 on her temples. There is inflammation on the brain. 
 There are other remedies also not less powerful. We must 
 not despair ; we have no cause to despair until we find 
 these fail. I shall not leave her again ; and, for your satis- 
 faction, not for my own, I shall call in additional advice, the 
 aid of a physician.' 
 
 A messenger accordingly was instantly despatched for
 
 138 VENETIA. 
 
 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 Paunce- 
 fort, to undress Venetia, and place her in her bed, for 
 hitherto they had refrained from this exertion. At this 
 moment the withered leaves of a white rose fell from 
 Venetia' s dress. A sofa-bed was then made for Lady 
 Annabel, of which, however, she did not avail herself. The 
 whole night she sat by her daughter's side, watching every 
 movement of Venetia, refreshing her hot brow and parched 
 lips, or arranging, at every opportunity, her disordered 
 pillows. About an hour past midnight the surgeon retired 
 to rest, for a few hours, in the apartment prepared for him, 
 and Pauncefort, by the desire of her mistress, also with- 
 drew : Lady Annabel was alone with her child, and with 
 those agitated thoughts which the strange occurrences of 
 the day were well calculated to excite. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 EAELT in the morning the physician arrived at Cherbury. 
 It remained for him only to approve of the remedies which 
 had been pursued. No material change, however, had oc- 
 curred in the state of Venetia : she had not slept, and still 
 she seemed unconscious of what was occurring. The gra- 
 cious interposition of Nature seemed the only hope. When 
 the medical men had withdrawn to consult in the terrace- 
 room, Lady Annabel beckoned to Pauncefort, and led her 
 to the window of Venetia' s apartment, which she would not 
 quit. 
 
 ' Pauncefort,' said Lady Annabel, ' Venetia has been in 
 her father's room.' 
 
 ' Oh ! impossible, my lady,' burst forth Mistress Paunce- 
 fort ; but Lady Annabel placed her finger on her lip, and 
 checked her. ' There is no doubt of it, there can be no 
 doubt of it, Pauncefort ; she entered it yesterday ; she must
 
 VENETIA. 139 
 
 have passed the morning there, when you believed she was 
 in the park.' 
 
 ' But, my lady,' said Pauncefort, ' how could it be ? For 
 I scarcely left your la'ship's room a second, and Miss Ve- 
 netia, I am sure, never was near it. And the key, my lady, 
 the key is in the casket. I saw it half an hour ago with 
 my own eyes.' 
 
 ' There is no use arguing about it, Pauncefort,' said Lady 
 Annabel, with decision. ' It is as I say. I fear great mis- 
 fortunes are about to commence at Cherbury.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my lady, don't think of such things,' said Paunce- 
 fort, herself not a little alarmed. ' What can happen ? ' 
 
 ' I fear more than I know,' said Lady Annabel ; ' but I 
 do fear much. At present I can only think of her.' 
 
 'Well ! my lady,' said poor Mistress Pauncefort, looking 
 bewildered, ' only to think of such a thing ! and after all 
 the pains I have taken ' I am sure I have not opened 
 my lips on the subject these fifteen years ; and the many 
 questions I have been asked too ! I am sure there is not a 
 servant in the house ' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! ' said Lady Annabel, ' I do not blame you, 
 and therefore you need not defend yourself. Go, Paunce- 
 fort, I must be alone.' Pauncefort withdrew, and Lady 
 Annabel resumed her seat by her daughter's side. 
 
 On the fourth day of her attack the medical attendants 
 observed a favourable change in their patient, and were 
 not, of course, slow in communicating this joyful intelli- 
 gence to her mother. The crisis had occurred and was past : 
 Venetia had at length sunk into slumber. How different 
 was her countenance from the still yet settled features 
 they had before watched with such anxiety ! She breathed 
 lightly, the tension of the eyelids had disappeared, her 
 mouth was slightly open. The physician and his colleague 
 declared that immediate danger was past, and they coun- 
 selled Lady Annabel to take repose. On condition that one 
 of them should remain by the side of her daughter, the 
 devoted yet miserable mother quitted, for the first time,
 
 140 VENETIA. 
 
 her child's apartment. Paunceforfc followed her to her 
 room. 
 
 ' Oh ! my lady,' said Pauncefort, ' I am so glad your 
 la'ship is going to lie down a bit.' 
 
 ' I am not going to lie down, Pauncefort. Give me the 
 key.' 
 
 And Lady Annabel proceeded alone to the forbidden 
 chamber, that chamber which, after what has occurred, we 
 may now enter with her, and where, with so much labour, 
 she had created a room exactly imitative of their bridal 
 apartment at her husband's castle. With a slow but re- 
 solved step she entered the apartment, and proceeding im- 
 mediately to the table, took up the book ; it opened at the 
 stanzas to Venetia. The pages had recently been bedewed 
 with tears. Lady Annabel then looked at the bridal bed, 
 and marked the missing rose in the garland : it was as she 
 expected. She seated herself then in the chair opposite the 
 portrait, on which she gazed with a glance rather stern than 
 fond. 
 
 ' Mannion,' she exclaimed, ' for fifteen years, a solitary 
 votary, I have mourned over, in this temple of baffled 
 affections, the inevitable past. The daughter of our love 
 lias found her way, perhaps by an irresistible destiny, to a 
 spot sacred to my long- concealed sorrows. At length she 
 knows her father. May she never know more ! May she 
 never learn that the being, whose pictured form has com- 
 manded her adoration, is unworthy of those glorious gifts 
 that a gracious Creator has bestowed upon him ! Marmion, 
 you seem to smile upon me ; you seem to exult in your 
 triumph over the heart of your child. But there is a power 
 in a mother's love that yet shall baffle you. Hitherto I have 
 come here to deplore the past ; hitherto I have come here 
 to dwell upon the form that, in spite of all that has hap- 
 pened, I still was, perhaps, weak enough to love. Those 
 feelings are past for ever. Yes ! you would rob me of my 
 child, you would tear from my heart the only consolation you 
 have left me. But Venetia shall still be mine ; and I, I am
 
 VENETIA. 141 
 
 no longer yours. Our love, our still lingering love, has 
 vanished. You have been my enemy, now I am yours. I 
 gaze upon your portrait for the last time ; and thus I pre- 
 vent the magical fascination of that face again appealing to 
 the sympathies of my child. Thus and thus ! ' She seized 
 the ancient dagger that we have mentioned as lying on the 
 volume, and, springing on the chair, she plunged it into 
 the canvas; then, tearing with unflinching resolution the 
 severed parts, she scattered the fragments over the chamber, 
 shook into a thousand leaves the melancholy garland, tore 
 up the volume of his enamoured Muse, and then quitting 
 the chamber, and locking and double locking the door, she 
 descended the staircase, and proceeding to the great well of 
 Cherbury, hurled into it the fatal key. 
 
 ' Oh ! my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort, as she met 
 Lady Annabel returning in the vestibule, ' Doctor Masham 
 is here.' 
 
 ' Is he ? ' said Lady Annabel, as calm as usual. ' I will 
 see him before I lie down. Do not go into Venetia's room. 
 She sleeps, and Mr. Hawkins has promised me to let me 
 know when she wakes.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 As Lady Annabel entered the terrace-room, Doctor Ma- 
 sham came forward and grasped her hand. 
 
 ' You have heard of our sorrow ! ' said her ladyship in a 
 faint voice. 
 
 ' But this instant,' replied the Doctor, in a tone of great 
 anxiety. ' Immediate danger 
 
 ' Is past. She sleeps,' replied Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' A most sudden and unaccountable attack,' said the 
 Doctor. 
 
 It is difficult to describe the contending emotions of the 
 mother as her companion made this observation. At length 
 she replied, ' Sudden, certainly sudden ; but not unaccount-
 
 142 VENETIA. 
 
 able. Oh ! my friend,' she added, after a moment's pause, 
 ' they will not be content until they have torn my daughter 
 from me.' 
 
 ' They tear your daughter from you ! ' exclaimed Doctor 
 Masham. 'Who?' 
 
 ' He, he,' muttered Lady Annabel ; her speech was inco- 
 herent, her manner very disturbed. 
 
 'My dear lady,' said the Doctor, gazing on her with 
 extreme anxiety, 'you are yourself unwell.' 
 
 Lady Annabel heaved a deep sigh ; the Doctor bore her 
 to a seat. ' Shall I send for any one, anything ? ' 
 
 'No one, no one,' quickly answered Lady Annabel. 
 * With you, at least, there is no concealment necessary.' 
 
 She leant back in her chair, the Doctor holding her hand, 
 and standing by her side. 
 
 Still Lady Annabel continued sighing deeply : at length 
 she looked up and said, ' Does she love me ? Do you 
 think, after all, she loves me ? ' 
 
 ' Venetia?' inquired the Doctor, in a low and doubtful 
 voice, for he was greatly perplexed. 
 
 ' She has seen him ; she loves him ; she has forgotten 
 her mother.' 
 
 ' My dear lady, you require rest,' said Doctor Masham. 
 ' You are overcome with strange fancies. Whom has your 
 daughter seen ? ' 
 
 ' Marmion.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! you forget he is 
 
 ' Here also. He has spoken to her : she loves him : she 
 will recover : she will fly to him ; sooner let us both die ! ' 
 
 ' Dear lady ! ' 
 
 * She knows everything. Fate has baffled me ; we can- 
 not struggle with fate. She is his child ; she is like him ; 
 she is not like her mother. Oh ! she hates me ; I know 
 she hates me.' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! hush ! ' said the Doctor, himself very 
 agitated. ' Venetia loves you, only you. Why should she 
 love any one else ? '
 
 VENETIA. 143 
 
 ' Who can help it ? I loved him. I saw him. I loved 
 him. His voice was music. He has spoken to her, and 
 she yielded : she yielded in a moment. I stood by her 
 bedside. She would not speak to me ; she would not know 
 me ; she shrank from me. Her heart is with her father : 
 only with him.' 
 
 ' Where did she see him ? How ? ' 
 
 ' His room : his picture. She knows all. I was away 
 with you, and she entered his chamber.' 
 
 'Ah!' 
 
 ' Oh ! Doctor, you have influence with her. Speak to 
 her. Make her love me ! Tell her she has no father ; tell 
 her he is dead.' 
 
 ' We will do that which is well and wise,' replied Doctor 
 Masham : ' at present let us be calm ; if you give way, her 
 life may be the forfeit. Now is the moment for a mother's 
 love.' 
 
 'You are right. I should not have left her for an 
 instant. I would' not have her wake and find her mother 
 not watching over her. But I was tempted. She slept ; I 
 left her for a moment ; I went to destroy the spell. She 
 cannot see him again. No one shall see him again. It was 
 my weakness, the weakness of long years ; and now I am 
 its victim.' 
 
 ' Nay, nay, my sweet lady, all will be quite well. Be but 
 calm ; Venetia will recover.' 
 
 ' But will she love me ? Oh ! no, no, no ! She will think 
 only of him. She will not love her mother. She will yearn 
 for her father now. She has seen him, and she will not 
 rest until she is ill his arms. She will desert me, I know it.' 
 
 ' And I know the contrary,' said the Doctor, attempting 
 to reassure her ; ' I will answer for Venetia' s devotion to 
 you. Indeed she has no thought but your happiness, and 
 can love only you. When there is a fitting time, I will 
 speak to her ; but now, now is the time for repose. And 
 you must rest, you must indeed.' 
 
 ' Best ! I cannot. I slumbered in the chair last night
 
 144 VENETIA. 
 
 by her bedside, and a voice roused/me. It was her own. 
 She was speaking to her father. She told him how she 
 loved him ; how long, how much she thought of him ; that 
 she would join him when she was well, for she knew he 
 was not dead ; and, if he were dead, she would die also. 
 She never mentioned me.' 
 
 ' Nay ! the light meaning of a delirious brain.' 
 
 ' Truth, truth, bitter, inevitable truth. Oh ! Doctor, I 
 could beai all but this ; but my child, my beautiful fond 
 child, that made up for all my sorrows. My joy, my hope, 
 my life ! I knew it would be so ; I knew he would have 
 her heart. He said she never could be alienated from him ; 
 he said she never could be taught to hate him. I did not 
 teach her to hate him. I said nothing. I deemed, fond, 
 foolish mother, that the devotion of my life might bind her 
 to me. But what is a mother's love ? I cannot contend 
 with him. He gained the mother ; he will gain the 
 daughter too.' 
 
 ' God will guard over you,' said Masham, with streaming 
 eyes ; ' God will not desert a pious and virtuous woman.' 
 
 ' I must go,' said Lady Annabel, attempting to rise, but 
 the Doctor gently controlled her ; ' perhaps she is awake, 
 and I am not at her side. She will not ask for me, she 
 will ask for him ; but I will be there ; she will desert me, 
 but she shall not say I ever deserted her.' 
 
 ' She will never desert you,' said the Doctor; 'my life on 
 her pure heart. She has- been a child of unbroken love 
 and duty; still she will remain so. Her mind is for a 
 moment overpowered by a marvellous discovery. She will 
 recover, and be to you as she was before.' 
 
 ' We'll tell her he is dead,' said Lady Annabel, eagerly. 
 ' You must tell her. She will believe you. I cannot speak 
 to her of him ; no, not to secure her heart ; never, never, 
 never can I speak to Venetia of her father.' 
 
 ' I will speak,' replied the Doctor, ' at the just time. 
 Now let us think of her recovery. She is no longer in 
 danger. We should be grateful, we should be glad.'
 
 VENETIA, 145 
 
 ' Let us pray to God ! Let us humble ourselves,' said 
 Lady Annabel. ' Let us beseech him not to desert this 
 house. We have been faithful to him, we have struggled 
 to be faithful to him. Let us supplicate him to favour and 
 support us ! ' 
 
 ' He will favour and support you,' said the Doctor, in a 
 solemn tone. ' He has upheld you in many trials ; he will 
 uphold you still.' 
 
 ' Ah ! why did I love him ! Why did I continue to love 
 him ! How weak, how foolish, how mad I have been ! I 
 have alone been the cause of all this misery. Yes, I have 
 destroyed my child.' 
 
 ' She lives, she will live. Nay, nay ! you must reassure 
 yourself. Come, let me send for your servant, and for a 
 moment repose. Nay ! take my arm. A.11 depends upon 
 you. We have great cares now ; let us not conjure up 
 fantastic fears.' 
 
 ' I must go to my daughter's room. Perhaps by her side 
 I might rest. Nowhere else. You will attend me to the 
 door, my friend. Yes ! it is something in this life to have 
 a friend.' 
 
 Lady Annabel took the arm of the good Masham. They 
 stopped at her daughter's door. 
 
 ' Rest here a moment,' she said, as she entered the room 
 without a sound. In a moment she returned. ' She still 
 sleeps,' said the mother ; ' I shall remain with her, and 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' I will not leave you,' said the Doctor, ' but think not of 
 me. Nay ! I will not leave you. I will remain under this 
 roof. I have shared its serenity and joy ; let me not avoid 
 it in this time of trouble and tribulation.' 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 VENETIA still slept : her mother alone in the chamber 
 watched by her side. Some hours had elapsed since her 
 
 L
 
 146 VENETIA. 
 
 interview with Dr. Masham ; the medical attendant had 
 departed for a few hours. 
 
 Suddenly Venetia moved, opened her eyes, and said in a 
 faint voice, ' Mamma ! ' 
 
 The blood rushed to Lady Annabel's heart. That single 
 word afforded her the most exquisite happiness. 
 
 ' I am here, dearest,' she replied. 
 
 ' Mamma, what is all this ? ' inquired Venetia. 
 
 'You have not been well, my own, but now you are 
 much better.' 
 
 * I thought I had been dreaming,' replied Venetia, ' and 
 that all was not right ; somebody, I thought, struck me on 
 my head. But all is right now, because you are here, my 
 dear mamma.' 
 
 But Lady Annabel could not speak for weeping. 
 
 'Are you sure, mamma, that nothing has been done to 
 my head ? ' continued Venetia. ' Why, what is this ? ' and 
 she touched a light bandage on her brow. 
 
 ' My darling, you have been ill, and you have lost blood ; 
 but now you are getting quite well. I have been very un- 
 happy about you ; but now I am quite happy, my sweet, 
 sweet child.' 
 
 ' How long have I been ill ? ' 
 
 ' You have been very ill indeed for four or five days ; 
 you have had a fever, Venetia ; but now the fever is gone, 
 and you are only a little weak, and you will soon be well.' 
 
 ' A fever ! and how did I get the fever ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps you caught cold, my child ; but we must not 
 talk too much.' 
 
 ' A fever ! I never had a fever before. A fever is like a 
 dream.' 
 
 ' Hush ! sweet love. Indeed you must not speak.' 
 
 ' Give me your hand, mamma ; I will not speak if you 
 will let me hold your hand. I thought in the fever that 
 we were parted.' 
 
 ' I have never left your side, my child, day or night,' said 
 Lady Annabel, not without agitation.
 
 VENETIA. 147 
 
 ' All this time ! all these days and nights ! No one would 
 do that but you, mamma. You think only of me.' 
 
 ' Tou repay me by your love, Yenetia,' said Lady Anna- 
 bel, feeling that her daughter ought not to speak, yet irre- 
 sistibly impelled to lead out her thoughts. 
 
 ' How can I help loving you, my dear mamma ? ' 
 
 ' You do love me, you do love me very much ; do you 
 not, sweet child ? ' 
 
 ' Better than all the world,' replied Venetia to her en- 
 raptured parent. ' And yet, in the fever I seemed to love 
 some one else : but fevers are like dreams ; they are not 
 true.' 
 
 Lady Annabel pressed her lips gently to her daughter's, 
 and whispered her that she must speak no more. 
 
 When Mr. Hawkins returned, he gave a favourable report 
 of Venetia. He said that all danger was now past, and 
 that all that was required for her recovery were time, care, 
 and repose. He repeated to Lady Annabel alone that the 
 attack was solely to be ascribed to some great mental 
 shock which her daughter had received, and which sud- 
 denly had affected her circulation ; leaving it, after this 
 formal intimation, entirely to the mother to take those steps 
 in reference to the cause, whatever it might be, which she 
 should deem expedient. 
 
 In the evening, Lady Annabel stole down for a few 
 moments to Dr. Masham, laden with joyful intelligence ; 
 assured of the safety of her child, and, what was still more 
 precious, of her heart, and even voluntarily promising her 
 friend that she should herself sleep this night in her 
 daughter's chamber, on the sofa-bed. The Doctor, there- 
 fore, now bade her adieu, and said that he should ride over 
 from Marringhurst every day, to hear how their patient 
 was proceeding. 
 
 From this time, the recovery of Venetia, though slow, 
 was gradual. She experienced no relapse, and in a few 
 weeks quitted her bed. She was rather surprised at her 
 altered appearance when it first met her glance in the 
 
 L 2
 
 148 VENETIA. 
 
 mirror, but scarcely made any observation on the loss 
 of her locks. During this interval, the mind of Yenetia 
 had been quite dormant ; the rage of the fever, and the 
 violent remedies to which it had been necessary to have 
 recourse, had so exhausted her, that she had not energy 
 enough to think. All that she felt was a strange indefinite 
 conviction that some occurrence had taken place with 
 which her memory could not grapple. But as her strength 
 returned, and as she gradually resumed her usual health, 
 by proportionate though almost invisible degrees her me- 
 mory returned to her, and her intelligence. She clearly 
 recollected and comprehended what had taken place. She 
 recalled the past, compared incidents, weighed circum- 
 stances, sifted and balanced the impressions that now 
 crowded upon her consciousness. It is difficult to describe 
 each link in the metaphysical chain which at length con- 
 nected the mind of Venetia Herbert with her actual ex- 
 perience and precise situation. It was, however, at length 
 perfect, and gradually formed as she sat in an invalid chair, 
 apparently listless, not yet venturing on any occupation, or 
 occasionally amused for a moment by her mother reading 
 to her. But when her mind had thus resumed its natural 
 tone, and in time its accustomed vigour, the past demanded 
 all her solicitude. At length the mystery of her birth was 
 revealed to her. She was the daughter of Marmion Her- 
 bert ; and who was Marmion Herbert ? The portrait rose 
 before her. How distinct was the form, how definite the 
 countenance ! No common personage was Marmion Her- 
 bert, even had he not won his wife, and celebrated his 
 daughter in such witching strains. Genius was stamped 
 on his lofty brow, and spoke in his brilliant eye ; nobility 
 wns in all his form. This chivalric poet was her father. 
 She had read, she had dreamed of such beings, she had 
 never seen them. If she quitted the solitude in which she 
 lived, would she see men like her father ? No other could 
 ever satisfy her imagination ; all beneath that standard 
 would rank but as imperfect creations in her fancy. And
 
 VENETIA. 149 
 
 this father, he was dead. No doubt. Ah ! was there indeed, 
 no doubt ? Eager as was her curiosity on this all- 
 absorbing subject, Yenetia could never summon courage 
 to speak upon it to her mother. Her first disobedience, or 
 rather her first deception of her mother, in reference to 
 this very subject, had brought, and brought so swiftly 
 on its retributive wings, such disastrous consequences, 
 that any allusion to Lady Annabel was restrained by a 
 species of superstitious fear, against which Venetia could 
 not contend. Then her father was either dead or living. 
 That was certain. If dead, it was clear that his me- 
 mory, however cherished by his relict, was associated 
 with feelings too keen to admit of any other but so- 
 litary indulgence. If living, there was a mystery con- 
 nected with her parents, a mystery evidently of a painful 
 character, and one which it was a prime object with her 
 mother to conceal and to suppress. Could Venetia, then, 
 in defiance of that mother, that fond devoted mother, that 
 mother who had watched through long days and long 
 nights over her sick bed, and who now, withov-t a murmur, 
 was a prisoner to this very room, only to comfort and con- 
 sole her child : could Venetia take any step which might 
 occasion this matchless parent even a transient pang ? No ; 
 it was impossible. To her mother she could never speak. 
 And yet, to remain enveloped in the present mystery, she 
 was sensible, was equally insufferable. All she asked, all 
 she wanted to know, was he alive ? If he were alive, then, 
 although she could not see him, though she might never 
 see him, she could exist upon his idea ; she could conjure 
 up romances of future existence with him ; she could live 
 upon the fond hope of some day calling him father, and 
 receiving from his hands the fervid blessing he had already 
 breathed to her in song. 
 
 In the meantime her remaining parent commanded all 
 her affections. Even if he were no more, blessed was her 
 lot with such a mother ! Lady Annabel seemed only to 
 exist to attend upon her daughter. No lover ever watched
 
 150 VENETIA. 
 
 with such devotion the wants or even the caprices of his 
 mistress. A thousand times every day Venetia found her- 
 self expressing her fondness and her gratitude. It seemed 
 that the late dreadful contingency of losing her daughter 
 had developed in Lady Annabel's heart even additional 
 powers of maternal devotion ; and Venetia, the fond and 
 grateful Venetia, ignorant of the strange past, which she 
 believed she so perfectly comprehended, returned thanks 
 to Heaven that her mother was at least spared the mortifi- 
 cation of knowing that her daughter, in her absence, had 
 surreptitiously invaded the sanctuary of her secret sorrow. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WHEN Venetia had so far recovered that, leaning on her 
 mother's arm, she could resume her walks upon the terrace, 
 Doctor Masham persuaded his friends, as a slight and not 
 unpleasant change of scene, to pay him a visit at Marring- 
 hurst. Since the chamber scene, indeed, Lady Annabel's 
 tie to Cherbury was much weakened. There were certain 
 feelings of pain, and fear, and mortification, now associated 
 with that place which she could not bear to dwell upon, 
 and which greatly balanced those sentiments of refuge and 
 repose, of peace and love, with which the old hall, in her 
 mind, was heretofore connected. Venetia ever adopted the 
 slightest intimations of a wish on the part of her mother, 
 and so she readily agreed to fall into the arrangement. 
 
 It was rather a long and rough journey to Marring- 
 hurst, for they were obliged to use the old chariot ; but 
 Venetia forgot her fatigues in the cordial welcome of their 
 host, whose sparkling countenance well expressed the ex- 
 treme gratification their arrival occasioned him. All that 
 the tenderest solicitude could devise for the agreeable 
 accommodation of the invalid had been zealously concerted; 
 and the constant influence of Dr. Masham's cheerful mind
 
 VENETIA. 151 
 
 was as beneficial to Lady Annabel as to her daughter. The 
 season was gay, the place was pleasant ; and although they 
 were only a few miles from home, in a house with which 
 they were familiar, and their companion one whom they 
 had known intimately all their lives, and of late almost 
 daily seen ; yet such is the magic of a change in our habits, 
 however slight, and of the usual theatre of their custom, 
 that this visit to Marringhurst assumed quite the air of an 
 adventure, and seemed at first almost invested with the 
 charm and novelty of travel. 
 
 The surrounding country, which, though verdant, was 
 flat, was well adapted to the limited exertions and still 
 feeble footsteps of an invalid, and Venetia began to study 
 botany with the Doctor, who indeed was not very profound 
 in his attainments in this respect, but knew quite enough 
 to amuse his scholar. By degrees also, as her strength 
 daily increased, they extended their walks ; and at length 
 she even mounted her pony, and was fast recovering her 
 elasticity both of body and mind. There were also many 
 pleasant books with which she was unacquainted; a cabinet 
 of classic coins, prints, and pictures. She became, too, 
 interested in the Doctor's rural pursuits ; would watch him 
 with his angle, and already meditated a revolution in his 
 garden. So time, on the whole, flew cheerfully on, cer- 
 tainly without any weariness ; and the day seldom passed 
 that they did not all congratulate themselves on the pleasant 
 and profitable change. 
 
 In the meantime Venetia, when alone, still recurred to 
 that idea that was now so firmly rooted in her mind, that 
 it was quite out of the power of any social discipline to 
 divert her attention from it. She was often the sole com- 
 panion of the Doctor, and she had long resolved to seize a 
 favourable opportunity to appeal to him on the subject of 
 her father. It so happened that she was walking alone 
 with him one morning in the neighbourhood of Marring- 
 hurst, having gone to visit the remains of a Roman encamp- 
 ment in the immediate vicinity. When they had arrived
 
 152 VENETIA. 
 
 at the spot, and the Doctor had delivered his usual lecture 
 c n the locality, they sat down together on a mound, that 
 Venetia might rest herself. 
 
 ' Were you ever in Italy, Doctor Masham ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 ' I never was out of my native country,' said the Doctor. 
 ' I once, indeed, was about making the grand tour with a 
 pupil of mine at Oxford, but circumstances interfered 
 which changed his plans, and so I remain a regular John 
 Bull.' 
 
 ' Was my father at Oxford ? ' said Venetia, quietly. 
 
 ' He was,' replied the Doctor, looking confused. 
 
 ' I should like to see Oxford much,' said Venetia. 
 
 'It is a most interesting seat of learning,' said the 
 Doctor, quite delighted to change the subject. ' Whether 
 we consider its antiquity, its learning, the influence it has 
 exercised upon the history of the country, its magnificent 
 endowments, its splendid buildings, its great colleges, 
 libraries, and museums, or that it is one of the principal 
 head-quarters of all the hope of England, our youth, it is 
 not too much to affirm that there is scarcely a spot on the 
 face of the globe of equal interest and importance.' 
 
 'It is not for its colleges, or libraries, or museums, or 
 all its splendid buildings,' observed Venetia, ' that I should 
 wish to see it. I wish to see it because my father was 
 once there. I should like to see a place where I was quite 
 certain my father had been.' 
 
 ' Still harping of her father,' thought the Doctor to him- 
 self, and growing uneasy ; yet, from his very anxiety to turn 
 the subject, quite incapable of saying an appropriate word. 
 ' Do you remember my father at Oxford, Doctor Masham ? ' 
 said Venetia. 
 
 ' Yes ! no, yes ! ' said the Doctor, rather colouring ; ' that 
 is, he must have been there in my time, I rather think.' 
 
 ' But you do not recollect him ? ' said Venetia, pressing 
 the question. 
 
 'Why,' rejoined the Doctor, a little more collected, 
 ' when you remember that there are between two and
 
 VENETIA. 153 
 
 throe thousand young men at the university, you must not 
 consider it very surprising that I might not recollect your 
 father.' 
 
 ' No,' said Venetia, ' perhaps not : and yet I cannot help 
 thinking that he must always have been a person who, if 
 once seen, would not easily have been forgotten.' 
 
 ' Here is an Erica vagans,' said the Doctor, picking a 
 flower ; ' it is rather uncommon about here ; ' and handing 
 it at the same time to Venetia. 
 
 ' My father must have been very young when he died ? ' 
 said Venetia, scarcely looking at the flower. 
 ' Yes, your father was very young,' he replied. 
 ' Where did he die ? ' 
 ' I cannot answer that question.' 
 ' Where was he buried ? ' 
 
 ' You know, my dear young lady, that the subject is too 
 tender for any one to converse with your poor mother upon 
 it. It is not in my power to give you the information you 
 desire. Be satisfied, my dear Miss Herbert, that a gracious 
 Providence has spared to you one parent, and one so in- 
 estimable.' 
 
 ' I trust I know how to appreciate so great a blessing,' 
 replied Venetia ; ' but I should be sorry if the natural 
 interest which all children must take in those who have 
 given them birth, should be looked upon as idle and un- 
 justifiable curiosity.' 
 
 ' My dear young lady, you misapprehend me.' 
 'No, Doctor Masham, indeed I do not,' replied Venetia, 
 with firmness. ' I can easily conceive that the mention of 
 my father may for various reasons be insupportable to my 
 mother ; it is enough for me that I am convinced such is 
 the case : my lips are sealed to her for ever upon the sub- 
 ject ; but I cannot recognise the necessity of this constraint 
 to others. For a long time I was kept in ignorance 
 whether I had a father or not. I have discovered, no 
 matter how, who he was. I believe, pardon me, my dearest 
 friend, I cannot help believing, that you were acquainted,
 
 154 VENETIA. 
 
 or, at least, that you know something of him ; and I 
 entreat you ! yes,' repeated Venetia with great emphasis, 
 laying her hand upon his arm, and looking with earnestness 
 in his face, ' I entreat you, by all your kind feelings to my 
 mother and myself, by all that friendship we so prize, by 
 the urgent solicitation of a daughter who is influenced in 
 her curiosity by no light or unworthy feeling ; yes ! by all 
 the claims of a child to information which ought not to be 
 withheld from her, tell me, tell me all, tell me something ! 
 Speak, Dr. Masham, do speak ! ' 
 
 ' My dear young lady,' said the Doctor, with a glisten- 
 ing eye, ' it is better that we should both be silent.' 
 
 'No, indeed,' replied Venetia, 'it is not better ; it is not 
 well that we should be silent. Candour is a great virtue. 
 There is a charm, a healthy charm, in frankness. Why 
 this mystery ? Why these secrets ? Have they worked 
 good ? Have they benefited us ? ! my friend, I would 
 not say so to my mother, I would not be tempted by any 
 sufferings to pain for an instant her pure and affectionate 
 heart ; but indeed, Doctor Masham, indeed, indeed, what I 
 tell you is true, all my late illness, my present state, all, all 
 are attributable but to one cause, this mystery about my 
 father ! ' 
 
 ' What can I tell you ? ' said the unhappy Masham. 
 
 ' Tell me only one fact. I ask no more. Yes ! I promise 
 you, solemnly I promise you, I will ask no more. Tell me, 
 does he live ? ' 
 
 ' He does ! ' said the Doctor. Venetia sank upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' My dear young lady, my darling young lady ! ' said the 
 Doctor ; ' she has fainted. What can I do ? ' The unfor- 
 tunate Doctor placed Venetia in a reclining posture, and 
 hurried to a brook that was nigh, and brought water in his 
 hand to sprinkle on her. She revived ; she made a struggle 
 to restore herself. 
 
 'It is nothing,' she said, 'lam resolved to be well. I 
 am well. I am myself again. He lives ; my father lives !
 
 VENETIA. 155 
 
 I was confident of it ! I will ask no more. I am true to 
 my word. O ! Doctor Masham, you nave always been my 
 kind friend, but you have never yet conferred on me a 
 favour like the one you have just bestowed.' 
 
 ' But it is well,' said the Doctor, ' as you know so much, 
 that you should know more.' 
 
 ' Yes ! yes ! ' 
 
 ' As we walk along,' he continued, ' we will converse, OP 
 at another time ; there is no lack of opportunity.' 
 
 ' No, now, now ! ' eagerly exclaimed Venetia, ' I am quite 
 well. It was not pain or illness that overcame me. Now 
 let us walk, now let us talk of these things. He lives ? ' 
 
 ' I have little to add,' said Dr. Masham, after a moment's 
 thought ; ' but this, however painful, it is necessary for 
 you to know, that your father is unworthy of your mother, 
 utterly ; they are separated ; they never can be reunited.' 
 
 ' Never ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Never,' replied Dr. Masham ; ' and I now warn you ; if, 
 indeed, as I cannot doubt, you love your mother ; if her 
 peace of mind and happiness are, as I hesitate not to believe, 
 the principal objects of your life, upon this subject with 
 her be for ever silent. Seek to penetrate no mysteries, 
 spare all allusions, banish, if possible, the idea of your father 
 from your memory. Enough, you know he lives. We 
 know no more. Tour mother labours to forget him ; her 
 only consolation for sorrows such as few women ever expe- 
 rienced, is her child, yourself, your love. Now be no 
 niggard with it. Cling to this unrivalled parent, who has 
 dedicated her life to you. Soothe her sufferings, endeavour 
 to make her share your happiness ; but, of this be certain, 
 that if you raise up the name and memory of your father 
 between your mother and yourself, her life will be the 
 forfeit ! ' 
 
 'His name shall never pass my lips,' said Venetia; 
 ' solemnly I vow it. That his image shall be banished from 
 my heart is too much to ask, and more than it is in my 
 power to grant. But I am my mother's child. I will exist
 
 156 VENETIA. 
 
 only for her ; and if my love can console her, she shall 
 never be without solace. I thank you, Doctor, for all your 
 kindness. We will never talk again upon the subject ; yet, 
 believe me, you have acted wisely, you have done good.' 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 VENETJA observed her promise to Doctor Masham with 
 strictness. She never alluded to her father, and his name 
 never escaped her mother's lips. Whether Doctor Masham 
 apprised Lady Annabel of the conversation that had taken 
 place between himself and her daughter, it is not in our 
 power to mention. The visit to Marringhurst was not a 
 short one. It was a relief both to Lady Annabel and 
 Venetia, after all that had occurred, to enjoy the constant 
 society of their friend ; and this change of life, though appa- 
 rently so slight, proved highly beneficial to Venetia. She 
 daily recovered her health, and a degree of mental com- 
 posure which she had not for some time enjoyed. On the 
 whole she was greatly satisfied with the discoveries which 
 she had made. She had ascertained the name and the ex- 
 istence of her father : his very form and appearance were 
 now no longer matter for conjecture ; and in a degree she 
 had even communicated with him. Time, she still believed, 
 would develope even further wonders. She clung to an 
 irresistible conviction that she should yet see him ; that he 
 might even again be united to her mother. She indulged 
 in dreams as to his present pursuits and position ; she re- 
 peated to herself his verses, and remembered his genius 
 with pride and consolation. 
 
 They returned to Cherbury, they resumed the accustomed 
 tenour of their lives, as if nothing had occurred to disturb 
 it. The fondness between the mother and her daughter 
 was unbroken and tmdimiuished. They shared again the 
 same studies and the same amusements. Lady Annabel 
 perhaps indulged the conviction that Venetia had imbibed 
 the belief that her father was no more, and yet in truth that
 
 VENETIA. 157 
 
 father was the sole idea on which her child ever brooded. 
 Venetia had her secret now ; and often as she looked up at 
 the windows of the uninhabited portion of the building, she 
 remembered with concealed, but not less keen exultation, 
 that she had penetrated their mystery. She could muse for 
 hours over all that chamber had revealed to her, and in- 
 dulge in a thousand visions, of which her father was the 
 centre. She was his 'own Venetia.' Thus he had hailed 
 her at her birth, and thus he might yet again acknowledge 
 her. If she could only ascertain where he existed ! What 
 if she could, and she were to communicate with him ? He 
 must love her. Her heart assured her he must love her. 
 She could not believe, if they were to meet, that his breast 
 could resist the silent appeal which the sight merely of his 
 only child would suffice to make. Oh ! why had her parents 
 parted? What could have been his fault? He was so 
 young ! But a few, few years older than herself, when her 
 mother must have seen him for the last time. Yes ! for the 
 last time beheld that beautiful form, and that countenance 
 that seemed breathing only with genius and love. He 
 might have been imprudent, rash, violent ; but she would 
 not credit for an instant that a stain could attach to the 
 honour or the spirit of Marmion Herbert. 
 
 The summer wore away. One morning, as Lady Annabel 
 and Venetia were sitting together, Mistress Pauncefort 
 bustled into the room with a countenance radiant with 
 smiles and wonderment. Her ostensible business was to 
 place upon the table a vase of flowers, but it Avas evident 
 that her presence was occasioned by affairs of far greater 
 urgency. The vase was safely deposited ; Mistress Paunce- 
 fort gave the last touch to the arrangement of the flowers ; 
 she lingered about Lady Annabel, At length she said, ' I 
 suppose you have heard the news, my lady?' 
 
 'Indeed, Pauncefort, I have not,' replied Lady Annabel. 
 'What news?' 
 
 ' My lord is coming to the abbey.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort ; ' I am
 
 158 VENETIA. 
 
 not at all surprised your ladyship should be so astonished. 
 Never to write, too ! Well, I must say he might have given 
 us a line. But he is coming, I am certain sure of that, my 
 lady. My lord's gentleman has been down these two days ; 
 and all his dogs and guns too, my lady. And the keeper is 
 ordered to be quite ready, my lady, for the first. I wonder 
 if there is going to be a party. I should not be at all 
 surprised.' 
 
 ' Plantagenet returned ! ' said Lady Annabel. ' Well, I 
 shall be very glad to see him again.' 
 
 ' So shall I, my lady,' said Mistress Pauncefort ; ' but I 
 dare say we shall hardly know him again, he must be so 
 grown. Trimmer has been over to the abbey, my lady, and 
 saw my lord's valet. Quite the fine gentleman, Trimmer 
 says. I was thinking of walking over myself this after- 
 noon, to see poor Mrs. Quin, my lady ; I dare say we might 
 be of use, and neighbours should be handy, as they say. 
 She is a very respectable woman, poor Mrs. Quin, and I 
 am sure for my part, if your ladyship has no objection, I 
 should be very glad to be of service to her.' 
 
 ' I have of course no objection, Pauncefort, to your being 
 of service to the housekeeper, but has she required your 
 assistance ? ' 
 
 ' Why no, my lady, but poor Mrs. Quin would hardly like 
 to ask for anything, my lady ; but I am sure we might be 
 of very great use, for my lord's gentleman seems very dis- 
 satisfied at his reception, Trimmer says. He has his hot 
 breakfast every morning, my lady, and poor Mrs. Quin 
 says ' 
 
 ' Well, Pauncefort, that will do,' said Lady Annabel, and 
 the functionary disappeared. 
 
 ' We have almost forgotten Plantagenet, Venetia,' added 
 Lady Annabel, addressing herself to her daughter. 
 
 ' He has forgotten us, I think, mamma,' said Venetia. 
 
 END OF BOOK II.
 
 VENETIA. 159 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FIVE years had elapsed since Lord Cadurcis had quitted the 
 seat of his fathers, nor did the fair inhabitants of Cherbury 
 hear of his return without emotion. Although the inter- 
 course between them during this interval had from the first 
 been too slightly maintained, and of late years had entirely 
 died off, his return was, nevertheless, an event which re- 
 called old times and revived old associations. His visit to 
 the hall was looked forward to with interest. He did not 
 long keep his former friends in suspense ; for although he 
 was not uninfluenced by some degree of embarrassment 
 from the consciousness of neglect on his side, rendered 
 more keen now that he again found himself in the scene 
 endeared by the remembrance of their kindness, he was, 
 nevertheless, both too well bred and too warm-hearted to 
 procrastinate the performance of a duty which the regula- 
 tions of society and natural impulse alike assured him was 
 indispensable. On the very morning, therefore, after his 
 arrival, having sauntered awhile over the old abbey and 
 strolled over the park, mused over his mother's tomb with 
 emotion, not the less deep because there was no outward 
 and visible sign of its influence, he ordered his horses, and 
 directed his way through the accustomed woods to Cherbury. 
 Five years had not passed away without their effects at 
 least upon the exterior being of Cadurcis. Although still a 
 youth, his appearance was manly. A thoughtful air had 
 become habitual to a countenance melancholy even in his 
 childhood. Nor was its early promise of beauty unfulfilled ; 
 although its expression was peculiar, and less pleasing than
 
 160 VENETIA. 
 
 impressive. His long dark locks shaded a pale and lofty 
 brow that well became a cast of features delicately moulded, 
 yet reserved and haughty, and perhaps even somewhat 
 scornful. His figure had set into a form of remarkable 
 slightness and elegance, and distinguished for its sym- 
 metry. Altogether his general mien was calculated to 
 attract attention and to excite interest. 
 
 His, vacations while at Eton had been spent by Lord 
 Cadurcis in the family of his noble guardian, one of the 
 king's ministers. Here he had been gradually initiated in 
 the habits and manners of luxurious and refined society. 
 Since he had quitted Eton he had passed a season, previous 
 to his impending residence at Cambridge, in the same 
 sphere. The opportunities thus offered had not been lost 
 upon a disposition which, with all its native reserve, was 
 singularly susceptible. Cadurcis had quickly imbibed the 
 tone and adopted the usages of the circle in which he moved. 
 Naturally impatient of control, he endeavoured by his 
 precocious manhood to secure the respect and indepen- 
 dence which would scarcely have been paid or permitted 
 to his years. From an early period he never permitted 
 himself to be treated as a boy ; and his guardian, a man 
 whose whole soul was concentred in the world, humoured a 
 bent which he approved and from which he augured the 
 most complete success. Attracted by the promising talents 
 and the premature character of his ward, he had spared 
 more time to assist the development of his mind and the 
 formation of his manners than, might have been expected 
 from a minister of state. His hopes, indeed, rested with 
 confidence on his youthful relative, and he looked forward 
 with no common emotion to the moment when he should 
 have the honour of introducing to public life one calculated 
 to confer so much credit on his tutor, and shed so much 
 lustre on his party. The reader will, therefore, not be 
 surprised if at this then unrivalled period of political ex- 
 citement, when the existence of our colonial empire was at 
 stake, Cadurcis, with his impetuous feelings, had imbibed
 
 VENETIA. 161 
 
 to their fullest extent all the plans, prejudices, and passions 
 of his political connections. He was, indeed, what the cir- 
 cumstances of the times and his extreme youth might well 
 excuse, if not justify, a most violent partisan. Bold, san- 
 guine, resolute, and intolerant, it was difficult to persuade 
 him that any opinions could be just which were opposed to 
 those of the circle in which he lived ; and out of that pale, 
 it must be owned, he was as little inclined to recognise the 
 existence of ability as of truth. 
 
 As Lord Cadurcis slowly directed his way through the 
 woods and park of Cherbury, past years recurred to him 
 like a faint yet pleasing dream. Among these meads and 
 bowers had glided away the only happy years of his boy- 
 hood, the only period of his early life to which he could 
 look back without disgust. He recalled the secret exultation 
 with which, in company with his poor mother, he had first 
 repaired to Cadurcis, about to take possession of what, to 
 his inexperienced imagination, then appeared a vast and 
 noble inheritance, and for the first time in his life to occupy 
 a position not unworthy of his rank. For how many do- 
 mestic mortifications did the first sight of that old abbey 
 compensate ! How often, in pacing its venerable galleries 
 and solemn cloisters, and musing over the memory of an 
 ancient and illustrious ancestry, had he forgotten those 
 bitter passages of daily existence, so humbling to his vanity 
 and so harassing to his heart ! He had beheld that morn, 
 after an interval of many years, the tomb of his mother. 
 That simple and solitary monument had revived and im- 
 pressed upon him a conviction that too easily escaped in 
 the various life and busy scenes in which he had since 
 moved, the conviction of his worldly desolation and utter 
 loneliness. He had no parents, no relations ; now that he 
 was for a moment free from the artificial life in which he 
 had of late mingled, he felt that he had no friends. The 
 image of his mother came back to him, softened by tho 
 magical tint of years ; after all she was his mother, and 
 a deep sharer in all his joys and woes. Transported to the 
 
 M
 
 162 VENETIA. 
 
 old haunts of his innocent and warm-hearted childhood, he 
 sighed for a finer and a sweeter sympathy than was ever 
 yielded by the roof which he had lately quitted ; a habita- 
 tion, but not a home. He conjured up the picture of his 
 guardian, existing in a whirl of official bustle and social 
 excitement. A dreamy reminiscence of finer impulses stole 
 over the heart of Cadurcis. The dazzling pageant of metro- 
 politan splendour faded away before the bright scene of 
 nature that surrounded him. He felt the freshness of the 
 fragrant breeze ; he gazed with admiration on the still and 
 ancient woods, and his pure and lively blood bubbled 
 beneath the influence of the golden sunbeams. Before him 
 rose the halls of Cherbury, that roof where he had been so 
 happy, that roof to which he had appeared so ungrateful. 
 The memory of a thousand acts of kindness, of a thousand 
 soft and soothing traits of affection, recurred to him with a 
 freshness which startled as much as it pleased him. Not 
 to hirn only, but to his mother, that mother whose loss he 
 had lived to deplore, had the inmates of Cherbury been 
 ministering angels of peace and joy. Oh ! that indeed had 
 been a home ; there indeed had been days of happiness ; 
 there indeed he had found sympathy, and solace, and suc- 
 cour ! And now he was returning to them a stranger, 
 to fulfil one of the formal duties of society in paying them 
 his cold respects ; an attention which he could scarcely 
 have avoided offering had he been to them the merest 
 acquaintance, instead of having found within those walls 
 a home not merely in words, but friendship the most deli- 
 cate and love the most pure, a second parent, and the only 
 being whom he had ever styled sister ! 
 
 The sight of Cadurcis became dim with emotion as the 
 associations of old scenes and his impending interview with 
 Venetia brought back the past with a power which he had 
 rarely experienced in the playing-fields of Eton, or the 
 saloons of London. Five years ! It was an awful chasm in 
 their acquaintance. 
 
 He despaired of reviving the kindness which had been
 
 VENETIA. 163 
 
 broken by such a dreary interval, and broken on his side so 
 wilfully; and yet he began to feel that unless met with 
 that kindness he should be very miserable. Sooth to say, 
 he was not a little embarrassed, and scarcely knew which 
 contingency he most desired, to meet, or to escape from 
 her. He almost repented his return to Cadurcis, and yet 
 to see Yenetia again he felt must be exquisite pleasure. 
 Influenced by these feelings he arrived at the hall steps, 
 and so, dismounting and giving his horse to his groom, 
 Cadurcis, with a palpitating heart and faltering hand, 
 formally rang the bell of that hall which in old days he 
 entered at all seasons without ceremony. 
 
 Never perhaps did a man feel more nervous ; he grew 
 pale, paler even than usual, and his whole frame trembled 
 as the approaching footstep of the servant assured him the 
 door was about to open. He longed now that the family 
 might not be at home, that he might at least gain four- 
 and-tvventy hours to prepare himself. But the family were 
 at home and he was obliged to enter. He stopped for a 
 moment in the hall under the pretence of examining the 
 old familiar scene, but it was merely to collect himself, for 
 his sight was clouded ; spoke to the old servant, to reassure 
 himself by the sound of his own voice, but the husky words 
 seemed to stick in his throat ; ascended the staircase with 
 tottering steps, and leant against the banister as he heard 
 his name announced. The effort, however, must be made ; 
 it was too late to recede ; and Lord Cadurcis, entering the 
 terrace-room, extended his hand to Lady Annabel Herbert. 
 She was not in the least changed, but looked as beautiful 
 and serene as usual. Her salutation, though far from de- 
 ficient in warmth, was a little more dignified than that 
 which Plantagenet remembered ; but still her presence re- 
 assured him, and while he pressed her hand with earnest- 
 ness he contrived to murmur forth with pleasing emotion, 
 his delight at again meeting her. Strange to say, in the 
 absorbing agitation of the moment, all thought of Venetia 
 had vanished ; and it was when he had turned and beheld 
 
 u 2
 
 164 VENETIA. 
 
 a maiden of the most exquisite beauty that his vision had 
 ever lighted on, who had just risen from her seat and was 
 at the moment saluting him, that he entirely lost his pre- 
 sence of mind ; he turned scarlet, was quite silent, made an 
 awkward bow, and then stood perfectly fixed. 
 
 ' My daughter,' said Lady Annabel, slightly pointing to 
 Venetia ; ' will not you be seated ? ' 
 
 Cadurcis fell into a chair in absolute confusion. The rare 
 and surpassing beauty of Venetia, his own stupidity, his 
 admiration of her, his contempt for himself, the sight of the 
 old chamber, the recollection of the past, the minutest in- 
 cidents of which seemed all suddenly to crowd upon his 
 memory, the painful consciousness of the revolution which 
 had occurred in his position in the family, proved by his 
 first being obliged to be introduced to Venetia, and then 
 being addressed so formally by his title by her mother; 
 all these impressions united overcame him ; he could not 
 speak, he sat silent and confounded ; and had it not been 
 for the imperturbable self-composure and delicate and ami- 
 able consideration of Lady Annabel, it would have been 
 impossible for him to have remained in a room where he 
 experienced agonising embarrassment. 
 
 Under cover, however, of a discharge of discreet inquiries 
 as to when he arrived, how long he meant to stay, whether 
 he found Cadurcis altered, and similar interrogations which 
 required no extraordinary exertion of his lordship's intellect 
 to answer, but to which he nevertheless contrived to give 
 inconsistent and contradictory responses, Cadurcis in time 
 recovered himself sufficiently to maintain a fair though not 
 very brilliant conversation, and even ventured occasionally 
 to address an observation to Venetia, who was seated at 
 her work perfectly composed, but who replied to all his 
 remarks with the same sweet voice and artless simplicity 
 which had characterised her childhood, though time and 
 thought had, by their blended influence, perhaps somewhat 
 deprived her of that wild grace and sparkling gaiety for 
 which she was once so eminent.
 
 VENETIA. 165 
 
 These great disenchanters of humanity, if indeed they 
 had stolen away some, of the fascinating qualities of infancy, 
 had amply recompensed Venetia Herbert for the loss by the 
 additional and commanding charms which they had con- 
 ferred on her. From a beautiful child she had expanded 
 into a most beautiful woman. She had now entirely re- 
 covered from her illness, of which the only visible effect 
 was the addition that it had made to her stature, already 
 slightly above the middle height, but of exquisite symmetry. 
 Like her mother, she did not wear powder, then usual in 
 society ; but her auburn hair, of the finest texture, descended 
 in long and luxuriant tresses far over her shoulders, braided 
 with ribands, perfectly exposing her pellucid brow, here and 
 there tinted with an undulating vein, for she had retained, 
 if possible with increased lustre, the dazzling complexion ot 
 her infancy. If the rose upon the cheek were less vivid 
 than of yore, the dimples were certainly more developed ; 
 the clear grey eye was shadowed by long dark lashes, and 
 every smile and movement of those ruby lips revealed teeth 
 exquisitely small and regular, and fresh and brilliant as 
 pearls just plucked by a diver. 
 
 Conversation proceeded and improved. Cadurcis became 
 more easy and more fluent. His memory, which seemed 
 suddenly to have returned to him with unusual vigour, 
 wonderfully served him. There was scarcely an individual 
 of whom he did not contrive to inquire, from Dr. Mash am 
 to Mistress Pauncefort ; he was resolved to show that if he 
 had neglected, he had at least not forgotten them. Nor did 
 he exhibit the slightest indication of terminating his visit ; 
 so that Lady Annabel, aware that he was alone at the abbey 
 and that he could have no engagement in the neighbourhood, 
 could not refrain from inviting him to remain and dine with 
 them. The invitation was accepted without hesitation. In 
 due course of time Cadurcis attended the ladies in their 
 walk ; it was a delightful stroll in the park, though he felt 
 some slight emotion when he found himself addressing 
 Venetia bv the title of ' Miss Herbert.' When he had ex-
 
 166 VENETIA. 
 
 liausted all the topics of local interest, he had a great deal 
 to say about himself in answer to the inquiries of Lady 
 Annabel. He spoke with so much feeling and simplicity 
 of his first days at Eton, and the misery he experienced on 
 first quitting Cherbury, that his details could not fail of 
 being agreeable to those whose natural self-esteem they so 
 agreeably flattered. Then he dwelt upon his casual ac- 
 quaintance with London society, and Lady Annabel was 
 gratified to observe, from many incidental observations, that 
 his principles were in every respect of the right tone ; and 
 that he had zealously enlisted himself in the ranks of that 
 national party who opposed themselves to the disorganising 
 opinions then afloat. He spoke of his impending residence 
 at the university with the affectionate anticipations which 
 might have been expected from a devoted child of the an- 
 cient and orthodox institutions of his country, and seemed 
 perfectly impressed with the responsible duties for which 
 he was destined, as an hereditary legislator of England. 
 On the whole, his carriage and conversation afforded a 
 delightful evidence of a pure, and earnest, and frank, and 
 gifted mind, that had acquired at an early age much of the 
 mature and fixed character of manhood, without losing any- 
 thing of that boyish sincerity and simplicity too often the 
 penalty of experience. 
 
 The dinner passed in pleasant conversation, and if they 
 were no longer familiar, they were at least cordial. Cadurcis 
 spoke of Dr. Masham with affectionate respect, and men- 
 tioned his intention of visiting Marringhurst on the fol- 
 lowing day. He ventured to hope that Lady Annabel 
 and Miss Herbert might accompany him, and it was ar- 
 ranged that his wish should be gratified. The evening 
 drew on apace, and Lady Annabel was greatly pleased when 
 Lord Cadurcis expressed his wish to remain for their 
 evening prayers. He was indeed sincerely religious ; and 
 as he knelt in the old chapel that had been the hallowed 
 scene of his boyish devotions, he offered his ardent thanks- 
 givings to his Creator who had mercifully kept his soul
 
 VENETIA. 167 
 
 pure and true, and allowed him, after so long an estrange- 
 ment from the sweet spot of his childhood, once more to 
 mingle his supplications with his kind and virtuous friends. 
 
 Influenced by the solemn sounds still lingering in his ear, 
 Cadurcis bade them farewell for the night, with an earnest- 
 ness of manner and depth of feeling which he would scarcely 
 have ventured to exhibit at their first meeting. ' Good 
 night, dear Lady Annabel,' he said, as he pressed her hand ; 
 ' you know not how happy, how grateful 1 feel, to be once 
 more at Cherbury. Good night, Yenetia ! ' 
 
 That last word lingered on his lips ; it was uttered in a 
 tone at once mournful and sweet, and her hand was un- 
 consciously retained for a moment in his ; but for a mo- 
 ment ; and yet in that brief instant a thousand thoughts 
 seemed to course through his brain. 
 
 Before Yenetia retired to rest she remained for a few 
 minutes in her mother's room. ' What do you think of 
 him, mamma ? ' she said ; ' is he not very changed ? ' 
 
 'He is, my love,' replied Lady Annabel; 'what I 
 sometimes thought he might, what I always hoped he 
 would, be.' 
 
 ' He really seemed happy to meet us again, and yet how 
 strange that for years he should never have communicated 
 with us.' 
 
 ' Not so very strange, my love ! He was but a child 
 when we parted, and he has felt embarrassment in resum- 
 ing connections which for a long interval had been inevi- 
 tably severed. Remember what a change his life had to 
 endure ; few, after such an interval, would have returned 
 with feelings so kind and so pure ! ' 
 
 ' He was always a favourite of yours, mamma ! ' 
 
 ' I always fancied that I observed in him the seeds of 
 great virtues and great talents ; but I was not so sanguine 
 that they would have flourished as they appear to have 
 done.' 
 
 In the meantime the subject of their observations strolled 
 home on foot, for he had dismissed his horses, to the abbey.
 
 168 VENETIA. 
 
 It was a brilliant night, and the white beams of the moon 
 fell full upon the old monastic pile, of which massy portions 
 were in dark shade while the light gracefully rested on the 
 projecting ornaments of the building, and played, as it were, 
 with the fretted and fantastic pinnacles. Behind were the 
 savage hills, softened by the hour ; and on the right ex- 
 tended the still and luminous lake. Cadurcis rested for a 
 moment and gazed upon the fair, yet solemn scene. The 
 dreams of ambition that occasionally distracted him were 
 dead. The surrounding scene harmonised with the thoughts 
 of purity, repose, and beauty that filled his soul. Why 
 should he ever leave this spot, sacred to him by the finest 
 emotions of his nature ? Why should he not at once quit 
 that world which he had just entered, while he could quit 
 it without remorse ? If ever there existed a being who was 
 his own master, who might mould his destiny at his will, it 
 seemed to be Cadurcis. His lone yet independent situation, 
 his impetuous yet firm volition, alike qualified him to achieve 
 the career most grateful to his disposition. Let him, then, 
 achieve it here ; here let him find that solitude he had ever 
 loved, softened by that affection for which he had ever 
 sighed, and which here only he had ever found. It seemed 
 to him that there was only one being in the world whom 
 he had ever loved, and that was Venetia Herbert : it seemed 
 to him that there was only one thing in this world worth 
 living for, and that was the enjoyment of her sweet heart. 
 The pure-minded, the rare, the gracious creature ! Why 
 should she ever quit these immaculate bowers wherein she 
 had been so mystically and delicately bred ? Why should 
 she ever quit the fond roof of Cherbury, but to shed grace 
 and love amid the cloisters of Cadurcis? Her life hitherto 
 had been an enchanted tale ; why should the spell ever 
 break ? Why should she enter that world where care, 
 disappointment, mortification, misery, must await her? 
 He for a season had left the magic circle of her life, and 
 perhaps it was well. He was a man, and so he should 
 know all. But he had returned, thank Heaven ! he had
 
 VENETIA. 169 
 
 returned, and never again would he quit her. Fool that 
 he had been ever to have neglected her ! And for a reason 
 that ought to have made him doubly her friend, her solace, 
 her protector. Oh ! to think of the sneers or the taunts of 
 the world calling for a moment the colour from that bright 
 cheek, or dusking for an instant the radiance of that brilliant 
 eye ! His heart ached at the thought of her unhappiness, 
 and he longed to press her to it, and cherish her like some 
 innocent dove that had flown from the terrors of a pursuing 
 hawk. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ' WELL, Pauncefort,' said Lord Cadurcis, smiling, as he 
 renewed his acquaintance with his old friend, ' I hope you 
 have not forgotten my last words, and have taken care of 
 your young lady.' 
 
 ' Oh ! dear, my lord,' said Mistress Pauncefort, blushing 
 and simpering. ' Well to be sure, how your lordship has 
 surprised us all ! I thought we were never going to see 
 you again ! ' 
 
 ' You know I told you I should return ; and now I mean 
 never to leave you again.' 
 
 ' Never is a long word, my lord,' said Mistress Paunce- 
 fort, looking very archly. 
 
 ' Ah ! but I mean to settle, regularly to settle here,' said 
 Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' Marry and settle, my lord,' said Mistress Pauncefort, 
 still more arch. 
 
 ' And why not ? ' inquired Lord Cadurcis, laughing. 
 
 1 That is just what I said last night,' exclaimed Mistress 
 Pauncefort, eagerly. ' And why not ? for I said, says I, 
 his lordship must marry sooner or later, and the sooner the 
 better, say I : and to be sure he is very young, but what of 
 that ? for, says I, no one can say he does not look quite a 
 man. And really, my lord, saving your presence, you are 
 grown indeed.'
 
 170 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Pish ! ' said Lord Cadurcis, turning away and laughing. 
 ' I have left off growing, Pauncefort, and all those sort of 
 things.' 
 
 'You have not forgotten our last visit to Marringhurst ?' 
 said Lord Cadurcis to Venetia, as the comfortable mansion 
 of the worthy Doctor appeared in sight. 
 
 ' I have forgotten nothing,' replied Venetia with a faint 
 smile ; ' I do not know what it is to forget. My life has 
 been so uneventful that every past incident, however slight, 
 is as fresh in my memory as if it occurred yesterday.' 
 
 ' Then you remember the strawberries and cream ?' said 
 Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' And other circumstances less agreeable,' he fancied 
 Venetia observed, but her voice was low. 
 
 ' Do you know, Lady Annabel,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'that 
 I was very nearly riding my pony to-day ? I wish to bring 
 back old times with the utmost possible completeness ; I 
 wish for a moment to believe that I have never quitted 
 Cherbury.' 
 
 ' Let us think only of the present now,' said Lady Annabel 
 in a cheerful voice, ' for it is very agreeable. I see the good 
 Doctor ; he has discovered us.' 
 
 ' I wonder whom he fancies Lord Cadurcis to be ?' said 
 Venetia. 
 
 ' Have you no occasional cavalier for whom at a distance 
 I may be mistaken ?' inquired his lordship in a tone of 
 affected carelessness, though in truth it was an inquiry that 
 he made not without anxiety. 
 
 ' Everything remains here exactly as you left it,' replied 
 Lady Annabel, with some quickness, yet in a lively tone. 
 
 ' Happy Cherbury ! ' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis. ' May it 
 indeed never change ! ' 
 
 They rode briskly on ; the Doctor was standing at his 
 gate. He saluted Lady Annabel and Venetia with his ac- 
 customed cordiality, and then stared at their companion as 
 if waiting for an introduction.
 
 VENETIA. 171 
 
 'You forget an old friend, my dear Doctor,' said Ca- 
 durcis. 
 
 ' Lord Cadurcis ! ' exclaimed Dr. Masham. His lordsliip 
 had by this time dismounted and eagerly extended his hand 
 to his old tutor. 
 
 Having quitted their horses they all entered the house, 
 nor was there naturally any want of conversation. Cadurcis 
 had much information to give and many questions to an- 
 swer. He was in the highest spirits and the most amiable 
 mood; gay, amusing, and overflowing with kind-hearted- 
 ness. The Doctor seldom required any inspiration to be 
 joyous, and Lady Annabel was unusually animated. Yenetia 
 alone, though cheerful, was calmer than pleased Cadurcis. 
 Time, he sorrowfully observed, had occasioned a greater 
 change in her manner than he could have expected. Youth- 
 ful as she still was, indeed but on the threshold of woman- 
 hood, and exempted, as it seemed she had been, from any- 
 thing to disturb the clearness of her mind, that enchanting 
 play of fancy which had once characterised her, and which 
 he recalled with a sigh, appeared in a great degree to have 
 deserted her. He watched her countenance with emotion, 
 and, supremely beautiful as it undeniably was, there was a 
 cast of thoughtfulness or suffering impressed upon the fea- 
 tures which rendered him mournful he knew not why, and 
 caused him to feel as if a cloud had stolen unexpectedly 
 over the sun and made him shiver. 
 
 But there was no time or opportunity for sad reflections ; 
 he had to renew his acquaintance with all the sights and 
 curiosities of the rectory, to sing to the canaries, and visit 
 the gold fish, admire the stuffed fox, and wonder that in the 
 space of five years the voracious otter had not yet contrived 
 to devour its prey. Then they refreshed themselves after 
 their ride with a stroll in the Doctor's garden ; Cadurcis 
 persisted in attaching himself to Venetia, as in old days, 
 and nothing would prevent him from leading her to the 
 grotto. Lady Annabel walked behind, leaning on the Doc-
 
 172 VENETIA. 
 
 tor's arm, narrating, -with no fear of being heard, all the 
 history of their friend's return. 
 
 'I never was so surprised in my life,' said the Doctor; 
 ' he is vastly improved ; he is quite a man ; his carriage is 
 very finished.' 
 
 'And his principles,' said Lady Annabel. 'You have no 
 idea, my dear Doctor, how right his opinions seem to be on 
 every subject. He has been brought up in a good school ; 
 he does his guardian great credit. He is quite loyal and 
 orthodox in all his opinions ; ready to risk his life for our 
 blessed constitution in Church and State. He requested, as 
 a favour, that he might remain at our prayers last night. 
 It is delightful for me to see him turn out so well ! ' 
 
 In the meantime Cadurcis and Venetia entered the grotto. 
 
 ' The dear Doctor ! ' said Cadurcis : ' five years have 
 brought no visible change even to him ; perhaps he may 
 be a degree less agile, but I will not believe it. And Lady 
 Annabel ; it seems to me your mother is more youthful and 
 beautiful than ever. There is a spell in our air,' continued 
 his lordship, with a laughing eye ; ' for if we have changed, 
 Venetia, ours is, at least, an alteration that bears no sign of 
 decay. We are advancing, but they have not declined ; we 
 are all enchanted.' 
 
 ' I feel changed,' said Venetia gravely. 
 
 ' I left you a child and I find you a woman,' said Lord 
 Cadurcis, ' a change which who can regret ? ' 
 
 ' I would I were a child again,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' We were happy,' said Lord Cadurcis, in a thoughtful 
 tone ; and then in an inquiring voice he added, ' and so we 
 are now ? ' 
 
 Venetia shook her head. 
 
 ' Can you be unhappy ? ' 
 
 ' To be unhappy would be wicked,' said Venetia ; ' but my 
 mind has lost its spring.' 
 
 ' Ah ! say not so, Venetia, or you will make even me 
 gloomy. I am happy, positively happy. There must not 
 be a cloud upon your brow.'
 
 VENETIA. 1 7 3 
 
 ' You are joyous,' said Venetia, ' because you are excited. 
 It is the novelty of return that animates you. It will wear 
 off ; you will grow weary, and when you go to the university 
 you will think yourself happy again.' 
 
 ' I do not intend to go to the university,' said Cadurcis. 
 
 ' I understood from you that you were going there imme- 
 diately.' 
 
 ' My plans are changed,' said Cadurcis ; ' I do not intend 
 ever to leave home again.' 
 
 ' When you go to Cambridge,' said Dr. Masham, who 
 just then reached them, ' I shall trouble you with a letter 
 to an old friend of mine whose acquaintance you may find 
 valuable.' 
 
 Venetia smiled ; Cadurcis bowed, expressed his thanks, 
 and muttered something about talking over the subject with 
 the Doctor. 
 
 After this the conversation became general, and at length 
 they all returned to the house to partake of the Doctor's 
 hospitality, who promised to dine at the hall on the morrow. 
 The ride home was agreeable and animated, but the conver- 
 sation on the part of the ladies was principally maintained 
 by Lady Annabel, who seemed every moment more delighted 
 with the society of Lord Cadurcis, and to sympathise every 
 instant more completely with his frank exposition of his 
 opinions on all subjects. When they returned to Cherbury, 
 Cadurcis remained with them as a matter of course. An 
 invitation was neither expected nor given. Not an allusion 
 was made to the sports of the field, to enjoy which was the 
 original purpose of his visit to the abbey ; and he spoke of 
 to-morrow as of a period which, as usual, was to be spent 
 entirely in their society. He remained with them, as on the 
 previous night, to the latest possible moment. Although 
 reserved in society, no one could be more fluent with those 
 with whom he was perfectly unembarrassed. He was in- 
 deed exceedingly entertaining, and Lady Annabel relaxed 
 into conversation beyond her custom. As for Venetia, she 
 4id not speak often, but she listened with interest, and was
 
 174 VENETIA. 
 
 evidently amused. When Cadurcis bade them good-night 
 Lady Annabel begged him to breakfast with them ; while 
 Venetia, serene, though kind, neither seconded the invi- 
 tation, nor seemed interested one way or the other in its 
 result. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 EXCEPT returning to sleep at the abbey, Lord Cadurcis was 
 now as much an habitual inmate of Cherbury Hall as in the 
 days of his childhood. He was there almost with the lark, 
 and never quitted its roof until its inmates were about to 
 retire for the night. His guns and dogs, which had been 
 sent down from London with so much pomp of preparation, 
 were unused and unnoticed ; and he passed his days in read- 
 ing Richardson's novels, which he had brought with him 
 from town, to the ladies, and then in riding with them 
 about the country, for he loved to visit all his old haunts, 
 and trace even the very green sward where he first met the 
 gipsies, and fancied that he had achieved his emancipation 
 from all the coming cares and annoyances of the world. In 
 this pleasant life several weeks had glided away : Cadurcis 
 had entirely resumed his old footing in the family, nor did 
 he attempt to conceal the homage he was paying to the 
 charms of Venetia. She indeed seemed utterly unconscious 
 that such projects had entered, or indeed could enter, the 
 brain of her old playfellow, with whom, now that she was 
 habituated to his presence, and revived by his inspiriting 
 society, she had resumed all her old familiar intimacy, ad- 
 dressing him by his Christian name, as if he had never 
 ceased to be her brother. But Lady Annabel was not so 
 blind as her daughter, and had indeed her vision been as 
 clouded, her faithful minister, Mistress Pauncefort, would 
 have taken care quickly to couch it ; for a very short time 
 had elapsed before that vigilant gentlewoman, resolved to 
 convince her mistress that nothing could escape her sleep-
 
 VENETIA. 175 
 
 less scrutiny, and that it was equally in vain for her mistress 
 to hope to possess any secrets without her participation, seized 
 a convenient opportunity before she bid her lady goodnight, 
 just to inquire ' when it might be expected to take place ? ' 
 and in reply to the very evident astonishment which Lady 
 Annabel testified at this question, and the expression of her 
 extreme displeasure at any conversation on a circumstance 
 for which there was not the slightest foundation, Mistress 
 Pauncefort, after duly flouncing about with every possible 
 symbol of pettish agitation and mortified curiosity, her 
 cheek pale with hesitating impertinence, and her nose quiver- 
 ing with inquisitiveness, condescended to admit with a 
 sceptical sneer, that, of course, no doubt her ladyship knew 
 more of such a subject than she could ; it was not her place 
 to know anything of such business ; for her part she said 
 nothing ; it was not her place, but if it were, she certainly 
 must say that she could not help believing that my lord was 
 looking remarkably sweet on Miss Venetia, and what was 
 more, everybody in the house thought the same, though for 
 her part, whenever they mentioned the circumstance to her, 
 she said nothing, or bid them hold their tongues, for what 
 was it to them ; it was not their business, and they could 
 know nothing ; and that nothing would displease her lady- 
 ship more than chattering on such subjects, and many's the 
 match as good as finished, that's gone off by no worse means 
 than the chitter-chatter of those who should hold their 
 tongues. Therefore she should say no more ; but if her 
 ladyship wished her to contradict it, why she could, and the 
 sooner, perhaps, the better. 
 
 Lady Annabel observed to her that she wished no such 
 thing, but she desired that Pauncefort would make no more 
 observations on the subject, either to her or to any one else. 
 And then Pauncefort bade her ladyship good night in a 
 huff, catching up her candle with a rather impertinent jerk, 
 and gently slamming the door, as if she had meant to close 
 it quietly, only it had escaped out of her fingers. 
 
 Whatever might be the tone, whether of surprise or dis-
 
 176 VENETIA. 
 
 pleasure, which Lady Annabel thought fit to assume to her 
 attendant on her noticing Lord Cadurcis' attentions to her 
 daughter, there is no doubt that his conduct had early and 
 long engaged her ladyship's remark, her consideration, and 
 her approval. Without meditating indeed an immediate 
 union between Cadurcis and Yenetia, Lady Annabel pleased 
 herself with the prospect of her daughter's eventual mar- 
 riage with one whom she had known so early and so 
 intimately ; who was by nature of a gentle, sincere, and 
 affectionate disposition, and in whom education had care- 
 fully instilled the most sound and laudable principles and 
 opinions ; one apparently with simple tastes, moderate de- 
 sires, fair talents, a mind intelligent, if not brilliant, and 
 passions which at the worst had been rather ill-regulated 
 than violent ; attached also to Venetia from her childhood, 
 and always visibly affected by her influence. All these moral 
 considerations seemed to offer a fair security for happiness ; 
 and the material ones were neither less promising, nor 
 altogether disregarded by the mother. It was an union 
 which would join broad lands and fair estates; which would 
 place on the brow of her daughter one of the most ancient 
 coronets in England ; and, which indeed was the chief of 
 these considerations, would, without exposing Yenetia to 
 that contaminating contact with the wprld from which 
 Lady Annabel recoiled, establish her, without this initiatory 
 and sorrowful experience, in a position superior to which 
 even the blood of the Herberts, though it might flow in so 
 fair and gifted a form as that of Yenetia, need not aspire. 
 
 Lord Cadurcis had not returned to Cherbury a week 
 before this scheme entered into the head of Lady Annabel. 
 She had always liked him ; had always given him credit for 
 good qualities ; had always believed that his early defects 
 were the consequence of his mother's injudicious treatment; 
 and that at heart he was an amiable, generous, and trust- 
 worthy being, one who mightbe depended on, with a naturally 
 good judgment, and substantial and sufficient talents, which 
 only required cultivation. "When she met him again after
 
 VENETIA. 177 
 
 so long an interval, and found her early prognostics so 
 fairly, so completely fulfilled, and watched his conduct and 
 conversation, exhibiting alike a well-informed mind, an 
 obliging temper, and, what Lady Annabel valued even 
 above all gifts and blessings, a profound conviction of the 
 truth of all her own opinions, moral, political, and religious, 
 she was quite charmed ; she was moved to unusual anima- 
 tion ; she grew excited in his praise ; his presence delighted 
 her ; she entertained for him the warmest affection, and re. 
 posed in him unbounded confidence. All her hopes became 
 concentred in the wish of seeing him her son-in-law ; and 
 she detected with lively satisfaction the immediate impres- 
 sion which Yenetia had made upon his heart ; for indeed it 
 should not be forgotten, that although Lady Annabel was 
 still young, and although her frame and temperament were 
 alike promising of a long life, it was natural, when she re- 
 flected upon the otherwise lone condition of her daughter, 
 that she should tremble at the thought of quitting this 
 world without leaving her child a protector. To Doctor 
 Masham, from whom Lady Annabel had no secrets, she 
 confided in time these happy but covert hopes, and he was 
 not less anxious than herself for their fulfilment. Since 
 the return of Cadurcis the Doctor contrived to be a more 
 frequent visitor at the hall than usual, and he lost no op- 
 portunity of silently advancing the object of his friend. 
 
 As for Cadurcis himself, it was impossible for him nok 
 quickly to discover that no obstacle to his heart's dearest 
 wish would arise on the part of the parent. The demeanour 
 of the daughter somewhat more perplexed him. Venetia 
 indeed had entirely fallen into her old habits of intimacy 
 and frankness with Plantagenet ; she was as affectionate 
 and as unembarrassed as in former days, and almost as gay ; 
 for his presence and companionship had in a great degree 
 insensibly removed that stillness and gravity which had 
 gradually influenced her mind and conduct. But in that 
 conduct there was, and lie observed it with some degree of 
 mortification, a total absence of the consciousness of being
 
 178 VENETIA. 
 
 the object of the passionate admiration of another. She 
 treated Lord Cadurcis as a brother she much loved, who 
 had returned to his home after a long absence. She liked 
 to listen to his conversation, to hear of his adventures, to 
 consult over his plans. His arrival called a smile to her 
 face, and his departure for the night was always alleviated 
 by some allusion to their meeting on the morrow. But 
 many an ardent gaze on the part of Cadurcis, and many a 
 phrase of emotion, passed unnoticed and unappreciated. 
 His gallantry was entirely thrown away, or, if observed, 
 only occasioned a pretty stare at the unnecessary trouble he 
 gave himself, or the strange ceremony which she supposed 
 an acquaintance with society had taught him. Cadurcis 
 attributed this reception of his veiled and delicate overtures 
 to her ignorance of the world ; and though he sighed for as 
 passionate a return to his strong feelings as the sentiments 
 which animated himself, he was on the whole not displeased, 
 but rather interested, by these indications of a pure and 
 unsophisticated spirit. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CADURCIS had proposed, and Lady Annabel had seconded 
 the proposition with eager satisfaction, that they should 
 seek some day at the abbey whatever hospitality it might 
 offer ; Dr. Masham was to be of the party, which was, in- 
 deed, one of those fanciful expeditions where the same 
 companions, though they meet at all times without re- 
 straint and with every convenience of life, seek increased 
 amusement in the novelty of a slight change of habits. 
 With the aid of the neighbouring town of Southport, 
 Cadurcis had made preparations for his friends not entirely 
 unworthy of them, though he affected to the last all the air 
 of a conductor of a wild expedition of discovery, and laugh- 
 ingly impressed upon them the necessity of steeling their
 
 -VENETIA. 179 
 
 minds and bodies to the experience and endurance of the 
 roughest treatment and the most severe hardships. 
 
 The morning of this eventful day broke as beautifully as 
 the preceding ones. Autumn had seldom been more gor- 
 geous than this year. Although he was to play the host, 
 Cadurcis would not deprive himself of his usual visit to the 
 hall ; and he appeared there at an early hour to accompany 
 his guests, who were to ride over to the abbey, to husband 
 all their energies for their long rambles through the demesne. 
 
 Cadurcis was in high spirits, and Lady Annabel scarcely 
 less joyous. Venetia smiled with her usual sweetness and 
 serenity. They congratulated each other on the charming 
 season ; and Mistress Pauncefort received a formal invita- 
 tion to join the party and go a-nutting with one of her 
 fellow- servants and his lordship's valet. The good Doctor 
 was rather late, but he arrived at last on his stout steed, 
 in his accustomed cheerful mood. Here was a party of 
 pleasure which all agreed must be pleasant ; no strangers 
 to amuse, or to be amusing, but formed merely of four 
 human beings who spent every day of their lives in each 
 other's society, between whom there was the most complete 
 sympathy and the most cordial good- will. 
 
 By noon they were all mounted on their steeds, and 
 though the air was warmed by a meridian sun shining in a 
 clear sky, there was a gentle breeze abroad, sweet and 
 grateful ; and moreover they soon entered the wood and 
 enjoyed the shelter of its verdant shade. The abbey looked 
 most picturesque when they first burst upon it ; the nearer 
 and wooded hills, which formed its immediate background, 
 just tinted by the golden pencil of autumn, while the meads 
 of the valley were still emerald green ; and the stream, now 
 lost, now winding, glittered here and there in the sun, and 
 gave a life and sprightliness to the landscape which ex- 
 ceeded even the effect of the more distant and expansive 
 lake. 
 
 They were received at the abbey by Mistress Pauncefort, 
 who had preceded theci, and who welcomed them with a 
 
 N 2
 
 180 VENETIA. 
 
 complacent smile. Cadureis hastened to assist Lady Anna- 
 bel to dismount, and was a little confused but very pleased 
 when she assured him she needed no assistance but re- 
 quested him to take care of Venetia. He was just in time 
 to receive her in his arms, where she found herself without 
 the slightest embarrassment. The coolness of the cloisters 
 was grateful after their ride, and they lingered and looked 
 upon the old fountain, and felt the freshness of its fall with 
 satisfaction which all alike expressed. Lady Annabel and 
 Venetia then retired for a while to free themselves from 
 their riding habits, and Cadurcis affectionately taking the 
 arm of Dr. Masham led him a few paces, and then almost 
 involuntarily exclaimed, ' My dear Doctor, I think I am the 
 happiest fellow that ever lived!' 
 
 ' That I trust you may always be, my dear boy,' said Dr. 
 Masham ; ' but what has called forth this particular ex- 
 clamation ? ' 
 
 ' To feel that I am once more at Cadurcis ; to feel that I 
 am here once more with you all ; to feel that I never shall 
 leave you again.' 
 
 ' Not again ? ' 
 
 'Never!' said Cadnrcis. 'The experience of these last 
 few weeks, which yet have seemed an age in my existence, 
 has made me resolve never to quit a society where I am 
 persuaded I may obtain a degree of happiness which what 
 is called the world can never afford me.' 
 
 ' What will your guardian say ? ' 
 
 ' What care I ? ' 
 
 'A dutiful ward!' 
 
 'Poh! the relations between us were formed only to 
 secure my welfare. It is secured ; it will be secured by 
 my own resolution.' 
 
 ' And what is that ? ' inquired Dr. Masham. 
 
 ' To marry Venetia, if she will accept me.' 
 
 ' And that you do not doubt.' 
 
 ' We doubt everything when everything is at stake,' re- 
 plied Lord Cadurcis. ' I know that her consent would en-
 
 VENETIA. 181 
 
 sure my happiness ; and when I reflect, I cannot help being 
 equally persuaded that it would secure hers. Her mother, 
 I think, would not be adverse to our union. And you, my 
 dear sir, what do you think ? ' 
 
 ' I think,' said Dr. Masham, ' that whoever marries 
 Venetia will marry the most beautiful and the most gifted 
 of God's creatures ; I hope you may marry her ; I wish 
 you to marry her ; I believe you will marry her, but not 
 yet ; you arc too young, Lord Cadurcis.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! my dear Doctor, not too young to marry 
 Venetia. Remember I have known her all my life, at least 
 so long as I have been able to form an opinion. How few 
 are the men, my dear Doctor, who are so fortunate as to 
 unite themselves with women whom they have known, as 
 I have known Venetia, for more than seven long years ! ' 
 
 ' During five of which you have never seen or heard of her.' 
 
 'Mine was the fault ! And yet I cannot help thinking, 
 as it may probably turn out, as you yourself believe it will 
 turn out, that it is as well that we have been separated for 
 this interval. It has afforded me opportunities for observa- 
 tion which I should never have enjoyed at Cadurcis ; and 
 although my lot either way could not have altered the nature 
 of things, I might have been discontented, I might have 
 sighed for a world which now I do not value. It is true 
 I have not seen Venetia for five years, but I find her the 
 same, or changed only by nature, and fulfilling all the rich 
 promise which her childhood intimated. No, my dear Doctor, 
 I respect your opinion more than that of any man living ; 
 but nobody, nothing, can persuade me that I am not as in- 
 timately acquainted with Venetia' s character, with all her 
 rare virtues, as if we had never separated.' 
 
 'I do not doubt it,' said the Doctor; 'high as you may 
 pitch your estimate you cannot overvalue her.' 
 
 ' Then why should we not marry ? ' 
 
 ' Because, my dear friend, although you may be perfectly 
 acquainted with Venetia, you cannot be perfectly acquainted 
 with vourself. '
 
 182 VENETIA. 
 
 ' How so ? ' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis in a tone of surprise, 
 perhaps a little indignant. 
 
 ' Because it is impossible. No young man of eighteen 
 ever possessed such precious knowledge. I esteem and 
 admire you ; I give yon every credit for a good heart and a 
 sound head ; but it is impossible, at your time of life, that 
 your character can be formed ; and, until it be, you may 
 marry Venetia.and yet be a very miserable man.' 
 
 ' It is formed,' said his lordship firmly ; ' there is not a 
 subject important to a human being on which my opinions 
 are not settled.' 
 
 'You may live to change them all,' said the Doctor, ' and 
 that very speedily.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' said Lord Cadurcis. ' My dear Doctor, I 
 cannot understand you; you say that you hope, that you 
 wish, even that you believe that I shall marry Venetia ; and 
 yet you permit me to infer that our union will only make 
 us miserable. What do you wish me to do ? ' 
 
 ' Go to college for a term or two.' 
 
 'Without Yenetia ! I should die.' 
 
 ' Well, if you be in a dying state you can return.' 
 
 ' You joke, my dear Doctor.' 
 
 ' My dear boy, I am perfectly serious.' 
 
 ' But she may marry somebody else ? ' 
 
 ' I am your only rival,' said the Doctor, with a smile ; 
 ' and though even friends can scarcely be trusted under such 
 circumstances, I promise you not to betray you.' 
 
 ' Your advice is not very pleasant,' said his lordship. 
 
 ' Good advice seldom is,' said the Doctor. 
 
 ' My dear Doctor, I have made up my mind to marry her, 
 and marry her at once. I know her well, you admit that 
 yourself. I do not believe that there ever was a woman 
 like her, that there ever will be a woman like her. Nature 
 has marked her out from other women, and her education 
 has not been less peculiar. Her mystic breeding pleases me. 
 It is something to marry a wife so fair, so pure, so refined, 
 so accomplished, who is, nevertheless, perfectly ignorant of
 
 VENETIA. 183 
 
 the world. I have dreamt of such things ; I have paced these 
 old cloisters when a boy and when I was miserable at home ; 
 and I have had visions, and this was one. I have sighed to 
 live alone with a fair spirit for my minister. Venecia has 
 descended from heaven for me, and for me alone. I am re- 
 solved I will pluck this flower with the dew upon its leaves.' 
 
 ' I did not know I was reasoning with a poet,' said the 
 Doctor, with a smile. ' Had I been conscious of it, I wonld 
 not have been so rash.' 
 
 ' I have not a grain of poetry in my composition,' said his 
 lordship ; ' I never could write a verse ; I was notorious at 
 Eton for begging all their old manuscripts from boys when 
 they left school, to crib from ; but I have a heart, and I can 
 feel. I love Venetia, I have always loved her, and, if pos- 
 sible, I will marry her, and marry her at once.' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE reappearance of the ladies at the end of the cloister 
 terminated this conversation, the result of which was rather 
 to confirm Lord Cadurcis in his resolution of instantly ur- 
 ging his suit, than the reverse. He ran forward to greet his 
 friends with a smile, and took his place by the side of Venetia, 
 whom, a little to her surprise, he congratulated in glowing 
 phrase on her charming costume. Indeed she looked very 
 captivating, with a pastoral hat, then much in fashion, and 
 a dress as simple and as sylvan, both showing to admirable 
 advantage her long descending hair, and her agile and springy 
 figure. 
 
 Cadurcis proposed that they should ramble over the abbey; 
 he talked of projected alterations, as if he really had the 
 power immediately to effect them, and was desirous of ob- 
 taining their opinions before any change was made. So 
 they ascended the staircase which many years before Venetia 
 had mounted for the first time with her mother, and entered
 
 184 VENETIA. 
 
 that series of small and ill-furnished rooms in which Mrs. 
 Cadurcis had principally resided, and which had undergone 
 no change. The old pictures were examined; these, all 
 agreed, never must move ; and the new furniture, it was 
 settled, must be in character with the building. Lady 
 Annabel entered into all the details with an interest and 
 animation which rather amused Dr. Masham. Venetia 
 listened and suggested, and responded to the frequent ap- 
 peals of Cadurcis to her judgment with an unconscious 
 equanimity not less diverting. 
 
 ' Now here we really can do something,' said his lordship 
 as they entered the saloon, or rather refectory; 'here I 
 think we may effect wonders. The tapestry must always 
 remain. Is it not magnificent, Venetia ? But what hang- 
 ings shall we have ? We must keep the old chairs, I think. 
 Do you approve of the old chairs, Venetia ? And what 
 shall we cover them with ? Shall it be damask ? "What do 
 you think, Venetia ? Do you like damask ? And what colour 
 shall it be ? Shall it be crimson ? Shall it be crimson 
 damask, Lady Annabel ? Do you think Venetia would like 
 crimson damask ? Now, Venetia, do give us the benefit of 
 your opinion.' 
 
 Then they entered the old gallery ; here was to be a great 
 transformation. Marvels were to be effected in the old 
 gallery, and many and multiplied were the appeals to the 
 taste and fancy of Venetia. 
 
 ' I think,' said Lord Cadurcis, ' I shall leave the gallery 
 to be arranged when I am settled. The rooms and the sa- 
 loon shall be done at once. I shall give orders for them to 
 begin instantly. Whom do you recommend, Lady Annabel? 
 Do you think there is any person at Southport who could 
 manage to do it, superintended by our taste ? Venetia, what 
 do you think ?' 
 
 Venetia was standing at the window, rather apart from 
 her companions, looking at the old garden. Lord Cadurcis 
 joined her. ' Ah ! it has been sadly neglected since my 
 poor mother's time. We could not do much in those days,
 
 VENETIA. 185 
 
 but still she loved this garden. I must depend upon you 
 entirely to arrange my garden, Venetia. This spot is sacred 
 to you. You have not forgotten our labours here, have 
 you, Venotia ? Ah ! those were happy days, and these shall 
 be more happy still. This is your garden ; it shall always 
 be called Yenetia's garden.' 
 
 ' I would have taken care of it when you were away, 
 but ' 
 
 ' But what ? ' inquired Lord Cadurcis anxiously. 
 
 ' We hardly felt authorised,' replied Venetia calmly. ' We 
 came at first when you left Cadurcis, but at last it did not 
 seem that our presence was very acceptable.' 
 
 ' The brutes ! ' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' No, no ; good simple people, they were unused to orders 
 from strange masters, and they were perplexed. Besides, 
 we had no right to interfere.' 
 
 ' No right to interfere ! Venetia, my little fellow- labourer, 
 no right to interfere ! Why all is yours ! Fancy your 
 having no right to interfere at Cadurcis ! ' 
 
 Then they proceeded to the park and wandered to the 
 margin of the lake. There was not a spot, not an object, 
 which did not recall some adventure or incident of child- 
 hood. Every moment Lord Cadurcis exclaimed, 'Venetia! 
 do you remember this ? ' ' Venetia ! have you forgotten 
 that ? ' and every time Venetia smiled, and proved how 
 faithful was her memory by adding some little unmentioned 
 trait to the lively reminiscences of her companion. 
 
 'Well, after all,' said Lord Cadurcis with a sigh, 'my 
 poor mother was a strange woman, and, God bless her ! used 
 sometimes to worry me out of my senses ! but still she 
 always loved you. No one can deny that. Cherbury was 
 a magic name with her. She loved Lady Annabel, and she 
 loved you, Venetia. It ran in the blood, you see. She would 
 be happy, quite happy, if she saw us all here together, and 
 if she knew ' 
 
 ' Plantagenet,' said Lady Annabel, 'you must build a 
 lodge at this end of the park. I cannot conceive anything
 
 186 VENETIA. 
 
 more effective than an entrance from, the South port road in 
 this quarter.' 
 
 ' Certainly, Lady Annabel, certainly we must build a 
 lodge. Do not you think so, Venetia ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed I think it would be a great improvement,' replied 
 Venetia ; ' but you must take care to have a lodge in cha- 
 racter with the abbey.' 
 
 ' You shall make a drawing for it,' said Lord Cadurcis ; 
 it shall be built directly, and it shall be called Venetia 
 Lodge.' 
 
 The hours flew away, loitering in the park, roaming in 
 the woods. They met Mistress Pauncefort and her friends 
 loaded with plunder, and they offered to Venetia a trophy 
 of their success ; but when Venetia, merely to please their 
 kind hearts, accepted their tribute with cordiality, and de- 
 clared there was nothing she liked better, Lord Cadurcis 
 would not be satisfied unless he immediately commenced 
 nutting, and each moment he bore to Venetia the produce 
 of his sport, till in time she could scarcely sustain the rich 
 and increasing burden. At length they bent their steps 
 towards home, sufficiently wearied to look forward with 
 welcome to rest and their repast, yet not fatigued, and ex- 
 hilarated by the atmosphere, for the sun was now in its 
 decline, though in this favoured season there were yet hours 
 enough remaining of enchanting light. 
 
 In the refectory they found, to the surprise of all but 
 their host, a banquet. It was just one of those occasions 
 when nothing is expected and everything is welcome and 
 surprising; when, from the unpremeditated air generally 
 assumed, all preparation startles and pleases ; when even 
 ladies are not ashamed to eat, and formality appears quite 
 banished. Game of all kinds, teal from the lake, and piles 
 of beautiful fruit, made the table alike tempting and pic- 
 turesque. Then there were stray bottles of rare wire dis- 
 interred from venerable cellars ; and, more inspiriting even 
 than the choice wine, a host under the influence of every 
 emotion, and swayed by every circumstance that can make
 
 VENETIA. 187 
 
 a man happy and delightful. Oh ! they were very gay, 
 and it seemed difficult to believe that care or sorrow, or the 
 dominion of dark or ungracious passions, could ever disturb 
 sympathies so complete and countenances so radiant. 
 
 At the urgent request of Cadurcis, Venetia sang to them ; 
 and while she sang, the expression of her countenance and 
 voice harmonising with the arch hilarity of the subject, 
 Plantagenet for a moment believed that he beheld the little 
 Venetia of his youth, that sunny child so full of mirth and 
 grace, the very recollection of whose lively and bright ex- 
 istence might enliven the gloomiest hour and lighten the 
 heaviest heart. 
 
 Enchanted by all that surrounded him, full of hope, and 
 joy, and plans of future felicity, emboldened by the kindness 
 of the daughter, Cadurcis now ventured to urge a request 
 to Lady Annabel, and the request was granted, for all 
 seemed to feel that it was a day on which nothing was to 
 be refused to their friend. Happy Cadurcis ! The child 
 had a holiday, and it fancied itself a man enjoying a 
 triumph. In compliance, therefore, with his wish, it was 
 settled that they should all walk back to the hall ; even 
 Dr. Masham declared he was competent to the exertion, 
 but perhaps was half entrapped into the declaration by the 
 promise of a bed at Cherbury. This consent enchanted 
 Cadurcis, who looked forward with exquisite pleasure to 
 the evening walk with Venetia. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ALTHOUGH the sun had not set, it had sunk behind the hills 
 leading to Cherbury when our friends quitted the abbey. 
 Cadurois, without hesitation, offered his arm to Venetia, 
 and whether from a secret sympathy with his wishes, or 
 merely from some fortunate accident, Lady Annabel and 
 Dr. Masham strolled on before without busying themselves 
 too earnestly with their companions.
 
 188 VENETIA. 
 
 ' And how do you think our expedition to Cadurcis has 
 turned out ? ' inquired the young lord, of Venetia. ' Has 
 it been successful ? ' 
 
 ' It has been one of the most agreeable days I ever passed,' 
 was the reply. 
 
 ' Then it has been successful,' rejoined his lordship ; ' for 
 my only wish was to amuse you.' 
 
 ' I think we have all been equally amused,' said Venetia. 
 1 1 never knew mamma in such good spirits. I think 
 ever since you returned she has been unusually light- 
 hearted.' 
 
 'And you: has my return lightened only her heart, 
 Venetia ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed it has contributed to the happiness of every one.' 
 
 'And yet, when I first returned, I heard you utter a 
 complaint ; the first that to my knowledge ever escaped 
 your lips.' 
 
 ' Ah ! we cannot be always equally gay.' 
 
 ' Once you were, dear Venetia.' 
 
 ' I was a child then.' 
 
 ' And I, I too was a child ; yet I am happy, at least now 
 that I am with you.' 
 
 ' Well, we are both happy now.' 
 
 ' Oh ! say that again, say that again, Venetia ; for indeed 
 you made me miserable when you told me that you had 
 changed. I cannot bear that you, Venetia, should ever 
 change.' 
 
 ' It is the course of nature, Plantagenet ; we all change, 
 everything changes. This day that was so bright is 
 changing fast.' 
 
 ' The stars are as beautiful as the sun, Venetia.' 
 
 * And what do you infer ? ' 
 
 ' That Venetia, a woman, is as beautiful as Venetia, a 
 little girl ; and should be as happy.' 
 
 ' Is beauty happiness, Plantagenet ? ' 
 
 'It makes others happy, Venetia; and when we make 
 others happy we should be happy ourselves.'
 
 VENETIA. 180 
 
 ' 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, Yenetia ! can I ever forget 
 old days ? You were the solace of my dark childhood ; you 
 were the charm that first taught me existence was enjoy- 
 ment. Before I came to Cherbury I never was happy, and 
 
 since that hour Ah, Venetia ! dear, dearest Yenetia ! 
 
 who is like to you ? ' 
 
 'Dear Plantagenet, you were always too kind to me. 
 Would we were children once mere ! ' 
 
 ' Nay, my own Yenetia ! you tell me everything changes, 
 and we must not murmur at the course of nature. I would 
 not have our childhood back again, even with all its joys, 
 for there are others yet in store for us, not less pure, not 
 less beautiful. We loved each other then, Yenetia, and we 
 love each other now.' 
 
 ' My feelings towards you have never changed, Plan- 
 tagenet ; I heard of you always with interest, and I met 
 you again with heartfelt pleasure.' 
 
 ' Oh, that morning ! Have you forgotten that morning ? 
 Do you know, you will smile very much, but I really believe 
 that I expected to see my Yenetia still a little girl, the very 
 same who greeted me when I first arrived with my mother 
 and behaved so naughtily ! And when I saw you, and found 
 what you had become, and what I ought always to have 
 known you must become, I was so confused I entirely lost 
 my presence of mind. Tou must have thought me very 
 awkward, very stupid ? ' 
 
 'Indeed, I was rather gratified by observing that you 
 could not meet us again without emotion. I thought it 
 told well for your heart, which I always believed to be most 
 kind, at least, I am sure, to us.' 
 
 ' Kind ! oh, Yenetia! that word but ill describes what my 
 heart ever was, what it now is, to you. Yenetia ! dearest, 
 sweetest Yenetia ! can you doubt for a moment my feelings.
 
 190 VENETIA. 
 
 towards your home, and what influence must principally 
 impel them ? Am I so dull, or you so blind, Venetia ? 
 Can I not express, can you not discover how much, how 
 ardently, how fondly, how devotedly, I, I, I love you ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure we always loved each other, Plantagenet.' 
 
 ' Yes ! but not with this love ; not as I love you now ! ' 
 
 Yenetia stared. 
 
 ' I thought we could not love each other more than we 
 did, Plantagenet,' at length she said. ' Do you remember 
 the jewel that you gave me? I always wore it until you 
 seemed to forget us, and then I thought it looked so 
 foolish ! You remember what is inscribed on it : ' To 
 VENETIA, FROM HER AFFECTIONATE BROTHER, PLANTAGENET.' 
 And as a brother I always loved you ; had I indeed been 
 your sister I could not have loved you more warmly and 
 more truly.' 
 
 ' I am not your brother, Venetia ; I wish not to be loved 
 as a brother : and yet I must be loved by you, or I shall 
 die.' 
 
 ' What then do you wish ? ' inquired Venetia, with great 
 simplicity. 
 
 ' I wish yon to marry me,' replied Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' Marry ! ' exclaimed Venetia, with a face of wonder. 
 ' Marry ! Marry you ! Marry you, Plantagenet ! ' 
 
 ' Ay ! is that so wonderful ? I love you, and if you love 
 me, why should we not marry?' 
 
 Venetia was silent and looked upon the ground, not from 
 agitation, for she was quite calm, but in thought ; and then 
 she said, ' I never thought of marriage in my life, Planta- 
 genet ; I have no intention, no wish to marry ; I mean to 
 live always with mamma.' 
 
 ' And you shall always live with mamma, but that need 
 not prevent you from marrying me,' he replied. ' Do not 
 we all live together now ? What will it signify if you dwell 
 at Cadurcis and Lady Annabel at Cherbury ? Is it not one 
 home ? But at any rate, this point shall not be an obstacle ; 
 for if it please you we will all live at Cherbury.'
 
 VENETIA. 191 
 
 ' You say that we are happy now, Plantagenet ; oh ! let 
 us remain as we are.' 
 
 1 My own sweet girl,, my sister, if you please, any title, so 
 it be one of fondness, your sweet simplicity charms me ; 
 but, believe me, it cannot be as you wish ; we cannot remain 
 as we are unless we marry.' 
 
 ' Why not ?' 
 
 ' Because I shall be wretched and must live elsewhere, 
 if indeed I can live at all.' 
 
 ' Oh, Plantagenet ! indeed I thought you were my brother ; 
 when I found you after so long a separation as kind as in 
 old days, and kinder still, I was so glad ; I was so sure you 
 loved me ; I thought I had the kindest brother in the 
 world. Let us not talk of any other love. It will, indeed 
 it will, make mam ma so miserable ! ' 
 
 'I am greatly mistaken,' replied Lord Cadurcis, who saw 
 no obstacles to his hopes in their conversation hitherto, ' if, 
 on the contrary, our union would not prove far from dis- 
 agreeable to your mother, Venetia ; I will say our mother, 
 for indeed to me she has been one.' 
 
 ' Plantagenet,' said Yenetia, in a very earnest tone, ' I 
 love you very much ; but, if you love me, press me on this 
 subject no more at present. You have surprised, indeed 
 you have bewildered me. There are thoughts, there are 
 feelings, there are considerations, that must be respected, 
 that must influence me. Nay! do not look so sorrowful, 
 Plantagenet. Let us be happy now. To-morrow, only to- 
 morrow, and to-morrow we are sure to meet, we will speak 
 further of all this ; but now, now, for a moment let us forget 
 it, if we can forget anything so strange. Nay! you shall 
 smile ! ' 
 
 He did. Who could resist that mild and winning glance ! 
 And indeed Lord Cadurcis was scarcely disappointed, 
 and not at all mortified at his reception, or, as he esteemed 
 it, the progress of his suit. The conduct of Venetia he 
 attributed entirely to her unsophisticated nature and the 
 timidity of a virgin soul. It made him prize even more
 
 1 92 VENETIA. 
 
 dearly the treasure that lie believed awaited him. Silent, 
 then, though for a time they both struggled to speak on 
 different subjects, silent, and almost content, Cadurcis pro- 
 ceeded, with the arm of Venetia locked in his and ever and 
 anon unconsciously pressing it to his heart. The rosy 
 twilight had faded away, the stars were stealing forth, and 
 the moon again glittered. With a soul softer than the 
 tinted shades of eve and glowing like the heavens, Cadurcis 
 joined his companions as they entered the gardens of Cher- 
 bury. When they had arrived at home it seemed that ex- 
 haustion had suddenly succeeded all the excitement of the 
 day. The Doctor, who was wearied, retired immediately. 
 Lady Annabel pressed Cadurcis to remain and take tea, or, 
 at least to ride home ; but his lordship, protesting that he 
 was not in the slightest degree fatigued, and anticipating 
 their speedy union on the morrow, bade her good night, 
 and pressing with fondness the hand of Venetia, retraced 
 his steps to the now solitary abbey. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CADURCIS returned to the abbey, but not to slumber. That 
 love of loneliness which had haunted him from his boyhood, 
 and which ever asserted its sway when under the influence 
 of his passions, came over him now with irresistible power. 
 A day of enjoyment had terminated, and it left him melan- 
 choly. Hour after hour he paced the moon-lit cloisters of 
 his abbey, where not a sound disturbed him, save the mono- 
 tonous fall of the fountain, that seems by some inexplicable 
 association always to blend with and never to disturb our 
 feelings ; gay when we are joyful, and sad amid our sorrow. 
 Yet was he sorrowful! He was gloomy, and fell into a 
 reverie about himself, a subject to him ever perplexing and 
 distressing. His conversation of the morning with Doctor 
 Masham recurred to him. What did the Doctor mean by 
 his character not being formed, and that he might yet live
 
 VENETIA. 193 
 
 to change all his opinions ? Character ! what was character ? 
 It must be will ; and his will was violent and firm. Young 
 as he was, he had early habituated himself to reflection, 
 and the result of his musings had been a desire to live 
 away from the world with those he loved. The Avorld, as 
 other men viewed it, had no charms for him. Its pursuits 
 and passions seemed to him on the whole paltry and faint. 
 He could sympathise with great deeds, but not with bust- 
 ling life. That which was common did not please him. 
 He loved things that were rare and strange ; and the spell 
 that bound him so strongly to Yenetia Herbert was her 
 unusual life, and the singular circumstances of her destiny 
 that were not unknown to him. True he was young ; but, 
 lord of himself, youth was associated with none of those 
 mortifications which make the juvenile pant for manhood. 
 Cadurcis valued his youth and treasured it. He could not 
 conceive love, and the romantic life that love should lead, 
 without the circumambient charm of youth adding fresh 
 lustre to all that was bright and fair, and a keener relish 
 to every combination of enjoyment. The moonbeam fell 
 upon his mother's monument, a tablet on the cloister wall 
 that recorded the birth and death of KATHERIXE CADURCIS. 
 His thoughts flew to his ancestry. They had conquered in 
 France and Palestine, and left a memorable name to the 
 annalist of his country. Those days were past, and yet 
 Cadurcis felt within him the desire, perhaps the power, of 
 emulating them ; but what remained ? What career was 
 open in this mechanical age to the chivalric genius of his 
 race ? Was he misplaced then in life ? The applause of 
 nations, there was something grand and exciting in such a 
 possession. To be the marvel of mankind what would ho 
 not hazard ? Dreams, dreams ! If his ancestors were 
 valiant and celebrated it remained for him to rival, to excel 
 them, at least in one respect. Their coronet had never 
 rested on a brow fairer than the one for which he destined 
 it. Venetia then, independently of his passionate love, was 
 

 
 194 VENETIA. 
 
 the only apparent object worth his pursuit, the only thing 
 in this world that had realised his dreams, dreams sacred 
 to his own musing soul, that even she had never shared or 
 guessed. And she, she was to be his. He could not doubt 
 it : but to-morrow would decide ; to-morrow would seal his 
 triumph. 
 
 His sleep was short and restless; he had almost out- 
 watched the stars, and yet he rose with the early morn. 
 His first thought was of Venetia ; he was impatient for the 
 interview, the interview she promised and even proposed. 
 The fresh air was grateful to him ; he bounded along to 
 Cherbnry, and brushed the dew in his progress from the 
 tall grass and shrubs. In sight of the hall, he for a 
 moment paused. He was before his accustomed hour; 
 and yet he was always too soon. Not to-day, though, not 
 to-day ; suddenly he rushes forward and .springs down the 
 green vista, for Venetia is on the terrace, and alone ! 
 
 Always kind, this morning she greeted him with unusual 
 affection. Never had she seemed to him so exquisitely 
 beautiful. Perhaps her countenance to-day was more pale 
 than wont. There seemed a softness in her eyes usually 
 so brilliant and even dazzling ; the accents of her saluta- 
 tion were suppressed and tender. 
 
 ' I thought you would be here early,' she remarked, ' and 
 therefore I rose to meet yon.' 
 
 Was he to infer from this artless confession that his 
 image had haunted her in her dreams, or only that she 
 would not delay the conversation on which his happiness 
 depended ? He could scarcely doubt which version to 
 adopt when she took his arm and led him from the terrace 
 to walk where they could not be disturbed. 
 
 ' Dear Plantagenet,' she said, ' for indeed you are very 
 dear to me ; I told you last night that I would speak to 
 you to-day on your wishes, that are so kind to me and so 
 much intended for my happiness. I do not love suspense ; 
 but indeed last night I was too much surprised, too much 
 overcome by what occurred, that, exhausted as I naturally
 
 VENETIA. 195 
 
 was by all our pleasure, I could not tell you what I wished ; 
 indeed I could not, dear Plantagenet.' 
 
 ' My own Venetia ! ' 
 
 ' So I hope you will always deem me ; for I should be 
 very unhappy if you did not love me, Plantagenet, more 
 unhappy than I have even been these last two years ; and 
 I have been very unhappy, very unhappy indeed, Plan- 
 tagenet.' 
 
 ' Unhappy, Venetia! my Yenetia unhappy ?' 
 
 'Listen! I will not weep. I can control my feelings. I 
 have learnt to do this ; it is very sad, and very different to 
 what my life once was ; but I can do it.' 
 
 ' You amaze me ! ' 
 
 Venetia sighed, and then resumed, but in a tone mourn- 
 ful and low, and yet to a degree firm. 
 
 ' You have been away five years, Plantagenet.' 
 
 ' But you have pardoned that.' 
 
 ' I never blamed you ; I had nothing to pardon. It was 
 well for you to be away ; and I rejoice your absence has 
 been so profitable to you.' 
 
 ' But it was wicked to have been so silent.' 
 
 'Oh! no, no, no! Such ideas never entered into my 
 head, nor even mamma's. You were very young ; you did 
 as all would, as all must do. Harbour not such thoughts. 
 Enough, you have returned and love us yet.' 
 
 'Love! adore!' 
 
 ' Five years are a long space of time, Plantagenet. 
 Events will happen in five years, even at Cherbury. I told 
 you I was changed.' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' said Lord Cadurcis, in a voice of some anxiety, 
 with a scrutinising eye. 
 
 ' You left me a happy child ; you find me a woman, and 
 a miserable one.' 
 
 ' Good God, Venetia ! this suspense is awful. Be brief, I 
 pray you. Has any one ' 
 
 Venetia looked at him with an air of perplexity. She 
 o 2
 
 196 VENETIA. 
 
 could not comprehend the idea that impelled his inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 ' Go on,' Lord Cadurcis added, after a short pause ; ' I 
 am indeed all anxiety.' 
 
 ' You remember that Christmas which you passed at the 
 hall and walking at night in the gallery, and ' 
 
 ' Well ! Your mother, I shall never forget it.' 
 
 ' You found her weeping when you were once at Marring- 
 hurst. You told me of it.' 
 
 'Ay, ay!' 
 
 ' There is a wing of our house shut up. We often talked 
 of it.' 
 
 ' Often, Venetia ; it was a mystery.' 
 
 ' I have penetrated it,' replied Venetia in a solemn tone ; 
 ' and never have I known what happiness is since.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! ' said Lord Cadurcis, very pale, and in a 
 whisper. 
 
 ' Plantagenet, I have a father.' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis started, and for an instant his arm quitted 
 Venetia's. At length he said in a gloomy voice, 'I know it.' 
 
 ' Know it ! ' exclaimed Venetia with astonishment. 'Who 
 could have told you the secret ? ' 
 
 ' It is no seci'et,' replied Cadurcis ; ' would that it were ! ' 
 
 ' Would that it were ! How strange you speak, how 
 strange you look, Plantagenet ! If it be no secret that I 
 have a father, why this concealment then ? I know that I 
 am not the child of shame ! ' she added, after a moment's 
 pause, with an air of pride. A tear stole down the cheek 
 of Cadurcis. 
 
 ' Plantagenet ! dear, good Plantagenet ! my brother ! my 
 own brother ! see, I kneel to you ; Venetia kneels to you ! 
 your own Venetia ! Venetia that you love ! Oh ! if you 
 knew the load that is on my spirit bearing me down to a 
 grave which I would almost welcome, you would speak to 
 me ; you would tell me all. I have sighed for this ; I have 
 longed for this ; I have prayed for this. To meet some one 
 who would speak to me of my father ; who had heard of
 
 VENETIA. 197 
 
 him, who knew him ; has been for years the only thought 
 of my being, the only object for which I existed. And now, 
 here comes Plantagenet, my brother ! my own brother ! and 
 he knows all, and he will tell me ; yes, that he will ; he will 
 tell his Venetia all, all ! ' 
 
 ' Is there not your mother ? ' said Lord Cadurcis, in a 
 broken tone. 
 
 ' Forbidden, utterly forbidden. If I speak, they tell me 
 her heart will break ; and therefore mine is breaking.' 
 
 ' Have you no friend ? ' 
 
 ' Are not you my friend ? ' 
 
 ' Doctor Masham ? ' 
 
 ' I have applied to him ; he tells me that he lives, and 
 then he shakes his head.' 
 
 'You never saw your father; think not of him.' 
 
 ' Not think of him! ' exclaimed Venetia, with extraordinary 
 energy. ' Of what else ? For what do I live but to think 
 of him ? What object have I in life but to see him ? I have 
 seen him, once.' 
 
 'Ah!' 
 
 ' I know his form by heart, and yet it was but a shade. 
 Oh, what a shade ! what a glorious, what an immortal 
 shade ! If gods were upon earth they would be like my 
 father ! ' 
 
 ' His deeds, at least, are not godlike,' observed Lord 
 Cadurcis dryly, and with some bitterness. 
 
 ' I deny it ! ' said Venetia, her eyes sparkling with fire, 
 her form dilated with enthusiasm, and involuntarily with- 
 drawing her arm from her companion. Lord Cadurcis 
 looked exceedingly astonished. 
 
 'You deny it ! ' he exclaimed. 'And what should you 
 know about it ? ' 
 
 ' Nature whispers to me that nothing but what is grand 
 and noble could be breathed by those lips, or fulfilled by 
 that form.' 
 
 'I am glad you have not read his works,' said Lord 
 Cadurcis, with increased bitterness. 'As for his conduct,
 
 198 VENETIA. 
 
 your mother is a living evidence of his honour, his gene- 
 rosity, and his virtue.' 
 
 ' My mother ! ' said Venetia, in. a softened voice ; ' and 
 yet he loved my mother ! ' 
 
 ' She "was his victim, as a thousand others may have 
 been.' 
 
 ' She is his wife ! ' replied Venetia, with some anxiety. 
 
 ' Yes, a deserted wife ; is that preferable to being a 
 cherished mistress ? More honourable, but scarcely less 
 humiliating.' 
 
 ' She must have misunderstood him,' said Venetia. ' I 
 have perused the secret vows of his passion. I have read his 
 praises of her beauty. I have pored over the music of his 
 emotions when he first became a father ; yes, he has gazed 
 on me, even though but for a moment, with love ! Over 
 me he has breathed forth the hallowed blessing of a parent ! 
 That transcendent form has pressed his lips to mine, and 
 held me with fondness to his heart ! And shall I credit 
 aught to his dishonour ? Is there a being in existence who 
 can persuade me he is heartless or abandoned ? No ! I 
 love him ! I adore him ! I am devoted to him with all the 
 energies of my being ! I live only on the memory that he 
 lives, and, were he to die, I should pray to my God that I 
 might join him without delay in a world where it cannot 
 be justice to separate a child from a father.' 
 
 And this was Venetia ! the fair, the serene Venetia ! the 
 young, the inexperienced Venetia ! pausing, as it were, on 
 the parting threshold of girlhood, whom, but a few hours 
 since, he had fancied could scarcely have proved a passion ; 
 who appeared to him barely to comprehend the meaning of 
 his advances ; for whose calmness or whose coldness he had 
 consoled himself by the flattering conviction of her unknow- 
 ing innocence. Before him stood a beautiful and inspired 
 Moanad, her eye flashing supernatural fire, her form elevated 
 above her accustomed stature, defiance on her swelling brow, 
 and passion on her quivering lip ! 
 
 Gentle and sensitive as Cadurcis ever appeared to those
 
 VENETIA. 199 
 
 he loved, there was in his soul a deep and unfathomed well 
 of passions that had been never stirred, and a bitter and 
 mocking spirit in his brain, of which he was himself un- 
 conscious. He had repaired this hopeful morn to Cherbury 
 to receive, as he believed, the plighted faith of a simple and 
 affectionate, perhaps grateful, girl. That her unsophisti- 
 cated and untutored spirit might not receive the advances 
 of his heart with an equal and corresponding ardour, he 
 was prepared. It pleased him that he should watch the 
 gradual development of this bud of sweet affections, waiting, 
 with proud anxiety, her fragrant and her full-blown love. 
 But now it appeared that her coldness or her indifference 
 might be ascribed to any other cause than the one to which 
 he had attributed it, the innocence of an inexperienced 
 mind. This girl was no stranger to powerful passions ; she 
 could love, and love with fervency, with devotion, with en- 
 thusiasm. This child of joy was a woman of deep and 
 thoughtful sorrows, brooding in solitude over high resolves 
 and passionate aspirations. Why were not the emotions of 
 such a tumultuous soul excited by himself? To him she 
 was calm and imperturbable ; she called him brother, she 
 treated him as a child. But a picture, a fantastic shade, 
 could raise in her a tempestuous swell of sentiment that 
 transformed her whole mind, and changed the colour of all 
 her hopes and thoughts. Deeply prejudiced against her 
 father, Cadurcis now hated him, and with a fell and ferocious 
 earnestness that few bosoms but his could prove. Pale with 
 rage, he ground his teeth and watched her with a glance of 
 sarcastic aversion. 
 
 ' You led me here to listen to a communication which 
 interested me,' he at length said. ' Have I heard it?' 
 
 His altered tone, the air of haughtiness which he assumed, 
 were not lost upon Venetia. She endeavoured to collect 
 herself, but she hesitated to reply. 
 
 ' I repeat my inquiry,' said Cadurcis. ' Have you brought 
 me here only to inform me that you have a father, and that 
 you adore him, or his picture ? '
 
 200 VENETIA. 
 
 ' I led you here,' replied Venetia, in a subdued tone, and 
 looking on the ground, ' to thank you for your love, and to 
 confess to you that I love another.' 
 
 ' Love another ! ' exclaimed Cadurcis, in a tone of derision. 
 Simpleton ! The best thing your mother can do is to lock 
 you up in the chamber with the picture that has produced 
 such marvellous effects.' 
 
 'I am no simpleton, Plantagenet,' rejoined Venetia, 
 quietly, ' but one who is acting as she thinks right ; and 
 not only as her mind, but as her heart prompts her.' 
 
 They had stopped in the earlier part of this conversation 
 on a little plot of turf surrounded by shrubs ; Cadurcis 
 walked up and down this area with angry steps, occasionally 
 glancing at Venetia with a look of mortification and dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 ' I tell you, Venetia,' he at length said, ' that you are a 
 little fool. What do you mean by saying that you cannot 
 marry me because you love another ? Is not that other, 
 by your own account, your father ? Love him as much as 
 you like. Is that to prevent you from loving your husband 
 also ? ' 
 
 ' Plantagenet, you are rude, and unnecessarily so,' said 
 Venetia. ' I repeat to you again, and for the last time, 
 that all my heart is my father's. It would be wicked in me 
 to marry you, because I cannot love you as a husband should 
 be loved. I can never love you as I love my father. How- 
 ever, it is useless to talk upon this subject. I have not 
 even the power of marrying you if I wished, for I have 
 dedicated myself to my father in the name of God ; and I 
 have offered a vow, to be registered in heaven, that thence- 
 forth I would exist only for the purpose of being restored 
 to his heart.' 
 
 ' I congratulate you on your parent, Miss Herbert.' 
 
 ' I feel that I ought to be proud of him, though, alas ! I 
 can only feel it. But, whatever your opinion may be of my 
 father, I beg you to remember that you are speaking to his 
 child.'
 
 VENETIA. 201 
 
 ' I stall state my opinion respecting your father, madam, 
 with the most perfect unreserve, wherever and whenever I 
 choose ; quite convinced that, however you esteem that 
 opinion, it will not be widely different from the real senti- 
 ments of the only parent whom you ought to respect, and 
 whom you are bound to obey.' 
 
 ' And I can tell you, sir, that whatever your opinion is 
 on any subject it will never influence mine. If, indeed, I 
 were the mistress of my own destiny, which I am not, it 
 would have been equally out of my power to have acted as 
 you have so singularly proposed. I do not wish to marry, 
 and marry I never will ; but were it in my power, or in ac- 
 cordance with my wish, to unite my fate for ever with 
 another's, it should at least be with one to whom I could 
 look up with reverence, and even with admiration. He 
 should be at least a man, and a great man ; one with whose 
 name the world rung ; perhaps, like my father, a genius and 
 a poet.' 
 
 ' A genius and a poet ! ' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, in a 
 fury, stamping with passion ; ' are these fit terms to use 
 when speaking of the most abandoned profligate of his age ? 
 A man whose name is synonymous with infamy, and which 
 no one dares to breathe in civilised life ; whose very blood 
 is pollution, as you will some day feel ; who has violated 
 every tie, and derided every principle, by which society is 
 maintained ; whose life is a living illustration of his own 
 shameless doctrines ; who is, at the same time, a traitor to 
 his king and an apostate from his God ! ' 
 
 Curiosity, overpowering even indignation, had permitted 
 Venetia to listen even to this tirade. Pale as her com- 
 panion, but with a glance of withering scorn, she ex- 
 claimed, ' Passionate and ill-mannered boy ! words cannot 
 express the disgust and the contempt with which you in- 
 spire me.' She spoke and she disappeared. Cadurcis was 
 neither able nor desirous to arrest her flight. He remained 
 rooted to the ground, muttering to himself the word ' boy ! ' 
 Suddenly raising his arm and looking up to the sky, he ex-
 
 202 VENETIA. 
 
 claimed, ' The illusion is vanished ! Farewell, Cherbnry ! 
 farewell, Cadurcis ! a wider theatre awaits me ! I have 
 been too long the slave of soft affections ! I root them out 
 of my heart for ever ! ' and, fitting the action to the phrase, 
 it seemed that he hurled upon the earth all the tender 
 emotions of his soul. ' Woman ! henceforth you shall be 
 my sport ! I have now no feeling but for myself. When 
 she spoke I might have been a boy ; I am a boy no longer. 
 What I shall do I know not ; but this I know, the world 
 shall ring with my name ; I will be a man, and a great 
 man ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE agitation of Venetia on her return was not unnoticed 
 by her mother; but Lady Annabel ascribed it to a far 
 different cause than the real one. She was rather sur- 
 prised when the breakfast passed, and Lord Cadurcis did 
 not appear ; somewhat perplexed when her daughter seized 
 the earliest opportunity of retiring to her own chamber ; 
 but, with that self-restraint of which she was so complete a 
 mistress, Lady Annabel uttered no remark. 
 
 Once more alone, Venetia could only repeat to herself 
 the wild words that had burst from Plantagenet's lips in 
 reference to her father. What could they mean ? His 
 morals might be misrepresented, his opinions might be mis- 
 understood ; stupidity might not comprehend his doctrines, 
 malignity might torture them ; the purest sages have been 
 accused of immorality, the most pious philosophers have 
 been denounced as blasphemous : but, ' a traitor to his 
 king,' that was a tangible, an intelligible proposition, one 
 with which all might grapple, which could be easily dis- 
 proved if false, scarcely propounded were it not true. 
 'False to his God!' How false? Where? When? 
 What mystery involved her life ? Unhappy girl ! in vain 
 she struggled with the overwhelming burden of her sor- 
 rows. Now she regretted that she had quarrelled with
 
 VENETIA. 203 
 
 Cadurcis ; it was evident that he knew everything and 
 would have told her all. And then she blamed him for his 
 harsh and unfeeling demeanour, and his total want of sym- 
 pathy with her cruel and perplexing situation. She had 
 intended, she had struggled to be so kind to him ; she 
 thought she had such a plain tale to tell that he would 
 have listened to it in considerate silence, and bowed to her 
 necessary and inevitable decision without a murmur. Amid 
 all these harassing emotions her mind tossed about like a 
 ship without a rudder, until, in her despair, she almost re- 
 solved to confess everything to her mother, and to request 
 her to soothe and enlighten her agitated and confounded 
 mind. But what hope was there of solace or information 
 from such a quarter ? Lady Annabel's was not a mind to 
 be diverted from her purpose. Whatever might have been 
 the conduct of her husband, it was evident that Lady 
 Annabel had traced out a course from which she had re- 
 solved not to depart. She remembered the earnest and 
 repeated advice of Dr. Masham, that virtuous and intelli- 
 gent man who never advised anything but for their benefit. 
 How solemnly had he enjoined upon her never to speak to 
 her mother upon the subject, unless she wished to produce 
 misery and distress ! And what could her mother tell her ? 
 Her father lived, he had abandoned her, he was looked 
 upon as a criminal, and shunned by the society whose laws 
 and prejudices he had alike outraged. Why should she 
 revive, amid the comparative happiness and serenity in 
 which her mother now lived, the bitter recollection of the 
 almost intolerable misfortune of her existence ? No ! 
 Venetia was resolved to be a solitary victim. In spite of 
 her passionate and romantic devotion to her father she 
 loved her mother with perfect affection, the mother who 
 had dedicated her life to her child, and at least hoped she 
 had spared her any share in their common tmhappiness. 
 And this father, whose image haunted her dreams, whose 
 unknown voice seemed sometimes to float to her quick ear 
 upon the wind, could he be that abandoned being that
 
 204 VENETIA. 
 
 Cadurcis had described, and that all around her, and all 
 the circumstances of her life, would seem to indicate ? 
 Alas ! it might be truth ; alas ! it seemed like truth : and 
 for one so lost, so utterly irredeemable, was she to murmur 
 against that pure and benevolent parent who had cherished 
 her with such devotion, and snatched her perhaps from 
 disgrace, dishonour, and despair ! 
 
 And Cadurcis, would he return ? With all his violence, 
 the kind Cadurcis ! Never did she need a brother more 
 than now ; and now he was absent, and she had parted 
 with him in anger, deep, almost deadly : she, too, who had 
 never before uttered a harsh word to a human being, who 
 had been involved in only one quarrel in her life, and that 
 almost unconsciously, and which had nearly broken her 
 heart. She wept, bitterly she wept, this poor Venetia ! 
 
 By one of those mental efforts which her strange lot 
 often forced her to practise, Venetia at length composed 
 herself, and returned to the room where she believed she 
 would meet her mother, and hoped she should see Cadurcis. 
 He was not there : but Lady Annabel was seated as calm 
 and busied as usual ; the Doctor had departed. Even his 
 presence would have proved a relief, however slight, to 
 Venetia, who dreaded at this moment to be alone with her 
 mother. She had no cause, however, for alarm ; Lord 
 Cadurcis never appeared, and was absent even from dinner ; 
 the day died away, and still he was wanting ; and at length 
 Venetia bade her usual good night to Lady Annabel, and 
 received her usual blessing and embrace without his name 
 having been even mentioned. 
 
 Venetia passed a disturbed night, haunted by painful 
 dreams, in which her father and Cadurcis were both mixed 
 up, and with images of pain, confusion, disgrace, and misery; 
 but the morrow, at least, did not prolong her suspense, for 
 just as she had joined her mother at breakfast, Mistress 
 Pauncefort, who had been despatched on some domestic 
 mission by her mistress, entered with a face of wonder, and 
 began as usual : ' Only think, my lady ; well to be sure, who
 
 VENETIA. 205 
 
 would have thought it ? I am quite confident, for my own 
 part, I was quite taken aback when I heard it ; and I could 
 not have believed my ears, if John had not told me himself, 
 and he had it from his lordship's own man.' 
 
 ' Well, Pauncefort, what have you to say ? ' inquired Lady 
 Annabel, very calmly. 
 
 ' And never to send no note, my lady ; at least I have not 
 seen one come up. That makes it so very strange.' 
 
 ' Makes what, Pauncefort ? ' 
 
 ' Why, my lady, doesn't your la'ship know his lordship 
 left the abbey yesterday, and never said nothing to nobody ; 
 rode off without a word, by your leave or with your leave ? 
 To be sure he always was the oddest young gentleman as 
 ever I met with ; and, as I said to John : John, says I, I hope 
 his lordship has not gone to join the gipsies again.' 
 
 Venetia looked into a teacup, and then touched an egg, 
 and then twirled a spoon ; but Lady Annabel seemed quite 
 imperturbable, and only observed, ' Probably his guardian 
 is ill, and he has been suddenly summoned to town. I wish 
 you would bring my knitting-needles, Pauncefort.' 
 
 The autumn passed, and Lord Cadurcis never returned to 
 the abbey, and never wrote to any of his late companions. 
 Lady Annabel never mentioned his name ; and although she 
 seemed to have no other object in life but the pleasure and 
 happiness of her child, this strange mother never once 
 consulted Venetia on the probable occasion of his sudden 
 departure, and his strange conduct. 
 
 EXD OF BOOK III.
 
 206 VENETIA. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PARTY feeling, perhaps, never ran higher in England than 
 during the period immediately subsequent to the expulsion 
 of the Coalition Ministry. After the indefatigable faction of 
 the American war, and the flagrant union with Lord North, 
 the Whig party, and especially Charles Fox, then in the full 
 vigour of his bold and ready mind, were stung to the quick 
 that all their remorseless efforts to obtain and preserve the 
 government of the country should terminate in the prefer- 
 ment and apparent permanent power of a mere boy. 
 
 Next to Charles Fox, perhaps the most eminent and in- 
 fluential member of the Whig party was Lady Monteagle. 
 The daughter of one of the oldest and most powerful peers 
 in the kingdom, possessing lively talents and many fasci- 
 nating accomplishments, the mistress of a great establish- 
 ment, very beautiful, and, although she had been married 
 some years, still young, the celebrated wife of Lord Mont- 
 eagle found herself the centre of a circle alike powerful, 
 brilliant, and refined. She was the Muse of the Whig party, 
 at whose shrine every man of wit and fashion was proud to 
 offer his flattering incense ; and her house became not merely 
 the favourite scene of their social pleasures, but the sacred 
 temple of their political rites ; here many a manoeuvre was 
 planned, and many a scheme suggested ; many a convert en- 
 rolled, and many a votary initiated. 
 
 Reclining on a couch in a boudoir, which she was assured 
 was the exact facsimile of that of Marie Antoinette, Lady 
 Monteagle, with an eye sparkling with excitement and a 
 cheek flushed with emotion, appeared deeply interested in a
 
 VENETIA. 207 
 
 volume, from which she raised her head as her husband 
 entered the room. 
 
 ' Gertrude, my love,' said his lordship, ' I have asked the 
 new bishop to dine with us to-day.' 
 
 'My dear Henry,' replied her ladyship, ' what could in- 
 duce you to do anything so strange ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose I have made a mistake, as usual,' said his lord - 
 ship, shrugging his shoulders, with a smile. 
 
 ' My dear Henry, you know you may ask whomever you 
 like to your house. I never find fault with what you do. 
 But what could induce you to ask a Tory bishop to meet a 
 dozen of our own people ? ' 
 
 ' I thought I had done wrong directly I had asked him,' 
 rejoined his lordship ; ' and yet he would not have come if I 
 had not made such a point of it. I think I will put him off.' 
 
 ' No, my love, that would be wrong ; you cannot do that.' 
 
 ' I cannot think how it came into my head. The fact is, 
 I lost my presence of mind. You know he was my tutor 
 at Christchurch, when poor dear Herbert and I were such 
 friends, and very kind he was to us both ; and so, the 
 moment I saw him, I walked across the House, introduced 
 myself, and asked him to dinner.' 
 
 ' Well, never mind,' said Lady Monteagle, smiling. ' It 
 is rather ridiculous : but I hope nothing will be said to 
 offend him.' 
 
 ' Oh ! do not be alarmed about that : he is quite a man 
 of the world, and, although he has his opinions, not at all a 
 partisan. I assure you poor dear Herbert loved him to the 
 last, and to this very moment has the greatest respect and 
 affection for him.' 
 
 ' How very strange that not only your tutor, but Herbert's, 
 should be a bishop,' remarked the lady, smiling. 
 
 ' It is very strange,' said his lordship, ' and it only shows 
 that it is quite useless in this world to lay plans, or reckon 
 on anything. You know how it happened ? ' 
 
 ' Not I, indeed ; I have never given a thought to the 
 business ; I only remember being very vexed that that
 
 208 VENET1A. 
 
 stupid old Bangerford should not have died when we were 
 in office, and then, at any rate, we should have got another 
 vote.' 
 
 ' Well, you know,' said his lordship, ' dear old Masham, 
 that is his name, was at Weymouth this year ; with whom 
 do you think, of all people in the world ? ' 
 
 ' How should I know ? Why should I think about it, 
 Henry?' 
 
 ' Why, with Herbert's wife.' 
 
 * What, that horrid woman ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Lady Annabel.' 
 
 ' And where was his daughter ? Was she there ? 
 
 ' Of course. She has grown up, and a most beautiful 
 creature they say she is ; exactly like her father.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I shall always regret I never saw him,' said her 
 ladyship. 
 
 ' Well, the daughter is in bad health ; and so, after keep- 
 ing her shut up all her life, the mother was obliged to take 
 her to Weymouth ; and Masham, who has a living in their 
 neighbourhood, which, by-the-bye, Herbert gave him, and 
 is their chaplain and counsellor, and friend of the family, 
 and all that sort of thing, though I really believe he has 
 always acted for the best, he was with them. Well, tho 
 King took the greatest fancy to these Herberts ; and the 
 Queen, too, quite singled them out ; and, in short, they 
 were always with the royal family. It ended by his 
 Majesty making Masham his chaplain ; and now he has 
 made him a bishop.' 
 
 'Very droll indeed,' said her ladyship ; ' and the drollest 
 thing of all is, that he is now coming to dine here.' 
 
 ' Have you seen Cadurcis to-day ? ' said Lord Monteagle. 
 
 ' Of course,' said her ladyship. 
 
 ' He dines here ? ' 
 
 ' To be sure. I am reading his new poem ; it will not be 
 published till to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Is it good ? ' 
 
 ' Good ! What crude questions you do always ask,
 
 VENETIA. 209 
 
 Henry ! ' exclaimed Lady Monteagle. ' Good ! Of course 
 it is good. It is something better than good.' 
 
 ' But I mean is it as good as his other things ? Will it 
 make as much noise as his last thing ? ' 
 
 ' Thing ! Now, Henry, you know very well that if there 
 be anythingl dislike in the world, it is calling a poem athing.' 
 
 ' Well, my dear, you know I am no judge of poetry. 
 But if you are pleased, I am quite content. There is a 
 knock. Some of your friends. I am off. I say, Gertrude, 
 be kind to old Masham, that is a dear creature ! ' 
 
 Her ladyship extended her hand, to which his lordship 
 pressed his lips, and just effected his escape as the servant 
 announced a visitor, in the person of Mr. Horace Pole. 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear Mr. Pole, I am quite exhausted,' said her 
 ladyship ; ' I am reading Cadurcis' new poem ; it will not 
 be published till to-morrow, and it really has destroyed my 
 nerves. I have got people to dinner to-day, and I am sure 
 I shall not be able to encounter them.' 
 
 ' Something outrageous, I suppose,' said Mr. Pole, with 
 a sneer. ' I wish Cadurcis "would study Pope.' 
 
 ' Study Pope ! My dear Mr. Pole, you have no imagin- 
 ation.' 
 
 ' No, I have not, thank Heaven ! ' drawled out Mr. Pole. 
 
 ' Well, do not let us have a quarrel about Cadurcis,' said 
 Lady Monteagle. ' All you men are jealous of him.' 
 
 'And some of you women, I think, too,' said Mr. Pole. 
 
 Lady Monteagle faintly smiled. 
 
 ' Poor Cadurcis ! ' she exclaimed ; ' he has a very hard 
 life of it. He complains bitterly that so many women are 
 in love with him. But then he is such an interesting 
 creature, what can he expect ? ' 
 
 ' Interesting ! ' exclaimed Mr. Pole. ' Now I hold he is 
 the most conceited, affected fellow that I ever met,' he con- 
 tinued with unusual energy. 
 
 ' Ah ! you men do not understand him,' said Lady Mont- 
 eagle, shaking her head. ' You cannot,' she added, with 
 a look of pity.
 
 210 VENET1A. 
 
 ' I cannot, certainly,' said Mr. Pole, ' or his writings 
 either. For my part I think the town has gone mad.' 
 
 ' Well, you must confess,' said her ladyship, with a glance 
 of triumph, ' that it was very lucky for us that I made 
 him a Whig.' 
 
 ' I cannot agree with you at all on that head,' said Mr. 
 Pole. 'We certainly are not very popular at this moment, 
 and I feel convinced that a connection with a person who 
 attracts so much notice as Cadurcis unfortunately does, and 
 whose opinions on morals and religion must be so offensive 
 to the vast majority of the English public, must ultimately 
 prove anything but advantageous to our party.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear Mr. Pole,' said her ladyship, in a tone of 
 affected deprecation, ' think what a genius he is ! ' 
 
 ' We have very different ideas of genius, Lady Monteagle, 
 I suspect,' said her visitor. 
 
 ' Tou cannot deny,' replied her ladyship, rising from her 
 recumbent posture, with some animation, ' that he is a poet? ' 
 
 ' It is difficult to decide upon our contemporaries,' said 
 Mr. Pole dryly. 
 
 ' Charles Fox thinks he is the greatest poet that ever 
 existed,' said her ladyship, as if she were determined to 
 settle the question. 
 
 ' Because he has written a lampoon on the royal family,' 
 rejoined Mr. Pole. 
 
 ' You are a very provoking person,' said Lady Mont- 
 eagle ; ' but you do not provoke me ; do not flatter yourself 
 you do.' 
 
 ' That I feel to be an achievement alike beyond my power 
 and my ambition,' replied Mr. Pole, slightly bowing, but 
 with a sneer. 
 
 ' Well, read this,' said Lady Monteagle, ' and then decide 
 upon the merits of Cadurcis.' 
 
 Mr. Pole took the extended volume, but with no great 
 willingness, and turned over a page or two and read a pas- 
 sage here and there. 
 
 ' Much the same as his last effusion, I think,' he observed,
 
 VENETIA. 211 
 
 ' as far as I can judge from so cursory a review. Exag- 
 gerated passion, bombastic language, egotism to excess, and, 
 which perhaps is the only portion that is genuine, mixed 
 with common-place scepticism and impossible morals, and a 
 sort of vague, dreamy philosophy, which, if it mean any- 
 thing, means atheism, borrowed from his idol, Herbert, and 
 which he himself evidently does not comprehend.' 
 
 ' Monster ! ' exclaimed Lady Monteagle, with a mock as- 
 sumption of indignation, ' and you are going to dine with 
 him here to-day. You do not deserve it.' 
 
 ' It is a reward which is unfortunately too often obtained 
 by me,' replied Mr. Pole. ' One of the most annoying con- 
 sequences of your friend's popularity, Lady Monteagle., is 
 that there is not a dinner party where one can escape him. 
 I met him yesterday at Fanshawe's. He amused himself by 
 eating only biscuits, and calling for soda water, while we 
 quaffed our Burgundy. How very original ! What a thing 
 it is to be a great poet ! ' 
 
 ' Perverse, provoking mortal ! ' exclaimed Lady Mont- 
 eagle. ' And on what should a poet live ? On coarse food, 
 like you coarse mortals ? Cadurcis is all spirit, and in my 
 opinion his diet only makes him more interesting.' 
 
 ' I understand,' said Mr. Pole, ' that he cannot endure a 
 woman to eat at all. But you are all spirit, Lady Mont- 
 eagle, and therefore of course are not in the least incon- 
 venienced. By-the-bye, do you mean to give us any of those 
 charming little suppers this season ? ' 
 
 ' I shall not invite you,' replied her ladyship ; 'none but 
 admirers of Lord Cadurcis enter this house.' 
 
 'Your menace effects my instant conversion,' replied 
 Mr. Pole. ' I will admire him as much as you desire, only 
 do not insist upon my reading his works.' 
 
 ' I have not the slightest doubt you know them by heart,' 
 rejoined her ladyship. 
 
 Mr. Pole smiled, bowed, and disappeared ; and Lady 
 Monteagle sat down to write a billet to Lord Cadurcis, to 
 entreat him to be with her at five o'clock, which was at 
 
 p 2
 
 212 VENETIA. 
 
 least half an hour before the other guests were expected. 
 The Monteagles were considered to dine ridiculously late. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MAKMION HERBERT, sprung from one of the most illustrious 
 families in England, became at an early age the inheritor 
 of a great estate, to which, however, he did not succeed 
 with the prejudices or opinions usually imbibed or professed 
 by the class to which he belonged. While yet a boy, Mar- 
 mioii Herbert afforded many indications of possessing a 
 mind alike visionary and inquisitive, and both, although 
 not in an equal degree, sceptical and creative. Nature had 
 gifted him with precocious talents ; and with a temperament 
 essentially poetic, he was nevertheless a great student. 
 His early reading, originally by accident and afterwards by 
 an irresistible inclination, had fallen among the works of 
 the English freethinkers : with all their errors, a profound 
 and vigorous race, and much superior to the French philo- 
 sophers, who were after all only their pupils and their imi- 
 tators. While his juvenile studies, and in some degree the 
 predisposition of his mind, had thus prepared him to doubt 
 and finally to challenge the propriety of all that was estab- 
 lished and received, the poetical and stronger bias of his 
 mind enabled him quickly to supply the place of every- 
 thing he would remove and destroy ; and, far from being 
 the victim of those frigid and indifferent feelings which 
 must ever be the portion of the mere doubter, Herbert, on 
 the contrary, looked forward with ardent and sanguine en- 
 thusiasm to a glorious and ameliorating future, which should 
 amply compensate and console a misguided and unhappy 
 race for the miserable past and the painful and dreary pre- 
 sent. To those, therefore, who could not sympathise with 
 his views, it will be seen that Herbert, in attempting to 
 fulfil them, became not merely passively noxious from his 
 example, but actively mischievous from his exertions. A
 
 VENETIA. 213 
 
 mere sceptic, he would have been perhaps merely pitied ; a 
 sceptic with a peculiar faith of his own, which he was re- 
 solved to promulgate, Herbert became odious. A solitary 
 votary of obnoxious opinions, Herbert would have been 
 looked upon only as a madman ; but thfc moment he at- 
 tempted to make proselytes he rose into a conspirator 
 against society. 
 
 Young, irresistibly prepossessing in his appearance, with 
 great eloquence, crude but considerable knowledge, an 
 ardent imagination and a subtle mind, and a generous and 
 passionate soul, under any circumstances he must have 
 obtained and exercised influence, even if his Creator had 
 not also bestowed upon him a spirit of indomitable courage ; 
 but these great gifts of nature being combined with acci- 
 dents- of fortune scarcely less qualified to move mankind, 
 high rank, vast wealth, and a name of traditionary glory, 
 it will not be esteemed surprising that Marmion Herbert, at 
 an early period, should have attracted around him many 
 enthusiastic disciples. 
 
 At Christchurch, whither he repaired at an unusually 
 early age, his tutor was Doctor Masham ; and the profound 
 respect and singular affection with which that able, learned, 
 and amiable man early inspired his pupil, for a time con- 
 trolled the spirit of Herbert ; or rather confined its work- 
 ings to so limited a sphere that the results were neither 
 dangerous to society nor himself. Perfectly comprehend- 
 ing and appreciating the genius of the youth entrusted to 
 his charge, deeply interested in his spiritual as well as 
 worldly welfare, and strongly impressed with the impor- 
 tance of enlisting his pupil's energies in favour of that 
 existing order, both moral and religious, in the truth and 
 indispensableness of which he was a sincere believer, Doctor 
 Masham omitted no opportunity of combating the heresies 
 of the young inquirer ; and as the tutor, equally by talent, 
 experience, and learning, was a competent champion of the 
 great cause to which he was devoted, his zeal and ability 
 for a time checked the development of those opinions of
 
 214 VENETIA. 
 
 which he witnessed the menacing influence over Herbert 
 with so much fear and anxiety. The college life of'Marmion 
 Herbert, therefore, passed in ceaseless controversy with his 
 tutor ; and as he possessed, among many other noble qua- 
 lities, a high and philosophic sense of justice, he did not 
 consider himself authorised, while a doubt remained on his 
 own mind, actively to promulgate those opinions, of the 
 propriety and necessity of which he scarcely ever ceased to 
 be persuaded. To this cause it must be mainly attributed 
 that Herbert was not expelled the university; for had he 
 pursued there the course of which his cruder career at Eton 
 had given promise, there can be little doubt that some 
 flagrant outrage of the opinions held sacred in that great 
 seat of orthodoxy would have quickly removed him from 
 the salutary sphere of their control. 
 
 Herbert quitted Oxford in his nineteenth year, yet in- 
 ferior to few that he left there, even among the most emi- 
 nent, in classical attainments, and with a mind naturally 
 profound, practised in all the arts of ratiocination. His 
 general knowledge also was considerable, and he was a 
 proficient in those scientific pursuits which were then rare. 
 Notwithstanding his great fortune and position, his de- 
 parture from the university was not a signal with him for 
 that abandonment to the world, and that unbounded self- 
 enjoyment naturally so tempting to youth. On the con- 
 trary, Herbert shut himself up in his magnificent castle, 
 devoted to solitude and study. In his splendid library he 
 consulted the sages of antiquity, and conferred with them 
 on the nature of existence and of the social duties ; while in 
 his laboratory or his dissecting-room he occasionally flat- 
 tered himself he might discover the great secret which had 
 perplexed generations. The consequence of a year passed 
 in this severe discipline was unfortunately a complete re- 
 currence to those opinions that he had early imbibed, and 
 which now seemed fixed in his conviction beyond the hope 
 or chance of again faltering. In politics a violent repub- 
 lican, and an advocate, certainly a disinterested one, of a
 
 VENETIA. 215 
 
 complete equality of property and conditions, utterly ob- 
 jecting to the very foundation of our moral system, and 
 especially a strenuous antagonist of marriage, which he 
 taught himself to esteem not only as an unnatural tie, but 
 as eminently unjust towards that softer sex, who had been 
 so long the victims of man ; discarding as a mockery the 
 received revelation of the divine will ; and, if no longer an 
 atheist, substituting merely for such an outrageous dogma 
 a subtle and shadowy Platonism ; doctrines, however, which 
 Herbert at least had acquired by a profound study of the 
 works of their great founder ; the pupil of Doctor Masham 
 at length deemed himself qualified to enter that world which 
 he was resolved to regenerate; prepared for persecution, 
 and steeled even to martyrdom. 
 
 But while the doctrines of the philosopher had been 
 forming, the spirit of the poet had not been inactive. Lone- 
 liness, after all, the best of Muses, had stimulated the 
 creative faculty of his being. Wandering amid his solitary 
 woods and glades at all hours and seasons, the wild and 
 beautiful apparitions of nature had appealed to a sympa- 
 thetic soul. The stars and winds, the pensive sunset and 
 the sanguine break of morn, the sweet solemnity of night, 
 the ancient trees and the light and evanescent flowers, all 
 signs and sights and sounds of loveliness and power, fell 
 on a ready eye and a responsive ear. Gazing on the beau- 
 tiful, he longed to create it. Then it was that the two 
 passions which seemed to share the being of Herbert ap- 
 peared simultaneously to assert their sway, and he resolved 
 to call in his Muse to the assistance of his Philosophy. 
 
 Herbert celebrated that fond world of his imagination, 
 which he wished to teach men to love. In stanzas glitter- 
 ing with refined images, and resonant with subtle symphony, 
 he called into creation that society of immaculate purity 
 and unbounded enjoyment which he believed was the na- 
 tural inheritance of unshackled man. In the hero he pic- 
 tured a philosopher, young and gifted as himself ; in the 
 heroine, his idea of a perfect woman. Although all those
 
 21 G VENETIA. 
 
 peculiar doctrines of Herbert, which, undisguised, must have 
 excited so much odium, were more or less developed and in- 
 culcated in this work ; nevertheless they were necessarily 
 so veiled by the highly spiritual and metaphorical language 
 of the poet, that it required some previous acquaintance 
 with the system enforced, to be able to detect and recognise 
 the esoteric spirit of his Muse. The public read only the 
 history of an ideal world and of creatures of exquisite beauty, 
 told in language that alike dazzled their fancy and capti- 
 vated their ear. They were lost in a delicious maze of 
 metaphor and music, and were proud to acknowledge an 
 addition to the glorious catalogue of their poets in a young 
 and interesting member of their aristocracy. 
 
 In the meanwhile Herbert entered that great world that 
 had long expected him, and hailed his advent with triumph. 
 How long might have elapsed before they were roused by 
 the conduct of Herbert to the error under which they were 
 labouring as to his character, it is not difficult to conjec- 
 ture ; but before he could commence those philanthropic 
 exertions which apparently absorbed him, he encountered 
 an individual who most unconsciously put his philosophy 
 not merely to the test, but partially even to the rout ; and 
 this was Lady Annabel Sidney. Almost as new to the 
 world as himself, and not less admired, her unrivalled 
 beauty, her unusual accomplishments, and her pure and 
 dignified mind, combined, it must be confessed, with the 
 flattering admiration of his genius, entirely captivated the 
 philosophical antagonist of marriage. It is not surprising 
 that Marmion Herbert, scarcely of age, and with a heart of 
 extreme susceptibility, resolved, after a struggle, to be the 
 first exception to his system, and, as he faintly flattered 
 himself, the last victim of prejudice. He wooed and won 
 the Lady Annabel. 
 
 The marriage ceremony was performed by Doctor Masham, 
 who had read his pupil's poem, and had been a little 
 frightened by its indications ; but this happy union had 
 dissipated all his fears. He would not believe in any other
 
 VENETIA. 217 
 
 than a future career for him alike honourable and happy ; 
 and he trusted that if any wild thoughts still lingered in 
 Herbert's mind, that they would clear off by the same 
 literary process ; so that the utmost ill consequences of his 
 immature opinions might be an occasional line that the 
 wise would have liked to blot, and yet which the unlettered 
 might scarcely be competent to comprehend. Mr. and 
 Lady Annabel Herbert departed after the ceremony to his 
 castle, and Doctor Masham to Marringhurst, a valuable 
 living in another county, to which his pupil had just pre- 
 sented him. 
 
 Some months after this memorable event, rumours 
 reached the ear of the good Doctor that all was not as 
 satisfactory as he could desire in that establishment, in the 
 welfare of which he naturally took so lively an interest. 
 Herbert was in the habit of corresponding with the rector 
 of Marringhurst, and his first letters were full of details as 
 to his happy life and his perfect content ; but gradually 
 these details had been considerably abridged, and the cor- 
 respondence assumed chiefly a literary or philosophical 
 character. Lady Annabel, however, was always mentioned 
 with regard, and an intimation had been duly given to the 
 Doctor that she was in a delicate and promising situation, 
 and that they were both alike anxious that he should 
 christen their child. It did not seem very surprising to 
 the good Doctor, who was a man of the world, that a hus- 
 band, six months after marriage, should not speak of the 
 memorable event with all the fulness and fondness of the 
 honeymoon ; and, being one of those happy tempers that 
 always anticipate the best, he dismissed from his mind, as 
 vain gossip and idle exaggerations, the ominous whispers 
 that occasionally reached him. 
 
 Immediately after the Christmas ensuing his marriage, 
 the Herberts returned to London, and the Doctor, who 
 happened to be a short time in the metropolis, paid them 
 a visit. His observations were far from unsatisfactory ; it 
 was certainly too evident that Marmion was no longer
 
 218 VENETIA. 
 
 enamoured of Lady Annabel, but lie treated her apparently 
 with courtesy, and even cordiality. The presence of Dr. 
 Masham tended, perhaps, a little to revive old feelings, for 
 he was as much a favourite with the wife as with the hus- 
 band ; but, on the whole, the Doctor quitted them with an 
 easy heart, and sanguine that the interesting and impend- 
 ing event would, in all probability, revive affection on the 
 part of Herbert, or at least afford Lady Annabel the only 
 substitute for a husband's heart. 
 
 In due time the Doctor heard from Herbert that his wife 
 had gone down into the country, but was sorry to observe 
 that Herbert did not accompany her. Even this disagree- 
 able impression was removed by a letter, shortly after 
 received from Herbert, dated from the castle, and written 
 in high spirits, informing him that Annabel had made him 
 the happy father of the most beautiful little girl in the 
 world. During the ensuing three months Mr. Herbert, 
 though he resumed his residence in London, paid frequent 
 visits to the castle, where Lady Annabel remained ; and his 
 occasional correspondence, though couched in a careless 
 vein, still on the whole indicated a cheerful spirit ; though 
 ever and anon were sarcastic observations as to the felicity 
 of the married state, which, he said, was an undoubted 
 blessing, as it kept a man out of all scrapes, though unfor- 
 tunately under the penalty of his total idleness and in- 
 utility in life. On the whole, however, the reader may 
 judge of the astonishment of Doctor Masham when, in 
 common with the world, very shortly after the receipt of 
 this letter, Mr. Herbert having previously proceeded to 
 London, and awaiting, as was said, the daily arrival of his 
 wife and child, his former tutor learned that Lady Annabel, 
 accompanied only by Pauncefort and Venetia, had sought 
 her father's roof, declaring that circumstances had occurred 
 which rendered it quite impossible that she could live with 
 Mr. Herbert any longer, and entreating his succour and 
 parental protection. 
 
 Never was such a hubbub in the world ! In vain Herbert
 
 VENETIA. 219 
 
 claimed his wife, and expressed his astonishment, declaring 
 that he had parted from her with the expression of perfect 
 kind feeling on both sides. No answer was given to his 
 letter, and no explanation of any kind conceded him. The 
 world universally declared Lady Annabel an injured woman, 
 and trusted that she would eventually have the good sense 
 and kindness to gratify them by revealing the mystery ; 
 while Herbert, on the contrary, was universally abused and 
 shunned, avoided by his acquaintances, and denounced as 
 the most depraved of men. 
 
 In this extraordinary state of affairs Herbert acted in a 
 manner the best calculated to secure his happiness, and the 
 very worst to preserve his character. Having ostenta- 
 tiously shown himself in every public place, and courted 
 notice and inquiry by every means in his power, to prove 
 that he was not anxious to conceal himself or avoid any 
 inquiry, he left the country, free at last to pursue that 
 career to which he had always aspired, and in which he 
 had been checked by a blunder, from the consequences of 
 which he little expected that he should so speedily and 
 strangely emancipate himself. It was in a beautiful villa 
 on the lake of Geneva that he finally established himself, 
 and there for many years he employed himself in the 
 publication of a series of works which, whether they were 
 poetry or prose, imaginative or investigative, all tended to 
 the same consistent purpose, namely, the fearless and un- 
 qualified promulgation of those opinions, on the adoption of 
 which he sincerely believed the happiness of mankind de- 
 pended ; and the opposite principles to which, in his own 
 case, had been productive of so much mortification and 
 misery. His works, which were published in England, 
 were little read, and universally decried. The critics 
 were always hard at work, proving that he was no poet, 
 and demonstrating in the most logical manner that he was 
 quite incapable of reasoning on the commonest topic. In 
 addition to all this, his ignorance was self-evident ; and 
 though he was very fond of quoting Greek, they doubted
 
 220 VENETIA. 
 
 whether he was capable of reading the original authors. 
 The general impression of the English public, after the 
 lapse of some years, was, that Herbert was an abandoned 
 being, of profligate habits, opposed to all the institutions of 
 society that kept his infamy in check, and an avowed 
 atheist ; and as scarcely any one but a sympathetic spirit 
 ever read a line he wrote, for indeed the very sight of his 
 works was pollution, it is not very wonderful that this 
 opinion was so generally prevalent. A calm inquirer 
 might, perhaps, have suspected that abandoned profli- 
 gacy is not very compatible with severe study, and that 
 an author is seldom loose in his life, even if he be licentious 
 in his writings. A calm inquirer might, perhaps, have 
 been of opinion that a solitary sage may be the antagonist 
 of a priesthood without absolutely denying the existence of 
 a God ; but there never are calm inquirers. The world, on 
 every subject, however unequally, is divided into parties ; 
 and even in the case of Herbert and his writings, those who 
 admired his genius, and the generosity of his soul, were not 
 content without advocating, principally out of pique to his 
 adversaries, his extreme opinions on every subject, moral, 
 political, and religious. 
 
 Besides, it must be confessed, there was another circum- 
 stance which was almost as fatal to Herbert's character in 
 England as his loose and heretical opinions. The travelling 
 English, during their visits to Geneva, found out that their 
 countryman solaced or enlivened his solitude by unhallowed 
 ties. It is a habit to which very young men. who are se- 
 parated from or deserted by their wives, occasionally have 
 recourse. Wrong, no doubt, as most things are, but it is to 
 be hoped venial ; at least in the case of any man who is not 
 also an atheist. This unfortunate mistress of Herbert was 
 magnified into a seraglio ; the most extraordinary tales of 
 the voluptuous life of one who generally at his studies out- 
 watched the stars, were rife in English society ; and 
 
 Hoary marquises and stripling dukes, 
 who were either protecting opera dancers, or, still worse,
 
 VENETIA. 221 
 
 making love to their neighbours' wives, either looked grave 
 when the name of Herbert was mentioned in female society, 
 or affectedly confused, as if they could a tale unfold, were 
 they not convinced that the sense of propriety among all 
 present was infinitely superior to their sense of curiosity. 
 
 The only person to whom Herbert communicated in 
 England was Doctor Masham. He wrote to him imme- 
 diately on his establishment at Geneva, in a calm yet sincere 
 and serious tone, as if it were useless to dwell too fully on 
 the past. Yet he declared, although now that it was all 
 over he avowed his joy at the interposition of his destiny, 
 and the opportunity which he at length possessed of pur- 
 suing the career for which he was adapted, that he had to 
 his knowledge given his wife no cause of offence which 
 could authorise her conduct. As for his daughter, he said 
 he should not be so cruel as to tear her from her mother's 
 breast ; though, if anything could induce him to such be- 
 haviour, it would be the malignant and ungenerous menace 
 of his wife's relatives, that they would oppose his preferred 
 claim to the guardianship of his child, on the plea of his 
 immoral life and atheistical opinions. With reference to 
 pecuniary arrangements, as his chief seat was entailed on 
 male heirs, he proposed that his wife should take up her 
 abode at Cherbury, an estate which had been settled on her 
 and her children at her marriage, and which, therefore, 
 would descend to Venetia. Finally, he expressed his satis- 
 faction that the neighbourhood of Marringhurst would 
 permit his good and still faithful friend to cultivate the 
 society and guard over the welfare of his wife and daughter. 
 
 During the first ten years of Herbert's exile, for such 
 indeed it might be considered, the Doctor maintained with 
 him a rare yet regular correspondence ; but after that time 
 a public event occurred, and a revolution took place in 
 Herbert's life which terminated all communication between 
 them ; a termination occasioned, however, by such a simul- 
 taneous conviction of its absolute necessity, that it was not 
 attended by any of those painful communications which are
 
 222 VENETIA. 
 
 too often the harrowing forerunners of a formal disruption 
 of ancient ties. 
 
 This event was the revolt of the American colonies ; and 
 this revolution in Herbert's career, his junction with the 
 rebels against his native country. Doubtless it was not 
 without a struggle, perhaps a pang, that Herbert resolved 
 upon a line of conduct to which it must assuredly have 
 required the strongest throb of his cosmopolitan sympathy, 
 and his amplest definition of philanthropy to have impelled 
 him. But without any vindictive feelings towards Eng- 
 land, for he ever professed and exercised charity towards 
 his enemies, attributing their conduct entirely to their 
 ignorance and prejudice, upon this step he nevertheless 
 felt it his duty to decide. There seemed in the opening 
 prospects of America, in a world still new, which had bor- 
 rowed from the old as it were only so much civilisation as 
 was necessary to create and to maintain order ; there seemed 
 in the circumstances of its boundless territory, and the 
 total absence of feudal institutions and prejudices, so fair a 
 field for the practical introduction of those regenerating 
 principles to which Herbert had devoted all the thought 
 and labour of his life, that he resolved, after long and per- 
 haps painful meditation, to sacrifice every feeling and future 
 interest to its fulfilment. All idea of ever returning to his 
 native country, even were it only to mix his ashes with the 
 generations of his ancestors ; all hope of reconciliation with 
 his wife, or of pressing to his heart that daughter, often 
 present to his tender fancy, and to whose affections he had 
 feelingly appealed in an outburst of passionate poetry ; all 
 these chances, chances which, in spite of his philosophy, 
 had yet a lingering charm, must be discarded for ever. 
 They were discarded. Assigning his estate to his heir 
 upon conditions, in order to prevent its forfeiture, with, 
 such resources as he could command, and which were con- 
 siderable, Marmion Herbert arrived at Boston, where his 
 rank, his wealth, his distinguished name, his great talents, 
 and his undoubted zeal for the cause of liberty, procured
 
 VENETIA. 223 
 
 him an eminent and gratifying reception. He offered to 
 raise a regiment for the republic, and the offer was accepted, 
 and he was enrolled among the citizens. All this occurred 
 about the time that the Cadurcis family first settled at the 
 abbey, and this narrative will probably throw light upon 
 several slight incidents which heretofore may have attracted 
 the perplexed attention of the reader : such as the news- 
 paper brought by Dr. Masham at the Christmas visit ; the 
 tears shed at a subsequent period at Marringhurst, when 
 he related to her the last intelligence that had been received 
 from America. For, indeed, it is impossible to express the 
 misery and mortification which this last conduct of her 
 husband occasioned Lady Annabel, brought up, as she had 
 been, with feelings of romantic loyalty and unswerving 
 patriotism. To be a traitor seemed the only blot that 
 remained for his sullied scutcheon, and she had never 
 dreamed of that. An infidel, a profligate, a deserter from 
 his home, an apostate from his God! one infamy alone 
 remained, and now he had attained it ; a traitor to his 
 king ! Why, every peasant would despise him ! 
 
 General Herbert, however, for such he speedily became, 
 at the head of his division, soon arrested the attention, and 
 commanded the respect, of Europe. To his exertions the 
 successful result of the struggle was, in a great measure, 
 attributed; and he received the thanks of Congress, of 
 which he became a member. His military and political 
 reputation exercised a beneficial influence upon his literary 
 fame. His works were reprinted in America, and trans- 
 lated into French, and published at Geneva and Basle, 
 whence they were surreptitiously introduced into France. 
 The Whigs, who had become very factious, and nearly revo- 
 lutionary, during the American war, suddenly became proud 
 of their countryman, whom a new world hailed as a deliverer, 
 and Paris declared to be a great poet and an illustrious 
 philosopher. His writings became fashionable, especially 
 among the young ; numerous editions of them appeared, 
 and in time it was discovered that Herbert was now not
 
 224 VENETIA. 
 
 only openly read, and enthusiastically admired, but Lad 
 founded a school. 
 
 The struggle with America ceased about the time of Lord 
 Cadurcis' last visit to Cherbury, when, from his indignant 
 lips, Venetia first learnt the enormities of her father's career. 
 Since that period some three years had elapsed until we 
 introduced our readers to the boudoir of Lady Monteagle. 
 During this period, among the Whigs and their partisans 
 the literary fame of Herbert had arisen and become esta- 
 blished. How they have passed in regard to Lady Annabel 
 Herbert and her daughter, on the one hand, and Lord 
 Cadurcis himself on the other, we will endeavour to ascer- 
 tain in the following chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FEOM the last departure of Lord Cadurcis from Cherbury, 
 the health of Venetia again declined. The truth is, she 
 brooded in solitude over her strange lot, until her nerves 
 became relaxed by intense reverie and suppressed feeling. 
 The attention of a mother so wrapt up in her child as Lady 
 Annabel, was soon attracted to the increasing languor of 
 our heroine, whose eye each day seemed to grow less bright, 
 and her graceful form less lithe and active. No longer, 
 fond of the sun and breeze as a beautiful bird, was Venetia 
 seen, as heretofore, glancing in the garden, or bounding 
 over the lawns ; too often might she be found reclining on 
 the couch, in spite of all the temptations of the spring ; 
 while her temper, once so singularly sweet that it seemed 
 there was not in. the world a word that could ruffle it, and 
 which required so keenly and responded so quickly to 
 sympathy, became reserved, if not absolutely sullen, or at 
 times even captious and fretful. 
 
 This change in the appearance and demeanour of her 
 daughter filled Lady Annabel with anxiety and alarm. In 
 vain she expressed to Venetia her conviction of her in-
 
 VENETIA. 225 
 
 disposition ; but Venetia, though her altered habits con- 
 firmed the suspicion, and authorised the inquiry of her 
 parent, persisted ever in asserting that she had no ailment. 
 Her old medical attendant was, however, consulted, and, 
 being perplexed with the case, he recommended change of 
 air. Lady Annabel then consulted Dr. Masham, and he 
 gave his opinion in favour of change of air for one reason : 
 and that was, that it would bring with it what he had long 
 considered Venetia to stand in need of, and that was change 
 of life. 
 
 Dr. Masham was right ; but then, to guide him in form- 
 ing his judgment, he had the advantage of some psycho- 
 logical knowledge of the case, which, in a greet degree, was 
 a sealed book to the poor puzzled physician. We laugh 
 very often at the errors of medical men ; but if we would 
 only, when we consult them, have strength of mind enough 
 to extend to them something better than a half- confidence, 
 we might be cured the sooner. How often, when the un- 
 happy disciple of Esculapius is perplexing himself about the 
 state of our bodies, we might throw light upon his obscure 
 labours by simply detailing to him the state of our minds ! 
 
 The result of these consultations in the Herbert family 
 was a final resolution, on the part of Lady Annabel, to quit 
 Cherbury for a while. As the sea air was especially re- 
 commended to Yenetia, and as Lady Annabel shrank with 
 a morbid apprehension from society, to which nothing could 
 persuade her she was not an object either of odium or 
 impertinent curiosity, she finally resolved to visit Wey- 
 mouth, then a small and secluded watering-place, and 
 whither she arrived and settled herself, it not being even 
 the season when its few customary visitors were in the 
 habit of gathering. 
 
 This residence at Weymouth quite repaid Lady Annabel 
 for all the trouble of her new settlement, and for the change 
 in her life very painful to her confirmed habits, which she 
 experienced in leaving for the first time for such a long 
 series of years, her old hall ; for the rose returned to the 
 
 Q
 
 226 VENETIA. 
 
 cheek of her daughter, and the western breezes, joined 
 with the influence of the new objects that surrounded her, 
 and especially of that ocean, and its strange and inex- 
 haustible variety, on which she gazed for the first time, 
 gradually, but surely, completed the restoration of Venetia 
 to health, and with it to much of her old vivacity. 
 
 When Lady Annabel had resided about a year at Wey- 
 mouth, in the society of which she had invariably made the 
 indisposition of Venetia a reason for not entering, a great 
 revolution suddenly occurred at this little quiet watering- 
 place, for it was fixed upon as the summer residence of 
 the English court. The celebrated name, the distinguished 
 appearance, and the secluded habits of Lady Annabel and 
 her daughter, had rendered them the objects of general 
 interest. Occasionally they were met in a seaside walk 
 by some fellow- wanderer over the sands, or toiler over the 
 shingles ; and romantic reports of the dignity of the 
 mother and the daughter's beauty were repeated by the 
 fortunate observers to the lounging circle of the public 
 library or the baths. 
 
 The moment that Lady Annabel was assured that the 
 royal family had positively fixed upon Weymouth for their 
 - residence, and were even daily expected, she resolved 
 instantly to retire. Her stern sense of duty assured her 
 that it was neither delicate nor loyal to obtrude before the 
 presence of an outraged monarch the wife and daughter of 
 a traitor; her haughty, though wounded, spirit shrank 
 from the revival of her husband's history, which must be 
 the consequence of such a conjunction, and from the 
 startling and painful remarks which might reach the 
 shrouded ear of her daughter. With her characteristic 
 decision, and with her usual stern volition, Lady Annabel 
 quitted Weymouth instantly, but she was in some degree 
 consoled for the regret and apprehensiveness which she felt 
 at thus leaving a place that had otherwise so happily ful- 
 filled all her hopes and wishes, and that seemed to agree 
 so entirely with Venetia, by finding unexpectedly a marine
 
 VENETIA. 227 
 
 villa, some few miles further up tke coast, which was tin- 
 tenanted, and which offered to Lady Annabel all the ac- 
 commodation she could desire. 
 
 It so happened this summer that Dr. Masham paid the 
 Herberts a visit, and it was his habit occasionally to ride 
 into Weymouth to read the newspaper, or pass an hour in 
 that easy lounging chat, which is, perhaps, one of the prin- 
 cipal diversions of a watering-place. A great dignitary of 
 the church, who was about the Bang, and to whom Dr. 
 Masham was known not merely by reputation, mentioned 
 his presence to his Majesty ; and the King, who was fond 
 of the society of eminent divines, desired that Dr. Masham 
 should be presented to him. J^Tow, so favourable was the 
 impression that the rector of Marringhurst made upon his 
 sovereign, that from that moment the King was scarcely 
 ever content unless he was in attendance. His Majesty, 
 who was happy in asking questions, and much too acute to 
 be baffled when he sought information, finally elicited from 
 the Doctor all that, in order to please Lady Annabel, he 
 long struggled to conceal ; but when the King found that 
 the deserted wife and daughter of Herbert were really living 
 in the neighbourhood, and that they had quitted Weymouth 
 on his arrival, from a feeling of delicate loyalty, nothing- 
 would satisfy the kind-hearted monarch but personally as- 
 suring them of the interest he took in their welfare ; and 
 accordingly, the next day, without giving Lady Annabel 
 even the preparation of a notice, his Majesty and his royal 
 consort, attended only by a lord in waiting, called at the 
 marine villa, and fairly introduced themselves. 
 
 An acquaintance, occasioned by a sentiment of generous 
 and condescending sympathy, was established and strength- 
 ened into intimacy, by the personal qualities of those thus 
 delicately honoured. The King and Queen werei equally 
 delighted with the wife and daughter of the terrible rebel ; 
 and although, of course, not an allusion was made to his 
 existence, Lady Annabel felt not the less acutely the cause 
 to which she was indebted for a notice so gratifying, but 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 VENETIA. 
 
 which she afterwards ensured by her own. merits. How 
 strange are the accidents of life ! Venetia Herbert, who 
 had been bred up in unbroken solitude, and whose con- 
 verse had been confined to two or three beings, suddenly 
 found herself the guest of a king, and the visitor to a 
 court ! She stepped at once from solitude into the most 
 august circle of society ; yet, though she had enjoyed none 
 of that initiatory experience which is usually held so in- 
 dispensable to the votaries of fashion, her happy nature 
 qualified her to play her part without effort and with 
 success. Serene and graceful, she mingled in the strange 
 and novel scene, as if it had been for ever her lot to dazzle 
 and to charm. Ere the royal family returned to London, 
 they extracted from Lady Annabel a compliance with their 
 earnest wishes, that she should fix her residence, during 
 the ensuing season, in the metropolis, and that she should 
 herself present Venetia at St. James's. The wishes of 
 kings are commands ; and Lady Annabel, who thus unex- 
 pectedly perceived some of the most painful anticipations 
 of her solitude at once dissipated, and that her child, in- 
 stead of being subjected on her entrance into life to all the 
 mortifications she had imagined, would, on the contrary, 
 find her first introduction under auspices the most flatter- 
 ing and advantageous, bowed a dutiful assent to the con- 
 descending injunctions. 
 
 Such were the memorable consequences of this visit to 
 Weymouth ! The return of Lady Annabel to the world, 
 and her intended residence in the metropolis, while the 
 good Masham preceded their arrival to receive a mitre. 
 Strange events, and yet not improbable ! 
 
 In the meantime Lord Cadurcis had repaired to the 
 university, where his rank and his eccentric qualities 
 quickly gathered round him a choice circle of intimates, 
 chiefly culled from his old schoolfellows. Of these the 
 great majority were his seniors, for whose society the 
 maturity of his mind qualified him. It so happened that 
 these companions were in general influenced by those liberal
 
 VENETIA. 229 
 
 opinions -which had become in vogue during the American 
 war, and from which Lord Cadurcis had hitherto been 
 preserved by the society in which he had previously mingled 
 in the house of his guardian. With the characteristic 
 caprice and impetuosity of youth, Cadurcis rapidly and 
 ardently imbibed all these doctrines, captivated alike by 
 their boldness and their novelty. Hitherto the child of 
 prejudice, he nattered himself that he was now the creature 
 of reason, and, determined to take nothing for granted, he 
 soon learned to question everything that was received. A 
 friend introduced him to the writings of Herbert, that very 
 Herbert whom he had been taught to look upon with so 
 much terror and odium. Their perusal operated a com- 
 plete revolution of his mind ; and, in little more than a year 
 from his flight from Cherbury, he had become an enthu- 
 siastic votary of the great master, for his violent abuse of 
 whom he had been banished from those happy bowers. 
 The courage, the boldness, the eloquence, the imagination, 
 the strange and romantic career of Herbert, carried the 
 spirit of Cadurcis captive. The sympathetic companions 
 studied his works and smiled with scorn at the prejudice 
 of which their great model had been the victim, and of 
 which they had been so long the dupes. As for Cadurcis, 
 he resolved to emulate him, and he commenced his noble 
 rivalship by a systematic neglect of all the duties and the 
 studies of his college life. His irregular habits procured 
 him constant reprimands in which he gloried ; he revenged 
 himself on the authorities by writing epigrams, and .by 
 keeping a bear, which he declared should stand for a fel- 
 lowship. At length, having wilfully outraged the most 
 important regulations, he was expelled ; and he made his 
 expulsion the subject of a satire equally personal and phi- 
 losophic, and which obtained applause for the great talent 
 which it displayed, even from those who lamented its want 
 of judgment and the misconduct of its writer. Flushed 
 with success, Cadnrcis at length found, to his astonishment, 
 that Nature had intended him for a poet. He repaired to
 
 230 VENETIA. 
 
 London, where he was received with open arms by the 
 Whigs, whose party he immediately embraced, and where 
 he published a poem, in which he painted his own cha- 
 racter as the hero, and of which, in spite of all the ex- 
 aggeration and extravagance of youth, the genius was 
 undeniable. Society sympathised with a young and a noble 
 poet ; his poem was read by all parties with enthusiasm ; 
 Gadurcis became the fashion. To use his own expression, 
 'One morning he awoke, and found himself famous.' 
 Young, singularly handsome, with every gift of nature and 
 fortune, and with an inordinate vanity that raged in his 
 soul, Cadurcis soon forgot the high philosophy that had 
 for a moment attracted him, and delivered himself up to 
 the absorbing egotism which had ever been latent in his 
 passionate and ambitious mind. Gifted with energies that 
 few have ever equalled, and fooled to the bent by the ex- 
 cited sympathies of society, he poured forth his creative 
 and daring spirit with a license that conquered all ob- 
 stacles, from the very audacity with which he assailed 
 them. In a word, the young, the reserved, and unknown 
 Cadurcis, who, but three years back, was to have lived in 
 the domestic solitude for which he alone felt himself fitted, 
 filled every heart and glittered in every eye. The men 
 envied, the women loved, all admired him. His life was a 
 perpetual triumph ; a brilliant and applauding stage, on 
 which he ever played a dazzling and heroic part. So 
 sudden and so startling had been his apparition, so vigorous 
 and unceasing the efforts by which he had maintained his 
 first overwhelming impression, and not merely by his 
 writings, but by his unusual manners and eccentric life, 
 that no one had yet found time to draw his breath, to ob- 
 serve, to inquire, and to criticise. He had risen, and still 
 flamed, like a comet as wild as it was beautiful, and strange 
 as it was brilliant.
 
 
 VENETIA 231 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 WE musi now return to the dinner party at Lord Mont- 
 eagle's. When the Bishop of entered the room, he 
 
 found nearly all the expected guests assembled, and was 
 immediately presented by his host to the lady of the house, 
 who received him with all that fascinating address for which 
 she was celebrated, expressing the extreme delight which 
 she felt at thus becoming formally acquainted with one 
 whom her husband had long taught her to admire and re- 
 verence. Utterly unconscious who had just joined the circle, 
 while Lord Monteagle was introducing his newly-arrived 
 guest to many present, and to all of whom he was unknown 
 except by reputation, Lord Cadurcis was standing apart, 
 apparently wrapt in his own thoughts ; but the truth is, in 
 spite of all the excitement in which he lived, he had diffi- 
 culty in overcoming the natural reserve of his disposition. 
 
 ' Watch Cadurcis,' said Mr. Horace Pole to a fine lady. 
 ' Does not he look sublime ? ' 
 
 'Show me him,' said the lady, eagerly. 'I have never 
 seen him yet ; I am actually dying to know him. You know 
 we have just come to town.' 
 
 ' And have caught the raging epidemic, I see,' said Mr. 
 Pole, with a sneer. ' However, there is the marvellous young 
 gentleman ! " Alone in a crowd, " as he says in his last poem. 
 Very interesting ! ' 
 
 * Wonderful creature ! ' exclaimed the dame. 
 
 ' Charming ! ' said Mr. Pole. ' If you ask Lady Monteagle, 
 she will introduce him to you, and then, perhaps, you will 
 be fortunate enough to be handed to dinner by him.' 
 
 ' Oh ! how I should like it ! ' 
 
 'You must take care, however, not to eat; he cannot 
 endure a woman who eats.' 
 
 ' I never do,' said the lady, simply ; ' at least at dinner.' 
 
 ' Ah ! then you will quite suit him ; I dare say he will 
 write a sonnet to you, and call you Thyrza.'
 
 232 VENETIA. 
 
 ' 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 ns in the autumn, and he has written an ode 
 to my little dog.' 
 
 ' How amiable ! ' said Mr. Pole ; ' I dare say they are as 
 good as his elegy on Mrs. Crewe's cat. But you must not 
 talk of cats and dogs to Cadurcis. He is too exalted to 
 commemorate any animal less sublime than a tiger or a 
 barb.' 
 
 ' You forget his beautiful lines on his Newfoundland,' said 
 the lady. 
 
 ' Very complimentary to us all,' said Mr. Horace Pole. 
 * The interesting misanthrope ! ' 
 
 ' He looks unhappy.' 
 
 * Very,' said Mr. Pole. ' Evidently something on his con- 
 science.' 
 
 ' They do whisper very odd things,' said the lady, with 
 great curiosity. ' Do you think there is anything in them ? ' 
 
 'Oh! no doubt,' said Mr. Pole; 'look at him; you can 
 detect crime in every glance.' 
 
 'Dear me, how shocking ! I think he must be the most 
 interesting person that ever lived. I should so like to know 
 him ! They say he is so very odd.' 
 
 * Very,' said Mr. Pole. ' He must be a man of genius ; he 
 is so unlike everybody ; the very tie of his cravat proves it. 
 And his hair, so savage and dishevelled ; none but a man 
 of genius would not wear powder. Watch him to-day, and 
 you will observe that he will not condescend to perform 
 the slightest act like an ordinary mortal. I met him at 
 dinner yesterday at Fanshawe's, and he touched nothing 
 but biscuits and soda-water. Fanshawe, you know, ia 
 famous for his cook. Complimentary and gratifying, was 
 it not?' 
 
 ' Dear me ! ' said the lady, ' 1 am delighted to see him j 
 and yet I hope I shall not sit by him at dinner. I am quite 
 afraid of him.' 
 
 ' He is really awful ! ' said Mr. Pole.
 
 VEXETIA. 233 
 
 In the meantime the subject of these observations slowly 
 withdrew to the further end of the saloon, apart from every 
 one, and threw himself upon a couch with a somewhat dis- 
 contented air. Lady Monteagle, whose eye had never left 
 him for a moment, although her attentions had been neces- 
 sarily commanded by her guests, and who dreaded the silent 
 rages in which Cadurcis constantly indulged, and which, 
 when once assumed for the day, were with difficulty dissi- 
 pated, seized the first opportunity to join and soothe him. 
 
 ' Dear Cadurcis,' she said, ' why do you sit here ? Tou 
 know I am obliged to speak to all these odious people, and 
 it is very cruel of you.' 
 
 ' Tou seemed to me to be extremely happy,' replied his 
 lordship, in a sarcastic tone. 
 
 ' Now, Cadurcis, for Heaven's sake do not play with my 
 feelings,' exclaimed Lady Monteagle, in a deprecating tone, 
 ' Pray be amiable. If I think you are in one of your dark 
 humours, it is quite impossible for me to attend to these 
 people ; and you know it is the only point on which Mont- 
 eagle ever has an opinien ; he insists upon my attending to 
 his guests.' 
 
 * If you prefer his guests to me, attend to them.' 
 
 ' Now, Cadurcis ! I ask you as a favour, a favour to me, 
 only for to-day. Be kind, be amiable, you can if you like ; 
 no person can be more amiable ; now, do ! " 
 
 ' I am amiable,' said his lordship ; ' I am perfectly satis- 
 fied, if you are. You made me dine here.' 
 
 ' Now, Cadurcis ! ' 
 
 ' Have I not dined here to satisfy you ? 
 
 'Yes ! It was very kind.' 
 
 c But, really, that I should be wearied with all the com- 
 monplaces of these creatures who come to eat your hus- 
 band's cutlets, is too much,' said his lordship. ' And you, 
 Gertrude, what necessity can there be in your troubling 
 yourself to amuse people whom you meet every day of your 
 life, and who, from the vulgar perversity of society, value 
 you in exact proportion as you neglect them ? '
 
 234 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Yes, but to-day I must be attentive ; for Henry, with 
 his usual thoughtlessness, has asked this new bishop to dine 
 with us.' 
 
 'The Bishop of ?' inquired Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. 
 
 * Is he coming ? ' 
 
 ' He has been in the room this quarter of an hour ? ' 
 
 ' What, Masham ! Doctor Masham ! ' continued Lord 
 Cadurcis. 
 
 ' Assuredly.' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis changed colour, and even sighed. He rose 
 rather quickly, and said, ' I must go and speak to him.' 
 
 So, quitting Lady Monteagle, he crossed the room, and 
 with all the simplicity of old days, which instantly returned 
 on him, those melancholy eyes sparkling with animation, 
 and that languid form quick with excitement, he caught 
 the Doctor's glance, and shook his extended hand with a 
 heartiness which astonished the surrounding spectators, 
 accustomed to the elaborate listlessness of his usual 
 manner. 
 
 ' My dear Doctor ! my dear Lord ! I am glad to say,' said 
 Cadurcis, ' this is the greatest and the most unexpected 
 pleasure I ever received. Of all persons in the world, you 
 are the one whom I was most anxious to meet.' 
 
 The good Bishop appeared not less gratified with the 
 rencounter than Cadurcis himself; but, in the midst of 
 their mutual congratulations, dinner was announced and 
 served ; and, in due order, Lord Cadurcis found himself 
 attending that fine lady, whom Mr. Horace Pole had, in 
 jest, suggested should be the object of his services ; while 
 Mr. Pole himself was seated opposite to him at table. 
 
 The lady, remembering all Mr. Pole's intimations, was 
 really much frightened ; she at first could scarcely reply to 
 the casual observations of her neighbour, and quite resolved 
 not to eat anything. But his lively and voluble conversa- 
 tion, his perfectly unaffected manner, and the nonchalance 
 with which he helped himself to every dish that was offered 
 him, soon reassured her. Her voice became a little firmer,
 
 VENETIA. 235 
 
 her manner less embarrassed, and she even began medita- 
 ting a delicate assault upon a fricassee. 
 
 * Are you going to Ranelagh to-night ? ' inquired Lord 
 Cadurcis ; ' I think I shall take a round. There is nothing 
 like amusement ; it is the only thing worth living for ; and I 
 thank my destiny I am easily amused. We must persuade 
 Lady Monteagle to go with us. Let us make a party, and 
 return and sup. I like a supper ; nothing in the world 
 more charming than a supper, 
 
 A lobster salad, and champagne and chat. 
 
 That is life, and delightful. Why, really, my dear madam, 
 you eat nothing. You will never be able to endure the 
 fatigues of a Ranelagh campaign on the sustenance of a 
 pate. Pole, my good fellow, will you take a glass of wine ? 
 We had a pleasant party yesterday at Fanshawe's, and 
 apparently a capital dinner. I was sorry that I could not 
 play my part ; but I have led rather a raking life lately. 
 We must go and dine with him again.' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis' neighbour and Mr. Pole exchanged looks ; 
 and the lady, emboldened by the unexpected conduct of her 
 cavalier and the exceeding good friends which he seemed re- 
 solved to be with her and every one else, began to flatter 
 herself that she might yet obtain the much-desired inscrip- 
 tion in her volume. So, after making the usual approaches, of 
 having a great favour to request, which, however, she could 
 not flatter herself would be granted, and which she even 
 was afraid to mention ; encouraged by the ready declaration 
 of Lord Cadurcis, that he should think it would be quite 
 impossible for any one to deny her anything, the lady ven- 
 tured to state, that Mr. Pox had written something in her 
 book, and she should be the most honoured and happiest 
 lady in the land if ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I shall be most happy,' said Lord Cadurcis ; ' I 
 really esteem your request quite an honour : you know I 
 am only a literary amateur, and cannot pretend to vie 
 with your real authors. If you want them, you must go 
 to Mrs. Montagu. I would not write a line for her, and
 
 236 VENETIA. 
 
 so the blues have quite excommunicated me. Never mind ; 
 I leave them to Miss Hannah More ; but you, you are quite 
 a different sort of person. What shall I write ? ' 
 
 ' I must leave the subject to you,' said his gratified friend. 
 
 ' "Well, then,' said his lordship, ' I dare say you have got 
 a lapdog or a broken fan ; I don't think I could soar above 
 them. I think that is about my tether.' 
 
 This lady, though a great person, was not a beauty, and 
 very little of a wit, and not calculated in any respect to 
 excite the jealousy of Lady Monteagle. In the meantime 
 that lady was quite delighted with the unusual animation 
 of Lord Cadurcis, who was much the most entertaining 
 member of the party. Every one present would circulate 
 throughout the world that it was only at the Monteagle' s 
 that Lord Cadurcis condescended to be amusing. As the 
 Bishop was seated on her right hand, Lady Monteagle seized 
 the opportunity of making inquiries as to their acquaint- 
 ance ; but she only obtained from the good Masham that 
 he had once resided in his lordship's neighbourhood, and 
 had known him as a child, and was greatly attached to him. 
 Her ladyship was anxious to obtain some juvenile anecdotes 
 of her hero ; but the Bishop contrived to be amusing with- 
 out degenerating into gossip. She did not glean much, 
 except that all his early friends were more astonished at his 
 present career than the Bishop himself, who was about to 
 add, that he always had some misgivings, but, recollecting 
 where he was, he converted the word into a more gracious 
 term. But if Lady Monteagle were not so successful as she 
 could wish in her inquiries, she contrived still to speak on 
 the, to her, ever-interesting subject, and consoled herself 
 by the communications which she poured into a guarded 
 yet not unwilling ear, respecting the present life and con- 
 duct of the Bishop's former pupil. The worthy dignitary 
 had been prepared by public fame for much that was 
 dazzling and eccentric ; but it must be confessed he was 
 not a little astonished by a great deal to which he listened. 
 One thing, however, was clear, that whatever might be the
 
 VENETIA. 237 
 
 demeanour of Cadurcis to the circle in which he now moved, 
 time, and the strange revolutions of his life, had not affected 
 his carriage to his old friend. It gratified the Bishop while 
 he listened to Lady Monteagle's details of the haughty, re- 
 served, and melancholy demeanour of Cadurcis, which im- 
 pressed every one with an idea that some superior being 
 had, as a punishment, been obliged to visit their humble 
 globe, to recall the apparently heartfelt cordiality with which 
 he had resumed his old acquaintance with the former rector 
 of Marringhurst. 
 
 And indeed, to speak truth, the amiable and unpretend- 
 ing behaviour of Cadurcis this day was entirely attributable 
 to the unexpected meeting with this old friend. In the 
 hurry of society he could scarcely dwell upon the associa- 
 tions which it was calculated to call up ; yet more than 
 once he found himself quite absent, dwelling on sweet 
 recollections of that Cherbury that he had so loved. And 
 ever and anon the tones of a familiar voice caught his ear, 
 so that they almost made him start : they were not the less 
 striking, because, as Masham was seated on the same side 
 of the table as Cadurcis, his eye had not become habitu- 
 ated to the Bishop's presence, which sometimes he almost 
 doubted. 
 
 He seized the first opportunity after dinner of engaging 
 his old tutor in conversation. He took him affectionately 
 by the arm, and led him, as if unintentionally, to a sofa 
 apart from the rest of the company, and seated himself by 
 his side. Cadurcis was agitated, for he was about to inquire 
 of some whom he could not mention without emotion. 
 
 ' Is it long since you have seen our friends ? ' said his 
 lordship, ' if indeed I may call them mine.' 
 
 ' Lady Annabel Herbert ? ' said the Bishop. 
 
 Cadurcis bowed. 
 
 ' I parted from her about two months back,' continued 
 the Bishop. 
 
 ' And Cherbury, dear Cherbury, is it unchanged ? ' 
 
 ' They have not resided there for more than two years.'
 
 238 VEKETIA. 
 
 'Indeed!' 
 
 ' They have lived, of late, at Weymouth, for the benefit 
 of the sea air.' 
 
 ' I hope neither Lady Annabel nor her daughter needs 
 it ? ' said Lord Cadurcis, in a tone of much feeling. 
 
 ' Neither now, God be praised ! ' replied Masham ; ' but 
 Miss Herbert has been a great invalid.' 
 
 There was a rather awkward silence. At length Lord 
 Cadurcis said, ' We meet rather unexpectedly, my dear sir.' 
 
 ' Why, you have become a great man,' said the Bishop, 
 with a smile ; ' and one must expect to meet you.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear friend,' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, with a 
 sigh, ' I would willingly give a whole existence of a life 
 like this for one year of happiness at Cherbury.' 
 
 ' Nay ! ' said the Bishop, with a look of good-natured 
 mockery, ' this melancholy is all very well in poetry ; but 
 I always half-suspected, and I am quite sure now, that 
 Cherbury was not particularly adapted to you.' 
 
 ' You mistake me,' said Cadurcis, mournfully shaking 
 his head. 
 
 ' Hitherto I have not been so very wrong in my judgment 
 respecting Lord Cadurcis, that I am inclined very easily to 
 give up my opinion,' replied the Bishop. 
 
 ' I have often thought of the conversation to which you 
 allude,' replied Lord Cadurcis; 'nevertheless, there is one 
 opinion I never changed, one sentiment that still reigns 
 paramount in my heart.' 
 
 ' You think so,' said his companion ; but, perhaps, were 
 it more than a sentiment, it would cease to flourish.' 
 
 ' No,' said Lord Cadurcis firmly ; ' the only cireumstance 
 in the world of which I venture to feel certain is my love for 
 Venetia.' 
 
 ' It raged certainly during your last visit to Cherbury,' 
 said the Bishop, ' after an interval of five years ; it has 
 been revived slightly to-day, after an interval of three more, 
 by the sight of a mutual acquaintance, who has reminded 
 you of her. But what have been your feelings in the
 
 VENETIA. 239 
 
 meantime ? Confess the truth, and admit you have very 
 rarely spared a thought to the person to whom you fancy 
 yourself at this moment so passionately devoted.' 
 
 'You do not do me justice,' said Lord Cadurcis ; 'you 
 are prejudiced against me.' 
 
 ' Nay ! prejudice is not my humour, my good lord. I 
 decide only from what I myself observe ; I give my opinion 
 to you at this moment as freely as I did when you last 
 conversed with me at the abbey, and when I a little dis- 
 pleased you by speaking what you will acknowledge has 
 since turned out to be the truth.' 
 
 ' You mean, then, to say,' said his lordship, with some 
 excitement, ' that you do not believe that I love Venetia ? ' 
 
 ' I think you do, at this moment,' replied Masham ; ' and 
 I think,' he continued, smiling, ' that you may probably 
 continue very much in love with her, even during the rest 
 of the week.' 
 
 * You mock me ! ' 
 
 'Nay! I am sincerely serious.' 
 
 ' What, then, do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' I mean that your imagination, my lord, dwelling for 
 the moment with great power upon the idea of Venetia, . 
 becomes inflamed, and your whole mind is filled with her 
 image.' 
 
 'A metaphysical description of being in love,' said Lord 
 Cadurcis, rather dryly. 
 
 ' Nay ! ' said Masham, ' I think the heart has something 
 to do with that.' 
 
 ' But the imagination acts upon the heart,' rejoined his 
 companion. 
 
 ' But it is in the nature of its influence not to endure. 
 At this moment, I repeat, your lordship may perhaps love 
 Miss Herbert ; you may go home and muse over her 
 memory, and even deplore in passionate verses your misery 
 in being separated from her ; but, in the course of a few 
 days, she will be again forgotten.' 
 
 ' But were she mine ? ' urged Lord Cadurcis, eagerly.
 
 240 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Why, you would probably part from her in a year, as 
 her father parted from Lady Annabel.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! for my imagination could not conceive any- 
 thing more exquisite than she is.' 
 
 ' Then it would conceive something less exquisite,' said 
 the Bishop. ' It is a restless quality, and is ever creative, 
 either of good or of evil.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear Doctor, excuse me for again calling yon 
 Doctor, it is so natural,' said Cadurcis, in a tone of 
 affection. 
 
 ' Call me what you will, my dear lord,' said the good 
 Bishop, whose heart was moved ; ' I can never forget old 
 days.' 
 
 ' Believe me, then,' continued Cadurcis, ' that you mis- 
 judge me in respect of Venetia. I feel assured that, had 
 we married three years ago, I should have been a much 
 happier man.' 
 
 ' Why, you have everything to make you happy,' said 
 the Bishop ; ' if you are not happy, who should be ? You 
 are young, and you are famous : all that is now wanted is 
 to be wise.' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis shrugged his shoulders. ' I am tired of 
 this life,' he said ; ' I am wearied of the same hollow bustle, 
 and the same false glitter day after day. Ah ! my dear 
 friend, when I remember the happy hours when I used to 
 roam, through the woods of Cherbury with Venetia, and 
 ramble in that delicious park, both young, both innocent, 
 lit by the sunset and guided by the stars ; and then re- 
 member that it has all ended in this, and that this is 
 success, glory, fame, or whatever be the proper title to 
 baptize the babble, the burthen of existence is too great 
 for me.' 
 
 ' Hush, hush ! ' said his friend, rising from the sofa ; 
 'you will be happy if you be wise.' 
 
 ' But what is wisdom? ' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' One quality of it, in your situation, my lord, is to keep 
 your head as calm as you can. Now, I must bid you good 
 night.'
 
 VENETIA. 241 
 
 The Bishop disappeared, and Lord Cadurcis was imme- 
 diately surrounded by several fine ladies, who were en- 
 couraged by the flattering bulletin that his neighbour at 
 dinner, who was among them, had given of his lordship's 
 temper. They were rather disappointed to find him sullen, 
 sarcastic, and even morose. As for going to Ranelagh, he 
 declared that, if he had the power of awarding the punish- 
 ment of his bitterest enemy, it would be to consign him for 
 an hour to the barbarous infliction of a promenade in that 
 temple of ennui ; and as for the owner of the album, who, 
 anxious about her verses, ventured to express a hope that 
 his lordship would call upon her, the contemptuous bard 
 gave her what he was in the habit of styling 'a look,' and 
 quitted the room, without deigning otherwise to acknow- 
 ledge her hopes and her courtesy. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WE must now return to our friends the Herberts, who, 
 having quitted" Weymouth, without even revisiting Cher- 
 bury, are now on their journey to the metropolis. It was 
 not without considerable emotion that Lady Annabel, after 
 an absence of nearly nineteen years, contemplated her 
 return to the scene of some of the most extraordinary and 
 painful occurrences of her life. As for Venetia, who knew 
 nothing of towns and cities, save from the hasty obser- 
 vations she had made in travelling, the idea of London, 
 formed only from books and her imagination, was invested 
 with even awful attributes. Mistress Pauncefort alone looked 
 forward to their future residence simply with feelings of 
 self-congratulation at her return, after so long an interval, 
 to the theatre of former triumphs and pleasures, and where 
 she conceived herself so eminently qualified to shine and to 
 enjoy. 
 
 The travellers entered town towards nightfall, by Hyde 
 Park Corner, and proceeded to an hotel in St. James's
 
 242 VENETIA. 
 
 Street, where Lady Annabel's man of business had engaged 
 them apartments. London, with its pallid parish lamps, 
 scattered at long intervals, would have presented but a 
 gloomy appearance to the modern eye, habituated to all the 
 splendour of gas ; but to Venetia it seemed difficult to con- 
 ceive a scene of more brilliant bustle ; and she leant back 
 in the carriage, distracted with the lights and the confusion 
 of the crowded streets. When they were once safely lodged 
 in their new residence, the tumult of unpacking the car- 
 riages had subsided, and the ceaseless tongue of Pauncefort 
 had in some degree refrained from its wearying and worry- 
 ing chatter, a feeling of loneliness, after all this agitation 
 and excitement, simultaneously came over the feelings of 
 both mother and daughter, though they alike repressed its 
 expression. Lady Annabel was lost in many sad thoughts, 
 and Yenetia felt mournful, though she could scarcely define 
 the cause. Both were silent, and they soon sought refuge 
 from fatigue and melancholy in sleep. 
 
 The next morning, it being now April, was fortunately 
 bright and clear. It certainly was a happy fortune that 
 the fair Venetia was not greeted with a fog. She rose re- 
 freshed and cheerful, and joined her mother, who was, 
 however, not a little agitated by an impending visit, of 
 which Venetia had been long apprised. This was from 
 Lady Annabel's brother, the former ambassador, who had 
 of late returned to his native country. The brother and 
 sister had been warmly attached in youth, but the awful 
 interval of time that had elapsed since they parted, filled 
 Venetia's mother with many sad and serious reflections. 
 The Earl and his family had been duly informed of Lady 
 Annabel's visit to the metropolis, and had hastened to offer 
 her the hospitality of their home ; but the offer had been 
 declined, with feelings, however, not a little gratified by the 
 earnestness with which it had been proffered. 
 
 Venetia was now, for the first time in her life, to see a 
 relative. The anticipated meeting excited in her mind 
 rather curiosity than sentiment. She could not share the
 
 VENETIA. 243 
 
 agitation of her mother, and yet she looked forward to the 
 arrival of her uncle with extreme inquisitiveness. She was 
 not long kept in suspense. Their breakfast was scarcely 
 finished, when he was announced. Lady Annabel turned 
 rather pale ; and Venetia, who felt herself as it were a 
 stranger to her blood, would have retired, had not her 
 mother requested her to remain ; so she only withdrew to 
 the back of the apartment. 
 
 Her uncle was ten years the senior of his sister, but not 
 unlike her. Tall, graceful, with those bland and sympa- 
 thising manners that easily win hearts, he entered the room 
 with a smile of affection, yet with a composure of deport- 
 ment that expressed at the same time how sincerely de- 
 lighted he was at the meeting, and how considerately 
 determined, at the same time, not to indulge in a scene. 
 He embraced his sister with tenderness, assured her that 
 she looked as young as ever, softly chided her for not 
 making his house her home, and hoped that they should 
 never part again ; and he then turned to his niece. A fine 
 observer, one less interested in the scene than the only 
 witnesses, might have detected in the Earl, notwithstand- 
 ing his experienced breeding, no ordinary surprise and 
 gratification at the sight of the individual whose relation- 
 ship he was now to claim for the first time. 
 
 'I must claim an uncle's privilege,' he said, in a tone of 
 sweetness and some emotion, as he pressed with his own 
 the beautiful lips of Venetia. ' I ought to be proud of my 
 niece. Why, Annabel ! if only for the honour of our 
 .family, you should not have kept this jewel so long en- 
 shrined in the casket of Cherbury.' 
 
 The Earl remained with them some hours, and his visit 
 was really prolonged by the unexpected pleasure which he 
 found in the society of his relations. He would not leave 
 them until they promised to dine with him that day, and 
 mentioned that he had prevented his wife from calling 
 with him that morning, because he thought, after so long a 
 separation, it might be better to meet thus quietly. Then 
 
 K 2
 
 244 VENETIA. 
 
 they parted with affectionate cordiality on both sides ; the 
 Earl enchanted to find delightful companions where he was 
 half afraid he might only meet tiresome relatives ; Lady 
 Annabel proud of her brother, and gratified by his kind- 
 ness ; and Venetia anxious to ascertain whether all her re- 
 lations were as charming as her uncle. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WHEN Lady Annabel and her daughter returned from their 
 morning drive, they found the visiting ticket of the 
 Countess on the table, who had also left a note, with which 
 she had provided herself in case she was not so fortunate as 
 to meet her relations. The note was affectionate, and ex- 
 pressed the great delight of the writer at again meeting her 
 dear sister, and forming an acquaintance with her charming 
 niece. 
 
 ' More relations ! ' said Venetia, with a somewhat droll 
 expression of countenance. 
 
 At this moment the Bishop of , who had already 
 
 called twice upon them unsuccessfully, entered the room. 
 The sight of this old and dear friend gave great joy. He 
 came to engage them to dine with him the next day, having 
 already ineffectually endeavoured to obtain them for per- 
 manent guests. They sat chatting so long with him, that 
 they were obliged at last to bid him an abrupt adieu, and 
 hasten and make their toilettes for their dinner. 
 
 Their hostess received her relations with a warmth which 
 her husband's praises of her sister-in-law and niece had ori- 
 ginally prompted, but which their appearance and manners 
 instantly confirmed. As all the Earl's children were mar- 
 ried, their party consisted to-day only of themselves ; but 
 it was a happy and agreeable meeting, for every one was 
 desirous of being amiable. To be sure they had not many 
 recollections or associations in common, and no one recurred 
 to the past ; but London, and the history of its fleeting
 
 VENETIA. 245 
 
 hours, vras an inexhaustible source of amusing conversation ; 
 and the Countess seemed resolved that Venetia should have 
 a brilliant season; that she should be much amused and 
 much admired. Lady Annabel, however, put in a plea for 
 moderation, at least until Venetia was presented ; but that 
 the Countess declared must be at the next drawing-room, 
 which was early in the ensuing week. Venetia listened to 
 glittering narratives of balls and routs, operas and theatres, 
 breakfasts and masquerades, Ranelagh and the Pantheon, 
 with the same smiling composure as if she had been accus- 
 tomed to them all her life, instead of having been shut up in 
 a garden, with no livelier or brighter companions than birds 
 and flowers. 
 
 After dinner, as her aunt and uncle and Lady Annabel 
 sat round the fire, talking of her maternal grandfather, a 
 subject which did not at all interest her, Venetia stole from 
 her chair to a table in a distant part of the room, and turned 
 over some books and music that were lying upon it. Among 
 these was a literary journal, which she touched almost by 
 accident, and which opened, with the name of Lord Ca- 
 durcis on the top of its page. This, of course, instantly 
 attracted her attention. Her eye passed hastily over some 
 sentences which greatly astonished her, and, extending her 
 arm for a chair without quitting the book, she was soon 
 deeply absorbed by the marvels which rapidly unfolded 
 themselves to her. The article in question was an elaborate 
 criticism as well of the career as the works of the noble poet ; 
 for, indeed, as Venetia now learnt, they were inseparably 
 blended. She gathered from these pages a faint and hasty 
 yet not altogether unfaithful conception of the strange re- 
 volution that had occurred in the character, pursuits, and 
 position of her former companion. In that mighty metro- 
 polis, whose wealth and luxury and power had that morning 
 so vividly impressed themselves upon her consciousness, 
 and to the history of whose pleasures and brilliant and fan- 
 tastic dissipation she had recently been listening with a 
 lively and diverted ear, it seemed that, by some rapid and
 
 246 VENETIA. 
 
 magical vicissitude, her little Plantagenet, the faithful and 
 affectionate companion of her childhood, whose sorrows she 
 had so often soothed, and who in her pure and devoted love 
 had always found consolation and happiness, had become 
 ' the observed of all observers ; ' the most remarkable where 
 all was striking, and dazzling where all were brilliant ! 
 
 His last visit to Cherbury, and its strange consequences, 
 then occurred to her ; his passionate addresses, and their 
 bitter parting. Here was surely matter enough for a 
 maiden's reverie, and into a reverie Venetia certainly fell, 
 from which she was roused by the voice of her uncle, who 
 could not conceive what book his charming niece could find 
 so interesting, and led her to feel what an ill compliment 
 she was paying to all present. Venetia hastily closed the 
 volume, and rose rather confused from her seat ; her radiant 
 smile was the best apology to her uncle : and she compen- 
 sated for her previous inattention, by playing to him on the 
 harpsichord. All the time, however, the image of Cadurcis 
 flitted across her vision, and she was glad when her mother 
 moved to retire, that she might enjoy the opportunity of 
 pondering in silence and unobserved over the strange history 
 that she had read. 
 
 London is a wonderful place ! Four-and-twenty hours 
 back, with a feeling of loneliness and depression amounting 
 to pain, Venetia had fled to sleep as her only refuge ; now 
 only a day had passed, and she had both seen and heard 
 many things that had alike startled and pleased her ; had 
 found powerful and charming friends ; and laid her head 
 upon her pillow in a tumult of emotion that long banished 
 slumber from her beautiful eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 
 VENETIA soon found that she must bid adieu for ever, in 
 London, to her old habits of solitude. She soon discovered 
 that she was never to be alone. Her aunt called upon them
 
 VENETIA. 247 
 
 early in the morning, and said that the whole day must be 
 devoted to their court dresses ; and in a few minutes they 
 were all whirled off to a celebrated milliner's. After innu- 
 merable consultations and experiments, the dress of Venetia 
 was decided on; her aunt and Lady Annabel were both 
 assured that it would exceed in splendour and propriety 
 any dress at the drawing-room. Indeed, as the great artist 
 added, with such a model to work from it would reflect but 
 little credit on the establishment, if any approached Miss 
 Herbert in the effect she must inevitably produce. 
 
 While her mother was undergoing some of those attentions 
 to which Venetia had recently submitted, and had retired 
 for a few minutes into an adjoining apartment, our little 
 lady of Cherbury strolled about the saloon in which she had 
 been left, until her attention was attracted by a portrait 
 of a young man in an oriental dress, standing very sub- 
 limely amid the ruins of some desert city a palm tree 
 in the distance, and by his side a crouching camel, and 
 some recumbent followers slumbering amid the fallen 
 columns. 
 
 ' That is Lord Cadurcis, my love,' said her aunt, who at 
 the moment joined her, ' the famous poet. All the young 
 ladies are in love with him, I dare say you know his works 
 by heart.' 
 
 'No, indeed, aunt,' said Venetia; 'I have never even 
 read them ; but I should like very much.' 
 
 ' Not read Lord Cadurcis' poems ! Oh ! we must go and 
 get them directly for you. Everybody reads them. You 
 will be looked upon quite as a little barbarian. We will 
 stop the carriage at Stockdale's, and get them for you.' 
 
 At this moment Lady Annabel rejoined them ; and, having 
 made all their arrangements, they re-entered the carriage. 
 
 ' Stop at Stockdale's,' said her ladyship to the servant ; 
 ' I must get Cadurcis' last poem for Venetia. She will be 
 quite back in her learning, Annabel.' 
 
 ' Cadurcis' last poem ! ' said Lady Annabel ; ' do you mean 
 Lord Cadurcis ? Is he a poet ? '
 
 248 VENETIA. 
 
 ' To be sure ! Well, you are countrified not to know Lord 
 Cadurcis ! ' 
 
 ' I know him very well,' said Lady Annabel, gravely ; ' but 
 I did not know he was a poet.' 
 
 The Countess laughed, the carriage stopped, the book was 
 brought ; Lady Annabel looked uneasy, and tried to catch 
 her daughter's countenance, but, strange to say, for the first 
 time in her life was quite unsuccessful. The Countess took 
 the book, and immediately gave it Venetia. ' There, my 
 dear,' said her aunt, ' there never was anything so charming. 
 I am so provoked that Cadurcis is a Whig.' 
 
 ' A Whig ! ' said Lady Annabel ; ' he was not a Whig when 
 3. knew him.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear, I am afraid he is worse than a Whig. He 
 is almost a rebel ! But then he is such a genius ! Every- 
 thing is allowed, you know, to a genius ! ' said the thought- 
 less sister-in-law. 
 
 Lady Annabel was silent ; but the stillness of her emo- 
 tion must not be judged from the stillness of her tongue. 
 Her astonishment at all she had heard was only equalled by 
 what we may justly term her horror. It was impossible 
 that she could have listened to any communication at the 
 same time so astounding, and to her so fearful. 
 
 ' We knew Lord Cadurcis when he was very young, aunt,' 
 said Venetia, in a quiet tone. ' He lived near mamma, in 
 the country.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear Annabel, if you see him in town bring 
 him to me ; he is the most difficult person in the world to 
 get to one's house, and I would give anything if he would 
 come and dine with me.' 
 
 The Countess at last set her relations down at their 
 hotel. When Lady Annabel was once more alone with her 
 daughter, she said, 'Venetia, dearest, give me that book 
 your aunt lent you.' 
 
 Venetia immediately handed it to her, but her mother did 
 not open it ; but saying, ' The Bishop dines at four, darling ; I 
 think it is time for us to dress,' Lady Annabel left the room.
 
 VENETIA. 249 
 
 To say the truth, Venetia was less surprised than disap- 
 pointed by this conduct of her mother's ; but she was not 
 apt to murmur, and she tried to dismiss the subject from 
 her thoughts. 
 
 It was with unfeigned delight that the kind-hearted 
 Masham welcomed under his own roof his two best and 
 dearest friends. He had asked nobody to meet them ; it 
 was settled that they were to be quite alone, and to talk of 
 nothing but Cherbury and Marringhurst. When they were 
 seated at table, the Bishop, who had been detained at the 
 House of Lords, and been rather hurried to be in time to 
 receive his guests, turned to his servant and inquired whether 
 any one had called. 
 
 ' Yes, my lord, Lord Cadurcis,' was the reply. 
 
 ' Our old companion,' said the Bishop to Lady Annabel, 
 with a smile. ' He has called upon me twice, and I have 
 on both occasions unfortunately been absent.' 
 
 Lady Annabel merely bowed an assent to the Bishop's 
 remark. Venetia longed to speak, but found it impossible. 
 ' What is it that represses me ? ' she asked herself. ' Is 
 there to be another forbidden subject insensibly to arise 
 between us ? I must struggle against this indefinable des- 
 potism that seems to pervade my life.' 
 
 ' Have you met Lord Cadurcis, sir ? ' at length asked 
 Venetia. 
 
 ' Once ; we resumed our acquaintance at a dinner party 
 one day; but I shall soon see a great deal of him, for he 
 has just taken his seat. He is of age, you know.' 
 
 ' I hope he has come to years of discretion in every sense,' 
 said Lady Annabel ; ' but I fear not.' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear lady ! ' said the Bishop, ' he has become a 
 great man ; he is our star. I assure you there is nobody in 
 London talked of but Lord Cadurcis. He asked me a great 
 deal after you and Cherbury. He will be delighted to see 
 you.' 
 
 ' I cannot say,' replied Lady Annabel, ' that the desire of 
 meeting is at all mutual. From all I hear, our connections
 
 250 VENETIA. 
 
 and opinions are very different, and I dare say our habits 
 likewise.' 
 
 ' My aunt lent us his new poem to- day,' said Yenetia, 
 boldly. 
 
 ' Have you read it ? ' asked the Bishop. 
 
 * I am no admirer of modern poetry,' said Lady Annabel, 
 somewhat tartly. 
 
 ' Poetry of any kind is not much in my way,' said the 
 Bishop, ' but if you like to read his poems, I will lend them 
 to you, for he gave me a copy ; esteemed a great honour, I 
 assure you.' 
 
 ' Thank you, my lord,' said Lady Annabel, ' both Yenetia 
 and myself are much engaged now ; and I do not wish her 
 to read while she is in London. When we return to Cher- 
 bury she will have abundance of time, if desirable.' 
 
 Both Yenetia and her worthy host felt 'that the present 
 subject of conversation was not agreeable to Lady Annabel, 
 and it was changed. They fell upon more gracious topics, 
 and in spite of this somewhat sullen commencement the 
 meeting was quite as delightful as they anticipated. Lady 
 Annabel particularly exerted herself to please, and, as was 
 invariably the case under such circumstances with this lady, 
 she was eminently successful ; she apparently endeavoured, 
 by her remarkable kindness to her daughter, to atone for 
 any unpleasant feeling which her previous manner mightJfor 
 an instant have occasioned. Yenetia watched her beautiful 
 and affectionate parent, as Lady Annabel now dwelt with 
 delight upon the remembrance of their happy home, and 
 now recurred to the anxiety she naturally felt about her 
 daughter's approaching presentation, with feelings of love 
 and admiration, which made her accuse herself for the recent 
 rebellion of her heart. She thought only of her mother's 
 sorrows, and her devotion to her child ; and, grateful for 
 the unexpected course of circumstances which seemed to 
 be leading every member of their former little society to 
 honour and happiness, she resolved to persist in that career 
 of duty and devotion to her mother, from which it seemed
 
 VENETIA. 251 
 
 to her she had never deviated for a moment but to expe- 
 rience sorrow, misfortune, and remorse. Never did Venetia 
 receive her mother's accustomed embrace and blessing with 
 more responsive tenderness and gratitude than this night. 
 She banished Cadurcis and his poems from her thoughts, 
 confident that, so long as her mother approved neither of 
 her continuing his acquaintance, nor perusing his writings, 
 it was well that the one should be a forgotten tie, and the 
 other a sealed book. 
 
 CHAPTER Yin. 
 
 AMONG the intimate acquaintances of Lady Annabel's 
 brother was the nobleman who had been a minister during 
 the American war, and who had also been the guardian of 
 Lord Cadurcis, of whom, indeed, he was likewise a distant 
 relative. He had called with his wife on Lady Annabel, 
 after meeting her and her daughter at her brother's, and 
 had cultivated her acquaintance with great kindness and 
 assiduity, so that Lady Annabel had found it impossible to 
 refuse his invitation to dinner. 
 
 This dinner occurred a few days after the visit of the 
 Herberts to the Bishop, and that excellent personage, her 
 own family, and some others equally distinguished, but all 
 of the ministerial party, were invited to meet her. Lady 
 Annabel found herself placed at table between a pompous 
 courtier, who, being a gourmand, was not very prompt to 
 disturb his enjoyment by conversation, and a young man 
 whom she found very agreeable, and who at first, indeed, 
 attracted her attention by his resemblance to some face 
 with which she felt she was familiar, and yet which she 
 was not successful in recalling. His manners were re- 
 markably frank and ingenuous, yet soft and refined. With- 
 out having any peculiar brilliancy of expression, he was 
 apt and fluent, and his whole demeanour characterised by
 
 252 VENETIA. 
 
 a gentle modesty that was highly engaging. Apparently 
 he had travelled a great deal, for he more than once 
 alluded to his experience of foreign countries ; but this was 
 afterwards explained by Lady Annabel discovering, from 
 an observation he let fall, that he was a sailor. A passing 
 question from an opposite guest also told her- that' he was a 
 member of parliament. While she was rather anxiously 
 wishing to know who he might be, and congratulating her- 
 self that one in whose favour she was so much prepossessed 
 should be on the right side, their host saluted him from 
 the top of the table, and said, ' Captain Cadurcis, a glass of 
 wine.' 
 
 The countenance was now explained. It was indeed 
 Lord Cadurcis whom he resembled, though his eyes were 
 dark blue, and his hair light brown. This then was that 
 cousin who had been sent to sea to make his fortune, and 
 whom Lady Annabel had a faint recollection of poor Mrs. 
 Cadurcis once mentioning. George Cadurcis had not ex- 
 actly made his fortune, but he had distinguished himself in 
 his profession, and especially in Rodney's victory, and had 
 fought his way up to the command of a frigate. The frigate 
 had recently been paid off, and he had called to pay his re- 
 spects to his noble relative with the hope of obtaining his 
 interest for a new command. The guardian of his cousin, 
 mortified with the conduct of his hopeful ward, was not 
 very favourably impressed towards any one who bore the 
 name of Cadurcis ; yet George, with no pretence, had a 
 winning honest manner that made friends ; his lordship 
 took a fancy to him, and, as he could not at the moment 
 -obtain him a ship, he did the next best thing for him in his 
 power ; a borough was vacant, and he put him into par- 
 liament. 
 
 ' Do you know,' said Lady Annabel to her neighbour, ' I 
 have been fancying all dinner time that we had met before ; 
 but I find it is that you only resemble one with whom I 
 was once acquainted.' 
 
 ' My cousin ! ' said the Captain ; ' he will be very mortified
 
 VENETIA. 253 
 
 when I go home, if I tell him your ladyship speaks of his 
 acquaintance as one that is past.' 
 
 ' It is some years since we met,' said Lady Annabel, in a 
 more reserved tone. 
 
 ' Plantagenet can never forget what he owes to you,' said 
 Captain Cadurcis. ' How often has he spoken to me of you 
 and Miss Herbert ! It was only the other night ; yes ! not 
 a week ago ; that he made me sit up with him all night, 
 while he was telling stories of Cherbury: you see I am 
 quite familiar with the spot,' he added, smiling. 
 
 'You are very intimate with your cousin, I see,' said 
 Lady Annabel. 
 
 'I live a great deal with him,' said George Cadurcis. 
 ' You know we had never met or communicated ; and it 
 was not Plantagenet's fault, I am sure ; for of all the gene- 
 rous, amiable, lovable beings, Cadurcis is the best I ever 
 met with in this world. Ever since we knew each other 
 he has been a brother to me ; and though our politics and 
 opinions are so opposed, and we naturally live in such a 
 different circle, he would have insisted even upon my 
 having apartments in his house ; nor is it possible for me 
 to give you the slightest idea of the delicate and unceasing 
 kindness I experience from him. If we had lived together 
 all our lives, it would be impossible to be more united.' 
 
 This eulogium rather softened Lady Annabel's heart ; she 
 even observed, ' I always thought Lord Cadurcis naturally 
 well disposed ; I always hoped he would turn out well ; but 
 I was afraid, from what I heard, he was much changed. 
 He shows, however, his sense and good feeling in selecting 
 you for his friend ; for you are his natural one,' she added, 
 after a momentary pause. 
 
 ' And then you know,' he continued, ' it is so purely kind 
 of him ; for of course I am not fit to be a companion for 
 Cadurcis, and perhaps, as far as that, no one is. Of course 
 -we have not a thought in common. I know nothing but 
 what I have picked up in a rough life ; and he, you know, 
 is the cleverest person that ever lived, at least I think so.'
 
 254 VENETIA. 
 
 Lady Annabel smiled. 
 
 ' Well, he is very young,' she observed, ' much your junior, 
 Captain Cadurcis ; and I hope he will yet prove a faithful 
 steward of the great gifts that God has given him.' 
 
 ' I would stake all I hold dear,' said the Captain, with 
 great animation, ' that Cadurcis turns out well. He has such 
 a good heart. Ah ! Lady Annabel, if he be now and then 
 a little irregular, only think of the temptations that assail 
 him. Only one-and-twenty, his own master, and all London 
 at his feet. It is too much for any one's head. But say or 
 think what the world may, I know him better than they 
 do ; and I know there is not a finer creature in existence. 
 I hope his old friends will not desert him,' added Captain 
 Cadurcis, with a smile which seemed to deprecate the 
 severity of Lady Annabel ; ' for in spite of all his fame and 
 prosperity, perhaps, after all, this is the time when he most 
 needs them.' 
 
 ' Very possibly,' said her ladyship rather dryly. 
 
 While the mother was engaged in this conversation with 
 her neighbour respecting her former interesting acquaint- 
 ance, such was the fame of Lord Cadurcis then in the me- 
 tropolis, that he also formed the topic of conversation at 
 another part of the table, to which the daughter was an 
 attentive listener. The tone in which he was spoken of, 
 however, was of a very different character. While no one 
 disputed his genius, his principles, temper, and habits of 
 life were submitted to the severest scrutiny; and it was 
 with blended feelings of interest and astonishment that 
 'Venetia listened to the detail of wild opinions, capricious 
 conduct, and extravagant and eccentric behaviour ascribed 
 to the companion of her childhood, who had now become 
 the spoiled child of society. A shrewd gentleman, who 
 had taken an extremely active part in this discussion, in- 
 quired of Venetia, next to whom he was seated, whether 
 she had read his lordship's last poem. He was extremely 
 surprised when Venetia answered in the negative ; but he 
 seized the opportunity of giving her an elaborate criticism
 
 VENETIA. 255 
 
 on the poetical genius of Cadurcis. ' As for his style,' said 
 the critic, ' no one can deny that is his own, and he will 
 last by his style ; as for his philosophy, and all these wild 
 opinions of his, they will pass away, because they are not 
 genuine, they are not his own, they are borrowed. He will 
 outwrite them ; depend upon it, he will. The fact is, as a 
 friend of mine observed the other day, Herbert's writings 
 have turned his head. Of course you could know nothing 
 about them, but there are wonderful things in them, I can 
 tell you that.' 
 
 ' I believe it most sincerely,' said Venetia. 
 
 The critic stared at his neighbour. ' Hush ! ' said he, 
 'his wife and daughter are here. We must not talk of 
 these things. You know Lady Annabel Herbert ? There 
 she is ; a very fine woman too. And that is his daughter 
 there, I believe, that dark girl with a turned-up nose. I 
 cannot say she warrants the poetical address to her : 
 
 My precious pearl the false and glittering world 
 Has ne'er polluted -with its garish light ! 
 
 She does not look much like a pearl, does she ? She should 
 keep in solitude, eh ? ' 
 
 The ladies rose and relieved Venetia from her embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 After dinner Lady Annabel introduced George Cadurcis 
 to her daughter ; and, seated by them both, he contrived 
 without effort, and without the slightest consciousness of 
 success, to confirm the pleasing impression in his favour 
 which he had already made, and, when they parted, it was 
 even with a mutual wish that they might meet again. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IT was the night after the drawing-room. Lord Cadurcis 
 was at Brookes' dining at midnight, having risen since only 
 a few hours. Being a malcontent, he had ceased to attend
 
 256 VENETIA. 
 
 the Court, where his original reception had been most gra- 
 cious, which he had returned by some factious votes, and a 
 caustic lampoon. 
 
 A party of young men entered^ from the Court Ball, 
 which in those days always terminated at midnight, whence 
 the guests generally proceeded to Ranelagh ; one or two of 
 them seated themselves at the table at which Cadurcis was 
 sitting. They were full of a new beauty who had been 
 presented. Their violent and even extravagant encomiums 
 excited his curiosity. Such a creature had never been seen, 
 she was peerless, the most radiant of acknowledged charms 
 had been dimmed before her. Their Majesties had accorded 
 to her the most marked reception. A Prince of the blood 
 had honoured her with his hand. Then they began to ex- 
 patiate with fresh enthusiasm on her unparalleled loveliness. 
 
 ' Cadurcis,' said a young noble, who was one of his 
 extreme admirers, ' she is the only creature I ever beheld 
 worthy of being one of your heroines.' 
 
 ' Whom are you talking about ? ' asked Cadurcis in a 
 rather listless tone. 
 
 ' The new beauty, of course.' 
 
 ' And who may she be ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Herbert, to be sure. Who speaks or thinks of any 
 one else ? ' 
 
 ' What, Ve ^ I mean Miss Herbert ? ' exclaimed Ca- 
 durcis, with no little energy. 
 
 ' Yes. Do you know her ? ' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say ' and Cadurcis stopped and 
 
 rose from the table, and joined the party round the fire. 
 ' What Miss Herbert is it ? ' he added, after a short pause. 
 
 ' Why the Miss Herbert ; Herbert's daughter, to be sure. 
 She was presented to-day by her mother. 
 
 'Lady Annabel?' 
 
 ' The same.' 
 
 ' Presented to-day ! ' said Cadurcis audibly, yet speaking 
 as it were to himself. 'Presented to-day! Presented! 
 How strange ! '
 
 VKXETIA. 257 
 
 ' 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 ho\irs, he had not seen his 
 cousin since the party of yesterday. He began walking 
 up and down the room, muttering, ' Masliam, Weymouth, 
 London, presented at Court, and I know nothing. How 
 life changes ! Venetia at Court, my Venetia ! ' Then turn- 
 ing round and addressing the young nobleman who had first 
 spoken to him, he asked ' if the ball were over.' 
 
 ' Tes ; all the world are going to Banelagh. Are you 
 inclined to take a round ? ' 
 
 ' I have a strange fancy,' said Cadurcis, ' and if you will 
 go with me, I will take you in my vis-a-vis. It is here.' 
 
 This was an irresistible invitation, and in a few minutes 
 the companions were on their way ; Cadurcis, apparently 
 with no peculiar interest in the subject, leading the con- 
 versation very artfully to the presentation of Miss Herbert. 
 His friend was heartily inclined to gratify his curiosity. 
 He gave him ample details of Miss Herbert's person : even 
 of her costume, and the sensation both produced ; how she 
 was presented by her mother, who, after so long an estrange- 
 ment from the world, scarcely excited less impression, and 
 the remarkable cordiality with which both mother and 
 daughter were greeted by the sovereign and his royal 
 consort. 
 
 The two young noblemen found Ranelagh crowded, but 
 the presence of Lord Cadurcis occasioned a sensation the 
 moment he was recognised. Everywhere the whisper went 
 round, and many parties crowded near to catch a glimpse 
 of the hero of the day. ' Which is he ? That fair, tall young 
 man ? No, the other to be sure. Is it really he ? How 
 distinguished ! How melancholy ! Quite the poet. Do 
 you think he is really so unhappy as he looks ? I would 
 sooner see him than the King and Queen. He seems very 
 young, but then he has seen so much of the world ! Fine 
 eyes, beautiful hair ! I wonder who is'his friend ? How 
 
 R
 
 258 VENETIA. 
 
 proud lie must be ! Who is that lady he bowed to ? That 
 is the Duke of speaking to him.' Such were the re- 
 marks that might be caught in the vicinity of Lord Cadurcis 
 as he took his round, gazed at by the assembled crowd, of 
 whom many knew him only by fame, for the charm of 
 Ranelagh was that it was rather a popular than a merely 
 fashionable assembly. Society at large blended with the 
 Court, which maintained and renewed its influence by being 
 witnessed under the most graceful auspices. The personal 
 authority of the aristocracy has decreased with the disap- 
 pearance of Ranelagh and similar places of amusement, 
 where rank was not exclusive, and luxury by the gratifica- 
 tion it occasioned others seemed robbed of half its selfism. 
 
 In his second round, Lord Cadurcis recognised the ap- 
 proach of the Herberts. They formed the portion of a large 
 party. Lady Annabel was leaning on her brother, whom 
 Cadurcis knew by sight ; Venetia was at the side of her 
 aunt, and several gentlemen were hovering about them ; 
 among them, to his surprise, his cousin, George Cadurcis, 
 in his uniform, for he had been to Court and to the Court 
 Ball. Venetia was talking with animation. She was in 
 her Court dress and in powder. Her appearance was 
 strange to him. He could scarcely recognise the friend of his 
 childhood ; but without any doubt in all that assembly, un- 
 rivalled in the whole world for beauty, grace, and splendour, 
 she was without a parallel; a cynosure on which all eyes 
 were fixed. 
 
 So occupied were the ladies of the Herbert party by the 
 conversation of their numerous and brilliant attendants, 
 that the approach of any one else but Lord Cadurcis might 
 have been unnoticed by them, but a hundred tongues before 
 he drew nigh had prepared Venetia for his appearance. 
 She was indeed most anxious to behold him, and though 
 she was aware that her heart fluttered not slightly as the 
 moment was at hand, she commanded her gaze, and her 
 eyes met bis, although she was doubtful whether he might 
 choose or care to recognise her. He bowed almost to the
 
 VENETIA. 259 
 
 ground ; and when Venetia had raised her responsive head 
 he had passed by. 
 
 ' Why, Cadurcis, you know Miss Herbert? ' said his friend 
 in a tone of some astonishment. 
 
 ' Well ; but it is a long time since I have seen her.' 
 
 ' Is she not beautiful ? ' 
 
 ' I never doubted on that subject ; I tell you, Scrope, we 
 must contrive to join her party. I wish we had some of 
 our friends among them. Here comes the Monteagle ; aid 
 me to escape her.' 
 
 The most fascinating smile failed in arresting the pro- 
 gress of Cadurcis ; fortunately, the lady was the centre of a 
 brilliant band ; all that he had to do, therefore, was boldly 
 to proceed. 
 
 ' Do you think my cousin is altered since you knew him? ' 
 inquired George Cadurcis of Venetia. 
 
 ' I scarcely had time to observe him,' she replied. 
 
 ' I wish you would let me bring him to you. He did not 
 know until this moment you were in town. I have not 
 seen him since we met yesterday.' 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Venetia. 'Do not disturb him.' 
 
 In time, however, Lord Cadurcis was again in sight ; and 
 now without any hesitation he stopped, and falling into the 
 line by Miss Herbert, he addressed her : ' I am proud of 
 being remembered by Miss Herbert,' he said. 
 
 ' I am most happy to meet you,' replied Venetia, with 
 unaffected sincerity. 
 
 ' And Lady Annabel, I have not been able to catch her 
 eye : is she quite well ? I was ignorant that you were in 
 London until I heard of your triumph this night.' 
 
 The Countess whispered her niece, and Venetia accord- 
 ingly presented Lord Cadurcis to her aunt. This was a 
 most gratifying circumstance to him. He was anxious, by 
 some means or other, to effect his entrance into her circle ; 
 and he had an irresistible suspicion that Lady Annabel no 
 longer looked upon him with eyes of favour. So he resolved 
 to enlist the aunt as his friend. Few persons could be more 
 
 s 2
 
 260 VENETIA. 
 
 winning than Cadurcis, when he willed it ; and every at- 
 tempt to please from one whom all emulated to gratify and 
 honour, was sure to be successful. The Countess, who, in 
 spite of politics, was a secret votary of his, was quite pre- 
 pared to be enchanted. She congratulated herself on form- 
 ing, as she had long wished, an acquaintance with one so 
 celebrated. She longed to pass Lady Monteagle in triumph. 
 Cadurcis improved his opportunity to the utmost. It was 
 impossible for any one to be more engaging ; lively, yet at 
 the same time gentle, and deferential with all his originality. 
 He spoke, indeed, more to the aunt than to Yenetia, but 
 when he addressed the latter, there was a melting, almost a 
 mournful tenderness in his tones, that alike affected her 
 heart and charmed her imagination. Nor could she be in- 
 sensible 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 pro- 
 perly and so utterly unconscious. And this was Plantageiiet ! 
 
 Lord Cadurcis spoke of his cousin, who, on his joining 
 the party, had assisted the arrangement by moving to the 
 other side ; and he spoke of him with a regard which pleased 
 Venetia, though Cadurcis envied him his good fortune in 
 having the advantage of a prior acquaintance with Miss 
 Herbert in town ; ' but then we are old acquaintances in the 
 country,' he added, half in a playful, half in a melancholy 
 tone, ' are we not ? ' 
 
 ' It is a long time that we have known each other, and it 
 is a long time since we have met,' replied Venetia. 
 
 ' A delicate reproach,' said Cadurcis ; ' but perhaps rather 
 my misfortune than my fault. My thoughts have been often, 
 I might say ever, at Cherbury.' 
 
 ' And the abbey ; have you forgotten the abbey ? ' 
 
 ' I have never been near it since a morning you perhaps 
 remember,' said his lordship in a low voice. ' Ah ! Miss 
 Herbert,' he continued, with a sigh, ' I was young then ; I 
 have lived to change many opinions, and some of which you 
 then disapproved.'
 
 VENETIA. 261 
 
 The party stopped at a box just vacant, and in which the 
 ladies seated themselves while their carriages were inquired 
 for. Lord Cadnrcis, with a rather faltering heart, went up 
 to pay his respects to Venetia's mother. Lady Annabel 
 received him with a courtesy, that however was scarcely 
 cordial, but the Countess instantly presented him to her 
 husband with an unction which a little astonished her sis- 
 ter-in-law. Then a whisper, but unobserved, passed be- 
 tween the Earl and his lady, and in a minute Lord Cadurcis 
 had been invited to dine with them on the next day, and 
 meet his old friends from the country. Cadurcis was pre- 
 viously engaged, but hesitated not a moment in accepting 
 the invitation. The Monteagle party now passed by ; the 
 lady looked a little surprised at the company in which, she 
 found her favourite, and not a little mortified by his neglect. 
 What business had Cadurcis to be speaking to that Miss 
 Herbert ? Was it not enough that the whole day not 
 another name had scarcely crossed her ear, but the night 
 must even witness the conquest of Lord Cadurcis by the 
 new beauty ? It was such bad ton, it was so unlike him, it 
 was so underbred, for a person of his position immediately 
 to bow before the new idol of the hour, and a Tory girl too ! 
 It was the last thing she could have expected from him. 
 She should, on the contrary, have thought that the uni- 
 versal admiration which this Miss Herbert commanded 
 would have been exactly the reason why a man like Ca- 
 durcis would have seemed almost unconscious of her exist- 
 ence. She determined to remonstrate with him ; and she 
 was sure of a speedy opportunity, for he was to dine with 
 her on the morrow. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING Lady Annabel's reserved demeanour, Lord 
 Cadurcis, supported by the presence of his cousin, whom he 
 had discovered to be a favourite of that lady, ventured to
 
 262 VENETIA. 
 
 call upon her the next day, but she was out. They were 
 to meet, however, at dinner, where Cadurcis determined to 
 omit no opportunity to propitiate her. The Countess had 
 a great deal of tact, and she contrived to make up a party 
 to receive him, in which there were several of his friends, 
 
 among them his cousin and the Bishop of , and no 
 
 strangers who were not, like herself, his great admirers ; 
 but if she had known more, she need not have given herself 
 this trouble, for there was a charm among her guests of 
 which she was ignorant, and Cadurcis went determined to 
 please and to be pleased. 
 
 At dinner he was seated next to Lady Annabel, and it 
 was impossible for any person to be more deferential, soft, 
 and insinuating. He spoke of old days with emotion which 
 he did not attempt to suppress ; he alluded to the present 
 with infinite delicacy. But it was very difficult to make 
 way. Lady Annabel was courteous, but she was reserved. 
 His lively reminiscences elicited from her no corresponding 
 sentiment ; and no art would induce her to dwell upon the 
 present. If she only would have condescended to compli- 
 ment him, it would have given him an opportunity of ex- 
 pressing his distaste of the life which he now led, and a 
 description of the only life which he wished to lead ; but 
 Lady Annabel studiously avoided affording him any open- 
 ing of the kind. She treated him like a stranger. She 
 impressed upon him without effort that she would only 
 consider him an acquaintance. How Cadurcis, satiated 
 with the incense of the whole world, sighed for one single 
 congratulation from Lady Annabel ! Nothing could move 
 her. 
 
 'I was so surprised to meet you last night,' at length he 
 again observed. ' I have made so many inquiries after you. 
 Our dear friend the Bishop was, I fear, almost wearied 
 with my inquiries after Cherbury. I know not how it was, 
 I felt quite a pang when I heard that you had left it, and 
 that all these years, when I have been conjuring up so
 
 VENETIA. 263 
 
 many visions of what was passing under that dear roof, you 
 were at Wey mouth.' 
 
 ' Yes. We were at Weymouth some time.' 
 
 ' But do not you long to see Cherbury again ? I cannot 
 tell you how I pant for it. For my part, I have seen the 
 world, and I have seen enough of it. After all, the end of 
 all our exertions is to be happy at home ; that is the end of 
 everything ; don't you think so ? ' 
 
 'A happy home is certainly a great blessing,' replied 
 Lady Annabel ; ' and a rare one.' 
 
 ' But why should it be rare ? ' inquired Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 'It is our own fault,' said Lady Annabel; 'our vanity 
 drives us from our hearths.' 
 
 ' But we soon return again, and calm and cooled. For 
 my part, I have no object in life but to settle down at the 
 old abbey, and never to quit again our woods. But I shall 
 lead a dull life without my neighbours,' he added, with a 
 smile, and in a tone half-coaxing. 
 
 ' I suppose you never see Lord now ? ' said Lady 
 
 Annabel, mentioning his late guardian. There was, as 
 Cadurcis fancied, some sarcasm in the question, though not 
 in the tone in which it was asked. 
 
 ' No, I never see him,' his lordship answered firmly; ' we 
 differ in our opinions, and I differ from him with regret ; 
 but I differ from a sense of duty, and therefore I have no 
 alternative.' 
 
 ' The claims of duty are of course paramount,' observed 
 Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' You know my cousin ? ' said Cadurcis, to turn the con- 
 versation. 
 
 ' Yes, and I like him much ; he appears to be a sensible, 
 amiable person, of excellent principles.' 
 
 ' I am not bound to admire George's principles,' said 
 Lord Cadurcis, gaily ; ' but I respect them, because I know 
 that they are conscientious. I love George ; he is my only 
 relation, and he is my friend.'
 
 264 VEXETIA. 
 
 ' I trust he will always be your friend, for I think yon 
 will then, at least, know one person on whom you can 
 depend.' 
 
 ' I believe it. The friendships of the world are wind.' 
 
 'I am surprised to hear you. say so,' said Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' Why, Lady Annabel ? ' 
 
 ' You have so many friends.' 
 
 Lord Cadnrcis smiled. ' I wish,' he said, after a little 
 hesitation, 'if only for " Auld lang syne," I might include 
 Lady Annabel Herbert among them.' 
 
 ' I do not think there is any basis for friendship between 
 us, my lord,' she said, very dryly. 
 
 'The past must ever be with me,' said Lord Cadurcis, 
 ' and I should have thought a sure and solid one.' 
 
 ' Our opinions on all subjects are so adverse, that I 
 must believe that there could be no great sympathy in our 
 feelings.' 
 
 ' My feelings are beyond my control,' he replied ; ' they 
 are, and must ever be, totally independent of my opinions.' 
 
 Lady Annabel did not reply. His lordship felt baffled, 
 but he was resolved to make one more effort. 
 
 ' Do you know,' he said, ' I can scarcely believe myself 
 in London to-day ? To be sitting next to you, to see Miss 
 Herbert, to hear Dr. Masham's voice. Oh ! does it not recall 
 Cherbury, or Marringhurst, or that day at Cadurcis, when 
 you were so good as to smile over my rough repast? Ah ! 
 Lady Annabel, those days were happy ! those were feelings 
 that can never die ! All the glitter and hubbub of the world 
 can never make me forget them, can never make you, T 
 hope, Lady Annabel, quite recall them with an effort. We 
 were friends then : let us be friends now.' 
 
 ' I am too old to cultivate new friendships,' said Lady 
 Annabel ; ' and if we are to be friends, Lord Cadurcis, I am 
 sorry to say that, after the interval that has occurred since 
 we last parted, we should have to begin again.' 
 
 ' It is a long time,' said Cadurcis, mournfully, ' a very long 
 time, and one, in spite of what the world may think, to
 
 VENETIA. 265 
 
 which I cannot look back with any self-congratulation. 
 I wished three years ago never to leave Cadurcis again. In- 
 deed I did ; and indeed it was not my fault that I quitted it.' 
 
 ' It was no one's fault, I hope. Whatever the cause 
 may have been, I have ever remained quite ignorant of it. 
 I wished, and wish, to remain ignorant of it. I, for one, 
 have ever considered it the wise dispensation of a merciful 
 Providence.' 
 
 Cadurcis ground his teeth ; a dark look came over him 
 which, when once it rose on his brow, was with difficulty 
 dispelled ; and for the remainder of the dinner he continued 
 silent and gloomy. 
 
 He was, however, not unobserved by Venetia. She had 
 watched his evident attempts to conciliate her mother with 
 lively interest ; she had witnessed their failure with sincere 
 sorrow. In spite of that stormy interview, the results of 
 which, in his hasty departure, and the severance of their 
 acquaintance, she had often regretted, she had always re- 
 tained for him the greatest affection. During these three 
 years he had still, in her inmost heart, remained her own 
 Plantagenet, her adopted brother, whom she loved, and in 
 whose welfare her feelings were deeply involved. The 
 mysterious circumstances of her birth, and the discoveries 
 to which they had led, had filled her mind with a fanciful 
 picture of human nature, over which she had long brooded- 
 A great poet had become her ideal of a man. Sometimes 
 she had sighed, when musing over her father and Plan- 
 tagenet on the solitary seashore at Weymouth, that Ca- 
 durcis, instead of being the merely amiable, and somewhat 
 narrow-minded being that she supposed, had not been in- 
 vested with those brilliant and commanding qualities which 
 she felt could alone master her esteem. Often had she, in 
 those abstracted hours, played with her imagination iii 
 combining the genius of her father with the soft heart of 
 that friend to whom, she was so deeply attached. She had 
 wished, in her reveries, that Cadurcis might have been a 
 groat man ; that he might have existed in an atmosphere of
 
 266 VENETIA. 
 
 glory amid the plaudits and admiration of his race; and that 
 then he might have turned from all that fame, so dear to 
 them both, to the heart which could alone sympathise with 
 the native simplicity of his childhood. 
 
 The ladies withdrew. The Bishop and another of the 
 guests joined them after a short interval. The rest remained 
 below, and drank their wine with the freedom not unusual 
 in those days, Lord Cadurcis among them, although it was 
 not his habit. But he was not convivial, though he never 
 passed the bottle untouched. He was in one of those dark 
 humours of which there was a latent spring in his nature, 
 but which in old days had been kept in check by his simple 
 life, his inexperienced mind, and the general kindness that 
 greeted him, and which nothing but the caprice and per- 
 versity of his mother could occasionally develope. But 
 since the great revolution in his position, since circumstances 
 had made him alike acquainted with his nature, and had 
 brought all society to acknowledge its superiority ; since he 
 had gained and felt his irresistible power, and had found all 
 the world, and all the glory of it, at his feet, these moods 
 had become more frequent. The slightest reaction in the 
 self-complacency that was almost unceasingly stimulated 
 by the applause of applauded men and the love of the 
 loveliest women, instantly took the shape and found refuge 
 in the immediate form of the darkest spleen, generally, 
 indeed, brooding in silence, and, if speaking, expressing 
 itself only in sarcasm. Cadurcis was indeed, as we have 
 already described him, the spoiled child of society ; a fro- 
 ward and petted darling, not always to be conciliated by 
 kindness, but furious when neglected or controlled. He 
 was habituated to triumph ; it had been his lot to come, to 
 see, and to conquer : even the procrastination of certain 
 success was intolerable to him ; his energetic volition could 
 not endure a check. To Lady Annabel Herbert, indeed, he 
 was not exactly what he was to others ; there was a spell 
 in old associations from which he unconsciously could not 
 emancipate himself, and from which it was his opinion he
 
 VENETIA. 267 
 
 honoured her in not desiring to be free. He had his reasons 
 for -wishing to regain his old, his natural influence, over her 
 heart ; he did not doubt for an instant that, if Cadurcis 
 sued, success must follow the condescending effort. He 
 had sued, and he had been met with coldness, almost with 
 disdain. He had addressed her in those terms of tender- 
 ness which experience had led him to believe were irresis- 
 tible, yet to which he seldom had recourse, for hitherto he 
 had not been under the degrading necessity of courting. 
 He had dwelt with fondness on the insignificant past, be- 
 cause it was connected with her; he had regretted, or 
 affected even to despise, the glorious present, because it 
 seemed, for some indefinite cause, to have estranged him 
 from her hearth. Yes ! he had humbled himself before her ; 
 he had thrown with disdain at her feet all that dazzling 
 fame and expanding glory which seemed his peculiar and 
 increasing privilege. He had delicately conveyed to her 
 that even these would be sacrificed, not only without a 
 sigh, but with cheerful delight, to find himself once more 
 living, as of old, in the limited world of her social affections. 
 Three years ago he had been rejected by the daughter, be- 
 cause he was an undistinguished youth. Now the mother 
 recoiled from his fame. And who was this woman ? The 
 same cold, stern heart that had alienated the gifted Her- 
 bert ; the same narrow, rigid mind that had repudiated 
 ties that every other woman in the world would have 
 gloried to cherish and acknowledge. And with her he had 
 passed his prejudiced youth, and fancied, like an idiot, that 
 he had found sympathy ! Yes, so long as he was a slave, 
 a mechanical, submissive slave, bowing his mind to all the 
 traditionary bigotry which she adored, never daring to 
 form an opinion for himself, worshipping her idol, custom, 
 and labouring by habitual hypocrisy to perpetuate the de- 
 lusions of all around her ! 
 
 In the meantime, while Lord Cadurcis was chewing the 
 cud of these bitter feelings, we will take the opportunity of 
 explaining the immediate cause of Lady Annabel's frigid
 
 263 VENETIA. 
 
 reception of his friendly advances. All that she had heard 
 of Cadurcis, all the information she had within these few 
 days so rapidly acquired of his character and conduct, were 
 indeed not calculated to dispose her to witness the renewal 
 of their intimacy with feelings of remarkable satisfaction. 
 But this morning she had read his poem, the poem that all 
 London was talking of, and she had read it with horror. 
 She looked upon Cadurcis as a lost man. With her, in- 
 deed, since her marriage, an imaginative mind had become 
 an object of terror ; but there were some peculiarities in the 
 tone of Cadurcis' genius, which magnified to excess her 
 general apprehension on this head. She traced, in every 
 line, the evidences of a raging vanity, which she was con- 
 vinced must prompt its owner to sacrifice, on all occasions, 
 every feeling of duty to its gratification. Amid all the 
 fervour of rebellious passions, and the violence of a way- 
 ward mind, a sentiment of profound egotism appeared to 
 her impressed on every page she perused. Great as might 
 have been the original errors of Herbert, awful as in her 
 estimation were the crimes to which they had led him, they 
 might in the first instance be traced rather to a perverted 
 view of society than of himself. But self was the idol of 
 Cadurcis ; self distorted into a phantom that seemed to Lady 
 Annabel pregnant not only with terrible crimes, but with 
 the basest and most humiliating vices. The certain degra- 
 dation which in the instance of her husband had been the 
 consequence of a bad system, would, in her opinion, in the 
 case of Cadurcis, be the result of a bad nature ; and when 
 she called to mind that there had once been a probability 
 that this individual might have become the husband of her 
 Venetia, her child whom it had been the sole purpose of 
 her life to save from the misery of which she herself had 
 been the victim ; that she had even dwelt on the idea with 
 complacency, encouraged its progress, regretted its abrupt 
 termination, but consoled herself by the flattering hope that 
 time, with even more favourable auspices, would mature it 
 into fulfilment ; she trembled, and turned pale.
 
 VENETIA. 269 
 
 It was to the Bishop that, after dinner, Lady Annabel 
 expressed some of the feelings which the reappearance of 
 Cadurcis had occasioned her. 
 
 ' I see nothing but misery for his future,' she exclaimed ; 
 ' I tremble for him when he addresses me. In spite of the 
 glittering surface on which he now floats, I foresee only a 
 career of violence, degradation, and remorse.' 
 
 ' He is a problem difficult to solve,' replied Masham ; 
 ' but there are elements not only in his character, but his 
 career, so different from those of the person of whom we 
 were speaking, that I am not inclined at once to admit, 
 that the result must necessarily be the same.' 
 
 ' I see none,' replied Lady Annabel ; ' at least none of 
 sufficient influence to work any material change.' 
 
 ' What think you of his success ? ' replied Masham. 
 ' Cadurcis is evidently proud of it. With all his affected 
 scorn of the world, he is the slave of society. He may 
 pique the feelings of mankind, but I doubt whether he will 
 outrage them.' 
 
 ' He is on such a dizzy eminence,' replied Lady Annabel, 
 ' that I do not believe he is capable of calculating so finely. 
 He does not believe, I am sure, in the possibility of resist- 
 ance. His vanity will tempt him onwards.' 
 
 'Not to persecution,' said Masham. ' Now, my opinion 
 of Cadurcis is, that his egotism, or selfism, or whatever you 
 may style it, will ultimately preserve him from any very 
 fatal, from any irrecoverable excesses. He is of the world, 
 worldly. All his works, all his conduct, tend only to astonish 
 mankind. He is not prompted by any visionary ideas of 
 ameliorating his species. The instinct of self-preservation 
 will serve him as ballast.' 
 
 ' We shall see,' said Lady Annabel ; ' for myself, whatever 
 may be his end, I feel assured that great and disgraceful 
 vicissitudes are in store for him.' 
 
 ' It is strange after what, in comparison with such ex- 
 traordinary changes, must be esteemed so brief an interval,' 
 observed Masham, with a smile, ' to witness such a revolu-
 
 270 VENETIA. 
 
 tion in his position. I often think to myself, can this in- 
 deed be our little Plantagenet ? ' 
 
 ' It is awful ! ' said Lady Annabel ; ' much more than 
 strange. For myself, when I recall certain indications of his 
 feelings when he was last at Cadurcis, and think for a mo- 
 ment of the results to which they might have led, I shiver ; 
 I assure you, my dear lord, I tremble from head to foot. 
 And I encouraged him ! I smiled with fondness on his 
 feelings ! I thought I was securing the peaceful happiness 
 of my child ! What can we trust to in this world ! It is 
 too dreadful to dwell upon ! It must have been an inter- 
 position of Providence that Venetia escaped.' 
 
 ' Dear little Venetia,' exclaimed the good Bishop ; ' for I 
 believe I shall call her little Venetia to the day of my death. 
 How well she looks to-night ! Her aunt is, I think, very 
 fond of her! See!' 
 
 'Yes, it pleases me,' said Lady Annabel; but I do wish 
 my sister was not such an admirer of Lord Cadurcis' poems. 
 You cannot conceive how uneasy it makes me. I am quite 
 annoyed that he was asked here to-day. Why ask him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! there is no harm,' said Masham ; ' you must forget 
 the past. By all accounts, Cadurcis is not a marrying man. 
 Indeed, as I understood, marriage with him is at present 
 quite out of the question. And as for Venetia, she rejected 
 him before, and she will, if necessary, reject him again. He 
 has been a brother to her, and after that he can be no more. 
 Girls never fall in love with those with whom they are 
 bred up.' 
 
 ' I-hope, I believe there is no occasion for apprehension,' 
 replied Lady Annabel ; ' indeed, it has scarcely entered my 
 head. The very charms he once admired in Venetia can 
 have no sway over him, as I should think, now. I should 
 believe him as little capable of appreciating Venetia now, as 
 he was when last at Cherbury, of anticipating the change 
 in his own character.' 
 
 ' You mean opinions, my dear lady, for characters nevei 
 change. Believe me, Cadurcis is radically the same as in old
 
 VENETIA. 271 
 
 days. Circumstances have only developed his latent pre- 
 disposition.' 
 
 ' Not changed, my dear lord ! what, that innocent, sweet- 
 tempered, docile child ' 
 
 'Hush ! here he comes.' 
 
 The Earl and his guests entered the room ; a circle was 
 formed round Lady Annabel ; some evening visitors arrived ; 
 there was singing. It had not been the intention of Lord 
 Cadurcis to return to the drawing-room after his rebuff 
 by Lady Annabel ; he had meditated making his peace at 
 Monteagle House ; but when the moment of his projected 
 departure had arrived, he could not resist the temptation of 
 again seeing Venetia. He entered the room last, and some 
 moments after his companions. Lady Annabel, who watched 
 the general entrance, concluded he had gone, and her atten- 
 tion was now fully engaged. Lord Cadurcis remained at 
 the end of the room alone, apparently abstracted, and look- 
 ing far from amiable ; but his eye, in reality, was watching 
 Venetia. Suddenly her aunt approached her, and invited 
 the lady who was conversing with Miss Herbert to sing ; 
 Lord Cadurcis immediately advanced, and took her seat. 
 Yenetia was surprised that for the first time in her life with 
 Plantagenet she felt embarrassed. She had met his look 
 when he approached her, and had welcomed, or, at least, 
 intended to welcome him with a smile, but she was at a loss 
 for words ; she was haunted with the recollection of her 
 mother's behaviour to him at dinner, and she looked down 
 on the ground, far from being at ease. 
 
 ' Venetia ! ' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 She started. 
 
 ' We are alone,' he said ; ' let me call you Venetia when 
 we are alone.' 
 
 She did not, she could not reply ; she felt confused ; the 
 blood rose to her cheek. 
 
 ' How changed is everything ! ' continued Cadurcis. ' To 
 think the day should ever arrive when I should have to beg 
 your permission to call you Venetia ! '
 
 272 VENETIA. 
 
 She looked up ; she met his glance. It was mournful ; 
 nay, his eyes were suffused with tears. She saw at her side 
 the gentle and melancholy Plantagenet of her childhood. 
 
 'I cannot speak; I am agitated at meeting you,' she said 
 with her native frankness. ' It is so long since we have 
 been alone ; and, as you say, all is so changed.' 
 
 ' But are you changed, Venetia ? ' he said in a voice of 
 emotion; ' for all other change is nothing.' 
 
 ' I meet you with pleasure,' she replied ; ' I hear of your 
 fame with pride. You cannot suppose that it is possible I 
 should cease to be interested in your welfare.' 
 
 ' Tour mother does not meet me with pleasure; she hears 
 of nothing that has occurred to me with pride ; your mother 
 has ceased to take an interest in my welfare ; and why should 
 you be unchanged? ' 
 
 4 You mistake my mother.' 
 
 4 No, no,' replied Cadurcis, shaking his head, ' I have read 
 her inmost soul to-day. Your mother hates me ; me, whom 
 she once styled her son. She was a mother once to me, 
 and you were my sister. If I have lost her heart, why have 
 I not lost yours ? ' 
 
 4 My heart, if you care for it, is unchanged,' said Yenetia. 
 
 4 Venetia, whatever you may think, I never wanted the 
 solace of a sister's love more than I do at this moment.' 
 
 4 I pledged my affection to you when we were children,' 
 replied Venetia ; ' you have done nothing to forfeit it, and 
 it is yours still.' 
 
 ' When we were children,' said Cadurcis, musingly ; 
 ' when we were innocent ; when we were happy. You, at 
 least, are innocent still ; are you happy, Venetia ? ' 
 
 ' Life has brought sorrows even to me, Plantagenet.' 
 
 The blood deserted his heart when she called him Plan- 
 tagenet ; he breathed with difficulty. 
 
 ' When I last returned to Cherbury,' he said, 4 you told 
 me you were changed, Venetia; you revealed to me on 
 another occasion the secret cause of your affliction. I was 
 a boy then, a foolish, ignorant boy. Instead of sympathising
 
 VENETIA. 273 
 
 with your heartfelt anxiety, my silly vanity was offended 
 by feelings I should have shared, and soothed, and honoured. 
 Ah, Yenetia ! well had it been for one of us that I had con- 
 ducted myself more kindly, more wisely.' 
 
 ' Nay, Plantagenet, believe me, I remember that interview 
 only to regret it. The recollection of it has always occa- 
 sioned me great grief. We were both to blame ; but we 
 were both children then. We must pardon each other's 
 faults.' 
 
 'You will hear, that is, if you care to listen, Venetia, 
 much of my conduct and opinions,' continued Lord Cadur- 
 cis, ' that may induce you to believe me headstrong and 
 capricious. Perhaps I am less of both in all things than 
 the world imagines. But of this be certain, that my feelings 
 towards you have never changed, whatever you may permit 
 them to be ; and if some of my boyish judgments have, as 
 was but natural, undergone some transformation, be you, 
 my sweet friend, in some degree consoled for the incon- 
 sistency, since I have at length learned duly to appreciate 
 one of whom we then alike knew little, but whom a natural 
 inspiration taught you, at least, justly to appreciate : I need 
 not say I mean the illustrious father of your being.' 
 
 Venetia could not restrain her tears ; she endeavoured to 
 conceal her agitated countenance behind the fan with which 
 she was fortunately provided. 
 
 ' To me a forbidden subject,' said Venetia, ' at least with 
 them I could alone converse upon it, but one that my mind 
 never deserts.' 
 
 ' O Venetia ! ' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis with a sigh, 
 ' would we were both with him ! ' 
 
 ' A wild thought,' she murmured, ' and one I must not 
 dwell upon.' 
 
 ' We shall meet, I hope,' said Lord Cadurcis ; ' we must 
 meet, meet often. I called upon your mother to-day, fruit- 
 lessly. You must attempt to conciliate her. Why should 
 we be parted ? We, at least, are friends, and more than
 
 274 VENETIA. 
 
 friends. I cannot exist unless we meet, and meet with the 
 frankness of old days.' 
 
 ' I think you mistake mamma ; I think you may, indeed. 
 Remember how lately she has met you, and after how long 
 an interval ! A little time, and she will resume her former 
 feelings, and believe that you have never forfeited yours. 
 Besides, we have friends, mutual friends. My aunt admires 
 you, and here I naturally must be a great deal. And the 
 Bishop, he still loves you ; that I am sure he does : and 
 your cousin, mamma likes your cousin. I am sure if you 
 can manage only to be patient, if you will only attempt to 
 conciliate a little, all will be as before. Remember, too, 
 how changed your position is,' Venetia added with a smile ; 
 ' you allow me to forget you are a great man, but mamma 
 is naturally restrained by all this wonderful revolution. 
 When she finds that you really are the Lord Cadurcis whom 
 she knew such a very little boy, the Lord Cadurcis who, 
 without her aid, would never have been able even to write 
 his fine poems, oh ! she must love you again. How can 
 she help it ?' 
 
 Cadurcis smiled. ' We shall see,' he said. 'In the mean- 
 time do not you desert me, Venetia.' 
 
 ' That is impossible,' she replied ; ' the happiest of my 
 days have been passed with you. You remember the in- 
 scription on the jewel ? I shall keep to my vows.' 
 
 ' That was a very good inscription so far as it went,' said 
 Cadurcis ; and then, as if a little alarmed at his temerity, 
 he changed the subject. 
 
 ' Do you know,' said Venetia, after a pause, 'I am treating 
 you all this time as a poet, merely in deference to public 
 opinion. Not a line have I been permitted to read ; but 
 I am resolved to rebel, and you must arrange it all.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the enraptured Cadurcis ; ' this is fame ! ' 
 
 At this moment the Countess approached them, and told 
 Venetia that her mother wished to speak to her. Lady 
 Annabel had discovered the tete-a-te"te, and resolved in- 
 stantly to terminate it. Lord Cadurcis, however, who was
 
 VENETIA. 275 
 
 quick as lightning, read all that was necessary in Venetia's 
 look. Instead of instantly retiring, he remained some little 
 time longer, talked to the Countess, who was perfectly en- 
 chanted with him, even sauntered up to the singers, and 
 complimented them, and did not make his bow until he 
 had convinced at least the mistress of the mansion, if not 
 her sister-in-law, that it was not Venetia Herbert who was 
 his principal attraction in this agreeable society. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE moment he had quitted Yenetia, Lord Cadurcis re- 
 turned home. He could not endure the usual routine of 
 gaiety after her society ; and his coachman, often waiting 
 until five o'clock in the morning at Monteagle House, could 
 scarcely assure himself of his good fortune in this exception 
 to his accustomed trial of patience. The vis-a-vis stopped, 
 and Lord Cadurcis bounded out with a light step and a 
 lighter heart. His table was covered with letters. The 
 first one that caught his eye was a missive from Lady Mont- 
 eagle. Cadurcis seized it like a wild animal darting on its 
 prey, tore it in half without opening it, and, grasping the 
 poker, crammed it with great energy into the fire. This 
 exploit being achieved, Cadurcis began walking up and 
 down the room ; and indeed he paced it for nearly a couple 
 of hours in a deep reverie, and evidently under a consider- 
 able degree of excitement, for his gestures were violent, and 
 his voice often audible. At length, about an hour after 
 midnight, he rang for his valet, tore off his cravat, and 
 hurled it to one corner of the apartment, called for his robe 
 de chambre, soda water, and more lights, seated himself, 
 and began pouring forth, faster almost than his pen could 
 trace the words, the poem that he had been meditating ever 
 since he had quitted the roof where he had met Venetia. 
 She had expressed a wish to read his poems ; he had re- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 VENETIA. 
 
 solved instantly to compose one for her solitary perusal. 
 Thus he relieved his heart : 
 
 Within a cloistered pile, -whose Gothic towers 
 Hose 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 wounded 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 1 has touched with its revealing beam. 
 
 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 smilo, 
 
 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. 
 
 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 and 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.
 
 VENETIA. 277 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 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 !
 
 278 VENETIA. 
 
 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 vinseen, 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. 
 
 The lute is sounding in a chamber bright 
 
 With a high festival ; on every side, 
 
 Soft in the gleamy blaze of mellowed light, 
 
 Pair 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 th maiden in their sunny bowers. 
 
 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 !
 
 VENETIA. 279 
 
 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. 
 
 My tale is done ; and if some deem it strange 
 
 My fancy thus should droop, deign then to learn 
 
 My tale is truth : imagination's range 
 
 Its bounds exact may touch not: to discern 
 
 Far stranger things than poets ever feign, 
 
 In life's perplexing annals, is the fate 
 
 Of those who act, and musing, penetrate 
 
 The mystery of Fortune : to whose reign 
 
 The haughtiest brow must bend ; 'twas passing strange 
 
 The youth of these fond children ; strange the flush 
 
 Of his high fortunes and his spirit's change ; 
 
 Strange was the maiden's tear, the maiden's blush ; 
 
 Strange were his musing thoughts and trembling heart, 
 
 "Tis strange they met, and stranger if they part ! 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WHEN Lady Monteagle discovered, which she did a very 
 few hours after the mortifying event, where Lord Cadurcis 
 had dined the day on which he had promised to be her 
 guest, she was very indignant, but her vanity was more 
 offended than her self-complacency. She was annoyed that 
 Cadurcis should have compromised his exalted reputation 
 by so publicly dangling in the train of the new beauty : 
 still more that he should have signified in so marked a 
 manner the impression which the fair stranger had made
 
 280 VENETIA. 
 
 upon him, by instantly accepting an invitation to a house 
 so totally unconnected with his circle, and where, had it 
 not been to meet this Miss Herbert, it would of course never 
 have entered his head to be a visitor. But, on the whole, 
 Lady Monteagle was rather irritated than jealous ; and far 
 from suspecting that there was the slightest chance of her 
 losing her influence, such as it might be, over Lord Cadur- 
 cis, all that she felt was, that less lustre must redound to her 
 from its possession and exercise, if it were obvious to the 
 world that his attentions could be so easily attracted and 
 commanded. 
 
 When Lord Cadurcis, therefore, having dispatched his 
 poem to Venetia, paid his usual visit on the next day to 
 Monteagle House, he was received rather with sneers than 
 reproaches, as Lady Monteagle, with no superficial know- 
 ledge of society or his lordship's character, was clearly of 
 opinion that this new fancy of her admirer was to be treated 
 rather with ridicule than indignation ; and, in short, as she 
 had discovered that Cadurcis was far from being insensible 
 to mockery, that it was clearly a fit occasion, to use a phrase 
 then very much in vogue, for quizzing. 
 
 ' How d'ye do?' said her ladyship, with an arch smile, 'I 
 really could not expect to see you ! ' 
 
 Cadurcis looked a little confused ; he detested scenes, and 
 now he dreaded one. 
 
 ' You seem quite distrait,' continued Lady Monteagle, 
 after a moment's pause, which his lordship ought to have 
 broken. ' But no wonder, if the world be right.' 
 
 ' The world cannot be wrong,' said Cadurcis sarcastically. 
 
 ' Had you a pleasant party yesterday ? ' 
 
 ' Very.' 
 
 ' Lady must have been quite charmed to have you 
 
 at last,' said Lady Monteagle. ' I suppose she exhibited 
 you to all her friends, as if you were one of the savages that 
 went to Court the other day.' 
 
 ' She was courteous.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I can fancy her flutter ! For my part, if there be
 
 VENETIA. 281 
 
 one character in the world more odious than another, I 
 
 think it is a fussy woman. Lady , with Lord Cadurcis 
 
 dining with her, and the new beauty for a niece, must have 
 been in a most delectable state of bustle.' 
 
 ' I thought she was rather quiet,' said her companion 
 with provoking indifference. ' She seemed to me an agree- 
 able person.' 
 
 ' I suppose you mean Miss Herbert ? ' said Lady Mont- 
 eagle. 
 
 ' Oh ! these are moderate expressions to use in reference 
 to a person like Miss Herbert.' 
 
 ' You know what they said of you two at Ranelagh ? ' said 
 her ladyship. 
 
 ' No,' said Lord Cadurcis, somewhat changing colour, 
 and speaking through his teeth ; ' something devilish 
 pleasant, I dare say.' 
 
 'They call you Sedition and Treason,' said Lady Mont- 
 eagle. 
 
 ' Then we are well suited,' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' She certainly is a beautiful creature,' said her ladyship. 
 
 ' 1 think so,' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' Rather too tall, I think.' 
 
 ' Do you ? ' 
 
 ' Beautiful complexion certainly ; wants delicacy, I think.' 
 
 ' Do you ? ' 
 
 ' Fine eyes ! Grey, I believe. Cannot say I admire 
 grey eyes. Certain sign of bad temper, I believe, grey 
 eyes ? ' 
 
 ' Are they ? ' 
 
 ' I did not observe her hand. I dare say a little coarse. 
 Fair people who are tall generally fail in the hand and arm. 
 What sort of a hand and arm has she ? ' 
 
 ' I did not observe anything coarse about Miss Herbert.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you admire her. And you have cause. No one 
 can deny she is a fine girl, and every one must regret, that 
 with her decidedly provincial air and want of style altogether, 
 which might naturally be expected, considering the rustic
 
 282 VENETIA. 
 
 way I understand she has been brought up (an old house in 
 the country, with a methodistical mother), that she should 
 
 have fallen into such hands as her aunt. Lady is 
 
 enough to spoil any girl's fortune in London.' 
 
 ' I thought that the were people of high considera- 
 tion,' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' Consideration ! ' exclaimed Lady Monteagle. ' If you 
 mean that they are people of rank, and good blood, and 
 good property, they are certainly people of consideration ; 
 but they are Goths, Vandals, Huns, Calmucks, Canadian 
 savages ! They have no fashion, no style, no ton, no in- 
 fluence in the world. It is impossible that a greater mis- 
 fortune could have befallen your beauty than having such 
 an aunt. Why, no man who has the slightest regard for 
 his reputation would be seen in her company. She is a 
 regular quiz, and you cannot imagine how everybody was 
 laughing at you the other night.' 
 
 ' I am very much obliged to them,' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 'And, upon my honour,' continued Lady Monteagle, 
 ' speaking merely as your friend, and not being the least 
 jealous (Cadurcis do not suppose that), not a twinge has 
 crossed my mind on that score ; but still I must tell you 
 that it was most ridiculous for a man like you, to whom 
 everybody looks up, and from whom the slightest attention 
 is an honour, to go and fasten yourself the whole night upon 
 a rustic simpleton, something between a wax doll and a 
 dairymaid, whom every fool in London was staring at ; the 
 very reason why you should not have appeared to have been 
 even aware of her existence.' 
 
 'We have all our moments of weakness, Gertrude,' said 
 Lord Cadurcis, charmed that the lady was so thoroughly 
 unaware and unsuspicious of his long and intimate connec- 
 tion with the Herberts. ' I suppose it was my cursed vanity. 
 I saw, as you say, every fool staring at her, and so I de- 
 termined to show that in an instant I could engross her 
 attention.' 
 
 ' Of course, I know it was only that ; but you should not
 
 VENETIA. 283 
 
 have gone and dined there, Cadurcis,' added the lady, very 
 seriously. ' That compromised you ; but, by cutting them 
 in future in the most marked manner, you may get 
 over it.' 
 
 ' You really think I may ? ' inquired Lord Cadurcis, with 
 some anxiety. 
 
 ' Oh ! I have no doubt of it,' said Lady Monteagle. 
 
 '"What it is to have a friend like you, Gertrude,' said 
 Cadurcis, ' a friend who is neither a Goth, nor a Vandal, 
 nor a Hun, nor a Calmuck, nor a Canadian savage ; but a 
 woman of fashion, style, ton, influence in the world ! It is 
 impossible that a greater piece of good fortune could have 
 befallen me than having you for a friend.' 
 
 'Ah, mediant ! you may mock,' said the lady, triumph- 
 antly, for she was quite satisfied with the turn the con- 
 versation had taken ; ' but I am glad for your sake that 
 you take such a sensible view of the case.' 
 
 Notwithstanding, however, this sensible view of the case, 
 after lounging an hour at Monteagle House, Lord Cadurcis' 
 carriage stopped at the door of Venetia's Gothic aunt. He 
 was not so fortunate as to meet his heroine ; but, neverthe- 
 less, he did not esteem his time entirely thrown away, and 
 consoled himself for the disappointment by confirming the 
 favourable impression he had already made in this establish- 
 ment, and cultivating an intimacy which he was assured 
 must contribute many opportunities of finding himself in 
 the society of Venetia. From this day, indeed, he was a 
 frequent guest at her uncle's, and generally contrived also 
 to meet her several times in the week at some great as- 
 sembly ; but here, both from the occasional presence of 
 Lady Monteagle, although party spirit deterred her from 
 attending many circles where Cadurcis was now an habitual 
 visitant, and from the crowd of admirers who surrounded 
 the Herberts, he rarely found an opportunity for any private 
 conversation with Venetia. His friend the Bishop also, 
 notwithstanding the prejudices of Lady Annabel, received 
 him always with cordiality, and he met the Herberts more
 
 284 VENETIA. 
 
 than once at his mansion. At the opera and in the park 
 also he hovered about them, in spite of the sarcasms or 
 reproaches of Lady Monteagle ; for the reader is not to 
 suppose that that lady continued to take the same self- 
 complacent view of Lord Cadurcis' acquaintance with the 
 Herberts which she originally adopted, and at first flattered 
 herself was the just one. His admiration of Miss Herbert 
 had become the topic of general conversation ; it could no 
 longer be concealed or disguised. But Lady Monteagle was 
 convinced that Cadurcis was not a marrying man, and per- 
 suaded herself that this was a fancy which must evaporate. 
 Moreover, Monteagle House still continued his spot of most 
 constant resort ; for his opportunities of being with Venetia 
 were, with all his exertions, limited, and he had no other 
 resource which pleased him so much as the conversation 
 and circle of the bright goddess of his party. After some 
 fiery scenes therefore with the divinity, which only led to 
 his prolonged absence, for the profound and fervent genius 
 of Cadurcis revolted from the base sentiment and mock 
 emotions of society, the lady reconciled herself to her lot, 
 still believing herself the most envied woman in London, 
 and often ashamed of being jealous of a country girl. 
 
 The general result of the fortnight which elapsed since 
 Cadurcis renewed his acquaintance with his Cherbury friends 
 was, that he had become convinced of his inability of pro- 
 pitiating Lady Annabel, was devotedly attached to Yenetia, 
 though he had seldom an opportunity of intimating feelings, 
 which the cordial manner in which she ever conducted her- 
 self to him gave him no reason to conclude desperate ; at 
 the same time that he had contrived that a day should 
 seldom elapse, which did not under some circumstances, 
 however unfavourable, bring them together, while her inti- 
 mate friends and the circles in which she passed most of 
 her life always witnessed his presence with favour.
 
 VENETIA. 285 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 WE must, however, endeavour to be more intimately ac- 
 quainted with the heart and mind of Venetia in her present 
 situation, so strongly contrasting with the serene simplicity 
 of her former life, than the limited and constrained oppor- 
 tunities of conversing with the companion of his childhood 
 enjoyed by Lord Cadurcis could possibly enable him to be- 
 come. Let us recur to her on the night when she returned 
 home, after having met with Plantagenet at her uncle's, and 
 having pursued a conversation with him, so unexpected, so 
 strange, and so affecting ! She had been silent in the car- 
 riage, and retired to her room immediately. She retired to 
 ponder. The voice of Cadurcis lingered in her ear ; his 
 tearful eye still caught her vision. She leant her head upon 
 her hand, and sighed ! Why did she sigh ? What at this 
 instant was her uppermost thought ? Her mother's dislike 
 of Cadurcis. ' Your mother hates me.' These had been 
 his words ; these were the words she repeated to herself, 
 and on whose fearful sounds she dwelt. ' Your mother 
 hates me.' If by some means she had learnt a month ago 
 at Weymouth, that her mother hated Cadnrcis, that his 
 general conduct had been such as to excite Lady Annabel's 
 odium, Venetia might have for a moment been shocked that 
 her old companion in whom she had once been so interested, 
 had by his irregular behaviour incurred the dislike of her 
 mother, by whom he had once been so loved. But it would 
 have been a transient emotion. She might have mused over 
 past feelings and past hopes in a solitary ramble on the sea- 
 shore ; she might even have shed a tear over the misfortunes 
 or infelicity of one who had once been to her a brother ; but, 
 perhaps, nay probably, on the morrow the remembrance of 
 Plantagenet would scarcely have occurred to her. Long 
 years had elapsed since their ancient fondness ; a consi- 
 derable interval since even his name had met her ear. She
 
 286 VENETIA. 
 
 had heard nothing of him that could for a moment arrest 
 her notice or command her attention. 
 
 But now the irresistible impression that her mother dis- 
 liked this very individual filled her with intolerable grief. 
 What occasioned this change in her feelings, this extraor- 
 dinary difference in her emotions ? There was, apparently, 
 but one cause. She had met Cadurcis. Could then a glance, 
 could even the tender intonations of that unrivalled voice, 
 and the dark passion of that speaking eye, work in an instant 
 such marvels ? Could they revive the past so vividly, that 
 Plantagenet in a moment resumed his ancient place in her 
 affections ? No, it was not that : it was less the tenderness 
 of the past that made Venetia mourn her mother's sternness 
 to Cadurcis, than the feelings of the future. For now she 
 felt that her mother's heart was not more changed towards 
 this personage than was her own. 
 
 It seemed to Venetia that even before they met, from the 
 very moment that his name had so strangely caught her 
 eye in the volume on the first evening she had visited her 
 relations, that her spirit suddenly turned to him. She had 
 never heard that name mentioned since without a fluttering 
 of the heart which she could not repress, and an emotion 
 she could ill conceal. She loved to hear others talk of him, 
 and yet scarcely dared speak of him herself. She recalled 
 her emotion at unexpectedly seeing his portrait when with 
 her aunt, and her mortification when her mother deprived 
 her of the poem which she sighed to read. Day after day 
 something seemed to have occurred to fix her brooding 
 thoughts with fonder earnestness on his image. At length 
 they met. Her emotion when she first recognised him at 
 Ranelagh and felt him approaching her, was one of those 
 tumults of the heart that form almost a crisis in our sensa- 
 tions. With what difficulty had she maintained herself! 
 Doubtful whether he would even formally acknowledge her 
 presence, her vision as if by fascination had nevertheless 
 met his, and grew dizzy as he passed. In the interval that 
 had elapsed between his first passing and then joining her,
 
 VENETIA. 287 
 
 what a chaos was her mind ! "What a wild blending of 
 all the scenes and incidents of her life ! What random 
 answers had she made to those with whom she had been 
 before conversing with ease and animation ! And then, 
 when she unexpectedly found Cadurcis at her side, and 
 listened to the sound of that familiar voice, familiar and 
 yet changed, expressing so much tenderness in its tones, 
 and in its words such deference and delicate respect, exist- 
 ence felt to her that moment affluent with a blissful ex- 
 citement of which she had never dreamed ! 
 
 Her life was a reverie until they met again, in which she 
 only mused over his fame, and the strange relations of their 
 careers. She had watched the conduct of her mother to 
 him at dinner with poignant sorrow ; she scarcely believed 
 that she should have an opportunity of expressing to him 
 her sympathy. And then what had followed ? A conver- 
 sation, every word of which had touched her heart ; a con- 
 versation that would have entirely controlled her feelings 
 even if he had not already subjected them. The tone in 
 which he so suddenly had pronounced ' Venetia,' was the 
 sweetest music to which she had ever listened. His allusion 
 to her father had drawn tears, which could not be re- 
 strained even in a crowded saloon. Now she wept plen- 
 teously. It was so generous, so noble, so kind, so affection- 
 ate ! Dear, dear Cadurcis, is it wonderful that you should 
 be loved ? 
 
 Then falling into a reverie of sweet and unbroken still- 
 ness, with her eyes fixed in abstraction on the fire, Venetia 
 reviewed her life from the moment she had known Planta- 
 genet. Not an incident that had ever occurred to them 
 that did not rise obedient to her magical bidding. She 
 loved to dwell upon the time when she was the consolation 
 of his sorrows, and when Cherbury was to him a pleasant 
 refuge ! Oh ! she felt sure her mother must remember 
 those fond days, and love him as she once did ! She pictured 
 to herself the little Plantagenet of her childhood, so serious 
 and so pensive when alone or with others, yet with her at
 
 288 VENETIA. 
 
 times so gay and wild, and sarcastic ; forebodings all of that 
 deep and brilliant spirit, which had since stirred up the 
 heart of a great nation, and dazzled the fancy of an admir- 
 ing world. The change too in their mutual lots was also, 
 to a degree, not free from that sympathy that had ever 
 bound them together. A train of strange accidents had 
 brought Venetia from her spell-bound seclusion, placed her 
 suddenly in the most brilliant circle of civilisation, and 
 classed her among not the least admired of its favoured 
 members. And whom had she come to meet ? Whom 
 did she find in this new and splendid life the most courted 
 and considered of its community, crowned as it were with 
 garlands, and perfumed with the incense of a thousand 
 altars ? Her own Plantagenet. It was passing strange. 
 
 The morrow brought the verses from Cadurcis. They 
 greatly affected her. The picture of their childhood, and 
 of the singular sympathy of their mutual situations, and 
 the description of her father, called forth her tears ; she 
 murmured, however, at the allusion to her other parent. It 
 was not just, it could not be true. These verses were not, 
 of course, shown to Lady Annabel. Would they have been 
 shown, even if they had not contained the allusion ? The 
 question is not perplexing. Venetia had her secret, and a 
 far deeper one than the mere reception of a poem ; all con- 
 fidence between her and her mother had expired. Love 
 had stept in, and, before his magic touch, the discipline of a 
 life expired in an instant. 
 
 From all this an idea may be formed of the mood in 
 which, during the fortnight before alluded to, Venetia was 
 in the habit of meeting Lord Cadurcis. During this period 
 not the slightest conversation respecting him had occurred 
 between her mother and herself. Lady Annabel never 
 mentioned him, and her brow clouded when his name, as 
 was often the case, was introduced. At the end of this 
 fortnight, it happened that her aunt and mother were out 
 together in the carriage, and had left her in the course of 
 the morning at her uncle's house. During this interval,
 
 VENETIA. 289 
 
 Lord Cadurcis called, and having ascertained, through a 
 garrulous servant, that though his mistress was out, Miss 
 Herbert was in the drawing-room, he immediately took the 
 opportunity of being introduced. Venetia was not a little 
 surprised at his appearance, and, conscious of her mother's 
 feelings upon the subject, for a moment a little agitated, 
 yet, it must be confessed, as much pleased. Shs seized this 
 occasion of speaking to him about his verses, for hitherto 
 she bad only been able to acknowledge the receipt of them 
 by a word. While she expressed without affectation the 
 emotions they had occasioned her, she complained of his 
 injustice to her mother : this was the cause of an interesting 
 conversation of which her father was the subject, and for 
 which she had long sighed. With, what deep, unbroken 
 attention she listened to her companion's enthusiastic de- 
 lineation of his character and career ! What multiplied 
 questions did she not ask him, and how eagerly, how amply, 
 how affectionately he satisfied her just and natural curiosity ! 
 Hours flew away while they indulged in this rare com- 
 munion. 
 
 ' Oh, that T could see him ! ' sighed Venetia. 
 
 ' You will,' replied Plantagenet ; ' your destiny requires 
 it. You will see him as surely as you beheld that por- 
 trait that it was the labour of a life to prevent you be- 
 holding.' 
 
 Venetia shook her head ; 'And yet,' she added musingly, 
 ' my mother loves him.' 
 
 ' Her life proves it,' said Cadui-cis bitterly. 
 
 ' I think it does,' replied Venetia, sincerely. 
 
 ' I pretend not to understand her heart,' he answered ; ' it 
 is an enigma that I cannot solve. I ought not to believe 
 that she is without one ; but, at any rate, her pride is deeper 
 than her love.' 
 
 ' They were ill suited,' said Venetia, mournfully ; ' and 
 yet it is one of my dreams that they may yet meet.' 
 
 ' Ah, Venetia ! ' he exclaimed, in a voice of great softness, 
 
 u
 
 290 VENETIA. 
 
 ' they had not known each other from their childhood, like 
 us. They met, and they parted, alike in haste.' 
 
 Venetia made no reply ; her eyes were fixed in abstrac- 
 tion on a handscreen, which she was unconscious that she 
 held. 
 
 ' Tell me,' said Cadurcis, drawing his chair close to hers ; 
 ' tell me, Venetia, if ' 
 
 At this moment a thundering knock at the door an- 
 nounced the return of the Countess and her sister-in-law. 
 Cadurcis rose from his seat, but his chair, which still re- 
 mained close to that on which Venetia was sitting, did not 
 escape the quick glance of her mortified mother. The 
 Countess welcomed Cadurcis with extreme cordiality; Lady 
 Annabel only returned his very courteous bow. 
 
 ' Stop and dine with us, my dear lord,' said the Coun- 
 tess. 'We are only ourselves, and Lady Annabel and 
 Venetia.' 
 
 ' I thank you, Clara,' said Lady Annabel, ' but we cannot 
 stop to-day.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' exclaimed her sister. ' It will be such a dis- 
 appointment to Philip. Indeed you must stay,' she added, 
 in a coaxing tone ; ' we shall be such an agreeable little 
 party, with Lord Cadurcis.' 
 
 ' I cannot indeed, my dear Clara,' replied Lady Annabel ; 
 ' not to-day, indeed not to-day. Come Venetia ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 LADY ANNABEL was particularly kind to Venetia on their 
 return to their hotel, otherwise her daughter might have 
 fancied that she had offended her, for she was silent. 
 Venetia did not doubt that the presence of Lord Cadurcis 
 was the reason that her mother would not remain and dine 
 at her uncle's. This conviction grieved Venetia, but she 
 did not repine ; she indulged the fond hope that time would 
 remove the strong prejudice which Lady Annabel now so
 
 VENETIA. 291 
 
 singularly entertained against one in whose welfare she 
 was originally so deeply interested. During their simple 
 and short repast Yenetia was occupied in a reverie, in 
 which, it must be owned, Cadurcis greatly figured, and an- 
 swered the occasional though kind remarks of her mother 
 with an absent air. 
 
 After dinner, Lady Annabel drew her chair towards the 
 fire, for, although May, the weather was chill, and said, 'A 
 quiet evening at home, Yenetia, will be a relief after all this 
 gaiety.' Yenetia assented to her mother's observation, and 
 nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed without another word 
 being spoken. Yenetia had taken up a book, and Lady 
 Annabel was apparently lost in her reflections. At length 
 she said, somewhat abruptly, ' It is more than three years, I 
 tliink, since Lord Cadurcis left Cherbury ? ' 
 
 ' Tes ; it is more than three years,' replied Yenetia. 
 
 ' He quitted us suddenly.' 
 
 ' Yery suddenly,' agreed Yenetia. 
 
 ' I never asked you whether you knew the cause, Yenetia,' 
 continued her mother, ' but I always concluded that you 
 did. I suppose I was not in error ? ' 
 
 This was not a very agreeable inquiry. Yenetia did not 
 reply to it with her previous readiness and indifference. That 
 indeed was impossible ; but, with her accustomed frankness, 
 after a moment's hesitation, she answered, ' Lord Cadurcis 
 never specifically stated the cause to me, mamma ; indeed I 
 was myself surprised at his departure, but some conver- 
 sation had occurred between us on the very morning he 
 quitted Cadurcis, which, on reflection, I could not doubt 
 occasioned that departure.' 
 
 ' Lord Cadurcis preferred his suit to you, Yenetia, and 
 you rejected him ?' said Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' It is as you believe,' replied Yenetia, not a little agitated. 
 
 ' You did wisely, my child, and I was weak ever to have 
 regretted your conduct.' 
 
 ' Why should you think so, dearest mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Whatever may have been the cause that impelled your 
 u 2
 
 292 VENETIA. 
 
 conduct then,' said Lady Annabel, ' I shall ever esteem your 
 decision as a signal interposition of Providence in your 
 favour. Except his extreme youth, there was apparently 
 no reason which should not have induced you to adopt a 
 different decision. I tremble when I think what might 
 have been the consequences.' 
 
 ' Tremble, dearest mother ? ' 
 
 ' Tremble, Venetia. My only thought in this life is the 
 happiness of my child. It was in peril. 
 
 ' Nay, I trust not that, mamma : you are prejudiced 
 against Plantagenet. It makes me very unhappy, and him 
 also.' 
 
 ' He is again your suitor ? ' said Lady Annabel, with a 
 scrutinising glance. 
 
 ' Indeed he is not.' 
 
 ' He will be,' said Lady Annabel. ' Prepare yourself. 
 Tell me, then, are your feelings the same towards him as 
 when he last quitted us ?' 
 
 ' Feelings, mamma ! ' said Venetia, echoing her mother's 
 words ;' for indeed the question was one very difficult to 
 answer ; ' I ever loved Plantagenet ; I love him still.' 
 
 ' But do you love him now as then ? Then you looked 
 upon him as a brother. He has no soul now for sisterly 
 affections. I beseech you tell me, my child, me, your 
 mother, your friend, your best, your only friend, tell me, 
 have you for a moment repented that you ever refused to 
 extend to him any other affection?' 
 
 ' I have not thought of the subject, mamma ; I have not 
 wished to think of the subject ; I have had no occasion to 
 think of it. Lord Cadurcis is not my suitor now.' 
 
 ' Venetia ! ' said Lady Annabel, ' I cannot doubt you love 
 me.' 
 
 ' Dearest mother ! ' exclaimed Veuetia, in a tone of min- 
 gled fondness and reproach, and she rose from her seat and 
 embraced Lady Annabel. 
 
 'My happiness is an object to you, Venetia?' continued 
 Lady Annabel.
 
 VENETIA. 293 
 
 ' Mother, mother,' said Venetia, in a deprecatory tone. 
 ' Do not ask such cruel questions ? Whom should I love 
 but you, the best, the dearest mother that ever existed ? 
 And what object can I have in life that for a moment can 
 be placed in competition with your happiness ?' 
 
 ' Then, Venetia, I tell you,' said Lady Annabel, in a 
 solemn yet excited voice, ' that that happiness is gone for 
 ever, nay, my very life will be the forfeit, if I ever live to 
 see you the bride of Lord Cadurcis.' 
 
 ' I have no thought of being the bride of any one,' said 
 Venetia. ' I am happy with you. I wish, never to leave you.' 
 
 ' My child, the fulfilment of such a wish, is not in the 
 nature of things,' replied Lady Annabel. ' The day will come 
 when we must part ; I am prepared for the event ; nay, 1 
 look forward to it not only with resignation, but delight, 
 when I think it may increase your happiness ; but were 
 that step to destroy it, oh ! then, then I could live no more. 
 I can endure my own sorrows, I can struggle with my own 
 bitter lot, I have some sources of consolation which enable 
 me to endure my own misery without repining ; but yours, 
 yours, Venetia, I could not bear. No ! if once I were to 
 behold you lingering in life as your mother, with blighted 
 hopes and with a heart broken, if hearts can break, I should 
 not survive the spectacle ; I know myself, Veuetia, I could 
 not survive it.' 
 
 ' But why anticipate such misery ? Why indulge in such 
 gloomy forebodings ? Am I not happy now ? Do you not 
 love me ? ' 
 
 Venetia had drawn her chair close to that of her mother ; 
 she sat by her side and held her hand. 
 
 ' Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, after a pause of some 
 minutes, and in a low voice, ' I must speak to you on a 
 subject on which we have never conversed. I must speak 
 to you ;' and here Lady Annabel's voice dropped lower and 
 lower, but still its tones were distinct, although she ex- 
 pressed herself with evident effort : ' I must speak to you 
 about your father.'
 
 291 VENETIA. 
 
 Venetia uttered a faint cry, she clenched her mother's 
 hand with a convulsive grasp, and sank upon her bosom. 
 She struggled to maintain herself, but the first sound of 
 that name from her mother's lips, and all the long-sup- 
 pressed emotions that it conjured up, overpowered her. 
 The blood seemed to desert her heart ; still she did not faint ; 
 she clung to Lady Annabel, pallid and shivering. 
 
 Her mother tenderly embraced her, she whispered to her 
 words of great affection, she attempted to comfort and con- 
 sole her. Venetia murmured, ' This is very foolish of me, 
 mother ; but speak, oh ! speak of what I have so long 
 desired to hear.' 
 
 ' Not now, Venetia.' 
 
 ' JSTow, mother ! yes, now ! I am quite composed. I could 
 not bear the postponement of what you were about to say. 
 I could not sleep, dear mother, if you did not speak to me. 
 It was only for a moment I was overcome. See ! I am quite 
 composed.' And indeed she spoke in a calm and steady 
 voice, but her pale and suffering countenance expressed 
 the painful straggle which it cost her to command herself. 
 
 ' Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, ' it has been one of the 
 objects of my life, that you should not share my sorrows.' 
 
 Venetia pressed her mother's hand, but made no other 
 reply. 
 
 ' I concealed from you for years,' continued Lady Annabel, 
 ' a circumstance in which, indeed, you were deeply in- 
 terested, but the knowledge of which could only bring you 
 unhappiness. Tet it was destined that my solicitude should 
 eventually be baffled. I know that it is not from my lips 
 that you learn for the first time that you have a father, a 
 father living.' 
 
 ' Mother, let me tell you all ! ' said Venetia, eagerly. 
 
 ' I know all,' said Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' But, mother, there is something that you do not know ; 
 and now I would confess it.' 
 
 ' There is nothing that you can confess with which I am 
 not acquainted, Venetia ; and I feel assured, I have ever
 
 VENETIA. 295 
 
 folt assured, that your only reason for concealment was a 
 desire to save me pain.' 
 
 'That, indeed, has ever been my only motive,' replied 
 Yenetia, ' for having a secret from my mother.' 
 
 ' In my absence from Cherbury you entered the chamber,' 
 said Lady Annabel, calmly. ' In the delirium of your fever 
 I became acquainted with a circumstance which so nearly 
 proved fatal to you.' 
 
 Venetia's cheek turned scarlet. 
 
 * In that chamber you beheld the portrait of your father,' 
 continued Lady Annabel. ' From our friend you learnt that 
 father was still living. That is all ? ' said Lady Annabel, 
 inquiringly. 
 
 ' No, not all, dear mother ; not all. Lord Cadurcis re- 
 proached me at Cherbury with, with, with having such a 
 father,' she added, in a hesitating voice. ' It was then I 
 learnt his misfortunes, mother ; his misery.' 
 
 ' I thought that misfortunes, that misery, were the lot of 
 your other parent,' replied Lady Annabel, somewhat coldly. 
 
 ' Not with my love,' said Yenetia, eagerly ; ' not with my 
 love, mother. You have forgotten your misery in my love. 
 Say so, say so, dearest mother.' And Yenetia threw herself 
 on her knees before Lady Annabel, and looked up with 
 earnestness in her face. 
 
 The expression of that countenance had been for a moment 
 stern, but it relaxed into fondness, as Lady Annabel gently 
 bowed her head, and pressed her lips to her daughter's 
 forehead. ' Ah, Yenetia ! ' she said, ' all depends upon 
 you. I can endure, nay, I can forget the past, if my child 
 be faithful to me. There are no misfortunes, there is 
 no misery, if the being to whom I have consecrated the 
 devotion of my life will only be dutiful, will only be guided 
 by my advice, will only profit by my sad experience.' 
 
 'Mother, I repeat I have no thought but for you,' said 
 Yenetia. ' My own dearest mother, if my duty, if my devo- 
 tion can content you, you shall be happy. But wherein 
 have I failed ? '
 
 296 VENETIA. 
 
 ' In nothing, love. Your life has hitherto been one un- 
 broken course of affectionate obedience.' 
 
 ' And ever shall be,' said Venetia. ' But you were speak- 
 ing, mother, you were speaking of, of my, my father ! ' 
 
 ' Of him ! ' said Lady Annabel, thoughtfully. ' You have 
 seen his picture ? ' 
 
 Venetia kissed her mother's hand. 
 
 ' Was he less beautiful tiian Cadurcis ? Was he less 
 gifted ? ' exclaimed Lady Annabel, with animation. ' He 
 could whisper in tones as sweet, and pour out his vows as 
 fervently. Yet what am I ? my child ! ' continued 
 Lady Annabel, ' beware of such beings ! They bear within 
 them a spirit on which all the devotion of our sex is lavished 
 in vain. A year, no ! not a year, not one short year ! and 
 all my hopes were blighted ! Venetia ! if your future 
 should be like my bitter past ! and it might have been, and 
 I might have contributed to the fulfilment ! can you wonder 
 that I should look upon Cadurcis with aversion ? ' 
 
 ' But, mother, dearest mother, we have known Planta- 
 genet from his childhood. You ever loved him ; you ever 
 gave him credit for a heart, most tender and affectionate/ 
 
 'He has no heart.' 
 
 ' Mother ! ' 
 
 ' He cannot have a heart. Spirits like him are heartless. 
 It is another impulse that sways their existence. It is 
 imagination ; it is vanity ; it is self, disguised with glitter- 
 ing qualities that dazzle our weak senses, but selfishness, 
 the most entire, the most concentrated. We knew him as 
 a child : ah ! what can women know ? We are born to love, 
 and to be deceived. We saw him young, helpless, aban- 
 doned ; he moved our pity. We knew not his nature ; then 
 he was ignorant of it himself. But the young tiger, though 
 cradled at our hearths and fed on milk, will in good time 
 retire to its jungle and prey on blood. You cannot change 
 its nature ; and the very hand that fostered it will be its 
 first victim.' 
 
 ' How often have we parted ! ' said Venetia, in a depre-
 
 VENETIA. 297 
 
 eating tone ; ' how long have we been separated ! and yet 
 we find him ever the same ; he ever loves us. Yes ! dear 
 mother, he loves you now, the same as in old days. If yon 
 had seen him, as I have seen him, weep when he recalled 
 your promise to be a parent to him, and then contrasted 
 with such sweet hopes your present reserve, oh ! you would 
 believe he had a heart, you would, indeed ! ' 
 
 ' Weep ! ' exclaimed Lady Annabel, bitterly, ' ay ! they 
 can weep. Sensibility is a luxury which they love to in- 
 dulge. Their very susceptibility is our bane. They can 
 weep; ihey can play upon our feelings; and our emotion, so 
 easily excited, is an homage to their own power, in which 
 they glory. 
 
 ' Look at Cadurcis,' she suddenly resumed ; ' bred with 
 so much care ; the soundest principles instilled into him 
 with such sedulousness ; imbibing them apparently with 
 so much intelligence, ardour, and sincerity, with all that 
 fervour, indeed, with which men of his temperament for 
 the moment pursue every object ; but a few years back, 
 pious, dutiful, and moral, viewing perhaps with intolerance 
 too youthful all that differed from the opinions and the con- 
 duct he had been educated to admire and follow. And what 
 is he now ? The most lawless of the wild ; casting to the 
 winds every salutary principle of restraint and social dis- 
 cipline, and glorying only in the abandoned energy of self. 
 Three years ago, you yourself confessed to me, he reproached 
 you with your father's conduct ; now he emulates it. There 
 is a career which such men must run, and from which no 
 influence can divert them; it is in their blood. To-day 
 Cadurcis may vow to you eternal devotion ; but, if the 
 world speak truth, Venetia, a month ago he was equally 
 enamoured of another, a,nd one, too, who cannot be his. 
 But grant that his sentiments towards you are for the mo- 
 ment sincere ; his imagination broods upon your idea, it 
 transfigures it with a halo which exists only to his vision. 
 Yield to him ; become his bride ; and you will have the 
 mortification of finding that, before six months have elapsed,
 
 298 VENETIA. 
 
 his restless spirit is already occupied with, objects which 
 may excite your mortification, your disgust, even your 
 horror ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, mother ! it is not with Plantagenet as with my 
 father ; Plantagenet could not forget Cherbury, he could 
 not forget our childhood,' said Yenetia. 
 
 ' On the contrary, while you lived together these recol- 
 lections would be wearisome, common-place to him ; when 
 you had separated, indeed, mellowed by distance, and the 
 comparative vagueness with which your absence would 
 invest them, they would become the objects of his muse, 
 and he would insult you by making the public the confidant 
 of all your most delicate domestic feelings.' 
 
 Lady Annabel rose from her seat, and walked up and 
 down the room, speaking with an excitement veiy unusual 
 with her. ' To have all the soft secrets of your life revealed 
 to the coarse wonder of the gloating multitude ; to find 
 yourself the object of the world's curiosity, still worse, 
 their pity, their sympathy ; to have the sacred conduct of 
 your hearth canvassed in every circle, and be the grand 
 subject of the pros and cons of every paltry journal, ah, 
 Venetia ! you know not, you cannot understand, it is impos- 
 sible you can comprehend, the bitterness of such a lot.' 
 
 'My beloved mother!' said Venetia, with streaming 
 eyes, 'you cannot have a feeling that I do not share.' 
 
 ' Yenetia, you know not what I had to endure ! ' exclaimed 
 Lady Annabel, in a tone of extreme bitterness. ' There is 
 no degree of wretchedness that you can conceive equal to 
 what has been the life of your mother. And what has sus- 
 tained me ; what, throughout all my tumultuous troubles, 
 has been the star on which I have ever gazed ? My child ! 
 And am I to lose her now, after all my sufferings, all my 
 hopes that she at least might be spared my miserable doom ? 
 Am I to witness her also a victim ? ' Lady Annabel clasped 
 her hands in passionate grief. 
 
 ' Mother ! mother ! ' exclaimed Yenetia, in agony, ' spare 
 yourself, spare me ! '
 
 VENETIA. 299 
 
 ' Yenetia, you know how I have doted upon you ; you 
 know how I have watched and tended you from your 
 infancy. Have I had a thought, a wish, a hope, a plan ? 
 has there been the sligtest action of my life, of which you 
 have not been the object ? All mothers feel, but none ever 
 felt like me ; you were my solitary joy.' 
 
 Venetia leant her face upon the table at which she was 
 sitting and sobbed aloud. 
 
 ' My love was baffled,' Lady Annabel continued. ' I fled, 
 for both our sakes, from the world in which my family 
 were honoured ; I sacrificed without a sigh, in the very 
 prime of my youth, every pursuit which interests woman ; 
 but I had my child, I had my child ! ' 
 
 ' And you have her still ! ' exclaimed the miserable Vene- 
 tia. ' Mother, you have her still ! ' 
 
 ' I have schooled my mind,' continued Lady Annabel, 
 still pacing the room with agitated steps; 'I have dis- 
 ciplined my emotions ; I have felt at my heart the constant 
 the undying pang, and yet I have smiled, that you might 
 be happy. But I can struggle against my fate no longer. 
 No longer can I suffer my unparalleled, yes, my unjust 
 doom. What have I done to merit these afflictions ? Now, 
 then, let me struggle no more ; let me die ! ' 
 
 Venetia tried to rise ; her limbs refused their office ; she 
 tottered ; she fell again into her seat with an hysteric cry. 
 
 ' Alas ! alas ! ' exclaimed Lady Annabel, ' to a mother, a 
 child is everything ; but to a child, a parent is only a link 
 in the chain of her existence. It was weakness, it was folly, 
 it was madness to stake everything on a resource which 
 must fail me. I feel it now, but I feel it too late.' 
 
 Venetia held forth her arms ; she could not speak ; she 
 was stifled with her emotion. 
 
 ' But was it wonderful that I was so weak ? ' continued 
 her mother, as it were communing only with herself. ' What 
 child was like mine ? Oh ! the joy, the bliss, the hours of 
 rapture that I have passed, in gazing upon my treasure, and 
 dreaming of all her beauty and her rare qualities ! I was
 
 300 VENETIA. 
 
 so happy ! I was so proud ! Ah, Venetia ! you know not 
 how I have loved you ! ' 
 
 Venetia sprang from, her seat ; she rushed forward with 
 convulsive energy ; she clung to her mother, threw her 
 arms round her neck, and buried her passionate woe in 
 Lady Annabel's bosom. 
 
 Lady Annabel stood for some minutes supporting her 
 speechless and agitated child ; then, as her sobs became 
 fainter, and the tumult of her grief gradually died away, 
 she bore her to the sofa, and seated herself by her side, 
 holding Venetia' s hand in her own, and ever and anon 
 soothing her with soft embraces, and still softer words. 
 
 At length, in a faint voice, Venetia said, ' Mother, what 
 can I do to restore the past ? How can we be to each 
 other as we were, for this I cannot bear ? ' 
 
 ' Love me, my Venetia, as I love you ; be faithful to your 
 mother; do not disregard her counsel ; profit by her errors.' 
 
 ' I will in all things obey you,' said Venetia, in a low 
 voice ; ' there is no sacrifice I am not prepared to make for 
 your happiness.' 
 
 ' Let us not talk of sacrifices, my darling child ; it is not 
 a sacrifice that I require. I wish only to prevent your 
 everlasting misery.' 
 
 'What, then, shall I do?' 
 
 ' Make me only one promise ; whatever pledge you give, 
 I feel assured that no influence, Venetia, will ever induce 
 you to forfeit it.' 
 
 ' Name it, mother.' 
 
 ' Promise me never to marry Lord Cadurcis,' said Lady 
 Annabel, in a whisper, but a whisper of which not a word 
 was lost by the person to whom it was addressed. 
 
 ' I promise never to marry, but with your approbation,' 
 said Venetia, in a solemn voice, and uttering the words with 
 great distinctness. 
 
 The countenance of Lady Annabel instantly brightened ; 
 she embraced her child with extreme fondness, and breathed 
 the softest and the sweetest expressions of gratitude and love.
 
 VENETIA. 301 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 WHEN Lady Monteagle discovered that of which her good- 
 natured friends took care she should not long remain igno- 
 rant, that Venetia Herbert had been the companion of Lord 
 Cadurcis' childhood, and that the most intimate relations 
 had once subsisted between the two families, she became 
 the prey of violent jealousy ; and the bitterness of her feel- 
 ings was not a little increased, when she felt that she had 
 not only been abandoned, but duped ; and that the new 
 beauty, out of his fancy for whom she had nattered herself 
 she had so triumphantly rallied him, was an old friend, 
 whom he always admired. She seized the first occasion, 
 after this discovery, of relieving her feelings, by a scene so 
 violent, that Cadurcis had never again entered Monteagle 
 House ; and then repenting of this mortifying result, which 
 she had herself precipitated, she overwhelmed him with 
 letters, which, next to scenes, were the very things which 
 Lord Cadurcis most heartily abhorred. These, now indig- 
 nant, now passionate, now loading him. with reproaches, 
 now appealing to his love, and now to his pity, daily 
 arrived at his residence, and were greeted at first only with 
 short and sarcastic replies, and finally by silence. Then the 
 lady solicited a final interview, and Lord Cadurcis having 
 made an appointment to quiet her, went out of town the 
 day before to Richmond, to a villa belonging to Venetia's 
 uncle, and where, among other guests, he was of course to 
 meet Lady Annabel and her daughter. 
 
 The party was a most agreeable one, and assumed an 
 additional interest with Cadurcis, who had resolved to seize 
 this favourable opportunity to bring his aspirations to 
 Venetia to a crisis. The day after the last conversation 
 with her, which we have noticed, he had indeed boldly 
 called upon the Herberts at their hotel for that purpose, but 
 without success, as they were again absent from home. He 
 had been since almost daily in the society of Venetia ; but
 
 302 VENETIA. 
 
 London, to a lover who is not smiled upon by the domestic 
 circle of his mistress, is a very unfavourable spot for con- 
 fidential conversations. A villa life, with its easy, unem- 
 barrassed habits, its gardens and lounging walks, to say 
 nothing of the increased opportunities resulting from being 
 together at all hours, and living under the same roof, was 
 more promising ; and here he flattered himself he might 
 defy even the Argus eye and ceaseless vigilance of his 
 intended mother-in-law, his enemy, whom he could not 
 propitiate, and whom he now fairly hated. 
 
 His cousin George, too, was a guest, and his cousin George 
 was the confidant of his love. Upon this kind relation de- 
 volved the duty, far from a disagreeable one, of ^amusing 
 the mother ; and as Lady Annabel, though she relaxed not 
 a jot of the grim courtesy which she ever extended to Lord 
 Cadurcis, was no longer seriously uneasy as to his influence 
 after the promise she had exacted from her daughter, it 
 would seem that these circumstances combined to prevent 
 Lord Cadurcis from being disappointed at least in the first 
 object which he wished to obtain, an opportunity. 
 
 And yet several days elapsed before this offered itself, 
 passed by Cadurcis, however, very pleasantly in the pre- 
 sence of the being he loved, and very judiciously too, for no 
 one could possibly be more amiable and ingratiating than 
 our friend. Every one present, except Lady Annabel, 
 appeared to entertain for him as much affection as admira- 
 tion : those who had only met him in throngs were quite 
 surprised how their superficial observation and the delusive 
 reports of the world had misled them. As for his hostess, 
 whom it had ever been his study to please, he had long won 
 her heart ; and, as she could not be blind to his projects 
 and pretensions, she heartily wished him success, assisted 
 him with all her efforts, and desired nothing more sincerely 
 than that her niece should achieve such a conquest, and she 
 obtain so distinguished a nephew. 
 
 Notwithstanding her promise to her mother, Venetia felt 
 justified in making no alteration in her conduct to one
 
 VENETIA. 303 
 
 whom she still sincerely loved ; and, under the immediate 
 influence of his fascination, it was often, when she was 
 alone, that she mourned with a sorrowing heart over the 
 opinion which her mother entertained of him. Could it 
 indeed be possible that Plantagenet, the same Plantagenet 
 she had known so early and so long, to her invariably so 
 tender and so devoted, could entail on her, by their union, 
 such unspeakable and inevitable misery? Whatever might 
 be the view adopted by her mother of her conduct, Venetia 
 felt every hour more keenly that it was a sacrifice, and the 
 greatest ; and she still indulged in a vague yet delicious 
 dream, that Lady Annabel might ultimately withdraw the 
 harsh and perhaps heart-breaking interdict she had so 
 rigidly decreed. 
 
 ' Cadurcis,' said his cousin to him one morning, ' we are 
 all going to Hampton Court. Now is your time ; Lady 
 Annabel, the Vemons, and myself, will fill one carriage ; I 
 have arranged that. Look out, and something may be 
 done. Speak to the Countess.' 
 
 Accordingly Lord Cadurcis hastened to make a sugges- 
 tion to a friend always flattered by his notice. ' My dear 
 friend,' he said in his softest tone, ' let you and Venetia 
 and myself manage to be together ; it will be so delightful ; 
 we shall quite enjoy ourselves.' 
 
 The Countess did not require this animating compliment 
 to effect the object which Cadurcis did not express. She 
 had gradually fallen into the unacknowledged conspiracy 
 against her sister-in-law, whose prejudice against her friend 
 she had long discovered, and had now ceased to combat. 
 Two carriages, and one filled as George had arranged, 
 accordingly drove gaily away ; and Yenetia, and her aunt, 
 and Lord Cadurcis were to follow them on horseback. 
 They rode with delight through the splendid avenues of 
 Bushey, and Cadurcis was never in a lighter or happier 
 mood. 
 
 The month of May was in its decline, and the cloudless 
 sky and the balmy air such as suited so agreeable a season.
 
 304 VENETIA. 
 
 
 
 The London season was approaching its close ; for the 
 royal birthday was, at the period of our history, generally 
 the signal of preparation for country quarters. The car- 
 riages arrived long before the riding party, for they had 
 walked their steeds, and they found a messenger who re- 
 quested them to join their friends in the apartments which 
 they were visiting. 
 
 ' For my part,' said Cadurcis, ' I love the sun that rarely 
 shines in this land. I feel no inclination to lose the golden 
 hours in these gloomy rooms. What say you, ladies fair, 
 to a stroll in the gardens ? It will be doubly charming 
 after our ride.' 
 
 His companions cheerfully assented, and they walked 
 away, congratulating themselves on their escape from the 
 wearisome amusement of palace-hunting, straining their 
 eyes to see pictures hung at a gigantic height, and solemnly 
 wandering through formal apartments full of state beds and 
 massy cabinets and modern armour. 
 
 Taking their way along the terrace, they struck at length 
 into a less formal path. At length the Countess seated her- 
 self on a bench. ' I must rest,' she said, ' but you, young 
 people, may roam about ; only do not lose me.' 
 
 ' Come, Venetia ! ' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 Venetia was hesitating ; she did net like to leave her 
 aunt alone, but the Countess encouraged her, ' If you will 
 not go, you will only make me continue walking,' she said. 
 And so Venetia proceeded, and for the first time since her 
 visit was alone with Plantagenet. 
 
 ' I quite love your aunt,' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' It is difficult indeed not to love her,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Ah, Venetia ! I wish your mother was like your aunt,' 
 he continued. It was an observation which was not heard 
 without some emotion by his companion, though it was 
 imperceptible. 'Venetia,' said Cadurcis, 'when I recol- 
 lect old days, how strange it seems that we now never 
 should be alone, but by some mere accident, like this, for 
 instance.'
 
 VENETIA. 305 
 
 ' It is no use thinking of old days,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' No use ! ' said Cadurcis. ' I do not like to hear you 
 say that, Venetia. Those are some of the least agreeable 
 words that were ever uttered by that mouth. I cling to 
 old days ; they are my only joy and my only hope.' 
 
 ' They are gone,' said Yenetia. 
 
 ' But may they not return ? ' said Cadurcis. 
 
 * Never,' said Venetia, mournfully. 
 
 They had walked on to a marble fountain of gigantic pro- 
 portions and elaborate workmanship, an assemblage of divi- 
 nities and genii, all spouting water in fantastic attitudes. 
 
 ' Old days,' said Plantagenet, ' are like the old fountain 
 at Cadurcis, dearer to me than all this modern splendour.' 
 
 ' The old fountain at Cadurcis,' said Venetia, musingly, 
 and gazing on the water with an abstracted air, ' I loved it 
 well!' 
 
 ' Venetia,' said her companion, in a tone of extreme 
 tenderness, yet not untouched with melancholy, ' dear 
 Venetia, let us return, and return together, to that old 
 fountain and those old days ! ' 
 
 Venetia shook her head. ' Ah, Plantageuet ! ' she ex- 
 claimed in a mournful voice, ' we must not speak of these 
 things.' 
 
 ' Why not, Venetia ? ' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. 
 ' Why should we be estranged from each other ? I love 
 you ; I love only you ; never have I loved another. And 
 you, have you forgotten all our youthful affection? You 
 cannot, Venetia. Our childhood can never be a blank.' 
 
 ' I told you, when first we met, my heart was unchanged,' 
 said Venetia. 
 
 ' Remember the vows I made to you when last at Cher- 
 bury,' said Cadurcis. ' Years have flown on, Venetia ; but 
 they find me urging the same. At any rate, now I know 
 myself; at any rate, I am not now an obscure boy ; yet 
 what is manhood, and what is fame, without the charm of 
 my infancy and my youth ! Yes, Venetia ! you must, you 
 will be mine ? '
 
 306 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Plantagenet,' she replied, in a solemn tone, ' yours I 
 never can be.' 
 
 * You do not, then, love me ? ' said Cadurcis reproach- 
 fully, and in a voice of great feeling. 
 
 ' It is impossible for you to be" loved more than I love 
 you,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' My own Venetia ! ' said Cadurcis ; ' Venetia that I dote 
 on ! what does this mean ? Why, then, will you not be 
 mine ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot ; there is an obstacle, an insuperable obstacle.' 
 
 ' Tell it me,' said Cadurcis eagerly ; ' I will overcome it.' 
 
 4 1 have promised never to marry without the approbation 
 of my mother ; her approbation you never can obtain.' 
 
 Cadurcis 1 countenance fell; this was an obstacle which 
 he felt that even he could not overcome. 
 
 ' I told you your mother hated me, Venetia.' And then, 
 as she did not reply, he continued, ' You confess it, I see 
 you confess it. Once you flattered me I was mistaken ; but 
 now, now you confess it.' 
 
 ' Hatred is a word which I cannot understand,' replied 
 Venetia. ' My mother has reasons for disapproving my 
 union with you ; not founded on the circumstances of your 
 life, and therefore removable (for I know what the world 
 says, Plantagenet, of you), but I have confidence in your 
 love, and that is nothing ; but founded on your character, 
 on your nature ; they may be unjust, but they are insuper- 
 able, and I must yield to them.' 
 
 ' You have another parent, Venetia,' said Cadurcis, in a 
 tone of almost irresistible softness, ' the best and greatest 
 of men ! Once you told me that his sanction was necessary 
 to your marriage. I will obtain it. O Venetia ! be mine, 
 and we will join him ; join that ill-fated and illustrious 
 being who loves you with a passion second only to mine ; 
 him who has addressed you in language which rests on 
 every lip, and has thrilled many a heart that you even can 
 never know. My adored Venetia ! picture to yourself, for 
 one moment, a life with him ; resting on my bosom, conse-
 
 VENETIA. 307 
 
 crated by his paternal love ! Let us quit this mean and 
 miserable existence, which we now pursue, which never 
 could have suited us ; let us shun for ever this dull and 
 degrading life, that is not life, if life be what I deem it ; let 
 us fly to those beautiful solitudes where he communes with 
 an inspiring nature ; let us, let us be happy ! ' 
 
 He uttered these last words in a tone of melting tender- 
 ness ; he leant forward his head, and his gaze caught hers, 
 which was fixed upon the water. Her hand was pressed 
 suddenly in his ; his eye glittered, his lip seemed still 
 speaking ; he awaited his doom. 
 
 The countenance of Venetia was quite pale, but it was 
 disturbed. You might see, as it were, the shadowy pro- 
 gress of thought, and mark the tumultuous passage of con- 
 flicting passions. Her mind, for a moment, was indeed a 
 chaos. There was a terrible conflict between love and duty. 
 At length a tear, one solitary tear, burst from her burning 
 eye-ball, and stole slowly down her cheek ; it relieved her 
 pain. She pressed Cadurcis' hand, and speaking in a 
 hollow voice, and with a look vague and painful, she 
 said, ' I am a victim, but I am resolved. I never will 
 desert her who devoted herself to me.' 
 
 Cadurcis quitted her hand rather abruptly, and began 
 walking up and down on the turf that surrounded the 
 fountain. 
 
 ' Devoted herself to you ! ' he exclaimed with a fiendish 
 laugh, and speaking, as Avas his custom, between his teeth. 
 * Commend me to such devotion. Not content with de- 
 priving you of a father, now forsooth she must bereave you 
 of a lover too ! And this is a mother, a devoted mother ! 
 The cold-blooded, sullen, selfish, inexorable tyrant ! ' 
 
 ' Plantagenet ! ' exclaimed Venetia with great animation. 
 
 ' Nay, I will speak. Victim, indeed ! You have ever 
 been her slave. She a devoted mother ! Ay ! as devoted 
 as a mother as she was dutiful as a wife ! She has no 
 heart ; she never had a feeling. And she cajoles you with 
 her love, her devotion, the stern hypocrite ! ' 
 
 x 2
 
 308 VENETIA. 
 
 ' I must leave you,' said Venetia ; ' I cannot bear this.' 
 
 ' Oh ! the truth, the truth is precious,' said Cadurcis, 
 taking her hand, and preventing her from moving. ' Your 
 mother, your devoted mother, has driven one man of genius 
 from her bosom, and his country. Yet there is another. 
 Deny me what I ask, and to-morrow's sun shall light me to 
 another land ; to this I will never return ; I will blend my 
 tears with your father's, and I will publish to Europe the 
 double infamy of your mother. I swear it solemnly. Still 
 I stand here, Venetia ; prepared, if you will but smile upon 
 me, to be her son, her dutiful son. Nay ! her slave like 
 you. She shall not murmur. I will be dutiful ; she shall 
 be devoted ; we will all be happy,' he added in a softer 
 tone. ' Now, now, Venetia, my happiness is on the stake, 
 now, now.' 
 
 ' I have spoken,' said Venetia. ' My heart may break, 
 but my purpose shall not falter.' 
 
 ' Then my curse upon your mother's head ? ' said Cadurcis, 
 with terrible vehemency. ' May heaven rain all its plagues 
 upon her, the Hecate ! ' 
 
 * I will listen no more,' exclaimed Venetia indignantly, 
 and she moved away. She had proceeded some little dis- 
 tance when she paused and looked back ; Cadurcis was 
 still at the fountain, but he did not observe her. She re- 
 membered his sudden departure from Cherbury; she did 
 not doubt that, in the present instance, he would leave 
 them as abruptly, and that he would keep his word so 
 solemnly given. Her heart was nearly breaking, but she 
 could not bear the idea of parting in bitterness with the 
 being whom, perhaps, she loved best in the world. She 
 stopt, she called his name in a voice low indeed, but in that 
 silent spot it reached him. He joined her immediately, 
 but with a slow step. When he had reached her, he said, 
 without any animation and in a frigid tone, ' I believe you 
 called me ? ' 
 
 Venetia burst into tears. ' I cannot bear to part in anger, 
 Plantagenct. I wished to say farewell in kindness. I shall
 
 VENETIA. 309 
 
 always pray for your happiness. God bless you, Planta- 
 genet ! ' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis made no reply, though for a moment he 
 seemed about to speak ; he bowed, and, as Venetia approached 
 her aunt, he turned his steps in a different direction. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 VENETIA stopped for a moment to collect herself before she 
 joined her aunt, but it was impossible to conceal her agita- 
 tion from the Countess. They had not, however, been long 
 together before they observed their friends in the distance, 
 who had now quitted the palace. Venetia made the utmost 
 efforts to compose herself, and not unsuccessful ones. She 
 was sufficiently calm on their arrival, to listen, if not to 
 converse. The Countess, with all the tact of a woman, 
 covered her niece's confusion by her animated description, 
 of their agreeable ride, and their still more pleasant pro- 
 menade ; and in a few minutes the whole party were walk- 
 ing back to their carriages. When they had arrived at the 
 inn, they found Lord Cadurcis, to whose temporary absence 
 the Countess had alluded with some casual observation 
 which she flattered herself was very satisfactory. Cadurcis 
 appeared rather sullen, and the Countess, with feminme 
 quickness, suddenly discovered that both herself and her 
 niece were extremely fatigued, and that they had better 
 return in the carriages. There was one vacant place, and 
 some of the gentlemen must ride outside. Lord Cadurcis, 
 however, said that he should return as he came, and the 
 grooms might lead back the ladies' horses ; and so in a few 
 minutes the carriages had driven off. 
 
 Our solitary equestrian, however, was no sooner mounted 
 than he put his horse to its speed, and never drew in his 
 rein until he reached Hyde Park Corner. The rapid motion 
 accorded with his tumultuous mood. He was soon at home, 
 gave his horse to a servant, for he had left his groom behind,
 
 310 VENETIA. 
 
 rushed into his library, tore up a letter of Lady Monteagle's 
 with a demoniac glance, and rang his bell with such force 
 that it broke. His valet, not unused to such ebullitions, 
 immediately appeared. 
 
 'Has anything happened, Spalding ? ' said his lordship. 
 
 ' Nothing particular, my lord. Her ladyship sent every 
 day, and called herself twice, but I told her your lordship 
 was in Yorkshire.' 
 
 ' That was right ; I saw a letter from her. When did it 
 come ? ' 
 
 ' It has been here several days, my lord.' 
 
 ' Mind, I am at home to nobody ; I am not in town.' 
 
 The valet bowed and disappeared. Cadurcis threw him- 
 self into an easy chair, stretched his legs, sighed, and then 
 swore ; then suddenly starting up, he seized a mass of 
 letters that were lying on the table, and hurled them to the 
 other end of the apartment, dashed several books to the 
 ground, kicked down several chairs that were in his way, 
 and began pacing the room with his usual troubled step ; 
 and so he continued until the shades of twilight entered his 
 apartment. Then he pulled down the other bell-rope, and 
 Mr. Spalding again appeared. 
 
 ' Order posthorses for to-morrow,' said his lordship. 
 
 ' Where to, mylord ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know ; order the horses.' 
 
 Mr. Spalding again bowed and disappeared. 
 
 In a few minutes he heard a great stamping and confusion 
 in his master's apartment, and presently the door opened 
 and his master's voice was heard calling him repeatedly in 
 a very irritable tone.' 
 
 ' Why are there no bells in this cursed room ? ' inquired 
 Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' The ropes are broken, my lord.' 
 
 ' Why are they broken ? ' 
 
 ' I can't say, my lord.' 
 
 * I cannot leave this house for a day but I find everything 
 in confusion. Bring me some Burgundy.'
 
 VENETIA. 311 
 
 ' Yes, my lord. There is a young lad, my lord, called a 
 few minutes back, and asked for your lordship. He says he 
 has something very particular to say to your lordship. I 
 told him your lordship was out of town. He said your lord- 
 ship would wish very much to see him, and that he had 
 come from the Abbey.' 
 
 ' The Abbey ! ' said Cadurcis, in a tone of curiosity. ' Why 
 did you not show him in. ? ' 
 
 ' Tour lordship said you were not at home to anybody.' 
 
 ' Idiot ! Is this anybody ? Of course I would have seen 
 him. What the devil do I keep you for, sir ? You seem to 
 me to have lost your head.' 
 
 Mr. Spalding retired. 
 
 ' The Abbey ! that is droll,' said Cadurcis. ' I owe some 
 duties to the poor Abbey. I should not like to quit England, 
 and leave anybody in trouble at the Abbey. I wish I had 
 seen the lad. Some son of a tenant who has written to 
 me, and I have never opened his letters. I am sorry.' 
 
 In a few minutes Mr. Spalding again entered the room. 
 ' The young lad has called again, my lord. He says he 
 thinks your lordship has come to town, and he wishes to see 
 your lordship very much.' 
 
 ' Bring lights and show him up. Show him up first.' 
 
 Accordingly, a country lad was ushered into the room, 
 although it was so dusky that Cadurcis could only observe 
 his figure standing at the door. 
 
 ' Well, my good fellow,' said Cadurcis ; ' what do you 
 want ? Are you in any trouble ? ' 
 
 The boy hesitated. 
 
 ' Speak out, my good fellow ; do not be alarmed. If I 
 can serve you, or any one at the Abbey, I will do it.' 
 
 Here Mr. Spalding entered with the lights. The lad 
 held a cotton handkerchief to his face ; he appeared to be 
 weeping ; all that was seen of his head were his locks of 
 red hair. He seemed a country lad, dressed in a long 
 green coat with silver buttons, and he twirled in his dis- 
 engaged hand a peasant's white hat.
 
 312 VEXETIA. 
 
 'That will do, Spalding,' said Lord Cadurcis. 'Leave 
 the room. "Now, my good fellow, my time is precious ; but 
 speak out, and do not be afraid.' 
 
 ' Cadurcis ! ' said the lad in a sweet and trembling voice. 
 ' Gertrude, by G d ! ' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, start- 
 ing. ' What infernal masquerade is this ? ' 
 
 ' Is it a greater disguise than I have to bear every hour 
 of my life ? ' exclaimed Lady Moiiteagle, advancing. ' Have 
 I not to bear a smiling face with a breaking heart ? ' 
 
 ' By Jove ! a scene,' exclaimed Cadurcis in a piteous 
 tone. 
 
 ' A scene ! ' exclaimed Lady Monteagle, bursting into a 
 flood of indignant tears. ' Is this the way the expres- 
 sion of my feelings is ever to be stigmatised ? Barbarous 
 man ! ' 
 
 Cadurcis stood with his back to the fireplace, with his 
 lips compressed, and his hands under his coat-tails. He 
 was resolved that nothing should induce him to utter a 
 word. He looked the picture of dogged indifference. 
 
 ' I know where you have been,' continued Lady Mont- 
 eagle. ' You have been to Richmond ; you have been with 
 Miss Herbert. Yes ! I know all. I am a victim, but I 
 will not be a dupe. Yorkshire indeed ! Paltry coward ! ' 
 Cadurcis hummed an air. 
 
 ' And this is Lord Cadurcis ! ' continued the lady. ' The 
 sublime, ethereal Lord Cadurcis, condescending to the last 
 refuge of the meanest, most commonplace mind, a vulgar, 
 wretched lie ! What could have been expected from such 
 a mind ? You may delude the world, but I know you. 
 Yes, sir! I know you. And I will let everybody know 
 you. I will tear away the veil of charlatanism with which 
 you have enveloped yourself. The world shall at length 
 discover the nature of the idol they have worshipped. All 
 your meanness, all your falsehood, all your selfishness, all 
 your baseness, shall be revealed. I may be spurned, but 
 at any rate I will be revenged ! ' 
 Lord Cadurcis yawned.
 
 VENETIA. 313 
 
 * Insulting, pitiful wretch ! ' continued the lady. ' And 
 you think that I wish to hear you speak ! You think the 
 sound of that deceitful voice has any charm for me ! You 
 are mistaken, sir ! I have listened to you too long. It 
 was not to remonstrate with you that I resolved to see you. 
 The tones of your voice can only excite my disgust. I am 
 hei'e to speak myself; to express to you the contempt, the 
 detestation, the aversion, the scorn, the hatred, which "I 
 entertain for you ! ' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis whistled. 
 
 The lady paused ; she had effected the professed purport 
 of her visit ; she ought now to have retired, and Cadurcis 
 would most willingly have opened the door for her, and 
 bowed her out of his apartment. But her conduct did not 
 exactly accord with her speech. She intimated no inten- 
 tion of moving. Her courteous friend retained his position, 
 and adhered to his policy of silence. There was a dead 
 pause, and then Lady Monteagle, throwing herself into a 
 chair, went into hysterics. 
 
 Lord Cadurcis, following her example, also seated him- 
 self, took up a book, and began to read. 
 
 The hysterics became fainter and fainter ; they expe- 
 rienced all those gradations of convulsive noise with which 
 Lord Cadurcis was so well acquainted ; at length they sub- 
 sided into sobs and sighs. Finally, there was again silence, 
 now only disturbed by the sound of a page turned by Lord 
 Cadurcis. 
 
 Suddenly the lady sprang from her seat, and firmly 
 grasping the arm of Cadurcis, threw herself on her knees 
 at his side. 
 
 'Cadurcis!' she exclaimed, in a tender tone, 'do you, 
 love me ? ' 
 
 'My dear Gertrude,' said Lord Cadurcis, coolly, but 
 rather regretting he had quitted his original and less assail- 
 able posture, ' you know I like quiet women.' 
 
 ' Cadurcis, forgive me ! ' murmured the lady. ' Pity rae ! 
 Think only how miserable I am ! '
 
 314 VENETIA. 
 
 'Your misery is of your own making 1 ,' said Lord Ca- 
 durcis. ' What occasion is there for any of these extra- 
 ordinary proceedings ? I have told you a thousand times 
 that I cannot endure scenes. Female society is a relaxa- 
 tion to me ; you convert it into torture. I like to sail upon 
 a summer sea ; and you always will insist upon a white 
 squall.' 
 
 ' But you have deserted me ! ' 
 
 * I never desert any one,' replied Cadurcis calmly, raising 
 her from her supplicating attitude, and leading Ler to a 
 seat. ' The last time we met, you banished me your pre- 
 sence, and told me never to speak to you again. Well, I 
 obeyed your orders, as I always do.' 
 
 ' But I did not mean what I said,' said Lady Monteagle. 
 ' How should I know that ? ' said Lord Cadnrcis. 
 
 * Your heart ought to have assured you,' said the lady. 
 
 ' The tongue is a less deceptive organ than the heart,' 
 replied her companion. 
 
 ' Cadurcis,' said the lady, looking at her strange dis- 
 guise, ' what do you advise me to do ? ' 
 
 ' To go home ; and if you like I will order my vis-a-vis 
 for you directly,' and he rose from his seat to give the order. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' you are sighing to get rid of me ! ' said the lady, 
 in a reproachful, but still subdued tone. 
 
 ' Why, the fact is, Gertrude, I prefer calling upon you, to 
 your calling upon me. When I am fitted for your society, 
 I seek it ; and, when you are good-tempered, always with 
 pleasure ; when I am not in the mood for it, I stay away. 
 And when I am at home, I wish to see no one. I have 
 business now, and not very agreeable business. I am dis- 
 turbed by many causes, and you could not have taken a 
 step which could have given me greater annoyance than 
 the strange one you have adopted this evening.' 
 
 * I am sorry for it now,' said the lady, weeping. ' When 
 shall I see you again ? ' 
 
 ' I will call upon you to-morrow, and pray receive me 
 with smiles.'
 
 VENETIA. 315 
 
 ' I ever will,' said tlie lady, weeping plenteously. ' It is 
 all my fault ; you are ever too good. There is not in the 
 world a kinder and more gentle being than yourself. I 
 shall never forgive myself for this exposure. 
 
 ' Would you like to take anything ? ' said Lord Cadurcis : 
 ' I am sure you must feel exhausted. Yoti see I am drink- 
 ing wine ; it is my only dinner to-day, but I dare say there 
 is some salvolatile in the house; I dare say, when my 
 maids go into hysterics, they have it ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, mocker! ' said Lady Monteagle; 'but I can pardon 
 everything, if you will only let me see you.' 
 
 ' Au revoir ! then,' said his lordship ; ' I am sure the 
 carriage must be ready. I hear it. Come, Mr. Gertrude, 
 settle you wig ; it is quite awry. By Jove ! we might as 
 well go to the Pantheon, as you are ready dressed. I have 
 a domino.' And so saying, Lord Cadurcis handed the lady 
 to his carriage, and pressed her lightly by the hand, as he 
 reiterated his promise of calling at Monteagle House the 
 next day. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 LORD CADURCIS, unhappy at home, and wearied of the com- 
 monplace resources of society, had passed the night in every 
 species of dissipation ; his principal companion being that 
 same young nobleman in whose company he had been when 
 he first met Venetia at Ranelagh. The morn was breaking 
 when Cadurcis and his friend arrived at his door. They 
 had settled to welcome the dawn with a beaker of burnt 
 Burgundy. 
 
 ' Now, my dear Scrope,' said Cadurcis,' ' now for quiet 
 and philosophy. The laughter of those infernal women, the 
 rattle of those cursed dice, and the oaths of those ruffians, 
 are still ringing in my ears. Let us compose ourselves, 
 and moralise.' 
 
 Accustomed to their master's habits, who generally turned
 
 316 VENETIA. 
 
 night into day, the household were all on the alert ; a 
 blazing fire greeted them, and his lordship ordered instantly 
 a devil and the burnt Burgundy. 
 
 ' Sit you down here, my Scrope ; that is the seat of 
 honour, and you shall have it. What is this, a letter ? 
 and marked " Urgent," and in a man's hand. It must 
 be read. Some good fellow nabbed by a bailiff, or planted 
 by his mistress. Signals of distress ! We must assist our 
 friends.' 
 
 The flame of the fire fell upon Lord Cadurcis' face as he 
 read the letter ; he was still standing, while his friend was 
 stretched out in his easy chair, and inwardly congratulating 
 himself on his comfortable prospects. The countenance of 
 Cadurcis did not change, but he bit his lip, and read the 
 letter twice, and turned it over, but with a careless air ; 
 and then he asked what o'clock it was. The servant in- 
 formed him, and left the room. 
 
 ' Scrope,' said Lord Cadurcis, quietly, and still standing, 
 ' are you very drunk ? ' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, I am as fresh as possible ; you will see 
 what justice I shall do to the Burgundy.' 
 
 ' " Burgundy to-morrow," as the Greek proverb saith,' 
 observed Lord Cadurcis. ' Read that.' 
 
 His companion had the pleasure of perusing a challenge 
 from Lord Monteagle, couched in no gentle terms, and re- 
 questing an immediate meeting. 
 
 ' Well, I never heard anything more ridiculous in my 
 life,' said Lord Scrope. ' Does he want satisfaction because 
 you have planted her ? ' 
 
 ' D n her ! ' said Lord Cadurcis. ' She has occasioned 
 me a thousand annoyances, 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 a cartel now, and 
 then we can have our Burgundy. You will go out with 
 me, of course ? Hyde Park, six o'clock, and short swords.' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis accordingly sat down, wrote his letter, 
 and dispatched it by Mr. Spalding to Monteagle House,
 
 VENETIA. 317 
 
 with peremptory instructions to bring 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 like to fight "upon compulsion," I confess. If I 
 had time to screw my courage up, I dare say I should do it 
 very well. I dare say, for instance, if ever I am publicly 
 executed, I shall die game.' 
 
 ' God forbid ! ' said Lord Scrope. ' I say, Cadurcis, I 
 would not drink any 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,' said Cadurcis. ' You have all the fun.' 
 
 'But how came this blow-up?' inquired Lord Scrope. 
 ' Letters discovered, eh ? Because I thought you never 
 saw her now ? ' 
 
 ' By Jove ! my dear fellow, she has been the whole even- 
 ing here masquerading it like a very vixen, as she is ; and 
 now she has committed us both. I have burnt her letters, 
 without reading them, for the last month. Now I call that 
 honourable ; because, as I had no longer any claim on her 
 heart, I would not think of trenching on her correspondence. 
 But honour, what is honour in these dishonourable days ? 
 This is my reward. She conti-ived 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, he would not have been jealous. 
 I never opened my mouth, but, like a fool, sent her home 
 in my carriage ; and now I am going to be run through the 
 body for my politeness.' 
 
 In this light strain, blended, however, with more decorous 
 feeling on the part of Lord Scrope, the young men con- 
 versed until the messenger's return with Lord Monteagle's 
 answer. In Hyde Park, in the course of an hour, himself 
 and Lord Cadurcis, attended by their friends, were to 
 meet. 
 
 ' "Well, there is nothing like having these affairs over,'
 
 318 VENETIA. 
 
 said Cadnrcis ; * and to confess the truth, my dear Scrope, 
 I should not much care if Monteagle were to despatch me 
 to my fathers ; for, in the whole course of my miserable 
 life, and miserable, whatever the world may think, it has 
 been, I never felt much more wretched than I have during 
 the last four-and-twenty hours. By Jove ! do you know I 
 was going to leave 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 have thought 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 knew all, you would not envy me.' 
 
 ' Well, we have not much time,' said Lord Scrope; ' have 
 you any arrangements to make ? ' 
 
 * None. My property goes to George, who is my only 
 relative, without the 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 you remember, 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 day promised to be as brilliant as the preceding 
 one. Not a soul was stirring in the courtly quarter in 
 which Cadurcis resided ; even the last watchman had stolen 
 to repose. They called a hackney coach at the first stand 
 they reached, and were soon at the destined spot. They 
 were indeed before their time, and strolling by the side of 
 the Serpentime, Cadurcis said, ' Yesterday morning was 
 one of the happiest of my life, Scrope, and I was in hopes 
 that an event would have occurred in the course of the day 
 that might have been my salvation. If it had, by-the-bye,
 
 VENETIA. 319 
 
 I should not have returned to town, and got into this cursed 
 scrape. However, the gods were against me, and now I 
 am 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, the champions disembar- 
 rassed themselves of their coats, and their swords crossed. 
 It was a brief affair. After a few passes, Cadurcis received 
 a slight wound in his arm, while his weapon pierced his 
 antagonist in the breast. Lord Monteagle dropped his sword 
 and fell. 
 
 'You had better fly, Lord Cadurcis,' said Mr. Horace 
 Pole. ' This is a bad business, I fear ; we have a surgeon 
 at hand, and he can help us to the coach that is waiting 
 close by.' 
 
 ' I thank you, sir, I never fly,' said Lord Cadurcis ; ' and 
 I shall wait here until I see your principal safely deposited 
 in his carriage ; he will have no objection to my friend, 
 Lord Scrope, assisting him, who, by his presence to-day, 
 has only fulfilled one of the painful duties that society im- 
 poses upon us.' 
 
 The surgeon gave an unfavourable report of the wound, 
 which he dressed on the field. Lord Monteagle was then 
 borne to his carriage, which was at hand, and Lord Scrope, 
 the moment he had seen the equipage move slowly off, 
 returned to his friend. 
 
 ' Well Cadurcis,' he exclaimed in an anxious voice, ' I 
 hope you have not killed him. What will you do now ? ' 
 
 ' I shall go home, and await the result, my dear Scrope. 
 I am sorry for you, 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 lost my money, and perhaps to- 
 morrow I shall lose my arm. It seems we are not in luck.
 
 320 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 IT has been Avell observed, that no spectacle is so ridiculous 
 as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality. 
 In general, elopements, divorces, and family quarrels pass 
 with little notice. We read the scandal, talk about it for 
 a day, and forget it. But, once in six or seven years, our 
 virtue becomes outrageous. We cannot suffer the laws of 
 religion and decency to be violated. We must make a 
 stand against vice. We must teach libertines that the 
 English people appreciate the importance of domestic ties. 
 Accordingly, some unfortunate man, in no respect more 
 depraved than hundreds whose offences have been treated 
 with lenity, is singled out as an expiatory sacrifice. If he 
 has children, they are to be taken from him. If he has a 
 profession, he is to be driven from it. He is cut by the 
 higher orders, and hissed by the lower. He is, in truth, a 
 sort of whipping boy, by whose vicarious agonies all the 
 other transgressors of the same class are, it is supposed, 
 sufficiently chastised. We reflect very complacently on our 
 own severity, and compare, with great pride, the high 
 standard of morals established in England, with the Pa- 
 risian laxity. At length, our anger is satiated, our victim 
 is ruined and heart-broken, and our virtue goes quietly to 
 sleep for seven years more. 
 
 These observations of a celebrated writer apply to the 
 instance of Lord Cadurcis ; he was the periodical victim, 
 the scapegoat of English morality, sent into the wilderness 
 with all the crimes and curses of the multitude on his head. 
 Lord Cadurcis had certainly committed a great crime : not 
 his intrigue with Lady Monteagle, for that surely was not 
 an unprecedented offence ; not his duel with her husband, 
 for after all it was a duel in self-defence ; and, at all events, 
 divorces and duels, under any circumstances, would scarcely 
 have excited or authorised the storm which was now about
 
 VENETIA. 
 
 to burst over the late spoiled child of society. But Lord 
 Cadurcis had been guilty of the offence which, of all offences, 
 is punished most severely : Lord Cadurcis had been over- 
 praised. He had excited too warm an interest; and the 
 public, with its usual justice, was resolved to chastise him 
 for its own folly. 
 
 There are no fits of caprice so hasty and so violent as 
 those of society. Society, indeed, is all passion and no 
 heart. Cadurcis, in allusion to his sudden and singular 
 success, had been in the habit of saying to his intimates, 
 that he ' woke one morning and found himself famous.' 
 He might now observe, ' I woke one morning and found 
 myself infamous.' Before twenty-four hours had passed 
 over his duel with Lord Monteagle, he found himself branded 
 l)y every journal in London, as an unprincipled and un- 
 paralleled reprobate. The public, without waiting to think 
 or even to inquire after the truth, instantly selected as 
 genuine the most false and the most flagrant of the fifty 
 libellous narratives that were circulated of the transaction. 
 Stories, inconsistent with themselves, were all alike eagerly 
 believed, and what evidence there might be for any one of 
 them, the virtuous people, by whom they were repeated, 
 neither cared nor knew. The pubh'c, in short, fell into 
 a passion with their darling, and, ashamed of their past 
 idolatry, nothing would satisfy them but knocking the 
 divinity on the head. 
 
 Until Lord Monteagle, to the great regret of society, who 
 really wished him to die in order that his antagonist might 
 commit murder, was declared out of danger, Lord Cadurcis 
 never quitted his house, and he was not a little surprised 
 that scarcely a human bein:.,* called upon him except his 
 cousin, who immediately flew to his succour. George, 
 indeed, would gladly have spared Cadurcis any knowledge 
 of the storm that was raging against him, and which he 
 flattered himself would blow over before Cadurcis was again 
 abroad ; but he was so much with his cousin, and Cadurcis 
 was so extremely acute and naturally so suspicious, that 
 
 T
 
 322 VENETIA. 
 
 this was impossible. Moreover, his absolute desertion by 
 his Mends, and the invectives and the lampoons with which 
 the newspapers abounded, and of which he was the subject, 
 rendered any concealment out of the question, and poor 
 George passed his life in running about contradicting false- 
 hoods, stating truth,, fighting his cousin'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. He had been so habituated to panegyric, that 
 the slightest criticism ruffled him, and now his works had 
 suddenly become the subject of universal and outrageous 
 attack ; having lived only in a cloud of incense, he suddenly 
 found himself in a pillory of moral indignation ; his writings, 
 his habits, his temper, his person, were all alike ridiculed 
 and vilified. In a word, Cadurcis, the petted, idolised, 
 spoiled Cadurcis, was enduring that charming vicissitude 
 in a prosperous existence, styled a reaction ; and a con- 
 queror, who deemed himself invincible, suddenly vanquished, 
 could scarcely be more thunderstruck, or feel more impo- 
 tently desperate. 
 
 The tortures of his mind, however, which this sadden 
 change in his position and in. the opinions of society, were 
 of themselves competent to occasion to one of so impetuous 
 and irritable a temperament, and who ever magnified both 
 misery and delight with all the creative power of a brooding 
 imagination, were excited in his case even to the liveliest 
 agony, when he reminded himself of the situation in which 
 he was now placed with Venetia. All hope of ever obtain- 
 ing her hand had now certainly vanished, and he doubted 
 whether even her love could survive the quick occurrence, 
 after his ardent vows, of this degrading and mortifying 
 catastrophe. He execrated Lady Monteagle with the most 
 heart-felt rage, and when he remembered that all this time 
 the world believed him the devoted admirer of this vixen, 
 his brain was stimulated almost to the verge of insanity. 
 His only hope of the truth reaching Venetia was through
 
 VENETIA. 323 
 
 the medium of his cousin, and he impressed daily upon 
 Captain Cadurcis the infinite consolation it would prove 
 to him, if he could contrive to make her aware of the real 
 facts of the case. According to the public voice, Lady 
 Monteagle at his solicitation had fled to his bouse, and re- 
 mained there, and her husband forced his entrance into the 
 mansion in the middle of the night, while his wife escaped 
 disguised in Lord Cadurcis' clothes. She did not, however, 
 reach Monteagle House in time enough to escape detection 
 by her lord, who had instantly sought and obtained satis- 
 faction from his treacherous friend. All the monstrous 
 inventions of the first week had now subsided into this cir- 
 cumstantial and undoubted narrative ; at least this was the 
 version believed by those who had been Cadurcis' friends. 
 They circulated the authentic tale with the most considerate 
 assiduity, and shook their heads, and said it was too bad, 
 and that he must not be countenanced. 
 
 The moment Lord Monteagle was declared out of danger, 
 Lord Cadurcis made his appearance in public. He walked 
 into Brookes', and everybody seemed suddenly so deeply 
 interested in the newspapers, that you might have sup- 
 posed they had brought intelligence of a great battle, or a 
 revolution, or a change of ministry at the least. One or 
 two men spoke to him, who had never presumed to address 
 him at any other time, and he received a faint bow from a 
 distinguished nobleman, who had ever professed for him the 
 greatest consideration and esteem. 
 
 Cadurcis mounted his horse and rode down to the House 
 of Lords. There was a debate of some public interest, and 
 a considerable crowd was collected round the Peers' en- 
 trance. The moment Lord Cadurcis was recognised, tht 
 multitude began hooting. He was agitated, and grinned a 
 ghastly smile at the rabble. But he dismounted, without 
 further annoyance, and took his seat. Not a single peer of 
 his own party spoke to him. The leader of the Opposition, 
 indeed, bowed to him, and, in the course of the evening, he 
 received, from one or two more of his party, some formal 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 VENETIA. 
 
 evidences of frigid courtesy. The tone of bis reception by 
 his friends could not be concealed from the ministerial 
 party. It was soon detected, and generally whispered, 
 that Lord Cadurcis was cut. Nevertheless, he sat out the 
 debate and voted. The house broke up. He felt lonely ; 
 
 his old friend, the Bishop of , who had observed all 
 
 that had occurred, and who might easily have avoided him, 
 came forward, however, in the most marked manner, and, 
 in a tone which everybody heard, said, ' How do you do, 
 Lord Cadurcis ? I am very glad to see you,' shaking his 
 hand most cordially. This made a great impression. 
 Several of the Tory Lords, among them Venetia's uncle, 
 now advanced and saluted him. He received their ad- 
 vances with a haughty, but not disdainful, courtesy ; but 
 when his Whig friends, confused, now hurried to encumber 
 him with their assistance, he treated them with the scorn 
 which they well deserved. 
 
 ' Will you take a seat in my carriage home, Lord Ca- 
 durcis ? ' said his leader, for it was notorious that Cadurcis 
 had been mobbed on his arrival. 
 
 ' Thank you, my lord,' said Cadurcis, speaking very 
 audibly, ' I prefer returning as I came. We are really 
 both of us such unpopular personages, that your kindness 
 would scarcely be prudent.' 
 
 The house had been full ; there was a great scuffle and 
 confusion as the peers were departing ; the mob, now 
 considerable, were prepared for the appearance of Lord 
 Cadurcis, and their demeanour was menacing. Some 
 shouted out his name ; then it was repeated with odious 
 and vindictive epithets, followed by ferocious yells. A 
 great many peers collected round Cadurcis, and entreated 
 him not to return on horseback. It must be confessed that 
 genuine and considerable feeling was now shown by all men 
 of all parties. And indeed to witness this young, and noble, 
 and gifted creature, but a few days back the idol of the 
 nation, and from whom a word, a glance even, was deemed 
 the greatest and most gratifying distinction, whom all
 
 7ENETIA. 325 
 
 orders, classes, and conditions of men had combined to 
 stimulate with multiplied adulation, with all the glory and 
 ravishing delights of the world, as it were, forced upon 
 him, to see him thus assailed with the sayage execrations 
 of all those vile things who exult in the fall of everything 
 that is great, and the abasement of everything that is 
 noble, was indeed a spectacle which might have silenced 
 malice and satisfied envy ! 
 
 ' My carriage is most heartily at your service, Lord 
 Cadurcis,' said the noble leader of the government in 
 the upper house ; ' you can enter it 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 than all ; for Heaven's sake ! ' Such were a 
 few of the varied exclamations which resounded on all 
 sides, but which produced on the person to whom they 
 were addressed only the result of his desiring the attendant 
 to call for his horses. 
 
 The lobby was yet full ; it was a fine thing in the light 
 of the archway to see Cadurcis spring into his saddle. 
 Instantly there was a horrible yell. Yet in spite of all 
 their menaces, the mob were for a time awed by his 
 courage; they made way for him; he might even have- 
 rode quickly on for some few yards, but he would not ; he 
 reined his fiery steed into a slow but stately pace, and, with 
 a countenance scornful and composed, he continued his 
 progress, apparently unconscious of impediment. Mean- 
 while, the hooting continued without abatement, increasing 
 indeed, after the first comparative pause, in violence and 
 menace. At length a bolder ruffian, excited by the up- 
 roar, rushed forward and seized Cadurcis' bridle. Cadurcis 
 struck the man over the eyes with his whip, and at the 
 same time touched his horse with his spur, and the as- 
 sailant was dashed to the ground. This seemed a signal 
 for a general assault. It commenced with hideous yells..
 
 326 VENETIA. 
 
 Hi a friends at the house, who had watched everything with 
 the keenest interest, immediately directed all the constables 
 who were at hand 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 with their staves ; 
 you might have heard the echo of many a broken crown. 
 Nevertheless, though they dispersed the mass, they could 
 not penetrate the immediate barrier that surrounded Lord 
 Cadurcis, whose only defence indeed, for they had cut off 
 his groom, was the terrors of his horse's heels, and whose 
 managed motions he regulated with admirable skill, now 
 rearing, now prancing, now kicking behind, and now turn- 
 ing round with a quick yet sweeping motion, before which 
 the mob retreated. Off his horse, however, they seemed 
 resolved to drag him ; and it was not difficult to conceive, 
 if they succeeded, what must be his eventual fate. They 
 were infuriate, but his contact with his assailants fortu- 
 nately prevented their co-mates from hurling stones at him 
 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, with their utmost expedition, they must 
 have been too late), a rumour of the 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 
 other effective weapons as they could instantly obtain, they 
 mounted their horses and charged the nearly-triumphant 
 populace, dealing such vigorous blows that their efforts 
 soon made a visible diversion in Lord Cadurcis' favour. It 
 is difficult, indeed, to convey an idea of the exertions and 
 achievements of Captain Cadurcis ; no Paladin of chivalry 
 ever executed such marvels on a swarm of Paynim slaves ; 
 and many a bloody coxcomb and broken limb bore witness 
 in Petty France that night to his achievements. Still the 
 mob struggled and were not daunted by the delay in immo-
 
 VENETIA. 327 
 
 lating tlieir victim. As long as they had only to fight 
 against men in plain clothes, they were valorous and obsti- 
 nate enough ; but the moment that the crests of a troop of 
 Horse Guards were seen trotting down Parliament Street, 
 everybody ran away, and in a few minutes all Palace-yard 
 was as still as if the genius of the place rendered a riot 
 impossible. 
 
 Lord Cadurcis thanked his friends, who were profuse in 
 their compliments to his pluck. His manner, usually play- 
 ful with his intimates of his own standing, was, however, 
 rather grave at present, though very cordial. He asked 
 them home to dine with him ; but they were 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 
 exquisite sensitiveness to the most violent defiance. The 
 experience of this day had entirely cured him of his pre- 
 vious nervous deference to the feelings of society. Society 
 had outraged him, and now he resolved to outrage society. 
 He owed society nothing ; his reception at the House of 
 Lords and the riot in Palace-yard had alike cleared his 
 accounts with all orders of men, from the highest to 
 the lowest. He had experienced, indeed, some kindness 
 that he could not forget, but only from his own kin, and 
 those who with his associations were the same as kin. 
 His memory dwelt with gratification on his cousin's coura- 
 geous zeal, and still more on the demonstration which 
 Masham had made in his favour, which, if possible, argued 
 still greater boldness and sincere regard. That was a trial 
 of true affection, and an instance of moral courage, which 
 Cadurcis honoured, and which he never could forget. He 
 was anxious about Venetia ; he wished to stand as well 
 with her as he deserved ; no better ; but he was grieved to 
 think she could believe all those infamous tales at present 
 current respecting himself. But, for the rest of the world, 
 he delivered them all to the most absolute contempt,
 
 328 \ 7 ENETIA. 
 
 disgust, and execration ; he resolved, from this time, nothing 
 should ever induce him again to enter society, or admit 
 the advances of a single civilised ruffian who affected to be 
 social. The country, the people, their habits, laws, man- 
 ners, customs, opinions, and everything connected with 
 them, were viewed with the same jaundiced eye ; and his 
 only object now was to quit England, to which he resolved 
 never to return. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 VENETIA was, perhaps, not quite so surprised as the rest of 
 her friends, when, on their return to Richmond, Lord Ca- 
 durcis was not again seen. She was very unhappy : she 
 recalled the scene in the garden at Cherbury some years 
 back ; and, with the knowledge of the impetuosity of his 
 temper, she believed she should never see him again. Poor 
 Plantagenet, who loved her so much, and whose love she 
 so fully returned! why might they not be happy? She 
 neither doubted the constancy of his affection, nor their 
 permanent felicity if they were united. She shared none 
 of her mother's apprehensions or her prejudices, but she 
 was the victim of duty and her vow. In the course of fonr- 
 and-twenty hours, strange rumours were afloat respecting 
 Lord Cadurcis ; and the newspapers on the ensuing morn- 
 ing told the truth, and more than the truth. Venetia 
 could not doubt as to the duel or the elopement ; but, in- 
 stead of feeling indignation, she attributed what had 
 occurred to the desperation of his mortified mind ; and she 
 visited on herself all the fatal consequences that had hap- 
 pened. At present, however, all her emotions were quickly 
 absorbed in the one terrible fear that Lord Monteagle 
 would die. In that dreadful and urgent apprehension 
 every other sentiment merged. It was impossible to con- 
 ceal her misery, and she entreated her mother to return to 
 town.
 
 VENETIA. 329 
 
 Very differently, however, was the catastrophe viewed 
 by Lady Annabel. She, on the contrary, triumphed in her 
 sagacity and her prudence. She hourly congratulated her- 
 self on being the saviour of her daughter ; and though she-' 
 refrained from indulging in any open exultation over 
 Venetia's escape and her own profound discretion, it was, 
 nevertheless, impossible for her to conceal from her daughter 
 her infinite satisfaction and self-congratulation. While 
 Venetia was half broken-hearted, her mother silently re- 
 turned thanks to Providence for the merciful dispensation 
 which had exempted her child from so much misery. 
 
 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 Yenetia alone, and being, indeed, too 
 much excited to speak on any other subject, plunged at 
 once into the full narrative ; defended Lord Cadurcis, 
 abused the Monteagles and the slanderous world, and, 
 in spite of Lady Annabel's ill-concealed dissatisfaction, 
 favoured her with an exact and circumstantial account of 
 everything that had happened, how it happened, when it 
 happened, and where it happened ; concluding by a decla- 
 ration that Cadurcis was the best fellow that ever lived ; 
 the most unfortunate, and the most ill-used ; and that, if 
 he were to be hunted 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. All that George effected 
 by his zeal, was to convince Lady Annabel <that his cousin 
 had entirely corrupted him ; she looked upon her former 
 favourite as another victim ; but Venetia listened in silence, 
 and not without solace. 
 
 Two or three days after the riot at the House of Lords, 
 Captain Cadurcis burst into his cousin's room with a tri- 
 umphant countenance. ' Well, Plantagenet ! ' he exclaimed, 
 ' I have done it : I have seen her alone, and I have put you 
 a.=? right as possible. Nothing can be better.' 
 
 ' Tell me, my dear fellow,' said Lord Cadurcis, eagerly.
 
 330 VEtfETIA. 
 
 ' Well, you know, I have called half-a-dozen times,' said 
 George, ' but either Lady Annabel was there, or they were 
 not at home, or something always occurred to prevent any 
 private communication. But I met her to-day with her 
 aunt ; I joined them immediately, and kept with them the 
 whole morning. I am sorry to say she, I mean Venetia, is 
 devilish ill ; she is, indeed. However, her aunt now is 
 quite on your side, and very kind, I can tell you that. I 
 put her right at first, and she has fought our battle bravely. 
 Well, they stopped to call somewhere, and Venetia was so 
 unwell that she would not get out, and I was left alone in 
 the carriage with her. Time was precious, and I opened 
 at once. I told her how wretched you were, and that the 
 only thing that made you miserable was about her, because 
 you were afraid she would think you so profligate, and all 
 that. I went through it all; told her the exact truth, 
 which, indeed, she had before heard ; but now I assured 
 her, on my honour, that it was exactly what happened; 
 and she said she did not doubt it, and could not, from some 
 conversation which you had together the day we were all 
 at Hampton Court, and that she felt that nothing could 
 have been premeditated, and fully believed that everything 
 had occurred as I said ; and, however she deplored it, she 
 felt the same for you as ever, and prayed for your happi- 
 ness. Then she told me what misery the danger of Lord 
 Monteagle had occasioned her ; that she thought his death 
 must have been the forerunner of her own ; but the moment 
 he was declared out of danger seemed the happiest hour of 
 her life. I told her you were going to leave England, and 
 asked her whether she had any message for you ; and she 
 said, " Tell him he is the same to me that he has always 
 been." So, when her aunt returned, I jumped 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 Yenetia acted upon Lord Cadurcis 
 like a charm. It instantly cleared his mind. He shut
 
 VENETIA. 331 
 
 himself up in his house for a week, and wrote a farewell to 
 England, perhaps the most masterly effusion of his power- 
 ful spirit. It abounded in passages of overwhelming pas- 
 sion, and almost Satanic sarcasm. Its composition entirely 
 relieved his long-brooding brain. It contained, moreover, 
 a veiled address to Venetia, delicate, tender, and irresistibly 
 affecting. He appended also to the publication, the verses 
 he had previously addressed to her. 
 
 This volume, which was purchased with an avidity ex- 
 ceeding even the eagerness with which his former pro- 
 ductions had been received, exercised extraordinary in- 
 fluence on public opinion. It enlisted the feelings of the 
 nation on his side in a struggle with a coterie. It was 
 suddenly discovered that Lord Cadurcis was the most 
 injured of mortals, and far more interesting than ever. 
 The address to the unknown object of his adoration, and 
 the verses to Venetia, mystified everybody. Lady Mont- 
 eagle was universally abused, and all sympathised with the 
 long-treasured and baffled affection of the unhappy poet. 
 Cadurcis, however, was not to be conciliated. He left his 
 native shores in a blaze of glory, but with the accents of 
 scorn still quivering on his lip. 
 
 END OP BOOK IV.
 
 332 VENETIA. 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE still waters of the broad and winding lake reflected 
 the lustre of the cloudless sky. The gentle declinations of 
 the green hills that immediately bordered the lake, with an 
 undulating margin that now retired into bays of the most 
 picturesque form, now jutted forth into woody promon- 
 tories, and then opened into valleys of sequestered beauty, 
 which the eye delighted to pursue, were studded with 
 white villas, and cottages scarcely less graceful, and occa- 
 sionally with villages, and even towns ; here and there rose 
 a solitary chapel ; and, scarcely less conspicuous, the black 
 spire of some cypress strikingly contrasting with the fair 
 buildings or the radiant foliage that in general surrounded 
 them. A rampart of azure mountains raised their huge 
 forms behind the nearer hills ; and occasionally peering 
 over these, like spectres on some brilliant festival, were the 
 ghastly visages of the Alpine glaciers. 
 
 It was within an hour of sunset, and the long shadows 
 had fallen upon the waters ; a broad boat, with a variegated 
 awning, rowed by two men, approached the steps of a 
 marble terrace. The moment they had reached their point 
 of destination, and had fastened the boat to its moorings, 
 the men landed their oars, and immediately commenced 
 singing a simple yet touching melody, wherewith it was 
 their custom to apprise their employers of their arrival. 
 
 ' Will they come forth this evening, think you, Vittorio ? ' 
 said one boatman to the other. 
 
 ' By our holy mother, I hope so ! ' replied his comrade,
 
 VENETIA. 333 
 
 ' for this light air that is now rising will do the young 
 signora more good than fifty doctors.' 
 
 ' They are good people,' said Vittorio. ' It gives me 
 more pleasure to row them than any persons who ever 
 hired us.' 
 
 'Ay, ay ! ' said his comrade, ' it was a lucky day when 
 we first put an oar in the lake for them, heretics though 
 they be.' 
 
 ' But they may be converted yet,' said his companion ; 
 ' for, as I was saying to Father Francisco last night, if the 
 young signora dies, it is 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,' said his companion. 
 
 At this moment a servant appeared on the terrace, to say 
 the ladies were at hand ; and very shortly afterwards Lady 
 Annabel Herbert, with her daughter leaning on her arm, 
 descended the steps, and entered the boat. The counte- 
 nances of the boatmen brightened when they saw them, 
 and they both made their inquiries after the health of 
 Venetia with tenderness and feeling. 
 
 ' Indeed, my good friends,' said Venetia, ' I think you 
 are right, and the 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 
 Paunceforfc, quite breathless. ' Miss Herbert's fur cloak, my 
 lady ; you told me to remember, my lady, and I cannot 
 think how I forgot it. But I really have been so very hot 
 all day, that such a thing as furs never entered my head. 
 And for my part, until I travelled, I always thought furs 
 were only worn in Russia. But live and learn, as I say.' 
 
 They were now fairly floating on the calm, clear waters, 
 and the rising breeze was as grateful to Venetia as the 
 boatmen had imagined.
 
 334 VENETIA. 
 
 A return of those symptoms which had before disquieted 
 Lady Annabel for her daughter, and which were formerly 
 the cause of their residence at Weymouth, had induced her, 
 in compliance with the advice of her physicians, to visit 
 Italy ; but the fatigue of travel had exhausted the energies 
 of Venetia (for in those days the Alps were not passed in 
 luxurious travelling carriages) on the very threshold of the 
 promised land; and Lady Annabel had been prevailed upon 
 to take a villa on the Lago Maggiore, where Venetia had 
 passed two months, still suffering indeed from great debility, 
 but not without advantage. 
 
 There are few spots more favoured by nature than the 
 Italian lakes and their vicinity, combining, as they do, the 
 most sublime features of mountainous scenery with all the 
 softer beauties and the varied luxuriance of the plain. As 
 the still, bright lake is to the rushing and troubled cataract, 
 is Italy to Switzerland and Savoy. Emerging from the 
 chaotic ravines and the wild gorges of the Alps, the happy 
 land breaks upon us like a beautiful vision. We revel in 
 the sunny light, after the unearthly glare of eternal snow. 
 Our sight seems renovated as we throw our eager glance 
 over those golden plains, clothed with such picturesque 
 trees, sparkling with such graceful villages, watered by 
 such noble rivers, and crowned with such magnificent 
 cities; and all bathed and beaming in an atmosphere so soft 
 and radiant ! Every isolated object charms us with its 
 beautiful novelty : for the first time we gaze on palaces ; 
 the garden, the terrace, and the statue, recall our dreams 
 beneath a colder sky ; and we turn from these to catch the 
 hallowed form of some cupolaed convent, crowning the 
 gentle elevation of some green hill, and flanked by the 
 cypress or the pine. 
 
 The influence of all these delightful objects and of this 
 benign atmosphere on the frame and mind of Venetia had 
 been considerable. After the excitement of the last year of 
 her life, and the harassing and agitating scenes with which 
 it closed, she found a fine solace in this fair land and this
 
 VENETIA. 335 
 
 soft sky, which the sad perhaps can alone experience. Its 
 repose alone afforded a consolatory contrast to the turbu- 
 lent pleasure of the great world. She looked back upon 
 those glittering and noisy scenes with an aversion which 
 was only modified by her self-congratulation at her escape 
 from their exhausting and contaminating sphere. Hero 
 she recurred, but with all the advantages of a change of 
 scene, and a scene so rich in novel and interesting asso- 
 ciations, to the calm tenor of those days, when not a thought 
 ever seemed to escape from Cherbury and its spell-bound 
 seclusion. Her books, her drawings, her easel, and her 
 harp, were now again her chief pursuits ; pursuits, how- 
 ever, influenced by the genius of the land in which she 
 lived, and therefore invested with a novel interest ; for the 
 literature and the history of the country naturally attracted 
 her attention ; and its fair aspects and sweet sounds, alike 
 inspired her pencil and her voice. She had, in the society 
 of her mother, indeed, the advantage of communing with a 
 mind not less refined and cultivated than her own. Lady 
 Annabel was a companion whose conversation, from reading 
 and reflection, was eminently suggestive ; and their hours, 
 though they lived in solitude, never hung heavy. They 
 were always employed, and always cheerful. But Yenetia 
 was not more than cheerful. Still very young, and gifted 
 with an imaginative and therefore sanguine mind, the 
 course of circumstances, however, had checked her native 
 spirit, and shaded a brow which, at her time of life and 
 with her temperament, should have been rather fanciful 
 than pensive. If Venetia, supported by the disciplined 
 energies of a strong mind, had schooled herself into not 
 looking back to the past with grief, her future was certainly 
 not tinged with the Iris pencil of Hope. It seemed to her 
 that it was her fate that life should bring her no happier 
 hours than those she now enjoyed. They did not amount 
 to exquisite bliss. That was a conviction which, by no 
 process of reflection, however ingenious, could she delude 
 herself to credit. Venetia struggled to take refuge in
 
 336 VENETIA. 
 
 content, a mood of mind perhaps less natural than it should 
 be to one so young, so gifted, and so fair ! 
 
 Their villa was surrounded by a garden in the ornate and 
 artificial style of the country. A marble terrace overlooked 
 the lake, crowned with many a statue and vase that held 
 the aloe. The laurel and the cactus, the cypress and the 
 pine, filled the air with their fragrance, or charmed the eye 
 with their rarity and beauty : the walks were festooned with 
 the vine, and they could raise their hands and pluck the 
 glowing fruit which screened them from the beam by which 
 it was ripened. In this enchanted domain Venetia might 
 be often seen, a form 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 floated over its purple 
 bosom. 
 
 Yet this beautiful retreat Venetia was soon to quit, and 
 she thought of her departure with a sigh. Her mother had 
 been warned to avoid the neighbourhood of the mountains 
 in the winter, and the autumn was approaching its close. 
 If Venetia could endure the passage of the Apennines, it 
 was the intention of Lady Annabel to pass the winter on the 
 coast of the Mediterranean ; otherwise to settle in one of 
 the Lombard cities. At all events, in the course of a few 
 weeks they were to quit their villa on the lake. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A VERT few days after this excursion on the lake, Lady 
 Annabel and her daughter were both surprised and pleased 
 with a visit from a friend whose appearance was certainly 
 very unexpected ; this was Captain Cadurcis. On his way 
 from Switzerland to Sicily, he had heard of their residence 
 in the neighbourhood, and had crossed over from Arona to 
 visit them. 
 
 The name of Cadurcis was still dear to Veuetia, and
 
 VENETIA. 337 
 
 George had displayed such gallantry and devotion in all 
 his cousin's troubles, that she was personally attached to 
 him ; he had always been a favourite of her mother ; his 
 arrival, therefore, was welcomed by each of the ladies with 
 great cordiality. He accepted the hospitality which Lady 
 Annabel offered him, and remained with them a week, a 
 period which they spent in visiting the most beautiful and 
 interesting spots of the lake, with which they were already 
 sufficiently familiar to allow them to prove guides as able 
 as they were agreeable. These excursions, indeed, con- 
 tributed to the pleasure and happiness of the whole party. 
 There was about Captain Cadurcis a natural cheerfulness 
 which animated every one in his society ; a gay simplicity, 
 difficult to define, but very charming, and which, without 
 effort, often produced deeper impressions than more brilliant 
 and subtle qualities. Left alone in the world, and without 
 a single advantage save those that nature had conferred 
 upon him, it had often been remarked, that in whatever 
 circle he moved George Cadurcis always became the fa- 
 vourite and everywhere made friends. His sweet and 
 engaging temper had perhaps as much contributed to his 
 professional success as his distinguished gallantry and skill. 
 Other officers, no doubt, were as brave and able as Captain 
 Cadurcis, but his commanders always signalled him out for 
 favourable notice ; and, strange to say, his success, instead 
 of exciting envy and ill-will, pleased even his less fortunate 
 competitors. However hard another might feel his own 
 lot, it was soothed by the reflection that George Cadurcis 
 was at least more fortunate. His popularity, however, was 
 not confined to his profession. His cousin's noble guardian, 
 whom George had never seen until he ventured to call upon 
 his lordship on his return to England, now looked upon him 
 almost as a son, and omitted no opportunity of advancing 
 his interests in the world. Of all the members of the House 
 of Commons he was perhaps the only one that everybody 
 praised, and his success in the world of fashion had been as 
 remarkable as in his profession. These great revolutions 
 
 z
 
 338 VENETIA. 
 
 in his life and future prospects had, however, not produced 
 the slightest change in his mind and manners ; and this 
 was perhaps the secret spell of his prosperity. Though we 
 are most of us the creatures of affectation, simplicity has a 
 great charm, especially when attended, as in the present 
 instance, with many agreeable and some noble qualities. 
 In spite of the rough fortunes of his youth, the breeding of 
 Captain Cadurcis was high ; the recollection of the race to 
 which he belonged had never been forgotten by him. He 
 was proud of his family. He had one of those light hearts, 
 too, which enable their possessors to acquire accomplish- 
 ments with facility : he had a sweet voice, a quick ear, a 
 rapid eye. He acquired a language as some men learn an 
 air. Then his temper was imperturbable, and although the 
 most obliging and kindest-hearted creature that ever lived, 
 there was a native dignity about him which prevented his 
 goodnature from being abused. No sense of interest either 
 could ever induce him to act contrary to the dictates of 
 his judgment and his heart. At the risk of offending his 
 patron, George sided with his cousin, although he had 
 deeply offended his guardian, and although the whole 
 world was against him. Indeed, the strong affection that 
 Lord Cadurcis instantly entertained for George is not the 
 least remarkable instance of the singular, though silent, 
 influence that Captain Cadurcis everywhere acquired. Lord 
 Cadurcis had fixed upon him for his friend from the first 
 moment of their acquaintance ; and though apparently there 
 could not be two characters more dissimilar, there were at 
 bottom some striking points of sympathy and some strong 
 bonds of union, in the generosity and courage that dis- 
 tinguished both, and in the mutual blood that filled their 
 veins. 
 
 There seemed to be a tacit understanding between the 
 several members of our party that the name of Lord Cadur- 
 cis was not to be mentioned. Lady Annabel made no in- 
 quiry after him ; Venetia was unwilling to hazard a question 
 which would annoy her mother, and of which the answer
 
 VENETIA. 339 
 
 could not bring her much satisfaction ; and Captain Cadurcis 
 did not think fit himself to originate any conversation on 
 the subject. Nevertheless, Venetia could not help some- 
 times fancying, when her eyes met his, that their mutual 
 thoughts were the same, and both dwelling on one who 
 was absent, and of whom her companion would willingly 
 have conversed. To confess the truth, indeed, George 
 Cadurcis was on his way to join his cousin, who had crossed 
 over from Spain to Barbary, and journeyed along the Afri- 
 can coast from Tangiers to Tripoli. Their point of reunion 
 was to be Sicily or Malta. Hearing of the residence of the 
 Herberts on the lake, he thought it would be but kind to 
 Plantagenet to visit them, and perhaps to bear to him 
 some message from Venetia. There was nothing, indeed, 
 on which Captain Cadurcis was more intent than to effect 
 the union between his cousin and Miss Herbert. He was 
 deeply impressed with the sincerity of Plantagenet' s passion, 
 and he himself entertained for the lady the greatest affection 
 and admiration. He thought she was the only person whom 
 he had ever known, who was really worthy to be his cousin's 
 bride. And, independent of her personal charms and un- 
 doubted talents, she had displayed during the outcry against 
 Lord Cadurcis so much good sense, such a fine spirit, and 
 such modest yet sincere affection for the victim, that George 
 Cadurcis had almost lost his own heart to her, when he was 
 endeavouring to induce her not utterly to reject that of 
 another ; and it became one of the dreams of his life, that 
 in a little time, 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 at Cadurcis Abbey, and enjoy 
 the charming society of one whom he had already taught 
 himself to consider as a sister. 
 
 ' And to-night you must indeed go ? ' said Yenetia, as 
 they were walking together on the terrace. It was the 
 only time that they had been alone together during his 
 visit. 
 
 'I must start from Arona at daybreak,' replied George; 
 z 2
 
 340 VENETIA. 
 
 ' and I must travel 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,' he answered. 
 
 ' 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 been travelling in Spain, and now he is somewhere 
 in Africa ; we are to meet in Sicily or Malta. I think travel 
 has greatly benefited him. He seems quite delighted with 
 his glimpse of Oriental manners, and I should scarcely 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 
 Captain Cadurcis. And then after a pause he added, 'You 
 will not ask me what it is ? ' 
 
 ' I wish he were in England, and were happy,' said 
 Venetia. 
 
 ' It is in your power to effect both results,' said her com- 
 panion. 
 
 'It is useless to recur to that subject,' said Venetia. 
 ' Plantagenet knows my feelings towards him, but fate has 
 forbidden our destinies to be 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 bear him from you ? ' 
 
 ' Those regards which he ever possessed, and has never 
 forfeited,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Poor Cadurcis ! ' said his cousin, shaking his head, ' if 
 any man ever had reason to be miserable, it is he.' 
 
 4 We are none of us very happy, I think,' said Venetia,
 
 VENETIA. 341 
 
 mournfully. ' I am sure when I look back to the last few 
 years of my life it seems to me that there is some curse 
 hanging over our families. I cannot penetrate it ; it baffles 
 me.' 
 
 ' I am sure,' said Captain Cadurcis with great animation, 
 ' nay, I would pledge my existence cheerfully on the venture, 
 that if Lady Annabel would only relent towards Cadurcis, 
 we should all be the happiest people in the world.' 
 
 ' Heigho ! ' said Venetia. ' There are other cares in our 
 house besides our unfortunate acquaintance with your 
 cousin. We were the last people in the world with whom 
 he should ever have become connected.' 
 
 ' And yet it was an intimacy that commenced auspiciously,' 
 said her friend. ' I am sure I have sat with Cadurcis, and 
 listened to him by the hour, while he has told me of all the 
 happy days at Cherbury when you were both children ; the 
 only happy days, according to him, that he ever knew.' 
 
 ' Yes ! they were happy days,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' And what connection could have offered a more rational 
 basis for felicity than your union ? ' he continued. ' What- 
 ever the world may think, I, who know Cadurcis to the 
 very bottom of his heart, feel assured that you never would 
 have repented for an instant becoming the sharer of his 
 life ; your families were of equal rank, your estates joined, 
 he felt for your mother the affection of a son. There 
 seemed every element that could have contributed to earthly 
 bliss. As for his late career, you who know all have already, 
 have always indeed, viewed it with charity. Placed in his 
 position, who could have acted otherwise ? I know very 
 well that his genius, which might recommend him to 
 another woman, is viewed by your mother with more than 
 apprehension. It is true that a man of his exquisite sen- 
 sibility requires sympathies as refined to command his 
 nature. It is no common mind that could maintain its 
 hold over Cadurcis, and his spirit could not yield but to 
 rare and transcendent qualities. He found them, Venetia, 
 he found them in her whom he had known longest and
 
 342 VENETIA. 
 
 most intimately, and loved from his boyhood. Talk of 
 constancy, indeed ! who has been so constant as my cousin ? 
 No, Venetia ! you may think fit to bow to the feelings *of 
 your mother, and it would be impertinence in me to doubt 
 for an instant the propriety of your conduct : I do not 
 doubt it ; I admire it ; I admire you, and everything you 
 have done ; none can view your behaviour throughout all 
 these painful transactions with more admiration, I might 
 even say with more reverence, than myself ; but, Yenetia, 
 you never can persuade me, you have never attempted to 
 persuade me, that you yourself are incredulous of the 
 strength and permanency of my cousin's love.' 
 
 ' Ah, George ! you are our friend ! ' said Venetia, a tear 
 stealing down her cheek. ' But, indeed, we must not talk 
 of these things. As for myself, I think not of happiness. 
 I am certain I am not born to be happy. I wish only to 
 live calmly ; contentedly, I would say ; but that, perhaps, 
 is too much. My feelings have been so harrowed, my 
 mind so harassed, during these last few years, and so many 
 causes of pain and misery 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 am somewhat selfish in wishing you to marry my 
 cousin, for then you know I should have a permanent and 
 authentic claim to your regard. But no one, at least I 
 think so, can feel more deeply interested in your welfare 
 than I do. I never knew any one like you, and I always 
 tell Cadurcis so, and that I think makes him worse, but I 
 cannot help it.' 
 
 Venetia could not refrain from smiling at the simplicity 
 of this confession. 
 
 'Well,' continued her companion, ' everything, .after all, 
 is for the best. You and Plantagenet are both very young ; 
 I live in hopes that I shall yet see you Lady Cadurcis.' 
 
 Venetia shook her head, but was not sorry that their
 
 VENETIA. 843 
 
 somewhat melancholy conversation should end in a livelier 
 vein. So they entered the villa. 
 
 The hour of parting was painful, and the natural gaiety 
 of Captain Cadurcis deserted him. He had become greatly 
 attached to the Herberts. Without any female relatives of 
 his own, their former intimacy and probable connection 
 with his cousin had taught him to look upon them in some 
 degree in the light of kindred. He had originally indeed 
 become acquainted with them in all the blaze of London 
 society, not very calculated to bring out the softer tints 
 and more subdued tones of our character, but even then 
 the dignified grace of Lady Annabel and the radiant beauty 
 of Venetia, had captivated him, and he had cultivated their 
 society with assiduity and extreme pleasure. The grand 
 crisis of his cousin's fortunes had enabled him to become 
 intimate with the more secret and serious qualities of 
 Venetia, and from that moment he had taken the deepest 
 interest in everything connected with her. His happy and 
 unexpected meeting in Italy had completed the spell ; and 
 now that he was about to leave them, uncertain even if 
 they should ever meet again, his soft heart trembled, and 
 he could scarcely refrain from tears as he pressed their 
 hands, and bade them his sincere adieus. 
 
 The moon had risen ere he entered his boat, and flung a 
 rippling line of glittering light on the bosom of the lake. 
 The sky was without a cloud, save a few thin fleecy vapours 
 that hovered over the azure brow of a distant mountain. 
 The shores of the lake were suffused with the serene efful- 
 gence, and every object was so distinct, that the eye was 
 pained by the lights of the villages, that every instant be- 
 came more numerous and vivid. The bell of a small chapel 
 on the opposite shore, and the distant chant of some fisher- 
 men still working at their nets, were the only sounds that 
 broke the silence which they did not disturb. Reclined in 
 his boat, George Cadurcis watched the vanishing villa of 
 the Herberts, until the light in the principal chamber was 
 the only sign that assured him of its site. That chamber
 
 344 VENETIA, 
 
 held Venetia, the unhappy Yenetia ! He covered his face 
 with his hand when even the light of her chamber vanished, 
 and, full of thoughts tender and disconsolate, he at length 
 arrived at Arona. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PURSUANT to their plans, the Herberts left the Lago Mag- 
 giore towards the end of October, and proceeded by gentle 
 journeys to the Apennines. Before they crossed this barrier, 
 they were to rest awhile in one of the Lombard cities ; and 
 now they were on the point of reaching Arqua, which 
 Venetia had expressed a strong desire to visit. 
 
 At the latter part of the last century, the race of tourists, 
 the offspring of a long peace, and the rapid fortunes made 
 during the Avar, did not exist. Travelling was then con- 
 fined to the aristocracy, and though the English, when 
 opportunity offered, have ever been a restless people, the 
 gentle bosom of the Euganean Hills was then rarely dis- 
 turbed arnid its green and sequestered valleys. 
 
 There is not perhaps in all the Italian region, fertile as it 
 is in interesting associations and picturesque beauty, a spot 
 that tradition and nature have so completely combined to 
 hallow, as the last residence of Petrarch. It seems, indeed, 
 to have been formed for the retirement of a pensive and 
 poetic spirit. It recedes from the world by a succession of 
 delicate acclivities clothed with vineyards and orchards, 
 until, winding within these hills, the mountain hamlet is at 
 length discovered, enclosed by two ridges that slope towards 
 each other, and seem to shut out all the passions of a 
 troubled race. The houses 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 the shores of 
 the Adriatic sea. His tomb, a sarcophagus of red marble, 
 supported by pillars, doubtless familiar to the reader, is at
 
 VENETIA. 345 
 
 Land ; and, placed on an elevated site, gives a solemn im- 
 pression to a scene, of which the character would otherwise 
 be serenely cheerful. 
 
 Our travellers were surprised to find that the house of 
 the poet was inhabited by a very different tenant to the 
 rustic occupier they had anticipated. They heard that a 
 German gentleman had within the last year fixed upon it 
 as the residence of himself and his wife. The peasants 
 were profuse in their panegyrics of this visitor, whose 
 arrival had proved quite an era in the history of their 
 village. According to them, a kinder and more charitable 
 gentleman never breathed ; his whole life was spent in 
 studying and contributing to the happiness of those around 
 him. The sick, the sorrowful, and the needy were ever 
 sure of finding a friend in him, and merit a generous patron. 
 From him came portions to the portionless ; no village 
 maiden need despair of being united to her betrothed, while 
 he could assist her ; and at his own cost he had sent to the 
 academy of Bologna, a youth whom his father would have 
 made a cowherd, but whom nature predisposed to be a 
 painter. The inhabitants believed this benevolent and 
 generous person was a physician, for he attended the sick, 
 prescribed for their complaints, and had once even performed 
 an operation with great success. It seemed that, since 
 Petrarch, no one had ever been so popular at Arqua as this 
 kind German. Lady Annabel and Venetia were interested 
 with the animated narratives of the ever-active beneficence 
 of this good man, and Lady Annabel especially regretted 
 that his absence deprived her of the gratification of be- 
 coming acquainted with a character so rare and so in- 
 valuable. In the meantime they availed themselves of the 
 offer of his servants to view the house of Petrarch, for their 
 master had left orders, that his absence should never deprive 
 a pilgrim from paying his homage to the shrine of genius. 
 
 The house, consisting of two floors, had recently been 
 repaired by the present occupier. It was simply furnished. 
 The ground-floor was allotted to the servants. The upper
 
 346 VENETIA. 
 
 story contained five rooms, three of which were of good 
 size, and two closets. In one of these were the traditionary 
 chair and table of Petrarch, and here, according to their 
 guides, the master of the house passed a great portion of 
 his time in study, to which, by their account, he seemed 
 devoted. The adjoining chamber was his library ; its 
 windows opened on a balcony looking on two lofty and 
 conical hills, one topped with a convent, while the valley 
 opened on the side and spread into a calm and very- 
 pleasant view. Of the other apartments, one served as a 
 saloon, but there was nothing in it remarkable, except an 
 admirably painted portrait of a beautiful 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 Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' 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 lightened my heart to hear of all this gentleman's 
 kind deeds.' 
 
 ' Ah ! if the signora only knew the master,' said their 
 guide, ' she would indeed know a good man.' 
 
 They descended to the garden, which certainly was not 
 like the garden of their villa ; it had been but lately a wil- 
 derness of laurels, but there were evidences that the eye 
 and hand of taste were commencing its restoration with 
 effect. 
 
 ' The master did this,' said their guide. ' He will allow 
 no one to work in the garden but himself. It is a week 
 since he went to Bologna, to see our Paulo. He gained a 
 prize at the academy, and his father begged the master to 
 be present when it was conferred on him ; he said it would 
 do his son so much good ! So the master went, though it is
 
 VENETIA. 347 
 
 the only time he has quitted Qua 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 or to-morrow, and he would be 
 glad to see her.' 
 
 ' We cannot wait, my friend,' said Lady Annabel, reward- 
 ing the guide ; ' but you will thank your master in our 
 names, for the kindness we have experienced. You are all 
 happy in such a friend.' 
 
 ' I must write my name in Petrarch's house,' said Venetia. 
 ' Adieu, happy Arqua ! Adieu, happy dwellers in this 
 happy valley ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 JUST as Lady Annabel and her daughter arrived at Rovigo, 
 one of those sudden and violent storms that occasionally 
 occur at the termination of an Italian autumn raged with 
 irresistible fury. The wind roared with a noise that over- 
 powered the thunder ; then came a rattling shower of hail, 
 with stones as big as pigeons' eggs, succeeded by rain, not 
 in showers, but literally in cataracts. The only thing to 
 which a tempest of rain in Italy can be compared is the 
 bursting of a waterspout. Venetia could scarcely believe 
 that this could be the same day of which the golden morn- 
 ing had found her among the sunny hills of Arqua. This 
 unexpected vicissitude induced Lady Annabel to alter her 
 plans, and she resolved to rest at Rovigo, where she was 
 glad to find that they could be sheltered in a commodious 
 inn. 
 
 The building had originally been a palace, and in its halls 
 and galleries, and the vast octagonal vestibule on which the 
 principal apartments opened, it retained many noble indi- 
 cations of the purposes to which it was formerly destined.
 
 348 VENETIA. 
 
 At present, a lazy innkeeper who did nothing ; his bustling 
 wife, who seemed equally at home in the saloon, the kitchen, 
 and even the stable ; and a solitary waiter, were the only 
 inmates, except the Herberts, and a travelling party, who 
 had arrived shortly after them, and who, like them, had 
 been driven by stress of weather to seek refuge at a place 
 where otherwise they had not intended to remain. 
 
 A blazing fire of pine wood soon gave cheerfulness to 
 the vast and somewhat desolate apartment into which our 
 friends had been ushered ; their sleeping-room was adjoin- 
 ing, but separated. In spite of the lamentations of Paunce- 
 fort, who had been drenched to the skin, and who required 
 much more waiting upon than her mistress, Lady Annabel 
 and Venetia at length produced some degree of comfort. 
 They drew the table near the fire ; they ensconced them- 
 selves behind an old screen ; and, producing their books and 
 work notwithstanding the tempest, they contrived to domes- 
 ticate themselves at Bovigo. 
 
 * I cannot help thinking of Arqua and its happy tenants, 
 mamma,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' And yet, perhaps, they may have their secret sorrows,' 
 said Lady Annabel. ' I know not why, I always associate 
 seclusion with unhappiness.' 
 
 Venetia remembered Cherbury. Their life at Cherbury 
 was like the life of the German at Arqua. A chance visitor 
 to Cherbury in their absence, viewing the beautiful resi- 
 dence and the fair domain, and listening to the tales which 
 they well might hear of all her mother's grace and goodness, 
 might perhaps too envy its happy occupiers. But were 
 they happy ? Had they no secret sorrows ? Was their 
 seclusion associated with unhappiness ? These were re- 
 flections that made Venetia grave ; but she opened her 
 journal, and, describing the adventures and feelings of the 
 morning, she dissipated some mournful reminiscences. 
 
 The storm still raged, Venetia had quitted the saloon in 
 which her mother and herself had been sitting, and had 
 repaired to the adjoining chamber to fetch a book. The
 
 VENETIA. 349 
 
 door of this room, opened, as all the other entrances of the 
 different apartments, on to the octagonal vestibule. Just 
 as she was quitting the room, and about to return to her 
 mother, the door of the opposite chamber opened, and there 
 came forward a gentleman in a Venetian dress of black velvet. 
 His stature was much above the middle height, though 
 his figure, which was remarkably slender, was bowed ; not 
 by years certainly, for his countenance, though singularly 
 emaciated, still retained traces of youth. His hair, which 
 he wore very long, descended over his shoulders, and must 
 originally have been of a light golden colour, but now was 
 severely touched with grey. His countenance was very 
 pallid, so colourless indeed that its aspect was almost 
 unearthly ; but his large blue eyes, that were deeply set in 
 his majestic brow, still glittered with fire, and their expres- 
 sion alone gave life to a visage, which, though singularly 
 beautiful in its outline, from its faded and attenuated cha- 
 racter seemed rather the countenance of a corpse than of a 
 breathing being. 
 
 The glance of the stranger caught that of Venetia, and 
 seemed to fascinate her. She suddenly became motionless ; 
 wildly she stared at the stranger, who, in his turn, seemed 
 arrested in his progress, and stood still as a statue, with his 
 eyes fixed with absorbing interest on the beautiful appa- 
 rition before him. An expression of perplexity and pain 
 flitted over the amazed features of Venetia ; and then it 
 seemed that, by some almost supernatural effort, confusion 
 amounting to stupefaction suddenly brightened and ex- 
 panded into keen and overwhelming intelligence. . Exclaim- 
 ing 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, and so much suffering, such was the first 
 meeting of Venetia Herbert with her father ! 
 
 Marmion Herbert, himself trembling and speechless, bore 
 the apparently lifeless Venetia into his apartment. Not per- 
 mitting her for a- moment to quit his embrace, he seated
 
 350 VENETIA. 
 
 himself, and gazed silently on the inanimate and unknown 
 form he held so strangely within his arms. Those lips, now 
 closed as if in death, had nttered however one word which 
 thrilled to his heart, and still echoed, like a supernatural 
 annunciation, within his ear. He examined with an eye of 
 agitated scrutiny the fair features no longer sensible of his 
 presence. He gazed upon that transparent brow, as if he 
 would read some secret in its pellucid veins ; and touched 
 those long locks of golden hair with a trembling finger, 
 that seemed to be wildly seeking for some vague and mira- 
 culous proof of inexpressible identity. The fair creature had 
 called him ' Father.' His dreaming reveries had never pic- 
 tured a being half so beautiful ! She called him ' Father ! ' 
 The word had touched his brain, as lightning cuts a tree. 
 He looked around him with a distracted air, then gazed on 
 the tranced form he held with a glance which would have 
 penetrated her soul, and murmured unconsciously the wild 
 word she had uttered. She called him ' Father ! ' He dared 
 not think who she might be. His thoughts were wan- 
 dering in a distant land ; visions of another life, another 
 country, rose before him, troubled and obscure. Earned 
 aspirations, and hopes blighted in the bud, and the che- 
 rished secrets of his lorn existence, clustered like clouds 
 upon his perplexed, yet creative, brain. She called him, 
 ' Father ! ' It was a word to make him mad. ' Father ! ' 
 This beautiful being had called tiim ' Father,' and seemed 
 to have expired, as it were, in the irresistible expression. 
 His heart yearned to her ; he had met her embrace with an 
 inexplicable sympathy ; her devotion had seemed, as it were, 
 her duty and his right. Yet who was she ? He was a 
 father. It was a fact, a fact alike full of solace and morti- 
 fication, the consciousness of which never deserted him. 
 But he was the father of an unknown child ; to him the 
 child of his poetic dreams, rather than his reality. And 
 now there came this radiant creature, and called him 
 ' Father ! ' Was he awake, and in the harsh busy world ; 
 or was it the apparition of an over-excited imagination,
 
 VENETIA. 351 
 
 brooding too constantly on one fond idea, on which he now 
 gazed so fixedly ? Was this some spirit ? Would that she 
 would speak again ! Would that those sealed lips would 
 part and utter but one word, would but again call him 
 ' Father,' and he asked no more ! 
 
 ' Father ! ' to be called ' Father ' by one whom he could 
 not name, by one over whom he mused in solitude, by one 
 to whom he had poured forth all the passion of his desolate 
 soul ; to be called ' Father ' by this being was the aspiring 
 secret of his life. He had painted her to himself in his 
 loneliness, he had conjured up dreams of ineffable loveliness, 
 and inexpressible love ; he had led with her an imaginary 
 life of thrilling tenderness ; he had indulged in a delicious 
 fancy of mutual interchange of the most exquisite offices 
 of our nature ; and then, when he had sometimes looked 
 around him, and found' no daughter there, no beaming 
 countenance of purity to greet him with its constant smile, 
 and receive the quick and ceaseless tribute of his vigilant 
 affection, the tears had stolen down his lately- excited fea- 
 tures, all the consoling beauty of his visions had vanished 
 into air, he had felt the deep curse of his desolation, and 
 had anathematised the cunning brain that made his misery 
 a thousand-fold keener by the mockery of its transporting 
 illusions. 
 
 And now there came this transcendent creature, with a 
 form more glowing than all his dreams ; a voice more mu- 
 sical than a seraphic chorus, though it had uttered but 
 one thrilling word : there came this transcendent creature, 
 beaming with grace, beauty, and love, and had fallen upon 
 his heart, and called him ' Father ! ' 
 
 Herbert looked up to heaven as if waiting for some fresh 
 miracle to terminate the harrowing suspense of his tor- 
 tured mind ; Herbert looked down upon his mysterious 
 companion ; the rose was gradually returning to her cheek, 
 her lips seemed to tremble with reviving breath. There was 
 only one word more strange to his ear than that which she 
 had uttered, but an irresistible impulse sent forth the sound.
 
 352 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Yenetia ! ' he exclaimed. 
 
 The eyes of the maiden slowly opened ; she stared around 
 her with a vague glance of perplexity, not unmingled with 
 pain ; she looked up ; she caught the rapt gaze of her father, 
 bending over her with fondness yet with fear ; his lips 
 moved, for a moment they refused to articulate, yet at length 
 they again uttered, ' Venetia ! ' And the only response she 
 made was to cling to him with nervous energy, and hide her 
 face in his bosom. 
 
 Herbert pressed her to his heart. Yet even now he 
 hesitated to credit the incredible union. Again he called 
 her by her name, but added with rising confidence, ' My 
 Venetia ! ' 
 
 ' Tour child, your child,' she murmured. ' Your own 
 Venetia.' 
 
 He pressed his lips to hers ; he breathed over her a thou- 
 sand blessings ; she felt his tears trickling on her neck. 
 
 At length Venetia looked up and sighed; she was ex- 
 hausted by the violence of her emotions : her father relaxed 
 his grasp with infinite tenderness, watching her with deli- 
 cate solicitude ; she leaned her arm upon 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 an impassioned voice. ' The father who has 
 long lived upon her fancied image ; 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, bis being was a 
 secret, his name was never mentioned ; it was unknown.' 
 
 ' A secret ! My existence a secret from my child, my 
 beautiful fond child ! ' 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 
 returning animation, yet gazing around her with a still
 
 VENETIA. 353 
 
 distracted air. ' Am I with my father ? The clouds clear 
 from my brain. I remember that we met. Where was 
 it ? Was it at Arqua ? In the garden ? I am with my 
 father ! ' she continued in a rapid tone and with a wild 
 smile. ' Oh ! let me look on him ; ' and she turned round, 
 and gazed upon Herbert with a serious scrutiny. ' Are 
 you my father ? ' she continued, in a still, small voice. 
 ' Your hair has grown grey since last I saw you ; it was 
 golden then, like mine. I know you are my father,' she 
 added, after a pause, and in a tone almost of gaiety. ' You 
 cannot deceive me. I know your name. They did not 
 tell it me ; I found it out myself, but it made me very ill, 
 very ; and I do not think I have ever been quite well since. 
 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 with anguish to these incoherent sentences. 
 ' My Venetia loves me ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! she always loved you,' replied Venetia ; always, 
 always. Before she knew her father she loved him. I 
 dare say you think I do not love you, because I am not 
 used to speak to a father. Everything must be learnt, you 
 know,' she said, with a faint, sad smile ; ' and then it was 
 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 thought it was a picture. But I read your 
 verses, and I knew them by heart at once ; but now my 
 memory has worn out, for I am ill, and everything has gone 
 cross with me. And all because my father wrote me verses. 
 ' Tis very strange, is not it ? ' 
 
 ' Sweet lamb of my affections,' exclaimed Herbert to 
 himself, ' I fear me much this sudden meeting with one from 
 whose bosom you ought never to have been estranged, has 
 been for the moment too great a trial for this delicate brain.' 
 
 ' I will not tell my mother,' said Venetia ; 'she will be 
 angry.' 
 
 A A
 
 354 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Your mother, darling ; ' where is your mother ? ' said 
 Herbert, looking, if possible, paler than he was wont. 
 
 She was at Arqua with me, and on the lake for months, 
 but where we are now, I cannot say. If I could only re- 
 member where we are now,' she added with earnestness, 
 and with a struggle to collect herself, 'I should know 
 everything.' 
 
 ' This is Rovigo, my child, the inn of Rovigo. You are 
 travelling with your mother. Is it not so ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! and we came this morning, and it rained. Now 
 I know everything,' said Yenetia, with an animated and 
 even cheerful air. 
 
 ' And we met in the vestibule, my sweet,' continued 
 Herbert, in a soothing voice ; ' we came out of opposite 
 chambers, and you knew me ; my Venetia knew me. 
 Try to tell me, my darling,' he added, in a tone of coaxing 
 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 as long as in your picture.' 
 
 ' Her dog called Marmion ! ' murmured Herbert to him- 
 self, ' and my portrait, too ! You saw your father's portrait, 
 then, every day, love ? ' 
 
 'Oh, no ! said Venetia, shaking her head, ' only once, 
 only once. And I never told mamma. It was where no 
 one could go, but I went there one day. It was in a room 
 that no one ever entered except mamma, but I entered it. 
 I stole the key, and had a fever, and in my fever I confessed 
 all. But I never knew it. Mamma never told me I con- 
 fessed it, until many, many years afterwards. It was the 
 first, the only time she ever mentioned to me your name, 
 my father.' 
 
 ' And she told you to shun me, to hate me ? She told 
 you I was a villain, a profligate, a demon ? eh ? eh ? Was 
 it not so, Venetia ? '
 
 VENETIA. 355 
 
 ' She told me that you had broken her heart,' said 
 Venetia ; ' and she prayed 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 been happy ! ' 
 
 In the meantime the prolonged absence of her daughter 
 surprised Lady Annabel. At length she rose, and walked 
 into their adjoining apartment, but to her surprise Yenetia 
 was not there. Returning to her saloon, she found Paunce- 
 fort and the waiter arranging the table for dinner. 
 
 ' Where is Miss Herbert, Pauncefort ? ' inquired Lady 
 Annabel. 
 
 ' I am sure, my lady, I cannot say. I have no doubt 
 she is in the other room.' 
 
 ' She is not there, for I have just quitted it,' replied 
 Lady Annabel. ' How veiy strange ! You have not seen 
 the signora ? ' inquired Lady Annabel of the waiter. 
 
 ' The signora is in the room with the gentleman.' 
 
 ' The gentleman ! ' exclaimed Lady Annabel. ' Tell me, 
 good man, what do you mean ? I am inquiring for my 
 daughter.' 
 
 ' I know well the signora is talking of her daughter,' re- 
 plied the waiter. 
 
 ' But do you know my daughter by sight ? Surely you 
 you must mean some one else.' 
 
 'Do I know the signora' s daughter?' said the waiter. 
 ' The beautiful young lady, with hair like Santa Marguerita, 
 in the church of the Holy Trinity ! I tell the signora, I 
 saw her carried into numero 4, in the arms of the Signer 
 Forestiere, who arrived this morning.' 
 
 ' Yenetia 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 very picture of perplexity. 
 
 ' "Well, to be sure ! ' she exclaimed, ' was anything ever 
 A A 2
 
 356 VENETIA. 
 
 so strange ! In the arms of Signer Forestiere ! Forestiere ! 
 An English name. There is no person of the name of Forest 
 that I know. And in his arms, too ! I should not wonder 
 if it was my lord after all. "Well, I should be glad if he 
 were to come to light again, for, after all, my lady may say 
 what she likes, but if Miss Venetia don't marry Lord Cadur- 
 cis, I must say marriages were never made in heaven ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE waiter threw open the door of Mr. Herbert's chamber, 
 and Lady Annabel swept in with a majesty she generally 
 assumed when about to meet strangers. The first thing 
 she beheld was her daughter in the arms of a man whose 
 head was bent, and who was embracing her. Notwith- 
 standing this astounding spectacle, Lady Annabel neither 
 started nor screamed ; she only said in an audible tone, 
 and one rather expressing astonishment than agitation, 
 'Yenetia!' 
 
 Immediately the stranger looked up, and Lady Annabel 
 beheld her husband ! 
 
 She was rooted to the earth. She turned deadly pale ; 
 for a moment her countenance expressed only terror, but 
 the terror quickly changed into aversion. Suddenly she 
 rushed forward, and exclaimed in a tone in which decision 
 conquered dismay, ' Restore me my child ! ' 
 
 The moment Herbert had recognised his wife he had 
 dexterously disengaged himself from the grasp of Venetia, 
 whom he left on the chair, and meeting Lady Annabel with 
 extended arms, that seemed to deprecate her wrath, he 
 said, ' I seek not to deprive you of her ; she is yours, and 
 he is worthy of you ; but respect, for a few moments, the 
 feelings of a father who has met his only child in a manner 
 so unforeseen.' 
 
 The presence of her mother instantaneously restored
 
 VEXETIA. 357 
 
 Venetia to herself. Her mind was in a moment cleared 
 and settled. Her past and peculiar life, and all its incidents, 
 recurred to her with their accustomed order, vividness, and 
 truth. She thoroughly comprehended her present situation. 
 Actuated by long-cherished feelings and the necessity of the 
 occasion, she rose and threw herself at her mother's feet and 
 exclaimed, ' mother ! he is my father, love him ! ' 
 
 Lady Annabel stood with an averted countenance, Vene- 
 tia clinging to her hand, which she had caught when she 
 rushed forward, and which now fell passive by Lady Anna- 
 bel's side, giving no sign, by any pressure or motion, of the 
 slightest sympathy with her daughter, or feeling for the 
 strange and agonising situation in which they were both 
 placed. 
 
 ' Annabel,' said Herbert, in a voice that trembled, though 
 the speaker struggled to appear calm, ' be charitable ! I 
 have never intruded upon your privacy ; I will not now 
 outrage it. Accident, or some diviner motive, has brought 
 us together this day. If you will not treat me with kind- 
 ness, look not upon me with aversion before our child.' 
 
 Still she was silent and motionless, her countenance 
 hidden from her husband and her daughter, but her erect 
 and haughty form betokening her inexorable mind. ' An- 
 nabel,' said Herbert, who had now withdrawn to some 
 distance, and leant against a pillar, ' will not then nearly 
 twenty years of desolation purchase one moment of inter- 
 course ? I have injured you. Be it so. This is not the 
 moment I will defend myself. But have I not suffered ? 
 Is not this meeting a punishment deeper even than your 
 vengeance could devise ? Is it nothing to behold this beau- 
 tiful 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, my heart is withered ; the principle of 
 existence waxes faint and slaek in this attenuated frame. 
 I am no longer that Herbert on whom you once smiled, but 
 a man stricken with many sorrows. The odious conviction 
 of my life cannot long haunt you ; yet a little while, and
 
 358 VENETIA. 
 
 my memory will alone remain. Think of this, Annabel ; I 
 beseech you, think of it. Oh ! believe me, when the speedy 
 honr arrives that will consign me to the grave, where I shall 
 at least find peace, it will not be utterly without satisfaction 
 that you will remember that we met if even by accident, 
 and parted at least not with harshness ! ' 
 
 ' Mother, dearest mother ! ' murmured Venetia, ' speak 
 to him, look on him ! ' 
 
 'Venetia,' said her mother, without turning her head, 
 but in a calm, firm tone, ' your father has seen you, has 
 conversed with you. Between your father and myself there 
 can be nothing to communicate, either of fact 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-hysterical voice. 
 
 ' Desert me, then,' said the mother. ' A fitting conse- 
 quence of your private communications with your father,' 
 she added in a tone of bitter scorn ; and Lady Annabel 
 moved to depart, but Venetia, still kneeling, clung to her 
 convulsively. 
 
 ' Mother, mother, you shall not go ; you shall not leave 
 me ; we will never part, mother,' continued Venetia, in a 
 tone almost of violence, as she perceived her mother give 
 no indication of yielding to her wish. ' Are my feelings 
 then nothing ? ' she then exclaimed. ' Is this your sense 
 of my fidelity ? Am I for ever to be a victim ? ' She 
 loosened her hold of her mother's hand, her mother moved 
 on, Venetia fell upon her forehead and uttered a faint 
 scream. The heart of Lady Annabel relented when she 
 fancied her daughter suffered physical pain, however slight; 
 she hesitated, she turned, she hastened to her child ; her 
 husband had simultaneously advanced ; in the rapid move- 
 ment and confusion her hand touched that of Herbert. 
 
 ' I yield her to you, Annabel,' said Herbert, placing 
 Venetia in her mother's arms. ' You mistake me, as you 
 have often mistaken me, if you think I seek to practise on
 
 VENETIA. 359 
 
 the feelings of this angelic child. She is yours ; may she 
 compensate you for the misery I have caused you, but never 
 sought to occasion ! ' 
 
 ' I am not hurt, dear mother,' said Venetia, as her mother 
 tenderly examined her forehead. ' Dear, dear mother, why 
 did you reproach me ? ' 
 
 ' Forget it,' said Lady Annabel, in a softened tone ; ' for 
 indeed you are irreproachable.' 
 
 ' Annabel ! ' said Herbert, 'may not this child be some 
 atonement, this child, of whom I solemnly declare I would 
 not deprive you, though I would 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's bosom, who still, however, remained rigidly 
 standing. But Lady Annabel was silent. 
 
 'Your mother was ever stern and cold, Venetia,' said 
 Herbert, the bitterness of his heart at length expressing 
 itself. 
 
 ' Never,' said Venetia, with great energy ; ' never ; you 
 know not my mother. Was she stern and cold when she 
 visited each night in secret your portrait ? ' said Venetia, 
 looking round upon her astonished father, with her bright 
 grey eye. ' Was she stern and cold when she wept over 
 your poems, those poems whose characters your own hand 
 had traced ? Was she stern and cold when she hung a 
 withered wreath on your bridal bed, the bed to which I owe 
 my miserable being ? Oh, no, my father ! sad was the hour 
 of separation for my mother and yourself. It may have 
 dimmed the lustre of her eye, and shaded your locks with 
 premature grey; but whatever may have been its inscrutable 
 cause, there was one victim of that dark hour, less thought 
 of than yourselves, and yet a greater sufferer than both, 
 the being in whose heart you implanted affections, whose 
 unfulfilled tenderness has made that wretched thing they 
 call your daughter.' 
 
 ' Annabel ! ' exclaimed Herbert, rapidly advancing, with
 
 360 VENETIA. 
 
 an imploring gesture, 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 stem 
 expression had disappeared. The long-concealed, yet at 
 length irrepressible, emotion of Yenetia had touched her 
 heart. In the conflict of affection between the claims of 
 her two parents, Lady Annabel had observed with a senti- 
 ment of sweet emotion, in spite of all the fearfulness of the 
 meeting, that Venetia had not faltered in her devotion to 
 her mother. The mental torture of her child touched her 
 to the quick. In the excitement of her anguish, Venetia 
 had expressed a profound sentiment, the irresistible truth 
 of which Lady Annabel could no longer withstand. She 
 had too long and too fondly schooled herself to look upon 
 the outraged wife as the only victim. There was then, at 
 length it appeared to this stern-minded woman, another. 
 She had laboured in the flattering delusion that the devo- 
 tion of a mother's love might compensate to Venetia for the 
 loss of that other parent, which in some degree Lady Anna- 
 bel had occasioned her ; for the worthless husband, had she 
 chosen to tolerate the degrading connection, might never- 
 theless have proved a tender father. But Nature, it seemed, 
 had shrunk from the vain effort of the isolated mother. The 
 seeds of affection for the father of her being were mystically 
 implanted in the bosom of his child. Lady Annabel re- 
 called the harrowing hours that this attempt by her to curb 
 and control the natural course and rising sympathies of 
 filial love had cost her child, on whom she had so vigilantly 
 practised it. She recalled her strange aspirations, her in- 
 spired curiosity, her brooding reveries, her fitful melan- 
 choly, her terrible illness, her resignation, her fidelity, her 
 sacrifices : there came across the mind of Lady Annabel a 
 mortifying conviction that the devotion to her child, on 
 which she had so rated herself, might after all only prove a 
 subtle form of profound selfishness; and that Venetia, instead 
 of being the idol of her love, might eventually be the martyr 
 of her pride. And, thinking of these things, she wept.
 
 VENETIA. 3G1 
 
 This evidence of emotion, which in such a spirit Herbert 
 knew how to estimate, emboldened him to advance ; he fell 
 on one knee before her and her daughter ; gently he stole 
 her hand, and pressed it to his lips. 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 
 would not speak, she would not disturb the still and silent 
 bliss of the impending reconciliation. Was it then indeed 
 at hand ? In truth, the deportment of Herbert throughout 
 the whole interview, so delicate, so subdued, so studiously 
 avoiding the slightest rivalry with his wife in the affections 
 of their child, and so carefully abstaining from attempting 
 in the slightest degree to control the feelings of Venetia, 
 had not been lost upon Lady Annabel. And when she 
 thought of him, so changed from what he had been, grey, 
 bent, and careworn, Avith all the lustre that had once so 
 fascinated her, faded, and talking of that impending fate 
 which his wan though spiritual countenance too clearly 
 intimated, her heart melted. 
 
 Suddenly the door burst open, and there stalked into the 
 room a woman of eminent but most graceful stature, and of 
 a most sovereign and voluptuous beauty. She was habited 
 in the Venetian dress ; her dark eyes glittered with fire, her 
 cheek was inflamed with no amiable emotion, and her long 
 black hair was disordered by the violence of her gesture. 
 
 ' And who are these ? ' she exclaimed in a shrill voice. 
 
 All started ; Herbert sprang up from his position with a 
 glance of withering rage. Venetia was perplexed, Lady An- 
 nabel looked round, and recognised the identical face, how- 
 ever distorted by passion, that she had admired in the 
 portrait at Arqua. 
 
 ' And who are these ? ' exclaimed the intruder, advancing. 
 ' Perfidious Marmion ! to whom do you dare to kneel ? ' 
 
 Lady Annabel drew herself up to a height that seemed to 
 look down even upon this tall stranger. The expression of 
 majestic scorn that she cast upon the intruder made her, in
 
 362 VENETIA. 
 
 spite of all her violence and excitement, tremble and be 
 silent : she felt cowed she knew not why. 
 
 ' Come, Venetia,' said Lady Annabel with all her usual 
 composure, 'let me save my daughter at least from this 
 profanation.' 
 
 ' Annabel ! ' said Herbert, rushing after them, ' be chari- 
 table, be just ! ' He followed them to the threshold of the 
 door ; Venetia was silent, for she was alarmed. 
 
 ' Adieu, Marmion ! ' said Lady Annabel, looking over her 
 shoulder with a bitter smile, but placing her daughter be- 
 fore her, as if to guard her. ' Adieu, Marmion ! adieu for 
 ever ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE moon shone brightly on the house of Petrarch, and the 
 hamlet slept in peace. N"ot a sound was heard, save the 
 shrill voice of the grasshoppers, so incessant that its mono- 
 tony blended, as it were, with the stillness. Over the green 
 hills and the far expanse of the sheeny plain, the beautiful 
 light of heaven fell with all the magical repose of the serene 
 hour, an hour that brought to one troubled breast, and 
 one distracted spirit, in that still and simple village, no 
 quietude. 
 
 Herbert came forth into the balcony of his residence, and 
 leaning over the balustrade, revolved in his agitated mind 
 the strange and stirring incidents of the day. His wife and 
 his child had quitted the inn of Bovigo instantly after that 
 mortifying rencounter that had dashed so cruelly to the 
 ground all his sweet and quickly-rising hopes. As for his 
 companion, she had by his peremptory desire returned to 
 Arqua alone ; he was not in a mood to endure her society; 
 but he had conducted himself to her mildly, though with 
 firmness ; he had promised to follow her, and, in pursuance 
 of his pledge, he rode home alone. 
 
 He was greeted on his return by his servant, full of the
 
 VEKETIA. 363 
 
 the visit of the morning. With an irresistible curiosity, 
 Herbert had made him describe every incident that had 
 occurred, and repeat a hundred times every word that the 
 visitors had uttered. He listened with some consolation, 
 however mournful, to his wife's praises of the unknown 
 stranger's life ; he gazed with witching interest upon the 
 autograph of his daughter on the wall of his library. He 
 had not confessed to his mistress the relation which the two 
 strangers bore to him ; yet he was influenced in concealing 
 the real circumstances, only by an indefinite sentiment, that 
 made him reluctant to acknowledge to her ties so pure. 
 The feelings of the parent overpowered the principles of the 
 philosopher. This lady indeed, although at the moment she 
 had indulged in so violent an ebullition of temper, possessed 
 little influence over the mind of her companion. Herbert, 
 however fond of solitude, required in his restricted world 
 the graceful results of feminine superintendence. Time had 
 stilled his passions, and cooled the fervour of his soul. The 
 age of his illusions had long passed. This was a connection 
 that had commenced in no extravagant or romantic mood, 
 and perhaps for that reason had endured. He had become 
 acquainted with her on his first unknown arrival in Italy, 
 from America, now nearly two years back. It had been 
 maintained on his side by a temper naturally sweet, and 
 which, exhausted by years of violent emotion, now required 
 only repose ; seeking, in a female friend, a form that should 
 not outrage an eye ever musing on the beautiful, and a dis- 
 position that should contribute to his comfort, and never 
 ruffle his feelings. Separated from his wife by her own act, 
 whatever might have been its impulse, and for so long an 
 interval, it was a connection which the world in general 
 might have looked upon with charity, which in her calmer 
 hours one would imagine even Lady Annabel might have 
 glanced over without much bitterness. Certainly it was one 
 which, under all the circumstances of the case, could scarcely 
 be esteemed by her as an outrage or an insult ; but even 
 Herbert felt, with all his philosophy and proud freedom from
 
 364 VENETIA. 
 
 prejudice, that the rencounter of the morning was one which 
 no woman could at the moment tolerate, few eventually 
 excuse, and which of all incidents was that which would 
 most tend to confirm his wife in her stoical obduracy. Of 
 his offences towards her, whatever were their number or 
 their quality, this surely was the least, and yet its results 
 upon his life and fortunes would in all probability only be 
 equalled by the mysterious cause of their original separation. 
 But how much more bitter than that original separation 
 was their present parting ! Mortifying and annoying as had 
 been the original occurrence, it was one that many causes 
 and considerations combined to enable Herbert to support. 
 He was then in the very prime of youth, inexperienced, san- 
 guine, restless, and adventurous, with the whole world and 
 its unknown results before him, and freedom for which he 
 ever sighed to compensate for the loss of that domestic joy 
 that he was then unable to appreciate. But now twenty 
 years, which, in the career of such a spirit, were equal to a 
 century of the existence of coarser clay, had elapsed ; he was 
 bowed with thought and suffering, if not by time ; his con- 
 science was light, but it was sad ; his illusions had all 
 vanished ; he knew the world, and all that the world could 
 bring, and he disregarded them ; and the result of all his 
 profound study, lofty aspirations, and great conduct was, 
 that he sighed for rest. The original catastrophe had been 
 merely a separation between a husband and a wife ; the one 
 that had just happened, involved other feelings ; the father 
 was also separated from his child, and a child of such sur- 
 passing qualities, that his brief acquaintance with her had 
 alone sufficed to convert his dream of domestic repose into 
 a vision of domestic bliss. 
 
 Beautiful Venetia ! so fair, and yet so dutiful ; with a 
 bosom teeming with such exquisite sensibilities, and a mind 
 bright with such acute and elevated intelligence ! An ab- 
 stract conception of the sentiments that might subsist be- 
 tween a father and a daughter, heightened by all the devices 
 of a glowing imagination, had haunted indeed occasionally
 
 VENETIA. 365 
 
 the solitary musing of Marmion Herbert ; but what was 
 this creation of his poetic brain compared with the reality 
 that now had touched his hmnan heart ? Vainly had he 
 believed that repose was the only solace that remained for 
 his exhausted spirit. He found that a new passion now 
 swayed his soul ; a passion, too, that he had never proved ; 
 of a nature most peculiar ; pure, gentle, refined, yet ravish- 
 ing and irresistible, compared with which all former trans- 
 ports, no matter how violent, tumultuous, and exciting, 
 seemed evanescent and superficial : they were indeed the 
 wind, the fire, and the tempest that had gone before, 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 her love and presence. His philosophical theories 
 all vanished. He felt how dependent we are in this world 
 on our natural ties, and how limited, with all his arrogance, 
 is the sphere of man. Dreaming of philanthropy, he had 
 broken his wife's heart, and bruised, perhaps irreparably, 
 the spirit of his child ; he had rendered those miserable who 
 depended on his love, and for whose affection his heart now 
 yearned to that degree, that he could not contemplate exist- 
 ence without their active sympathy. 
 
 "Was it then too late ! Was it then impossible to regain 
 that Paradise he had forfeited so weakly, and of whose 
 amaranthine bowers, but a few hours since, he had caught 
 such an entrancing glimpse, of which the gate 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 bridal bed 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 in torrents, he sobbed convulsively, 
 his very heart seemed to burst. For some minutes he leant 
 over the balustrade in a paroxysm of grief.
 
 366 VENETIA. 
 
 He looked up. The convent lull rose before him, bright 
 in the moon ; beneath was his garden ; around him the 
 humble roofs that he made happy. It was not without an 
 effort that he recalled the locality, that he remembered he 
 was at Arqua. And who was sleeping within the house ? 
 Not his wife, Annabel was far away with their daughter. 
 The vision of his whole life passed before him. Study and 
 strife, and fame and love ; the pride of the philosopher, the 
 rapture of the poet, the blaze of eloquence, the clash of arms, 
 the vows of passion, the execration and the applause of 
 millions ; both once alike welcome to his indomitable soul ! 
 And what had they borne to hina ? Misery. He called up 
 the image of his wife, young, beautiful, and noble, with a 
 mind capable of comprehending his loftiest and his finest 
 moods, with a soul of matchless purity, and a temper whose 
 winning tenderness had only been equalled by her elevated 
 sense of self-respect ; a woman that might have figured in 
 the days of chivalry, soft enough to be his slave, but too 
 proud to be his victim. He called up her image in the 
 castle of his fathers, exercising in a domain worthy of such 
 a mistress, all those sweet offices of Life which here, in this 
 hired roof in a strange land, and with his crippled means, 
 he had yet found solacing. He conjured before him a bud 
 by the side of that beauteous flower, sharing all her lustre 
 and all her fragrance, his own Venetia ! What happiness 
 might not have been his ? And for what had he forfeited 
 it ? A dream, with no dream- like beauty ; a perturbed, and 
 restless, and agitated dream, from which he had now woke 
 shattered and exhausted. 
 
 He had sacrificed his fortune, he had forfeited his country, 
 he had alienated his wife, and he had lost his child ; the 
 home of his heroic ancestry, the ancient land whose fame 
 and power they had created, the beauteous and gifted woman 
 who would have clung for ever to his bosom, and her trans- 
 cendant offspring worthy of all their loves ! Profound 
 philosopher ! 
 
 The clock of the convent struck the second hour after
 
 VENETIA. 367 
 
 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 were under the same roof, 
 in the same chamber ; their hands had joined, their hearts 
 had opened, for a moment he had dared to believe that all 
 that he cared for might be regained. And why was it not ? 
 The cause, the cause ? It recurred to him with associations 
 of dislike, of disgust, of wrath, of hatred, of which one 
 whose heart was so tender, and whose reason was so clear, 
 could under the influence of no other feelings have been 
 capable. The surrounding scene, that had so often soothed 
 his mournful soul, and connected it with the last hours of 
 a spirit to whom he bore much resemblance, was now looked 
 upon with aversion. To rid himself of ties, now so dread- 
 ful, was all his ambition. He entered the house quickly, 
 and, seating himself in his closet, he wrote these words : 
 
 ' You beheld this morning my wife and child ; we can -meet 
 no more. All that I can effect to console you under this 
 sudden separation shall be done. My banker from Bologna 
 will be here in two days ; express to him all your wishes.' 
 
 It was written, sealed, directed, and left upon the table 
 at which they had so often been seated. Herbert descended 
 into the garden, saddled his horse, and in a few minutes, in 
 the heart of night, had quitted Arqua. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE moment that the wife of Marmion Herbert re-entered 
 her saloon, she sent for her courier and ordered horses to 
 her carriage instantly. Until they were announced as 
 ready, Lady Annabel walked up and down the room with 
 an impatient step, but was as completely silent as the 
 miserable Venetia, who remained weeping on the sofa. 
 The confusion and curiosity of Mistress Pauncefort were 
 extraordinary. She still had a lurking suspicion that the 
 gentleman was Lord Cadurcis, and she seized the first
 
 368 VENETIA. 
 
 opportunity of leaving the room, and flouncing into that 
 of the stranger, as if by mistake, determined to catch a 
 glimpse of him ; but all her notable skill was baffled, for 
 she had scarcely opened the door before she was met by 
 the Italian lady, who received Mistress Pauncefort's ready- 
 made apology, and bowed her away. The faithful attendant 
 then hurried downstairs to crossexamine the waiter, but, 
 though she gained considerable information from that func- 
 tionary, it was of a perplexing nature ; for from him she 
 only learnt that the stranger lived at Arqua. ' The German 
 gentleman ! ' soliloquised Mistress Pauncefort ; ' and what 
 could he have to say to Miss Venetia ! and a married man, 
 too ! Well, to be sure, there is nothing like travelling for 
 adventures ! And I must say, considering all that I know, 
 and how I have held my tongue for nearly twenty years, I 
 think it is very strange indeed of my lady to have any 
 secrets from me. Secrets, indeed ! Poh ! ' and Mistress 
 Pauncefort flounced again into Lady Annabel's room, with 
 a face of offended pride, knocking the books about, dashing 
 down writing cases, tossing about work, and making as 
 much noise and disturbance as if she had a separate quarrel 
 with every single article under her superintendence. 
 
 In the meantime the carriage was prepared, to which 
 they were obliged almost to carry Venetia, feeble and 
 stupefied with grief. Uncertain of her course, but anxious, 
 in the present state of her daughter, for rest and quiet, 
 Lady Annabel ordered the courier to proceed to Padua, at 
 which city they arrived late at night, scarcely a word 
 having been interchanged during the whole journey be- 
 tween Lady Annabel and her child, though infinite were 
 the soft and soothing attentions which the mother lavished 
 upon her. Night, however, brought no rest to Venetia ; 
 and the next day, her state appeared so alarming to Lady 
 Annabel, that she would have instantly summoned medical 
 assistance, had it not been for Venetia's strong objections. 
 ' Indeed, dear mother,' she said, ' it is not physicians that I 
 require. They cannot cure me. Let me be quiet.'
 
 VENETIA. 369 
 
 The same cause, indeed, which, during the last fire years 
 had at intervals so seriously menaced the existence of this 
 unhappy girl, was now at work with renovated and even 
 irresistible influence. Her frame could no longer endure 
 the fatal action of her over-excited nerves. Her first illness, 
 however alarming, had been baffled by time, skill, and prin- 
 cipally by the vigour of an extremely youthful frame, then 
 a stranger to any serious indisposition. At a later period, 
 the change of life induced by their residence at Weymouth 
 had permitted her again to rally. She had quitted England 
 with renewed symptoms of her former attack, but a still 
 more powerful change, not only of scene, but of climate and 
 country, and the regular and peaceful life she had led on 
 the Lago Maggiore, had again reassured the mind of her 
 anxious mother. This last adventure at Rovigo, however, 
 prostrated her. The strange surprise, the violent develop- 
 ment of feeling, the agonising doubts and hopes, the terrible 
 suspense, the profound and bitter and overwhelming dis- 
 appointment, all combined to shake her mind to its very 
 foundations. She felt for the first time, that she could no 
 longer bear up against the torture of her singular position. 
 Her energy was entirely exhausted ; she was no longer 
 capable of making the slightest exertion ; she took refuge 
 in that torpid resignation that results from utter hopeless- 
 ness. 
 
 Lying on her sofa with her eyes fixed in listless abstrac- 
 tion, the scene at Bovigo flitted unceasingly before her 
 languid vision. At length she had seen that father, that 
 unknown and mysterious father, whose idea had haunted 
 her infancy as if by inspiration ; to gain the slightest know- 
 ledge of whom had cost her such long and acute suffering ; 
 and round whose image for so many years every thought of 
 her intelligence, and every feeling of her heart, had clus- 
 tered like spirits round some dim and mystical altar. At 
 length she had beheld him ; she had gazed on that spiritual 
 countenance ; she had listened to the tender accents of that 
 musical voice ; within his arms she had been folded with 
 
 B B
 
 370 VENETIA. 
 
 rapture, and pressed to a heart that seemed to beat only for 
 her felicity. The blessing of her father, uttered by his 
 long-loved lips, had descended on her brow, and been sealed 
 with his passionate embrace. 
 
 The entrance of her mother, that terrible contest of her 
 lacerated heart, when her two parents, as it were, appealed 
 to her love, which they would not share ; the inspiration of 
 her despair, that so suddenly had removed the barriers of 
 long years, before whose irresistible pathos her father had 
 bent a penitent, and her mother's inexorable pride had 
 melted ; the ravishing bliss that for a moment had thrilled 
 through her, being experienced too for the first time, when 
 she felt that her parents were again united and bound by 
 the sweet tie of her now happy existence ; this was the 
 drama acted before her with an almost ceaseless repetition 
 of its transporting incidents ; and when she looked round, 
 and beheld her mother sitting alone, and watching her with 
 a countenance almost of anguish, it was indeed with extreme 
 difficulty that Venetia could persuade herself that all had 
 not been a reverie ; and she was only convinced of the con- 
 trary by that heaviness of the heart which too quickly 
 assures us of the reality of those sorrows of which fancy for- 
 a moment may cheat us into scepticism. 
 
 And indeed her mother was scarcely less miserable. The 
 sight of Herbert, so changed from the form that she remem- 
 bered ; those tones of heart-rending sincerity, in which he 
 had mournfully appealed to the influence of time and sorrow 
 on his life, still greatly affected her. She had indulged for 
 a moment in a dream of domestic love, she had cast to the 
 winds the inexorable determination of a life, and had mingled 
 her tears with those of her husband and her child. And 
 how had she been repaid? By a degrading catastrophe, 
 from whose revolting associations her mind recoiled with 
 indignation and disgust. But her lingering feeling for her 
 husband, her own mortification, were as nothing compared 
 with the harrowing anxiety she now entertained for her 
 daughter. To converse with Venetia on the recent occur-
 
 VENETIA. 371 
 
 rence was impossible. It was a subject which admitted of 
 no discussion. They had passed a week at Padua, and the 
 slightest allusion to what had happened had never been 
 ma 1 de by either Lady Annabel or her child. It was only by 
 her lavish, testimonies of affection that Lady Annabel con- 
 veyed to Venetia how deeply she sympathised with, her, 
 and how unhappy she was herself. She had, indeed, never 
 quitted for a moment the side of her daughter, and witnessed 
 each, day, with renewed anguish, her deplorable condition ; 
 for Venetia continued in a state which, to those unacquainted 
 with her, might have been mistaken for insensibility, but 
 her mother knew too well that it was despair. She never 
 moved, she never sighed, nor wept ; she took no notice of 
 anything that occurred ; she sought relief in no resources. 
 Books, and drawings, and music, were quite forgotten by 
 her ; nothing amused, and nothing annoyed her ; she was 
 not even fretful ; she had, apparently, no physical ailment ; 
 she remained pale and silent, plunged in an absorbing 
 paroxysm of overwhelming woe. 
 
 The unhappy Lady Annabel, at a loss how to act, at 
 length thought it might be advisable to cross over to 
 Venice. She felt assured now, that it would be a long 
 time, if ever, before her child could again endure the 
 fatigue of travel ; and she thought that for every reason, 
 whether for domestic comfort or medical advice, or those 
 multifarious considerations which interest the invalid, a 
 capital was by far the most desirable residence for them. 
 There was a time when a visit to the city that had given 
 her a name had been a favourite dream of Venetia ; 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 the proposition called no light to her glazed eye, nor 
 
 summoned for an instant the colour back to her cheek. She 
 
 listened to her mother's suggestion, and expressed her 
 
 B B 2
 
 372 VENETIA. 
 
 willingness to do whatever she desired. Venice to her 
 was now only a name ; for, without the presence and the 
 united love of both her parents, no spot on earth could in- 
 terest, and no combinatipn of circumstances affect her. To 
 Venice, however, they departed, having previously taken 
 care that every arrangement should be made for their re- 
 ception. The English ambassador at the Ducal court was 
 a relative of Lady Annabel, and therefore no means or 
 exertions were spared to study and secure the convenience 
 and accommodation of the invalid. The barge of the am- 
 bassador met them at Fusina ; and when Venetia beheld the 
 towers and cupolas of Venice, suffused with a golden light 
 and rising out of the bright blue waters, for a moment her 
 spirit seemed to lighten. It is indeed a spectacle as beau- 
 tiful as rare, and one to which the world offers few, if any, 
 rivals. Gliding over the great Lagune, the buildings, with 
 which the pictures at Cherbury had already made her fami- 
 liar, 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 the 
 dark structure to which it leads. 
 
 Venice had not then fallen. The gorgeous standards of 
 the sovereign republic, and its tributary kingdoms, still 
 waved in the Place of St. Marc ; the Bucentaur was not 
 rotting in the Arsenal, and the warlike galleys of the state 
 cruised without the Lagune ; a busy and picturesque popu- 
 lation swarmed in all directions ; and the Venetian noble, 
 the haughtiest of men, might still be seen proudly moving 
 from the 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 crowd gliding about with noise- 
 less step, this city without sound, it seemed a dream !
 
 VENETIA. 373 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE ambassador had engaged for Lady Annabel a palace 
 011 the Grand Canal, belonging to Count Manfrini. It was 
 a structure of great size and magnificence, and rose out of 
 the water with a flight of marble steps. Within was a vast 
 gallery, lined with statues and busts on tall pedestals ; 
 suites of spacious apartments, with marble floors and hung 
 with satin ; ceilings painted by Tintoretto and full of Turk- 
 ish trophies ; furniture alike sumptuous and massy; the 
 gilding, although of two hundred years' duration, as bright 
 and burnished as if it had but yesterday been touched with 
 the brush ; sequin gold, as the Venetians tell you to this day 
 with pride. But even their old furniture will soon not be 
 left to them, as palaces are now daily broken up like old 
 ships, and their colossal spoils consigned to Hanway Yard 
 and Bond Street, whence, re-burnished and vamped up, 
 their Titautic proportions in time appropriately figure in 
 the boudoirs of May Fair and the miniature saloons of St. 
 James'. Many a fine lady now sits in a doge's chair, and 
 many a dandy listens to his doom from a couch that has 
 already witnessed the less inexorable decrees of the Council 
 of Ten. 
 
 Amid all this splendour, however, one mournful idea 
 alone pervaded the tortured consciousness of Lady Annabel 
 Herbert. Daily the dark truth stole upon her with in- 
 creased conviction, that Venetia had come hither only to 
 die. There seemed to the agitated ear of this distracted 
 mother a terrible omen even in the very name of her child ; 
 and she could not resist the persuasion that her final destiny 
 would, in some degree, be connected with her fanciful ap- 
 pellation. The physicians, for hopeless as Lady Annabel 
 could not resist esteeming their interference, Venetia was 
 now surrounded with physicians, shook their heads, pre- 
 scribed different remedies and gave contrary opinions ; each 
 day, however, their patient became more languid, thinner
 
 374 VENETIA. 
 
 and more thin, -until she seemed like a beautiful spirit 
 gliding into the saloon, leaning on her mother's arm, and 
 followed by Pauncefbrt, who had now learnt the fatal secret 
 from her mistress, and whose heart was indeed almost 
 broken at the prospect of the calamity that was impending 
 over them. 
 
 At Padua, Lady Annabel, in her mortified reveries, out- 
 raged as she conceived by her husband, and anxious about 
 her daughter, had schooled herself into visiting her fresh 
 calamities on the head of the unhappy Herbert, to whose 
 intrusion and irresistible influence she ascribed all the illness 
 of her child; but, as the indisposition ofVenetia gradually, 
 but surely, increased, until at length it assumed so alarming 
 au aspect that Lady Annabel, in the distraction of her mind, 
 could no longer refrain from contemplating the most fatal 
 result, she had taught herself bitterly to regret the failure 
 of that approaching reconciliation which now she could not 
 but believe would, at least, have secured her the life of 
 Venetia. Whatever might be the risk of again uniting 
 herself with her husband, whatever might be the mortifica- 
 tion and misery which it might ultimately, or even speedily, 
 entail upon her, there was no unhappiness that she could 
 herself experience, which for one moment she could put in 
 competition with the existence of her child. When that 
 was the question, every feeling that had hitherto impelled 
 her conduct assumed a totally different complexion. That 
 conduct, in her view, had been a systematic sacrifice of self 
 to secure the happiness of her daughter ; and the result of 
 all her exertions was, that not only her happiness was de- 
 stroyed, but her life was fast vanishing away. To save 
 Venetia, it now appeared to Lady Annabel that there was 
 no extremity which she would not endure ; and if it came 
 to a question, whether Venetia should survive, or whether 
 she should even be separated from her mother, her maternal 
 heart now assured her that she would not for an instant 
 hesitate in preferring an eternal separation to the death of 
 her child. Her terror now worked to such a degree upon
 
 VENETIA. 375 
 
 her character, that she even, at times, half resolved to speak 
 to Venetia upon the subject, and contrive some method 
 of communicating her wishes to her father ; but pride, the 
 habitual repugnance of so many years to converse upon the 
 topic, mingled also, as should be confessed, with an indefi- 
 nite apprehension of the ill consequences of a conversation 
 of such a character on the nervous temperament of her 
 daughter, restrained her. 
 
 ' My love ! ' said Lady Annabel, one day to her daughter, 
 * do you think you could go out ? The physicians think it 
 of great importance that you should attempt to exert your- 
 self, however slightly.' 
 
 ' Dear mother, if anything could annoy me from your 
 lips, it would be to hear you quote these physicians,' said 
 Venetia. ' Their daily presence and inquiries irritate me. 
 Let me be at peace. I wish to see no 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 for- 
 get that. But you, and you alone, know that my state, 
 whatever it may be, and to whatever it may be I am recon- 
 ciled, is not produced by causes over which these physicians 
 
 have any control, over which no one has control now,' 
 
 added Venetia, in a tone of great mournfulness. 
 
 For here we must remark that so inexperienced was 
 Venetia in the feelings of others, and so completely did she 
 judge of the strength and purity of their emotions from 
 her own, that reflection, since the terrible adventure of 
 Bvovigo, had only convinced her that it was no longer in 
 her mother's power to unite herself again with her other 
 parent. She had taught herself to look upon her father's 
 burst of feeling towards Lady Annabel as the momentary 
 and inevitable result of a meeting so unexpected and over- 
 powering, but she did not doubt that the stranger whose 
 presence had ultimately so fatally clouded that interview 
 of promise, possessed claims upon Marmion Herbert which
 
 376 VENETIA. 
 
 he would neither break, nor, upon reflection, be desirous to 
 question. It was then the conviction that a reconciliation 
 between her parents was now impossible, in which her 
 despair originated, and she pictured to herself her father 
 once more at Arqua disturbed, perhaps, for a day or two, 
 as he natm-ally must be, by an interview so sudden and so 
 harassing ; shedding a tear, perhaps, in secret to the wife 
 whom he had injured, and the child whom he had scarcely 
 seen ; but relapsing, alike from the force of habit and in- 
 clination, into those previous and confirmed feelings, under 
 whose influence, she was herself a witness, his life had been 
 so serene, and even so laudable. She was confirmed in 
 these opinions by the circumstance of their never having 
 heard since from him. Placed in his situation, if indeed 
 an irresistible influence were not controlling him, would he 
 have hesitated for a moment to have prevented even their 
 departure, or to have pursued them ; to have sought at 
 any rate some means of communicating with them ? He 
 was plainly reconciled to his present position, and felt that 
 under these circumstances silence on his part was alike 
 kindest and most discreet. Venetia had ceased, therefore, 
 to question the justice or the expediency, or even the 
 abstract propriety, of her mother's conduct. She viewed 
 their condition now as the result of stern necessity. She 
 pitied her mother, and for herself she had no hope. 
 
 There was then much meaning in that little monosyllable 
 with which Yenetia concluded her reply to her mother. 
 She had no hope ' now.' Lady Annabel, however, ascribed 
 it to a very different meaning ; she only believed that her 
 daughter was of opinion that nothing would induce her 
 now to listen to the overtures of her father. Prepared for 
 any sacrifice of self, Lady Annabel replied, ' But there is 
 hope, Venetia ; when your life is in question, there is 
 nothing that should not be done.' 
 
 'Nothing can be done,' said Venetia, who, of course, 
 could not dream of what was passing in her mother's mind. 
 
 Lady Annabel rose from her seat and walked to the
 
 VENETIA. 377 
 
 window; apparently her eye watched only the passing 
 gondolas, but indeed she saw them not ; she saw only her 
 child stretched perhaps on the couch of death. 
 
 'We quitted, perhaps, Rovigo too hastily,' said Lady 
 Annabel, in a choking 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 inexpres- 
 sible surprise, ' we did right to go.' 
 
 ' Even my child, even Venetia, with all her devotion to 
 him, feels the absolute necessity of my conduct,' thought 
 Lady Annabel. Her pride returned ; she felt the impossi- 
 bility 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 reign supreme ; the glittering sky reflected in the 
 waters, and every gondola gliding with sweet sounds! 
 Around on every side are palaces and temples, rising from 
 the waves which they shadow with their solemn forms, 
 their costly fronts rich with the spoils of kingdoms, and 
 softened with the magic of the midnight beam. The whole 
 city too is poured forth for festival. The people lounge on 
 the quays and cluster on the bridges ; the light barks skim 
 along in crowds, just touching the surface of. the water, 
 while their bright prows of polished iron gleam in the 
 moonshine, and glitter in the rippling wave. Not a sound 
 that is not graceful: the tinkle of guitars, the sighs of sere- 
 naders, and the responsive chorus of gondoliers. Now and 
 then a laugh, light, joyous, and yet musical, bursts forth 
 from, some illuminated coffee-house, before which a buffo 
 disports, a tumbler stands on his head, or a juggler mysti- 
 fies ; and all for a sequin ! 
 
 The Place of St. Marc, at the period of our story, still 
 presented the most brilliant spectacle of the kind in Europe.
 
 378 VENETIA. 
 
 Not a spot was more distinguished for elegance, luxury, and 
 enjoyment. It was indeed the inner shrine of the temple 
 of pleasure, and very strange and amusing would be the 
 annals of its picturesque arcades. We must not, however, 
 step behind their blue awnings, but content ourselves with 
 the exterior scene ; and certainly the Place of St. Marc, 
 with the variegated splendour of its Christian mosque, the 
 ornate architecture of its buildings, its diversified popula- 
 tion, a tribute from every shore of the midland sea, and 
 where the noble Venetian, in his robe of crimson silk, and 
 long white peruque, might be jostled by the Sclavonian 
 with his target, and the Albanian in his kilt, while the 
 Turk, sitting cross-legged on his Persian carpet, smoked 
 his long chibouque with serene gravity, and the mild 
 Armenian glided by him with a low reverence, presented 
 an aspect under a Venetian moon such as we shall not 
 easily find again in Christendom, and, in spite of the dying 
 glory and the neighbouring vice, was pervaded with an air 
 of romance and refinement, compared with which the glit- 
 tering dissipation of Paris, even in its liveliest and most 
 graceful hours, assumes a character alike coarse and com- 
 monplace. 
 
 It is the hour of love and of faro ; now is the hour to press 
 your suit and to break a bank ; to glide from the apartment 
 of rapture into the chamber of chance. Thus a noble Vene- 
 tian contrived to pass the night, in alternations of excite- 
 ment that in general left him sufficiently serious for the 
 morrow's council. For more vulgar tastes there was the 
 minstrel, the conjuror, and the story-teller, goblets of Cyprus 
 wine, flasks of sherbet, and confectionery that dazzled like 
 diamonds. And for every one, from the grave senator to the 
 gay gondolier, there was an atmosphere in itself a spell, and 
 which, after all, has more to do with human happiness than 
 all the accidents of fortune and all the arts of government. 
 
 Amid this gay and brilliant multitude, one human being 
 stood alone. Muffled in his cloak, and leaning against a 
 column in the portico of St. Marc, an expression of oppres-
 
 VENETIA. 379 
 
 sive care and affliction was imprinted on Ms countenance, 
 and ill accorded with the light and festive scene. Had he 
 been crossed in love, or had he lost at play ? Was it woman 
 or gold to which his anxiety and sorrow were attributable, 
 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 down the Piazzetta, and approached the quay of the 
 Lagune. A gondolier saluted him, and he entered his boat. 
 
 ' Whither, signer ? ' said the gondolier. 
 
 ' To the Grand Canal,' he replied. 
 
 Over the moonlit wave the gondola swiftly skimmed ! 
 The scene was a marvellous contrast to the one which the 
 stranger had just quitted ; but it brought no serenity to his 
 care-worn countenance, though his eye for a moment kindled 
 as he looked upon the moon, that was sailing in the cloud- 
 less heaven with a single star by her side. 
 
 They had soon entered the Grand Canal, and the gondolier 
 looked to his employer for instructions. ' Row opposite to the 
 Manfrini palace,' said the stranger, ' and rest upon your oar.' 
 
 The blinds of the great window of the palace were with- 
 drawn. Distinctly might be recognised a female figure 
 bending over the recumbent form of a girl. An hour passed 
 away and still the gondola was motionless, and still the 
 silent stranger gazed on the inmates of the palace. A 
 servant now came forward and closed the curtain of the 
 chamber. 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 
 event is impending over us, and we are utterly unconscious 
 of its probable occurrence. How often does it happen that 
 a subject which almost unceasingly engages our mind, is
 
 380 VENETIA. 
 
 least thought of at the very instant that the agitating sus- 
 pense involved in its consideration is perhaps about to be 
 terminated for ever ! The very morning after the mysterious 
 gondola had rested so long before the Manfriui Palace, 
 Venetia rose for the first time since the flight from Rovigo, 
 refreshed by her slumbers, and tranquil in her spirit. It 
 was not in her power to recall her dreams ; but they had 
 left a vague and yet serene impression. There seemed a 
 lightness in her heart, that long had been unusual with her, 
 and she greeted her mother with a smile, faint indeed, yet 
 natural. 
 
 Perhaps this beneficial change, slight but still delightful, 
 might be attributed to the softness and the splendour of the 
 morn. Before the approach of winter, it seemed that the 
 sun was resolved to remind the Venetians that they were his 
 children ; and that, although his rays might be soon clouded 
 for a season, they were not to believe that their parent had 
 deserted them. The sea was like glass, a golden haze suf- 
 fused the horizon, and a breeze, not strong enough to disturb 
 the waters, was wafted at intervals from the gardens of the 
 Brenta, fitful and sweet. 
 
 Venetia had yielded to the suggestion of her mother, and 
 had agreed for the first time to leave the palace. They 
 stepped into their gondola, and were wafted to an island in 
 the Lagune where there was a convent, and, what in Venice 
 was more rare and more delightful, a garden. Its scanty 
 shrubberies sparkled in the sun ; and a cypress flanked by a 
 pine-tree offered to the eye unused to trees a novel and 
 picturesque group. Beneath its shade they rested, watching 
 on one side the distant city, and on the other the still and 
 gleaming waters of the Adriatic. While they were thus 
 sitting, renovated by the soft air and pleasant spectacle, a 
 holy father, with a beard like a meteor, appeared and ad- 
 dressed them. 
 
 ' Welcome to St. Lazaro ! ' said the holy father, speaking 
 in English ; ' and may the peace that reigns within its walls 
 fill also your breasts ! '
 
 VENETIA. 381 
 
 ' Indeed, holy father,' said Lady Annabel to the Armenian 
 monk, 'I have long heard of your virtues and your happy life.' 
 
 ' You know that Paradise was placed in our country,' said 
 the monk with a smile. 'We have all lost Paradise, but the 
 Armenian has lost his country too. Nevertheless, with God's 
 blessing, on this islet we have found an Eden, pure at least 
 and tranquil.' 
 
 Tor 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 
 surprise me.' 
 
 ' I learnt it in America where I long resided,' rejoined 
 the Armenian. 
 
 ' This is for your eye, lady,' continued the monk, drawing 
 a letter from his bosom. 
 
 Lady Annabel felt not a little surprised ; but the idea im- 
 mediately occurred to her that it was some conventual me- 
 morial appealing to her charity. She took the paper from 
 the monk, who immediately moved away ; but what was the 
 agitation of Lady Annabel when she recognised the hand- 
 writing of her husband ! Her first thought was to save 
 Venetia from sharing that agitation. She rose quickly ; 
 she commanded herself sufficiently to advise her daughter, 
 in a calm tone, to remain seated, while for a moment she 
 refreshed herself by a stroll. She had not quitted Venetia 
 many paces, when she broke the seal and read these lines : 
 
 ' Tremble not, Annabel, when you recognise this hand- 
 writing. It is that of one whose only aspiration is to con- 
 tribute to your happiness ; and although the fulfilment of 
 that fond desire may be denied him, it never shall be said, 
 even by you, that any conduct of his should now occasion 
 you annoyance. I am in Venice at the peril of my life, 
 which I only mention because the difficulties inseparable 
 from my position are the principal cause that you did not 
 receive this communication immediately after our strange
 
 382 VENETIA. 
 
 meeting. I have gazed at night upon your palace, and 
 watched the forms of my wife and our child ; bnt one word 
 from yon, and I quit Venice for ever, and it shall not be 
 my fault if yon 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 separa- 
 tion of a life, we have once more met : you have looked 
 upon me not with hatred ; my hand has once more pressed 
 yours ; for a moment I indulged the impossible hope, that 
 this weary and exhausted spirit might at length be blessed. 
 With agony I allude to the incident that dispelled the rap- 
 ture of this vision. Sufficient for me most solemnly to 
 assure you that four-and-twenty hours had not elapsed 
 without that feeble and unhallowed tie being severed for 
 ever ! It vanished instantaneously before the presence of 
 my wife and my child. However you decide, it can never 
 again subsist : its utter and eternal dissolution was the in- 
 evitable homage to your purity. 
 
 ' Whatever may have been my errors, whatever my 
 crimes, for I will not attempt to justify to you a single cir- 
 cumstance of my life, I humble myself in the dust before 
 you, and solicit only mercy ; yet whatever may have been 
 my career, ah ! Annabel, in the infinite softness of your 
 soul was it not for a moment pardoned ? Am I indeed to suf- 
 fer for that last lamentable intrusion ? You are a woman, 
 Annabel, with a brain as clear as your heart is pure. 
 Judge me with calmness, Annabel ; were there no circum- 
 stances in my situation to extenuate that deplorable connec- 
 tion ? I will not urge them ; I will not even intimate them ; 
 but surely, Annabel, when I kneel before you full of deep 
 repentance and long remorse, if you could pardon the past, 
 it is not that incident, however mortifying to you, however 
 disgraceful to myself, that should be an impassable barrier 
 to all my hopes ! 
 
 ' Once you loved me ; I ask you not to love me now. 
 There is nothing about me now that can touch the heart of
 
 VENETIA. 383 
 
 woman. I am old before my time ; bent with the blended 
 influence of action and of thought, and of physical and 
 moral suffering. The play of my spirit has gone for ever. 
 My passions have expired like my hopes. The remaining 
 sands of my life are few. Once it was otherwise: you can 
 recall a different picture of the Marmion on whom you 
 smiled, and of whom you were the first love. Annabel ! 
 grey, feeble, exhausted, penitent, let me stagger over your 
 threshold, 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 your roof screen my last days ! ' 
 
 It was read ; it was read again, dim as was the sight of 
 Lady Annabel with fast-flowing tears. Still holding the 
 letter, but with hands fallen, she gazed upon the shining 
 waters before her in a fit of abstraction. 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. She felt this to be the crisis of her life. There 
 never was a moment which she believed required more 
 fully the presence of all her energies. Before she had ad- 
 dressed Lady Annabel, she had endeavoured to steel her 
 mind to great exertion. Yet now that she held the letter, 
 she could not command herself sufficiently to read it. Her 
 breath deserted her ; her hand lost its power ; she could 
 not even open the lines on which perhaps her life depended. 
 Suddenly, with a rapid effort, she glanced at the contents. 
 The blood returned to her cheek ; her eye became bright 
 with excitement ; she gasped for breath ; she advanced to 
 Lady Annabel. 'Ah! mother,' she exclaimed, 'you will 
 grant all that it desires !' 
 
 Still gazing on the wave that laved the shore of the island 
 with an almost inperceptible ripple, Lady Annabel continued 
 silent.
 
 384 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Mother,' said Venetia, ' my beloved mother, you hesi- 
 tate.' She approached Lady Annabel, and with one arm 
 round her neck, she grasped with the other her mother's 
 hand. ' I implore you, by all that affection which you 
 lavish on me, yield to this supplication. O mother ! dearest 
 mother ! it has been my hope that my life has been at least 
 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. Tes ! mother, your memory will assure you, that 
 when the sweetest emotions of my heart were the stake, you 
 appealed to me to sacrifice them, and they were dedicated 
 to your will. Have I ever murmured ? I have sought only 
 to repay your love by obedience. Speak to me, dearest 
 mother ! I implore you speak to me ! Tell me, can you 
 ever repent relenting in this instance ? mother ! you 
 will not hesitate ; you will not indeed ; you will bring joy 
 and content to our long-harassed hearth ! Tell me so ; I 
 beseech you tell me so ! I wish, oh ! how I wish, that you 
 would comply from the mere impulse of your own heart ! 
 But, grant that it is a sacrifice ; grant that it may be un- 
 wise ; that it may be vain ; I supplicate you to make it ! I, 
 your child, who never deserted you, who will 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 ; you 
 cannot hesitate ; mother, you cannot hesitate. Ah ! you 
 would not if you knew 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 of Providence in 
 favour of yonr Venetia ; you would, indeed, dear mother ! ' 
 
 ' What evil fortune guided our steps to Italy ? ' said Lady 
 Annabel in a solemn 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 we have at length gained. It is in 
 our grasp ; I feel it. It was not fortune, dear mother! it was 
 fate, it was Providence, it was God. You have been faith- 
 ful to Him, and He has brought back to you my father,
 
 VENETIA. 385 
 
 chastened and repentant. God lias turned his heart to all 
 your virtues. Will you desert him ? No, no, mother, you 
 will not, you cannot ; for his sake, for your own sake, and 
 for your child's, you will not ! ' 
 
 ' For twenty years I have acted from an imperious sense 
 of duty,' said Lady Annabel, ' and for your sake, Venetia, 
 as much as for my own. Shall the feelings of a mo- 
 ment ' 
 
 ' 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; it harassed me while a girl; it has 
 brought me in the prime of womanhood to the brink of the 
 grave. And with you, mother, has it been the feeling of a 
 moment ? Ah ! you ever loved him, when his name was 
 never breathed by those lips. You loved him when you 
 deemed he had forgotten you ; when you pictured him to 
 yourself in all the pride of health and genius, wanton and 
 daring ; and now, now that he comes to you penitent, per- 
 haps dying, more like a remorseful spirit than a breathing 
 being, and humbles himself before you, and appeals only to 
 your mercy, ah ! my mother, you cannot reject, you could 
 not reject him, even if you were alone, even if you had no 
 child ! ' 
 
 ' My child ! my child ! all my hopes were in my child,' 
 murmured Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' Is she not by your side ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 ' You know not what you ask ; you know not what you 
 counsel,' said Lady Annabel. ' It has been the prayer and 
 effort of my life that you should never know. There is a 
 bitterness in the reconciliation which follows long estrange- 
 ment, that yields a pang more acute even than the first dis- 
 union. Shall I be called upon to mourn over the wasted 
 happiness of twenty years ? Why did he not hate us ? ' 
 
 ' The pang is already felt, mother,' said Venetia. ' Re- 
 ject my father, but you cannot resume the feelings of a 
 month back. You have seen him ; you have listened to him. 
 He is no longer the character which justified your conduct, 
 
 c C
 
 386 VENETIA. 
 
 and upheld you under the trial. His image has entered 
 your soul ; your heart is softened. Bid him quit Venice 
 without seeing you, and you will remain the most miserable 
 of women.' 
 
 ' On his head, then, be the final desolation,' said Lady 
 Annabel ; ' it is but a part of the lot that he has yielded 
 me.' 
 
 ' I am silent,' said Venetia, relaxing her grasp. ' I see 
 that your child is not permitted to enter into your con- 
 siderations.' She turned away. 
 
 ' 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 of the moment, but has been long revolved in my 
 mind ; do not, therefore, misapprehend it. I express with- 
 out passion what I believe to be truth. I am persuaded 
 that the presence of your father is necessary to your happi- 
 ness ; nay, more, to your life. I recognise the mysterious 
 influence which he has ever exercised over your existence. 
 I feel it impossible for me any longer to struggle against a 
 power to which I bow. Be happy, then, my daughter, and 
 live. Ply to your father, and be to him as matchless a 
 child as you have been to me.' She uttered these last words 
 in a choking voice. 
 
 'Is this, indeed, the dictate of your calm judgment, 
 mother ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 ' I call God to witness, it has of late been more than once 
 on my lips. The other night, when I spoke of Bovigo, 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 single circumstance to 
 which I can look back with content. Well will it indeed 
 be for me to die ! '
 
 VENETIA. 387 
 
 ' The dream of my life,' said Lady Annabel, in a tone of 
 infinite distress, ' was that she, at least, should never know 
 unhappiness. It was indeed a dream.' 
 
 There was now a silence of several minutes. Lady 
 Annabel remained in exactly the same position, Venetia 
 standing at a little distance from her, looking resigned and 
 sorrowful. 
 
 ' Venetia,' a,t length said Lady Annabel, ' why are you 
 silent ? ' 
 
 'Mother, I have no more to say. I pretend not to act 
 in this life ; it is 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 her mother, melted Venetia to the heart. 
 She advanced, and threw her arms round her mother's 
 neck, and buried her weeping face in Lady Annabel's 
 bosom. 
 
 ' Speak to me, my daughter,' said Lady Annabel ; 'counsel 
 me, for my mind 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, ap- 
 proached the monk. About five minutes elapsed before 
 they reached him, during which not a word was spoken. 
 
 ' Holy father,' said Lady Annabel, in a tone of firmness 
 that surprised her daughter and made her tremble with 
 anticipation, ' you know the writer of this letter ? ' 
 
 ' He is my friend of many years, lady,' replied the 
 Armenian ; ' I knew him in America. I owe to him my 
 
 c c 2
 
 388 VENETIA. 
 
 life, and more than my life. There breathes not his equal 
 among men.' 
 
 A tear started to the eye of Lady Annabel ; she recalled 
 the terms in which the household at Arqua 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 a momentary panse, Lady Annabel said, ' Can I speak 
 with him, and alone ?' 
 
 Nothing but the most nervous apprehension of throw- 
 ing any obstacle in the way of the interview could have 
 sustained Venetia. Quite pale, with her disengaged hand 
 clenched, not a word escaped her lips. She hung upon the 
 answer of the monk. 
 
 ' You can see him, and alone,' said the monk. ' He is 
 now in the sacristy. Follow me.' 
 
 ' Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, ' remain in this garden. 
 I will accompany this holy man. Stop ! embrace me before 
 I go, and,' she added, in a whisper, ' pray for me.' 
 
 It needed not the admonition of her mother to induce 
 Venetia to seek refuge in prayer, in this agony of her life. 
 But for its salutary and stilling influence, it seemed to her 
 that she must have forfeited all control over her mind. The 
 suspense was too terrible for human aid to support her. 
 Seated by the sea-side, she covered her face with her hands, 
 and invoked the Supreme assistance. More than an hour 
 passed away. Venetia looked up. Two beautiful birds, of 
 strange form and spotless plumage, that perhaps had wan- 
 dered from the ./Egean, were hovering over her head, bright 
 and glancing in the sun. She accepted their appearance as 
 a good omen. At this moment she heard a voice, and, look- 
 ing up, observed a monk in the distance, beckoning to her. 
 She rose, and with a trembling step approached him. He 
 retired, still motioning to her to follow him. She entered, 
 by a low portal, a dark cloister ; it led to an ante-chapel, 
 through which, as she passed, her ear caught the solemn 
 chorus of the brethren. Her step faltered ; her sight was
 
 VENETIA. 339 
 
 clouded ; she was as one walking in a dream. The monk 
 opened a door, and, retiring, waved his hand, as for her to 
 enter. There was a spacious and lofty chamber, scantily 
 furnished, some huge chests, and many sacred garments. 
 At the extreme distance her mother was reclined 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, she knew not how, found herself embraced by 
 both her parents. 
 
 END OF BOOK V.
 
 390 VENETIA. 
 
 BOOK VL 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN a green valley of the Apennines, close to the sea-coast 
 between Genoa and Spezzia, is -a marine villa, that once 
 belonged to the Malaspina family, in olden time the friends 
 and patrons of Dante. It is rather a fantastic pile, painted 
 in fresco, but spacious, in good repair, 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 of chestnut and olive orchards. From the heights, 
 however, you enjoy magnificent prospects of the most pic- 
 turesque portion of the Italian coast ; a lofty, undulating, 
 and wooded shore, with an infinite variety of bays and 
 jutting promontories ; while the eye, wandering from Leg- 
 horn on one side towards Genoa on the other, traces an 
 almost uninterrupted line of hamlets and casinos, gardens 
 and orchards, terraces of vines, and groves of olive. Beyond 
 them, the broad and blue expanse of the midland ocean, 
 glittering in the meridian blaze, or about to receive perhaps 
 in its glowing waters the red orb of sunset. 
 
 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 throwing himself on the turf, was 
 soon lost in the volume of Plato which he bore with him. 
 He did not move until in the course of an hour he was 
 roused by the arrival of servants, who brought seats and a 
 table, when, looking up, he observed Lady Annabel and 
 Venetia in the portico of the villa. He rose to greet them, 
 and gave his arm to his wife.
 
 VENETIA. 391 
 
 ' Spring in the Apennines, my Annabel,' said Herbert, 
 ' is a happy combination. I am more in love each day with 
 this residence. The situation is so sheltered, the air so soft 
 and pure, the spot so tranquil, and the season so delicious, 
 that it realises all my romance of retirement. As for you, 
 I never saw you look so well ; and as for Venetia, I can 
 scarcely believe this rosy nymph could have been our pale- 
 eyed girl, who cost us such anxiety ! ' 
 
 ' Our breakfast is not ready. Let us walk to our sea 
 view,' said Lady Annabel. ' Give me your book to carry, 
 Marmion.' 
 
 ' There let the philosopher repose,' said Herbert, throw- 
 ing the volume on the turf. ' Plato dreamed of what I enjoy.' 
 
 ' And of what did Plato dream, papa ? ' said Yenetia. 
 
 ' He dreamed of love, child.' 
 
 Venetia took her father's disengaged arm. 
 
 They had now arrived at their sea view,' a glimpse of the 
 Mediterranean between 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 
 ofWeymouth?' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Ah ! Marmion,' said Lady Annabel, ' I would that you 
 could see Masham once more. He is the only friend that I 
 regret.' 
 
 ' He prospers, Annabel ; let that be our consolation : I 
 have at least not injured him.' 
 
 They turned their steps ; their breakfast was now pre- 
 pared. The sun had risen above the hill beneath whose 
 shade they rested, and the opposite side of the valley 
 sparkled in light. It was a cheerful scene. 'I have a 
 passion for living in the air,' said Herbert ; ' I always envied 
 the shepherds in Don Quixote. One of my youthful dreams 
 was living among mountains of rosemary, and drinking only 
 goat's milk. After breakfast I will read you Don Quixote's 
 description of the golden age. I have often read it until 
 the tears came into my eyes.'
 
 392 VENETIA. 
 
 ' We must fancy ourselves in Spain,' said Lady Annabel ; 
 ' it is not difficult in this wild green valley ; and if we Lave 
 not rosemary, we have scents as sweet. Nature is our gar- 
 den here, Venetia ; and I do not envy even the statues and 
 cypresses of our villa of the lake.' 
 
 ' We must make a pilgrimage some day to the Maggiore, 
 Annabel,' said Herbert. '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 his Plato, 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, " happy age ! which our first parents called 
 the age of gold ! not because gold, so much adored in this 
 iron age, was then easily purchased, but because those two 
 fatal words, meum and tuum, were distinctions unknown to 
 the people of those fortunate times ; for all things were in 
 common in that holy age : men, for their sustenance, needed 
 only to lift their hands, and take it from the sturdy oak, 
 whose spreading arms liberally invited them to gather the 
 wholesome savoury fruit ; while the clear springs, and silver 
 rivulets, with luxuriant plenty, afforded them their pure 
 refreshing water. In hollow trees, and in the clefts of 
 rocks, the labouring and industrious bees erected their 
 little commonwealths, that men might reap with pleasure 
 and with ease the sweet and fertile harvest of their toils. 
 The tough and strenuous cork-trees did, of themselves, and 
 without other art than their native liberality, dismiss and 
 impart their broad light bark, which served to cover those 
 lowly huts, propped up with rough-hewn stakes, that were 
 first built as a shelter against the inclemencies of the air. 
 All then was union, all peace, all love and friendship in the 
 world. As yet no rude ploughshare presumed with violence
 
 VENETIA. 393 
 
 to pry into the pious bowels of our mother earth, for she 
 without compulsion kindly yielded from every part of her 
 fruitful and spacious bosom, whatever might at once satisfy, 
 sustain, and indulge her frugal children. Then was the 
 time when innocent, beautiful young sheperdesses went 
 tripping over the hills and vales ; their lovely hair some- 
 times plaited, sometimes loose and flowing, clad in no other 
 vestment but what the modesty of nature might require. 
 The Tyrian dye, the rich glossy hue of silk, martyred and 
 dissembled into every colour, which are now esteemed so 
 fine and magnificent, were unknown to the innocent sim- 
 plicity of that age ; yet, bedecked with more becoming 
 leaves and flowers, they outshone the proudest of the vain- 
 dressing ladies of our times, arrayed in the most magnificent 
 garbs and all the most sumptuous adornings which idleness 
 and luxury have taught succeeding pride. Lovers then 
 expressed the passion of their souls in the unaffected lan- 
 guage of the heart, with the native plainness and sincerity 
 in which they were conceived, and divested of all that arti- 
 ficial contexture which enervates what it labours to enforce. 
 Imposture, deceit, and malice had not yet crept in, and im- 
 posed themselves unbribed upon mankind in the disguise of 
 truth : justice, unbiassed either by favour or interest, which 
 now so fatally pervert it, was equally and impartially dis- 
 pensed ; nor was the judge's fancy law, for then there were 
 neither judges nor causes to be judged. The modest maid 
 might then walk alone. But, in this degenerate age, fraud 
 and a legion of ills infecting the world, no virtue can be 
 safe, no honour be secure ; while wanton desires, diffused 
 into the hearts 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 being vanished, the oppression 
 daily prevailing, there was a necessity to oppose the torrent 
 of violence ; for which reason the order of knighthood 
 errant was instituted, to defend the honour of virgins, pro- 
 tect widows, relieve orphans, and assist all that are dis-
 
 394 VENETIA. 
 
 tressed. Now I myself am one of this order, honest friends ; 
 and though all people are obliged by the law of nature to 
 be kind to persons of my character, yet since you, without 
 knowing anything of this obligation, have so generously 
 entertained me, I ought to pay you my utmost ac- 
 knowledgment, and accordingly return you my most hearty 
 thanks." ' 
 
 ' There,' said Herbert, as he closed the book. ' In my 
 opinion, Don Quixote was the best%nan 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 he had absolutely wandered over the plains of 
 Castile and watched in the Sierra Morena. We cannot, 
 indeed, find his tomb ; but he has left us his great example. 
 In his hero, Cervantes has given us the picture of a great 
 and benevolent philosopher, and in his Sancho, a complete 
 personification of the world, selfish and cunning, and yet 
 overawed by the genius that he cannot comprehend : alive 
 to all the material interests of existence, yet sighing after 
 the ideal ; securing his four young foals of the she-ass, yet 
 indulging in dreams of empire.' 
 
 ' But what do you think of the assault on the windmills, 
 Marmion ? ' said Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' In the outset of his adventures, as in the outset of our 
 lives, he was misled by his enthusiasm,' replied Herbert, 
 ' without which, after all, we can do nothing. But the 
 result is, Don Quixote was a redresser of wrongs, and there- 
 fore the world esteemed him mad.' 
 
 In this vein, now conversing, now occupied with their 
 pursuits, and occasionally listening to some passage which 
 Herbert called to their attention, and which ever served as 
 the occasion for some critical remarks, always as striking 
 from their originality as they were happy in their expression, 
 the freshness of the morning disappeared ; the sun now 
 crowned the valley with his meridian beam, and they re- 
 entered the villa. The ladies returned to their cool saloon, 
 and Herbert to his study.
 
 VENETIA. 395 
 
 It was there he amused himself by composing the follow- 
 ing lines : 
 
 SPRING IN THE APENNINES. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 !
 
 396 VENETIA. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 And now again I feel thy breath, 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 the Apennines, which we have just described,
 
 VENETIA. 397 
 
 half a year had intervened. The political position of Mar- 
 mion Herbert rendered it impossible for him to remain in 
 any city where there was a representative of his Britannic 
 Majesty. Indeed, it was scarcely safe for him to be known 
 out of America. He had quitted that country shortly after 
 the struggle was over, chiefly from considerations for his 
 health. His energies had been fast failing him; and a re- 
 tired life and change of climate had been recommended by 
 his physicians. His own feelings induced him to visit Italy, 
 where he had once intended to pass his life, and where he 
 now repaired to await death. Assuming a feigned name, 
 and living in strict seclusion, it is probable that his presence 
 would never have been discovered ; or, if detected, would not 
 have been noticed. Once more united with his wife, her per- 
 sonal influence at the court of St. James', and her powerful 
 connections, might secure him from annoyance ; and Yenetia 
 had even indulged in a vague hope of returning to England. 
 But Herbert could only have found himself again in his 
 native country as a prisoner on parole. It would have been 
 quite impossible for him to mix in the civil business of his 
 native land, or enjoy any of the rights of citizenship. If a 
 mild sovereign in his mercy had indeed accorded him a 
 pardon, it must have been accompanied with rigorous and 
 mortifying conditions ; and his presence, in all probability, 
 would have been confined to his country residence and its 
 immediate neighbourhood. The pride of Lady Annabel 
 herself recoiled from this sufferance ; and although Herbert, 
 keenly conscious of the sacrifice which a permanent estrange- 
 ment from England entailed upon his wife and child, would 
 have submitted to any restrictions, however humiliating, 
 provided they were not inconsistent with his honour, it must 
 be confessed that, when he spoke of this painful subject to 
 his wife, it was with no slight self-congratulation that he 
 had found her resolution to remain abroad under any cir- 
 cumstances was fixed with her habitual decision. She 
 
 communicated both to the Bishop of and to her 
 
 brother the unexpected change that had occurred in her
 
 398 VENETIA. 
 
 condition, and she had reason to believe that a representation 
 of what had happened would be made to the Royal family. 
 Perhaps both the head of her house and her reverend friend 
 anticipated that time might remove the barrier that pre- 
 sented itself to Herbert's immediate return to England : they 
 confined their answers, however, to congratulations on the 
 reconciliation, to their confidence in the satisfaction it would 
 occasion her, and to the expression of their faithful friend- 
 ship ; and neither alluded to a result which both, if only for 
 her sake, desired. 
 
 The Herberts had quitted Venice a very few days after 
 the meeting on the island of St. Lazaro ; had travelled by 
 slow journeys, crossing the Apennines, to Genoa ; and only 
 remained in that city until they engaged their present resi- 
 dence. It combined all the advantages which they desired : 
 seclusion, beauty, comfort, and the mild atmosphere that 
 Venetia had seemed to require. It was not, however, the 
 genial air that had recalled the rose to Venetia's cheek and 
 the sunny smile to her bright eye, or had inspired again 
 that graceful form with all its pristine elasticity. It was a 
 heart content ; a spirit at length at peace. The contempla- 
 tion of the happiness of those most dear to her that she 
 hourly witnessed, and the blissful consciousness that her 
 exertions had mainly contributed to, if not completely occa- 
 sioned, all this felicity, were remedies of far more efficacy 
 than all the consultations and prescriptions of her physi- 
 cians. The conduct of her father repaid her for all her 
 sufferings, and realised all her dreams of domestic tender- 
 ness and delight. Tender, grateful, and affectionate, Her- 
 bert hovered round her mother like a delicate spirit who 
 had been released by some kind mortal from a tedious and 
 revolting thraldom, and who believed he could never suffi- 
 ciently testify his devotion. There was so much respect 
 blended with his fondness, that the spirit of her mother 
 was utterly subdued by his irresistible demeanour. All her 
 sadness and reserve, her distrust and her fear, had vanished ; 
 and rising confidence mingling with the love she had ever
 
 VENETIA. 399 
 
 borne to him, she taught herself even to seek his opinion, 
 and be guided by his advice. She could not refrain, indeed, 
 from occasionally feeling, in this full enjoyment of his love, 
 that she might have originally acted with too much precipi- 
 tation ; and that, had she only bent for a moment to the 
 necessity of conciliation, and condescended to the excusable 
 artifices of affection, their misery might have been pre- 
 vented. Once when they were alone, her softened heart 
 would have confessed to Herbert this painful conviction, 
 but he was too happy and too generous to permit her for a 
 moment to indulge in such a remorseful retrospect. All 
 the error, he insisted, was his own ; and he had been fool 
 enough to have wantonly forfeited a happiness which time 
 and 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 I have suffered. I would not have avoided my fate on 
 the condition of losing the exquisite present ! ' 
 
 It is perhaps scarcely necessary to remark, that Herbert 
 avoided with the most scrupulous vigilance the slightest 
 allusion to any of those peculiar opinions for which he 
 was, unhappily, too celebrated. Musing over the singular 
 revolutions which had already occurred in his habits and 
 his feelings towards herself, Lady Annabel, indeed, did not 
 despair that his once self-sumcient soul might ultimately 
 bow to that blessed faith which to herself had ever proved 
 so great a support, and so exquisite a solace. It was, in- 
 deed, the inexpressible hope that lingered at the bottom of 
 her heart ; and sometimes she even indulged in the delightful 
 fancy that his mild and penitent spirit had, by the gracious 
 mercy of Providence, been already touched by the bright 
 sunbeam of conviction. At all events, his subdued and 
 chastened temperament 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 her national 
 church. Of all the sacrifices which her devotion to Her-
 
 400 VENETIA. 
 
 bert entailed upon her, this was the one which she felt 
 most constantly and most severely. Not a day elapsed but 
 the chapel at Cherbury rose before her ; and when she re- 
 membered that neither herself nor her daughter might 
 again kneel round the altar of their God, she almost 
 trembled at the step which she had taken, and almost 
 esteemed it a sacrifice of heavenly to earthly duty, which 
 no consideration, perhaps, warranted. This apprehension, 
 indeed, was the cloud in her life, and one which Venetia, 
 who felt all its validity, found difficulty in combating. 
 
 Otherwise, when Venetia beheld her parents, she felt 
 ethereal, and seemed to move in air ; for her life, in spite of 
 its apparent tranquillity, was to her all excitement. She 
 never looked upon her father, or heard his voice, without a 
 thrill. His society was as delightful as his heart was tender. 
 It seemed to her that she could listen to him for ever. Every 
 word he spoke was different from the language of other 
 men ; there was not a subject on which his richly- cultivated 
 mind could not pour forth instantaneously a flood of fine 
 fancies and deep intelligence. He seemed to have read 
 every book in every language, and to have mused over 
 every line he had read. She could not conceive how one, 
 the tone of whose mind was so original that it suggested on 
 every topic some conclusion that struck instantly by its 
 racy novelty, could be so saturated with the learning and 
 the views of other men. Although they lived in unbroken 
 solitude, and were almost always together, not a day passed 
 that she did not find herself musing over some thought or 
 expression of her father, and which broke from his mind 
 without effort, and as if by chance. Literature to Herbert 
 was now only a source of amusement and engaging occupa 
 iion. All thought of fame had long fled his soul. He cared 
 oot for being disturbed ; and he would throw down his 
 Plato for Don Quixote, or close his ^Eschylus and take up 
 a volume of Madame de Sevigne without a murmur, if re- 
 minded by anything that occurred of a passage which might 
 contribute to the amusement and instruction of his wile
 
 VENETIA. 401 
 
 and daughter. Indeed, his only study now was to contri- 
 bute to their happiness. For him they had given up their 
 country and society, and he sought, by his vigilant atten- 
 tion and his various accomplishments, to render their hours 
 as light and pleasant as, under such circumstances, was 
 possible. His muse, too, was only dedicated to the cele- 
 bration of any topic which their life or themselves suggested. 
 He loved to lie under the trees, and pour forth sonnets to 
 Lady Annabel ; and encouraged Venetia, by the readiness 
 and interest with which he invariably complied with her 
 intimations, to throw out every fancy which occurred to 
 her for his verse. A life passed without the intrusion of 
 a single evil passion, without a single expression that was 
 not soft, and graceful, and mild, and adorned with all the 
 resources of a most accomplished and creative spirit, re- 
 quired not tlio distractions of society. It would have 
 shrunk from it, from all its artificial excitement and vapid 
 reaction. The days of the Herberts flowed on in one bright, 
 continuous stream of love, and literature, and gentle plea- 
 sures. 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 preparing for their daily walk. Their simple repast 
 was finished, and Venetia held the verses which her father 
 had written in the morning, and which he had presented 
 to her. 
 
 ' Let us descend to Spezzia,' said Herbert to Lady Annabel ; 
 ' I love an ocean sunset.' 
 
 Accordingly they proceeded through their valley to the 
 craggy path which led down to the bay. After passing 
 through a small ravine, the magnificent prospect opened 
 before them. The sun was yet an hour above the horizon, 
 and the sea was like a lake of molten gold ; the colour of 
 the sky nearest to the sun, of a pale green, with two or 
 three burnished streaks of vapour, quite still, and so thin 
 you could almost catch the sky through them, fixed, as it 
 
 D D
 
 402 VENETIA. 
 
 were, in this gorgeous frame. It was now a dead calm, but 
 the sail that had been hovering the whole morning in the 
 offing had made the harbour in time, and had just cast 
 anchor near some coasting craft and fishing-boats, all that 
 now remained where Napoleon had projected forming one 
 of the arsenals of the world. 
 
 Tracing their way down a mild declivity, covered with 
 spreading vineyards, and quite fragrant with the blossom of 
 the vine, the Herberts proceeded through a wood of olives, 
 and emerged on a terrace raised directly above the shore, 
 leading to Spezzia, and studded here and there with rugged 
 groups of aloes. 
 
 ' I have often observed here,' said Yenetia, ' about a mile 
 out at sea ; there, now, where I point ; the water rise. It 
 is now a calm, and yet it is more troubled, I think, than 
 usual. Tell me the cause, dear father, for I have often 
 wished to know.' 
 
 ' It passes my experience,' said Herbert ; ' but here is an 
 ancient fisherman ; let us inquire of him.' 
 
 He was an old man, leaning against a rock, and smoking 
 his pipe in contemplative silence ; his face bronzed with the 
 sun and the roughness of many seasons, and his grey hairs 
 not hidden by his long blue cap. Herbert saluted him, 
 and, pointing to the phenomenon, requested an explanation 
 of it. 
 
 * 'Tis a fountain of fresh water, signor, that rises in our 
 gulf,' said the 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, in calm 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 a crude question. Adio, good friend.' 
 
 ' I should like to drink of that fountain of fresh water, 
 Annabel,' said Herbert. ' There seems to me something
 
 VENETIA. 403 
 
 wondrous fanciful in it. Some day \ve 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 inquire at Genoa. I am curious in fountains. Our 
 fountain should, I think, be classical ; simple, compact, with 
 a choice inscription, the altar of a Naiad.' 
 
 ' And mamma shall make the design, and you shall write 
 the inscription,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' And you shall be the nymph, child,' said Herbert. 
 They were now within a bowshot of the harbour, and a 
 jutting cliff of marble, more graceful from a contiguous bed 
 of myrtles, invited them to rest, and watch the approaching 
 sunset. 
 
 ' Say what they like,' said Herbert, ' there is a spell in 
 the shores of the Mediterranean Sea which no others can 
 rival. Never was such a union of natural loveliness and 
 magical associations ! On these shores have risen all that 
 interests us in the past : Egypt and Palestine, Greece, 
 Rome, and Carthage, Moorish Spain, and feodal Italy. 
 These shores have yielded us our religion, our arts, our 
 literature, and our laws. If all that we have gained from 
 the shores of the Mediterranean was erased from the memory 
 of man, we should be savages. Will the Atlantic ever be 
 so memorable? Its civilisation will be more rapid, but 
 will it be as refined? and, far more important, will it be as 
 permanent? Will it not lack the racy vigour and the 
 subtle spirit of aboriginal genius ? Will not a colonial cha- 
 racter cling to its society, feeble, inanimate, evanescent? 
 What America is deficient in is creative intellect. It has 
 no nationality. Its intelligence has been imported, like its 
 manufactured goods. Its inhabitants are a people, but are 
 they a nation ? I wish that the empire of the Incas and the 
 kingdom of Montezuma had not been sacrificed. I wish 
 that the republic of the Puritans had blended with the 
 tribes of the wilderness.' 
 
 The red sun was now hovering over the horizon ; it 
 D D 2
 
 404 VENETIA. 
 
 quivered for an instant, and then sank. Immediately the 
 high and undulating coast was covered with a crimson 
 flush ; the cliffs, the groves, the bays and jutting promon- 
 tories, each straggling sail and tall white tower, suffused 
 with a rosy light. Gradually that rosy tint became a 
 bright violet, and then faded into purple. But the glory 
 of the sunset long lingered in the glowing west, streaming 
 with every colour of the Iris, while a solitary star glittered 
 with silver light amid the shifting splendour. 
 
 ' Hesperus rises from the sunset like the fountain of fresh 
 water from the sea,' said Herbert. ' The sky and the ocean 
 have two natures, like ourselves.' 
 
 At this moment the boat of the vessel, which had an- 
 chored about an hour back, put to shore. 
 
 ' That seems an English brig,' said Herbert. ' I cannot 
 exactly make out its trim ; it scarcely seems a merchant 
 vessel.' 
 
 The projection of the shore hid the boat from their sight 
 as it landed. The Herberts rose, and proceeded towards 
 the harbour. There were some rude steps cut in the rock 
 which led from the immediate shore to the terrace. As 
 they approached these, two gentlemen in sailors' jackets 
 mounted suddenly. Lady Annabel and Venetia simulta- 
 neously started as they recognised Lord Cadurcis and his 
 cousin. They were so close that neither party had time to 
 prepare themselves. Venetia found her hand in that of 
 Plantagenet, while Lady Annabel saluted George. Infinite 
 were their mutual inquiries and congratulations, but it so 
 happened that, with one exception, no name was men- 
 tioned. It was quite evident, however, to Herbert, that 
 these were very familiar acquaintances of his family ; for, in 
 the surprise of the moment, Lord Cadurcis had saluted his 
 daughter by her Christian name. There was no slight 
 emotion, too, displayed on all sides. Indeed, independently 
 of the agitation which so unexpected a rencounter was cal- 
 culated to produce, the presence of Herbert, after the first 
 moments of recognition, not a little excited the curiosity of
 
 VEiNETIA. 405 
 
 the young men, and in some degree occasioned the embar- 
 rassment of all. Who was this stranger, on whom Venetia 
 and her mother were leaning with such fondness ? He was 
 scarcely too old to be the admirer of Venetia, and if there 
 were a greater disparity of years between them than is 
 usual, his distinguished appearance might well reconcile 
 the lady to her lot, or even justify her choice. Had, then, 
 Cadurcis again met Venetia only to find her the bride or 
 the betrothed of another ? a mortifying situation, even an 
 intolerable one, if his feelings remained unchanged ; and if 
 the eventful year that had elapsed since they parted had 
 not replaced her image in his susceptible mind by another 
 more cherished, and, perhaps, less obdurate. Again, to 
 Lady Annabel the moment was one of great awkwardness, 
 for the introduction of her husband to those with whom 
 she was recently so intimate, and who were then aware 
 that the name of that husband was never even mentioned 
 in her presence, recalled the painful past with a disturbing 
 vividness. Venetia, indeed, did not share these feelings 
 fully, but she thought it ungracious to anticipate her 
 mother in the announcement. 
 
 The Herberts turned with Lord Cadurcis and his cousin ; 
 they were about to retrace their steps on the terrace, when 
 Lady Annabel, taking advantage of the momentary silence, 
 and summoning all her energy, with a pale cheek and a 
 voice that slightly faltered, said, ' Lord Cadurcis, allow me 
 to present you to Mr. Herbert, my husband,' she added 
 with emphasis. 
 
 'Good God!' exclaimed Cadurcis, starting; and then, 
 outstretching his hand, he contrived to add, 'have I, in- 
 deed, the pleasure of seeing one I have so long admired ? ' 
 
 ' Lord Cadurcis ! ' exclaimed Herbert, scarcely less sur- 
 prised. ' Is it Lord Cadurcis ? This is a welcome meeting.' 
 
 Everyone present felt overwhelmed with confusion or 
 astonishment ; Lady Annabel sought refuge in presenting 
 Captain Cadurcis to her husband. This ceremony, though 
 little noticed even by those more immediately interested in
 
 406 VENETIA. 
 
 it, nevertheless served, in some degree, as a diversion. 
 Herbert, who was only astonished, was the first who 
 rallied. Perhaps Lord Gadurcis was the only man in ex- 
 istence whom Herbert wished to know. He had read his 
 works with deep interest ; at least, those portions which, 
 foreign journals had afforded him. He was deeply im- 
 pressed with his fame and genius ; but what perplexed him 
 at this moment, even more than his unexpected introduc- 
 tion to him, was the singular, the very extraordinary cir- 
 cumstance, that the name of their most celebrated country- 
 man should never have escaped the lips either of his wife 
 or his daughter, although they appeared, and Venetia 
 especially, to be on terms with him of even domestic 
 intimacy. 
 
 ' Tou arrived here to day, Lord Cadurcis ? ' said Herbert. 
 ' From whence ? ' 
 
 ' Immediately from Naples, where we last touched,' re- 
 plied his lordship ; ' but I have been residing at Athens.' 
 
 ' I envy you,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' It would be a fit residence for you,' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 ' Tou were, however, in some degree, my companion, for a 
 volume of your poems was one of the few books I had with 
 me. I parted with all the rest, but I retained that. It is 
 in my cabin, and full of my scribblement. If you would 
 condescend to accept it, I would offer it to you.' 
 
 Mr. Herbert and Lord Cadurcis maintained the conver- 
 sation along the terrace. Venetia, by whose side her old 
 companion walked, was quite silent. Once her eyes met 
 those of Cadurcis ; his expression of mingled archness and 
 astonishment was irresistible. His cousin and Lady Anna- 
 bel carried on a more suppressed conversation, but on 
 ordinary topics. When they had reached the olive-grove 
 Herbert said, ' Here lies our 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,' he replied. ' We had, indeed, no purpose when
 
 VENETIA. 407 
 
 you met us but to enjoy our escape from imprisonment, 
 little dreaming we should meet our kindest and oldest 
 friends,' he added. 
 
 ' Kindest and oldest friends ! ' thought Herbert to him- 
 self. ' Well, this is strange indeed.' 
 
 'It is but a slight distance,' said Lady Annabel, who 
 thought it necessary to enforce the invitation. ' We live in 
 the valley, of which yonder 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's marvels, but this day is a miracle.' 
 
 When they had proceeded through the olive-wood, and 
 mounted the acclivity, they arrived at a path which per- 
 mitted the ascent of only one person at a time. Cadurcis 
 was last, and followed Venetia. Unable any longer to 
 endure the suspense, he was rather irritated that she kept 
 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 looked round 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 you not see my father ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; and I am very glad to see him ; but this company 
 is the very last in which I expected to have that pleasure.' 
 
 4 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 the brig, and set sail this night for Athens.' 
 
 ' Well then, silly Plantagenet ! ' 
 
 He laughed, and they ran on.
 
 408 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 ' WELL, I am not surprised that you should have passed 
 your time delightfully here,' said Lord Cadurcis to Lady 
 Annabel, when they had entered the villa ; ' for I never 
 beheld so delightful a retreat. It is even more exquisite 
 than your villa on the lake, of which George gave me so 
 glowing a description. I was almost tempted to hasten to 
 you. Would you have smiled on me ! ' he added, rather 
 archly, and in a coaxing 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 Lady Annabel, a little embarrassed. 
 
 ' My days of restlessness are over,' said Cadurcis. ' I 
 desire nothing more dearly than to settle down in the 
 bosom of these green hills as you have done.' 
 
 'This life suits Mr. Herbert,' said Lady Annabel. 'He 
 is fond of seclusion, and you know I am accustomed to it.' 
 
 ' Ah ! yes,' said Cadurcis, mournfully. ' When I was in 
 Greece, I used often to wish that none of us had ever left 
 dear Cherbury ; but I do not now.' 
 
 ' We must forget Cherbury,' said Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' I cannot : I cannot forget her who cherished my melan- 
 choly childhood. Dear Lady Annabel,' he added in a voice 
 of emotion, and offering her his 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 with- 
 out agitation, yielded him her hand, which he pressed to 
 his lips. ' Now I am again happy,' said Cadurcis ; ' now 
 we are all happy. Sweetest of friends, you have removed 
 in a moment the bitterness of years.' 
 
 Although lights were in the saloon, the windows opening
 
 VENETIA. 409 
 
 on the portico were not closed. The evening air was soft 
 and balmy, and though the moon 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, Lord Cadurcis,' said Herbert. Cadurcis turned and 
 joined him, together with Lady Annabel. 
 
 'Nay,' said Lord Cadurcis, in a joyous tone, 'Lady 
 Annabel will answer for me that I always find everything 
 perfect under her roof.' 
 
 Captain Cadurcis and Venetia now re-entered the villa ; 
 they clustered round the table, and seated themselves. 
 
 ' Why, Venetia,' said Cadurcis, ' George met me in Sicily 
 and quite frightened me about you. Is it the air of the 
 Apennines that has worked these marvels ? for, really, you 
 appear to me exactly the same as when we learnt the 
 French vocabulary together ten years ago.' 
 
 '"The French vocabulary together, ten years ago!" 1 
 thought Herbert ; ' not a mere London acquaintance, then. 
 This is very strange.' 
 
 ' Why, indeed, Plantagenet,' replied Venetia, ' I was 
 very unwell when George visited us ; but I really have 
 quite forgotten that I ever was an invalid, and I never 
 mean to be again.' 
 
 '"Plantagenet!"' soliloquised Herbert. 'And this is 
 the great poet of whom I have heard so much ! My daugh- 
 ter is tolerably familiar with him.' 
 
 ' I have brought you all sorts of buffooneries from Stam- 
 boul,' continued Cadurcis ; ' sweetmeats, and slippers, and 
 shawls, and daggers worn 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 to England, for 
 really I did not anticipate our meeting here.' 
 
 '"Sweetmeats and slippers,"' said Herbert to himself, 
 ' " shawls and daggers ! " What next ? ' 
 
 'And has George been with you all the time ?' inquired 
 Venetia.
 
 410 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Oh ! we quarrelled now and then, of course. He found 
 Athens dull, and would 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 absolutely 
 fought.' 
 
 ' Come, come,' said George, ' Cadurcis is always ashamed 
 of being amiable. We were together much more than I 
 ever intended or anticipated. You know mine was a sport- 
 ing tour ; and therefore, of course, we were sometimes 
 separated. But he was exceedingly popular with all parties, 
 especially the Turks, whom he rewarded for their courtesy 
 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 Hellenistic raptures of May Fair ; and that they 
 call fame ; as much like fame as a toadstool is Eke a truffle.' 
 
 'Nevertheless, I hope the muse has not slumbered,' said 
 Herbert ; ' for you have had the happiest inspiration in the 
 climes in which you have resided ; not only are they essen- 
 tially poetic, but they offer a virgin vein.' 
 
 ' I have written a little,' replied Cadurcis ; ' I will give 
 it you, if you like, some day to turn over. Yours is the 
 only opinion that I really care for. I have no great idea 
 of the poetry ; but I am very strong in my costume. I feel 
 very confident about that. I fancy I know how to hit off a 
 pasha, or touch in a Greek pirate now. As for all the things 
 I wrote in England, I really am ashamed of them. I got 
 up my orientalism from books, and sultans and sultanas at 
 masquerades,' he added, archly. ' I remember I made my 
 heroines always wear turbans ; only conceive my horror 
 when I found that a Turkish woman would as soon think 
 of putting my hat on as a turban, and that it was an article 
 of dress entirely confined to a Bond Street milliner.' 
 
 The evening passed in interesting and diverting conver- 
 sation ; of course, principally contributed by the two tra-
 
 VENETIA. 411 
 
 vellers, who had seen so much. Inspirited by his interview 
 with Lady Annabel, and her gracious reception of his over- 
 tures, Lord Cadurcis was in one of those frolic humours, 
 which we have before noticed was not unnatural to him. 
 He had considerable powers of mimicry, and the talent that 
 had pictured to Yenetia in old days, with such liveliness, 
 the habits of the old maids of Morpeth, was now engaged 
 on more considerable topics ; an interview with a pasha, a 
 peep into a harem, a visit to a pirate's isle, the slave-market, 
 the bazaar, the barracks of the janissaries, all touched with 
 irresistible vitality, and coloured with the rich phrases of 
 unrivalled force of expression. The laughter was loud and 
 continual ; even Lady Annabel joined zealously in the glee. 
 As for Herbert, he thought Cadurcis by far the most hearty 
 and amusing person he had ever known, and could not re- 
 frain from contrasting him with the picture which his works 
 and the report of the world had occasionally enabled him to 
 sketch to his mind's eye ; the noble, young, and impassioned 
 bard, pouring forth the eloquent tide of his morbid feelings 
 to an idolising world, from whose applause he nevertheless 
 turned with an almost 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 his friends, and especially 
 Venetia, into fresh narratives. At last he said, 'Now we 
 must go. Lady Annabel looks good night. I remember 
 the look,' he said, laughing, ' when we used to beg for a 
 quarter of an hour more. O Venetia ! do not you remem- 
 ber that Christmas when dear old Masham read Julius 
 Ca3sar, and we were to sit up until it was finished. When 
 he got to the last act I hid his spectacles. I never con- 
 fessed it until this moment. Will you pardon me, Lady 
 Annabel ? ' and he pressed his hands together in a mockery 
 of supplication. 
 
 ' Will you come and breakfast with us to-morrow ? ' said 
 Lady Annabel.
 
 412 VENETIA. 
 
 ' With delight,' he answered. ' I am used, you know, 
 to walks before breakfast. George, I do not think George 
 can do it, though. George likes his comforts ; he is a regu- 
 lar John Bull. He was always calling for tea when we were 
 in Turkey ! ' 
 
 At this moment Mistress Pauncefort entered the room, 
 ostensibly on some little affair of her mistress, but really to 
 reconnoitre. 
 
 ' Ah ! Mistress Pauncefort ; my old friend, Mistress 
 Pauncefort, how do you do ? ' exclaimed his lordship. 
 
 ' Quite well, my lord, please your lordship ; and very 
 glad to see your lordship again, and looking so well too.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Mistress Pauncefort, you always flattered me ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! dear, my lord, your lordship, no,' said Mistress 
 Pauncefort, with a simper. 
 
 ' But you, Pauncefort,' said Cadurcis, ' why there must 
 be some magic in the air here. I have been complimenting 
 your lady and Miss Venetia; but really, you, I should almost 
 have thought it was some younger sister.' 
 
 ' 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 Cadur- 
 cis ; ' 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 pau?e 
 of complete silence after they had disappeared, the slight 
 and not painful reaction after the mirthful excitement of 
 the last few hours. At length Herbert, dropping, as was 
 his evening custom, a few drops of orange-flower into a 
 tumbler of water, said, ' Annabel, my love, I am rather 
 surprised that neither you nor Venetia should have men- 
 tioned to me that you knew, and knew so intimately, a man 
 like Lord Cadnrcis.' 
 
 Lady Annabel appeared a little confused; she looked 
 even at Venetia, but Yenetia's eyes were on the ground.
 
 VENETIA. 413 
 
 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 and yourself. Some find a home 
 in their country, I find a country in my home. Well,' he 
 added, in a gayer tone, 'it has gratified me much to meet 
 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 how often I have mused over 
 that name. A year ago it was one of my few wishes to 
 know him ; my wishes, then, dear Annabel, were not very 
 ambitious. They did not mount so high as you have since 
 permitted them. And now I do know him, and under what 
 circumstances ! Is not life strange ? But is it not happy ? 
 I feel it so. Good night, sweet wife ; my darling daughter, 
 a happy, happy night ! ' He embraced them ere they re- 
 tired ; and opening a volume composed his mind after the 
 novel excitement of the evening. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CADURCIS left the brig early in the morning alone, and 
 strolled towards the villa. He met Herbert half-way to 
 Spezzia, who turned back with him towards home. They 
 sat down on a crag opposite the sea ; there was a light 
 breeze, the fishing boats were out, and the view was as 
 animated as the fresh air was cheering. 
 
 ' There they go,' said Cadurcis, smiling, ' catching John 
 Dory, as you and I try to catch John Bull. Now if these 
 people could understand what two great men were watching 
 them, how they would stare ! But they don't care a sprat 
 for us, not they ! They are not part of the world the three
 
 414 VENETIA. 
 
 or four thousand civilised savages for whom we sweat our 
 brains, 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 owe it them ; I think I 
 can show them a trick or two still.* I have got a Damas- 
 cus blade in store for their thick hides. I will turn their 
 flank yet.' 
 
 ' And gain a victory where conquest brings no glory. 
 You are worth brighter laurels, Lord Cadurcis.' 
 
 ' Now is not it the most wonderful thing in the world 
 that you and I have met ? ' said Cadurcis. ' Now I look 
 upon ourselves as something like, eh ! Fellows with some 
 pith in them. By Jove, if we only joined together, how we 
 could lay it on ! Crack, crack, crack ; I think I see them 
 wincing under the thong, the pompous poltroons ! If you 
 only knew how they behaved to me ! By Jove, sir, they 
 hooted me going to the House of Lords, and nearly pulled 
 me off my horse. The ruffians would have massacred me 
 if they could ; and then they all ran away from a drummer- 
 boy and a couple of grenadiers, who were going the rounds 
 to change guard. Was not that good ?. Fine, eh ? A 
 brutish mob in a fit of morality about to immolate a gentle- 
 man, and then scampering off from a sentry. I call that 
 human nature ! ' 
 
 ' As long as they leave us alone, and do not burn us alive, 
 I am content,' said Herbert. ' I am callous to what they 
 say.' 
 
 ' So am I,' said Cadurcis. ' I made out a list the other 
 day of all the persons and things I have been compared to. 
 It begins well, with Alcibiades, but it ends with the Swiss 
 giantess or the Polish dwarf, I forget which. Here is your 
 
 * I think I know a trick or two would turn 
 Your flanks. Don Juan.
 
 VENETIA. 415 
 
 book. You see it has been well thumbed. In fast, to tell 
 the truth, it was my cribbing book, and I always kept it by 
 me when I was writing at Athens, like a gradus, a gradus 
 ad Parnassum, you know. But although I crib, I am candid, 
 and you see I fairly own it to you.' 
 
 ' You are welcome to all I have ever written,' said Her- 
 bert. ' Mine were but crude dreams. I wished to see man 
 noble and happy ; but if he will persist in being vile and 
 miserable, I must even be content. I can struggle 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 for philosophy and freedom, and all 
 that, they tell devilish well in a stanza ; but men have 
 always been fools and slaves, and fools and slaves they 
 always will be.' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Herbert, ' I will not believe that. I will not 
 give up a jot of my conviction of a great and glorious 
 future for human destinies ; but its consummation will not 
 be so rapid as I once thought, and in the meantime I die.' 
 
 ' Ah, death ! ' said Lord Cadurcis, ' that is a botherer. 
 What can you make of death? There are those poor 
 fishermen now ; there will be a white squall some day, and 
 they will go down with those lateen sails of theirs, and be 
 food for the very prey they were going to catch ; and if 
 you continue living here, you may eat one of your neigh- 
 bours in the shape of a shoal of red mullets, when it is the 
 season. The great secret, we cannot penetrate that with 
 all our philosophy, my dear Herbert. " 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 blue 
 waters, the mountains, and these chestnuts, devilish fine! 
 The fact is, truth is veiled, but, like the Shekinah over the 
 tabernacle, the veil is of dazzling light ! ' 
 
 ' Life is the great wonder,' said Herbert, ' into which all 
 that is strange and startling resolves itself. The mist of 
 familiarity obscures from us the miracle of our being.
 
 416 VTENETIA. 
 
 Mankind are constantly starting at events which they con- 
 sider extraordinary. But a philosopher acknowledges only 
 one miracle, and that is life. Political revolutions, changes 
 of empire, wrecks of dynasties and the opinions that sup- 
 port them, these are the marvels of the vulgar, but these 
 are only transient modifications of life: The origin of 
 existence is, therefore, the first object which a true philo- 
 sopher proposes to himself. Unable to discover it, he 
 accepts certain results from his unbiassed observation of 
 its obvious nature, and on them he establishes certain 
 principles to be our guides in all social relations, whether 
 they take the shape of laws or customs. Nevertheless, 
 until the principle of life be discovered, all theories and all 
 systems of conduct founded on theory must be considered 
 provisional.' 
 
 ' 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 should not,' 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 an immense annuity directly.' 
 
 ' When I said undoubtedly,' said Herbert, smiling, ' I 
 meant only to express that I know no invincible reason to 
 the contrary. I see nothing inconsistent with the existence 
 of a Supreme Creator in the annihilation of death. It 
 appears to me an achievement worthy of his omnipotence. 
 I believe in the possibility, but I believe in nothing more. 
 I anticipate the final result, but not by individual means. 
 It will, of course, be produced by some vast and silent and 
 continuous operation of nature, gradually effecting some 
 profound and comprehensive alteration in her order, a 
 change of climate, for instance, the great enemy of life, so 
 that the inhabitants of the earth may attain a patriarchal 
 age. This renovated breed may in turn produce a still
 
 VENETIA. 417 
 
 more vigorous offspring, and so we may ascend the scale, 
 from the threescore and ten of the Psalmist to the immor- 
 tality of 'which we speak. Indeed I, for my own part, be- 
 lieve the operation has already commenced, although thou- 
 sands of centuries may elapse before it is consummated ; 
 the threescore and ten of the Psalmist is already obsolete ; 
 the whole world is talking of the general change of its 
 seasons and its atmosphere. If the origin of America were 
 such as many profound philosophers suppose, viz. a sudden 
 emersion of a new continent from the waves, it is impossible 
 to doubt that such an event must have had a very great 
 influence on the climate of the world. Besides, why should 
 we be surprised that the nature of man should change ? 
 Does not everything change ? Is not change the law of 
 nature ? My skin changes every year, my hair never be- 
 longs to me a month, the nail on my hand is only a passing 
 possession. I doubt whether a man at fifty is the same 
 material being that he is at five-and-twenty.' 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Lord Cadurcis, ' if a creditor brought an 
 action against you at fifty for goods delivered at five-and- 
 twenty, one could set up the want of identity as a plea in 
 bar. It would be a consolation 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 Ca- 
 durcis. ' Would you like, for instance, to live to the age of 
 Methusalcm ? ' 
 
 'Those whom the gods love die young,' said Herbert. 
 1 For the last twenty years I have wished to die, and I have 
 sought death. But my feelings, I confess, on that head are 
 at present very much modified.' 
 
 'Youth, glittering youth!' said Cadurcis in a musing 
 tone ; ' I remember when 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 the gravel. But I 
 fancy every period of life has its pleasures, and as we ad- 
 vance in life the exercise of power and the possession of 
 
 E E
 
 418 VENETIA. 
 
 wealth mnst be great consolations to the majority ; we 
 bully our children and hoard our cash.' 
 
 '' Two most noble occupations ! ' said Herbert ; ' but I 
 think in this world there is just as good a chance of being 
 bullied by our children first, and paying their debts after- 
 wards.' 
 
 'Faith! you are right,' said Cadurcis, laughing, 'and 
 lucky is he who has neither creditors nor offspring, and 
 who owes neither money nor affection, after all the most 
 difficult to pay of the two.' 
 
 'It cannot be commanded, certainly,' said Herbert. 
 ' There is no usury for love.' 
 
 ' And yet it is very expensive, too, sometimes, said Ca- 
 durcis, 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 its subject, many errors, but it is very sugges- 
 tive.' 
 
 ' Now, that is kind, for I have not a book here, and, after 
 all, there is nothing like reading. I wish I had read more, 
 but it is not too late. 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 your society. For myself, 
 I now aspire to be nothing better than an idler in life, 
 turning over a page, and sometimes noting down a fancy. 
 You have, it appears, known my family long and intimately, 
 and you were, doubtless, surprised at finding me with them. 
 I have returned to my hearth, and I am content. Once I 
 sacrificed my happiness to my philosophy, and now I have 
 sacrificed my philosophy to my happiness.' 
 
 ' Dear friend ! ' said Cadurcis, putting his arm affection- 
 ately in Herbert's as they walked along, ' for, indeed, you 
 must allow me to style you so ; all the happiness and all the 
 sorrow of my life alike flow from your roof! '
 
 VENETIA. 419 
 
 In the meantime .Lady Annabel and Yenetia came forth 
 from the villa to their morning meal in their amphitheatre 
 of hills. Marmion was not there to greet them as usual. 
 
 ' Was not Plantagenet amusing last night ? ' said Vene- 
 tia ; ' and are not you 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 their life. He is more attached to Plantagenet 
 than ever. He says it is impossible for any one to have 
 behaved with greater kindness, or to have led, in every 
 sense, a more calm and rational life. When he was alone 
 at Athens, he did nothing but write. George' says that 
 all his former 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 sure papa must like him. I hope he will stay some 
 time ; for, after all, poor dear papa, he must require a little 
 amusement besides our society. Instead of being with his 
 books, he might be walking and talking with Plantagenet. 
 I think, dearest mother, we shall be happier than ever ! ' 
 
 At this moment Herbert, with Cadurcis leaning on his 
 arm, and apparently speaking with great earnestness, ap- 
 peared in the distance. ' There they are,' said Venetia ; 
 ' I knew they would be friends. Come, clearest 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. 
 
 4 You should have seen our Apennine breakfasts in the 
 
 autumn, Lord Cadurcis,' said Herbert. 'Every fruit of 
 
 nature seemed crowded before us. It was indeed a meal 
 
 for a poet or a painter like Paul Veronese ; our grapes, our 
 
 E E 2
 
 420 VENETIA. 
 
 figs, our peaches, our mountain strawberries, they made a 
 glowing picture. For my part, I have an original prejudice 
 against animal food which I have never quite overcome, 
 and I believe it is only to please Lady Annabel that I have 
 relapsed into the heresy of 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, but I 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 Yenetia, 'I have been defending you 
 against Plantagenet ; he said you would not come.' 
 
 ' Never mind, George, it was only behind your back,' 
 said Lord Cadurcis ; ' and, under those legitimate circum- 
 stances, why even our best friends cannot expect us to 
 spare them.' 
 
 'I have brought Venetia her toys,' said Captain Cadur- 
 cis, ' and she was right to defend me, as I have been work- 
 ing 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, beautifully embroidered ; and fanciful dag- 
 gers, and rosaries, and a thousand other articles, of which 
 they had plundered the bazaars of Constantinople. 
 
 ' And here is a Turkish volume of poetry, beautifully 
 illuminated ; and that is for you,' said Cadurcis giving it 
 to Herbert. ' Perhaps it is a translation 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 a volume of my works,' said Herbert, 
 producing the book that Cadurcis had before given him. 
 ' I never expected that anything I wrote would be so 
 honoured. This, too, is the work of which I am the least 
 ashamed for my wife admired it. There, Annabel, even
 
 VENETIA. 421 
 
 though Lord Cadurcis is here, I will present it to you ; 'tis 
 an old friend.' 
 
 Lady Annabel accepted the book very graciously, and, in 
 spite of all the temptations of her toys, Venetia could not 
 refrain from peeping over her mother's shoulder at its con- 
 tents. ' Mother,' she whispered, in a voice inaudible save 
 to La,dy Annabel, ' I may read this! ' 
 
 Lady Annabel gave it her. 
 
 ' And now we must send for Pauncefort, I think,' said 
 Lady Annabel, ' to collect and take care of our treasures.' 
 
 ' Pauncefort,' said Lord Cadurcis, when that gentlewoman 
 appeared, ' I have brought you a shawl, but I could not 
 bring you a turban, because the Turkish ladies do not wear 
 turbans ; but if I had thought we should have 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, which Cadurcis could not sufficiently admire. Insen- 
 sibly he drew Venetia from the rest of the party, on the pre- 
 tence of showing her a view at some little distance. They 
 walked along by the side of a rivulet, which glided through 
 the hills, until they were nearly a mile from the villa, 
 though still in sight. 
 
 ' Venetia,' he at length said, turning the conversation to a 
 more interesting topic, ' your father and myself have disbur- 
 thened our minds to each other this morning ; I think we 
 know each other now as well as if we were as old acquaint- 
 ances as myself and his daughter.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I knew that you and papa must agree,' said Venetia; 
 ' I was saying so this morning to my mother.' 
 
 ' Venetia,' said Cadurcis, with a laughing eye, ' all this is 
 very strange, is it not ? '
 
 422 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Very strange, indeed, Plantagenet ; I should not be sur- 
 prised if it appeared to you as yet even incredible.' 
 
 ' It is miraculous,' said Cadurcis, ' but not incredible ; an 
 angel interfered, and worked the miracle. I know all.' 
 
 Venetia looked at him with a faint flush upon her cheek ; 
 she gathered a flower and plucked it to pieces. 
 
 ' What a singular destiny ours has been, Venetia ! ' said 
 Cadurcis. ' Do you 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 forgot anything. We have had some remarkable con- 
 versations in our time, eh, Venetia ? Do you remember 
 my visit to Cherbury before I went to Cambridge, and the 
 last time I saw you before I left England ? And now it 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 to cease to be interested in you. Could I refrain from 
 thinking of such a friend ? ' 
 
 ' Friend ! poh ! I am not your friend ; and, as for that, 
 you never once mentioned 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 or indifference ; for, even if my feelings 
 were changed towards you, you are not a person that one 
 would, or even could, avoid speaking of, especially to papa,
 
 VENETIA. 423 
 
 who must have felt such interest in you ! I am sure, even 
 if I had not known you, there were a thousand occasions 
 which would have called your name to my lips, had they 
 been uncontrolled 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 as you did ten years ago. I will not 
 have our hearts polluted by the vulgarity of fame. I want 
 you to feel for me as you did when we were children. I will 
 not be an object of interest, and admiration, and fiddlestick 
 to you ; I will not submit to it.' 
 
 ' Well, you shall not,' said Venetia, laughing. ' I will not 
 admire you the least ; I will only think of you as a good 
 little boy.' 
 
 'You do not love me any longer, I see that,' said Ca- 
 durcis. 
 
 ' Yes I do, Plantagenet.' 
 
 ' You do not love me so much as you did the night be- 
 fore I went to Eton, and we sat over the fire ? Ah ! how 
 often I have thought of that night when I was at Athens ! ' 
 he added in a tone of emotion. 
 
 ' Dear Plantagenet,' said Venetia, ' do not be silly. I am 
 in the highest spirits in the world ; I am quite gay with 
 happiness, and all because you have returned. Do not spoil 
 my pleasure.' 
 
 ' Ah, Venetia ! I see how it is ; you have forgotten me, or 
 worse than forgotten me.' 
 
 ' Well, I am sure I do not know what to say to satisfy 
 you,' said Venetia. ' I think you very unreasonable, and very 
 ungrateful too, for I have always been your friend, Planta- 
 genet, and I am sure you know it. 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 all the world was against me. 
 You shall see how I will pay them off, the dogs ! and worse 
 than dogs, their betters far ; dogs are faithful. Do you
 
 424 VENETIA. 
 
 remember poor old Marmion ? How we were mystified, 
 Venetia ! Little did we think then who was Marmion's 
 godfather.' 
 
 Yenetia smiled ; but she said, ' I do not like this bitter- 
 ness of yours, Plantagenet. You have no cause to com- 
 plain of the world, and you magnify a petty squabble with 
 a contemptible coterie into a quarrel with a nation. It is 
 not a wise humour, and, if you indulge it, it will not be a 
 happy one.' 
 
 ' I will do exactly what you wish on every subject,' said 
 Cadurcis, ' if you will do exactly what I wish on one.' 
 
 ' Well ! ' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Once you told me,' said Cadurcis, ' that you would not 
 marry me without the consent of your father ; then, most 
 unfairly, you added to your conditions the consent of your 
 mother. Now both your parents are very opportunely at 
 hand ; let us fall down upon our knees, and beg their bless- 
 ing.' 
 
 ' ! my dear Plantagenet, I think it will be much better 
 for me never to marry. We are both happy now ; let us re- 
 main so. Tou 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 knew how much I had suffered, dear Plantagenet ! ' 
 
 'I know it; I know all,' said Cadurcis, taking her arm 
 and placing it tenderly in his. ' Now listen to me, sweet 
 girl ; I loved you when a child, when I was unknown to the 
 world, and unknown to myself ; I loved you as a youth not 
 utterly inexperienced in the world, and when my rising 
 passions had taught me to speculate on the character of 
 women ; I loved you as a man, Venetia, with that world at 
 my feet, that world which I scorn, but which I will com- 
 mand ; I have been constant, Venetia ; your heart assures 
 you of that. You are the only being in existence who exer- 
 cises over me any influence ; and the influence you possess 
 is irresistible and eternal. It springs from some deep and
 
 VENETIA. 425 
 
 mysterious sympathy of blood which I cannot penetrate. 
 It can neither be increased nor diminished by time. It is 
 entirely independent of its action. I pretend not to love you 
 more at this moment than when I first saw you, when you 
 entered the terrace-room at Cherbury and touched my 
 cheek. From that moment I was yours. I declare to you, 
 most solemnly 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 can command my spirit for an 
 hour. I see through them at a glance. I read all their 
 weakness, frivolity, vanity, affectation, as if they were 
 touched by the revealing rod of Asmodeus. You were born 
 to be my bride. Unite yourself with me, control my destiny, 
 and my course shall be like the sun of yesterday ; but reject 
 me, reject me, and I devote all my energies to the infernal 
 gods ; I will pour my lava over the earth until all that re- 
 mains of my fatal and exhausted nature is a black 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 now triumphed, and you are happy. 
 What necessity was there for all this misery that has fallen 
 on your house ? Why is your father an exile ? Do not you 
 think that if your mother had chosen to exert her influence 
 she might have prevented the most fatal part of his career ? 
 Undoubtedly despair impelled his actions as much as philo- 
 sophy, though I give him credit for a pure and lofty spirit, 
 to no man more. But not a murmur against your mother 
 from me. She received my overtures of reconciliation last 
 night with more than cordiality. She is your mother, 
 Venetia, and she once was mine. Indeed, I love her ; in- 
 deed, you would find that I would study her happiness. 
 For after all, sweet, is there another woman in existence 
 better qualified to fill the position of my mother-in-law ? I 
 could not behave unkindly to her ; I could not treat her with 
 neglect or harshness ; not merely for the sake of her many
 
 426 VENETIA. 
 
 admirable qualities, but from other considerations, Venetia, 
 considerations we never can forget. By heavens ! I love your 
 mother ; I do, indeed, Venetia ! I remember so many things ; 
 her last words to me when I went to Eton. If she would 
 only behave kindly to me, you would see what a son-in-law 
 I should make. You would be jealous, that you should, 
 Venetia. I can bear anything from you, Venetia, but, with 
 others, I cannot forget who I am. It makes me bitter 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 do indeed, Venetia ; last night when she was kind I 
 could have kissed her ! ' 
 
 Poor Venetia could not answer, her tears were flowing 
 so plenteously. ' I have told your father all, sweetest,' said 
 Cadurcis ; ' I concealed nothing.' 
 
 ' And what said he ? ' murmured Venetia. 
 
 ' It rests with your mother. After all that has passed, he 
 will not attempt to control your fate. And he is right. 
 Perhaps his interference in my favour might even injure me. 
 But there is no cause for despair ; all I wanted was to come 
 to an understanding with you ; to be sure you loved me p,s 
 you always have done. I will not be impatient. I will do 
 everything to soothe and conciliate and gratify Lady An- 
 nabel ; you will see how I will behave ! As you say, too, 
 we are happy because we are together ; and, therefore, it 
 would be unreasonable not to be patient. I never can be 
 sufficiently grateful for this meeting. I concluded you 
 would be in England, though we were on our way to Milan 
 to inquire after you. George has been a great comfort to 
 me in all this affair, Venefcia ; he loves you, Venetia, almost 
 as much as I do. I think I should have gone mad during 
 that cursed afiair in England, had it not been for George. 
 1 thought you would hate me ; but, when George brought me 
 your message, I cared for nothing ; and then his visit to the 
 lake was so devilish kind! He is a noble fellow and a 
 true friend. My sweet, sweet Venetia, dry your eyes. Let 
 us rejoin them with a smile. We have not been long away.
 
 VENETIA. 427 
 
 I will pretend we have been violet hunting,' said Cadurcis, 
 stooping down and plucking up a handful of flowers. ' Do 
 you remember our violets at home, Venetia ? Do you know, 
 Venetia, I always fancy every human being is like some ob- 
 ject in nature ; and you always put me in mind of a violet, 
 so fresh and sweet and delicate ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ' WE have been exploring the happy valley,' said Lord 
 Cadurcis to Lady Annabel, ' 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, grati- 
 fied by the gracious remark. 
 
 He seated himself at her feet, examined and admired her 
 work, and talked of old times, but with such infinite dis- 
 cretion, that he did not arouse a single painful association. 
 Venetia was busied with her father's poems, and smiled 
 often at the manuscript notes of Cadurcis. Lying, as usual, 
 on the grass, and leaning his head on his left arm, Herbert 
 was listening to Captain Cadurcis, who was endeavouring 
 to give him a clear idea of the Bosphorus. Thus the morn- 
 ing wore away, until the sun drove them into the villa. 
 
 ' I will show you my library, Lord Cadurcis,' said Her- 
 bert. 
 
 Cadurcis followed him into a spacious apartment, where 
 he found a collection so considerable that he could not sup- 
 press his surprise. ' Italian spoils chiefly,' said Herbert ; 'a 
 friend of mine purchased an old library at Bologna for me, 
 and it turned out richer than I imagined : the rest are old 
 friends that have been with me, many of them at least, at 
 college. I brought them back with me from America, for 
 then they were my only friends.' 
 
 ' Can you find Cabanis ? ' said Lord Cadurcis.
 
 428 VENETIA. 
 
 Herbert looked about. ' It is in this neighbourhood, I 
 imagine,' he said. Cadurcis endeavoured to assist him. 
 'What is this? ' he said; 'Plato!' 
 
 ' I should like to read Plato at Athens,' said Herbert. 
 ' My ambition now does not soar beyond such elegant 
 fortune.' 
 
 ' We are all under great obligations to Plato,' said Ca- 
 durcis. ' I remember, when I was in London, I always 
 professed myself his disciple, and it is astonishing what 
 results I experienced. Platonic love was a great invention.' 
 
 Herbert smiled ; but, as he saw Cadurcis knew nothing 
 about the subject, he made no reply. 
 
 ' Plato says, or at least I think he says, that life is love,' 
 said Cadurcis. ' I have said it myself in a very grand way 
 too ; I believe I cribbed it from you. But what does he 
 mean ? I am sure I meant nothing ; but I dare say yon did.' 
 
 ' I certainly had some meaning,' said Herbert, stopping 
 in his search, and smiling, ' but I do not know whether I 
 expressed it. The principle of every motion, that is of all 
 life, is desire or love : at present, I am in love with the lost 
 volume of Cabanis, and, if it were not for the desire of ob- 
 taining it, I should not now be affording any testimony of 
 my vitality by looking after it.' 
 
 ' That is very clear,' said Cadurcis, ' but I was thinking 
 of love in the vulgar sense, in the shape of a petticoat. 
 Certainly, when I am in love with a woman, I feel love is 
 life ; but, when I am out of love, which often happens, and 
 generally very soon, I still contrive to live.' 
 
 ' We exist,' said Herbert, ' because we sympathise. If 
 we did not sympathise with the air, we should die. But, 
 if we only sympathised with the air, we should be in the 
 lowest order of brutes, baser than the sloth. Mount from 
 the sloth to the poet. It is sympathy that makes you a 
 poet. It is your desire that the airy children of your brain 
 should be born anew within another's, that makes you 
 create ; therefore, a misanthropical poet is a contradiction 
 in terms.'
 
 VENETIA. 429 
 
 ' But when he writes a lampoon ?' said Cadurcis. 
 
 'He desires that the. majority, who are not lampooned, 
 should share his hate,' said Herhert. 
 
 'But Swift lampooned the species,' said Cadurcis. 'For 
 my part, I think life is hatred.' 
 
 ' But Swift was not sincere, for he wrote the Drapier's 
 Letters at the same time. Besides, the very fact of your 
 abusing mankind proves that you do not hate them ; it is 
 clear that you are desirous of obtaining their good opinion 
 of your wit. You value them, you esteem them, you love 
 them. Their approbation causes you to act, and makes you 
 happy. As for sexual love,' said Herbert, 'of which you 
 were speaking, its quality and duration depend upon the 
 degree of sympathy that subsists between the two persons 
 interested. Plato believed, and I believe with him, in the 
 existence of a spiritual antitype of the soul, so that when 
 we are born, there is something within us which, from the 
 instant we live and move, thirsts after its likeness. This 
 propensity develops itself with the development of our 
 nature. The gratification of the senses soon becomes a 
 very small part of that profound and complicated sentiment, 
 which we call love. Love, on the contrary, is an universal 
 thirst for a communion, not merely of the senses, but of our 
 whole nature, intellectual, imaginative, and sensitive. He 
 who finds his antitype, enjoys a love perfect and enduring ; 
 time cannot change it, distance cannot remove it ; the sym- 
 pathy is complete. He who loves an object that approaches 
 his antitype, is proportionately happy, the sympathy is feeble 
 or strong, as it may be. If men were properly educated, 
 and their faculties fully developed,' continued Herbert, 'the 
 discovery of the antitype would be easy ; and, when the day 
 arrives that it is a matter of course, the perfection of civili- 
 sation will be attained.' 
 
 'I believe in Plato,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'and I think I 
 have found my antitype. His theory accounts for what I 
 never could understand.'
 
 430 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN the course of the evening Lady Annabel requested Lord 
 Cadurcis and his cousin to take up their quarters at the 
 villa. Independent of the delight which such an invitation 
 occasioned him, Cadurcis was doubly gratified by its being 
 given by her. It was indeed her unprompted solicitation ; 
 for neither Herbert nor even Yenetia, however much they 
 desired the arrangement, was anxious to appear eager for 
 its fulfilment. Desirous of pleasing her husband and her 
 daughter ; a little penitent as to her previous treatment of 
 Cadurcis, now that time and strange events had combined 
 to soften her feelings ; and won by his engaging demeanour 
 towards herself, Lady Annabel had of mere impulse re- 
 solved upon the act ; and she was repaid by the general 
 air of gaiety and content which it diffused through the 
 circle. 
 
 Few weeks indeed passed ere her ladyship taught herself 
 even to contemplate the possibility of an union between 
 her daughter and Lord Cadurcis. The change which had 
 occurred in her own feelings and position had in her esti- 
 mation removed very considerable barriers to such a result. 
 It would not become her again to urge the peculiarity of 
 his temperament as an insuperable objection to the marriage ; 
 that was out of the question, even if the conscience of Lady 
 Annabel herself, now that she was so happy, were perfectly 
 free from any participation in the causes which occasioned 
 the original estrangement between Herbert and herself. 
 Desirous too, as all mothers are, that her daughter should 
 be suitably married, Lady Annabel could not shut her eyes 
 to the great improbability of such an event occurring, now 
 that Venetia had, as it were, resigned all connection with 
 her native country. As to her daughter marrying a 
 foreigner, the very idea was intolerable to her ; and Venetia 
 appeared therefore to have resumed that singular and deli- 
 cate position which she occupied at Cherbury in earlier
 
 VENETIA. 431 
 
 years, when Lady Annabel had esteemed her connection 
 with Lord Cadurcis so fortunate and auspicious. Moreover, 
 while Lord Cadurcis, in birth, rank, country, and considera- 
 tion, offered in every view of the case so gratifying an alli- 
 ance, he was perhaps the only Englishman whose marriage 
 into her family would not deprive her of the society of her 
 child. Cadurcis had a great distaste for England, which 
 he seized every opportunity to express. He continually 
 declared that he would never return there ; and his habits 
 of seclusion and study so entirely accorded with those of 
 her husband, that Lady Annabel did not doubt they would 
 continue to form only one family : a prospect so engaging 
 to her, that it would perhaps have alone removed the dis- 
 trust which she had so unfortunately cherished against the 
 admirer of her daughter ; and although some of his reputed 
 opinions occasioned her doubtless considerable anxiety, he 
 was nevertheless very young, and far from emancipated 
 from the beneficial influence of his early education. She 
 was sanguine that this sheep would yet return to the fold 
 where once he had been tended with so much solicitude. 
 "When too she called to mind the chastened spirit of her 
 husband, and could not refrain from feeling that, had she 
 not quitted him, he might at a much earlier period have 
 attained a mood so full of promise and to her so cheering, 
 she could not resist the persuasion that, under the influence 
 of Venetia, Cadurcis might speedily free himself from the 
 dominion of that arrogant genius to which, rather than to 
 any serious conviction, the result of a studious philosophy, 
 she attributed his indifference on the most important of 
 subjects. On the whole, however, i was with no common 
 gratification that Lady Annabel observed the strong and 
 intimate friendship that arose between her husband and 
 Cadurcis. They were inseparable companions. Indepen- 
 dently of the natural sympathy between two highly ima- 
 ginative minds, there were in the superior experience, the 
 noble character, the vast knowledge, and refined taste of 
 Herbert, charms of which Cadurcis was very, susceptible.
 
 432 VENETIA. 
 
 Cadurcis had not been a great reader himself, and he liked 
 the company of one whose mind was at once so richly cul- 
 tured and so deeply meditative : thus he obtained matter 
 and spirit distilled through the alembic of another's brain. 
 Jealousy had never had a place in Herbert's temperament ; 
 now he was insensible even to emulation. He spoke of 
 Cadurcis as he thought, with the highest admiration ; as 
 one without a rival, and in whose power it was to obtain 
 an imperishable fame. It was his liveliest pleasure to assist 
 the full development of such an intellect, and to pour to 
 him, with a lavish hand, all the treasures of his taste, his 
 learning, his fancy, and his meditation. His kind heart, 
 his winning manners, his subdued and perfect temper, and 
 the remembrance of the relation which he bore to Venetia, 
 completed the spell which bound Cadurcis to him with all 
 the finest feelings of his nature. It was, indeed, an inter- 
 course peculiarly beneficial to Cadurcis, whose career had 
 hitherto tended rather to the development of the power, 
 than the refinement of his genius ; and to whom an active 
 communion with an equal spirit of a more matured intelli- 
 gence was an incident rather to be desired than expected. 
 Herbert and Cadurcis, therefore, spent their mornings to- 
 gether, sometimes in the library, sometimes wandering in 
 the chestnut woods, sometimes sailing in the boat of the 
 brig, for they were both fond of the sea : in these excur- 
 sions, George was in general their companion. He had 
 become a great favourite with Herbert, as with everybody 
 else. No one managed a boat so well, although Cadurcis 
 prided himself also on liis skill in this respect ; and George 
 was so frank and unaffected, and so used to his cousin's 
 habits, that his presence never embarrassed Herbert and 
 Cadurcis, and they read or conversed quite at their ease, as 
 if there were no third person to mar, by his want of sym- 
 pathy, the full communion of their intellect. The whole 
 circle met at dinner, and never again parted until at a late 
 hour of night. This was a most agreeable life ; Cadurcis 
 himself, good humoured because he was happy, doubly
 
 VENETIA. 433 
 
 exerted himself to ingratiate himself with Lady Annabel, 
 and felt every day that he was advancing. Venetia always 
 smiled upon him, and praised him delightfully for his de- 
 lightful conduct. 
 
 In the evening, Herbert would read to them the manu- 
 script poem of Cadurcis, the fruits of his Attic residence 
 and Grecian meditations. The poet would sometimes affect 
 a playful bashfulness on this head, perhaps not altogether 
 affected, and amuse Venetia, in a whisper, with his running 
 comments ; or exclaim with an arch air, ' I say, Venetia, 
 what would Mrs. Montague and the Blues give for this, eh ? 
 I can fancy Hannah More in decent ecstasies ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ' IT is an odd thing, my dear Herbert,' said Cadurcis to his 
 friend, in one of these voyages, ' that destiny should have 
 given you and me the same tutor.' 
 
 ' Masham ! ' said Herbert, smiling. ' I tell you what is 
 much more singular ,^my dear Cadurcis ; it is, that, notwith- 
 standing being our tutor, a mitre should have fallen upon 
 his head.' 
 
 ' I am heartily glad,' said Cadurcis. 'I like Masham very 
 much ; I really have a sincere affection for him. Do you 
 know, during my infernal affair about those accursed Mont- 
 eagles, when I went to the House of Lords, and was cut 
 even by my own party ; think of that, the polished ruffians ! 
 Masham was the only person who came forward and shook 
 hands with me, and in the most marked manner. A bishop, 
 too ! and the other side ! that was good, was it not ? But 
 he would not see his old pupil snubbed ; if he had waited 
 ten minutes longer, he might have had a chance of seeing 
 him massacred. And then they complain of my abusing 
 England, my mother country ; a step-dame, I take it.' 
 
 ' Masham is in politics a Tory, in religion ultra-orthodox,' 
 said Herbert. 'He has nothing about him of the latitudi- 
 
 F F
 
 434 VENETIA. 
 
 narian ; and yet he is the most amiable man with whom I 
 am acquainted. Nature has given him a kind and chari T 
 table heart, which even his opinions have not succeeded in 
 spoiling.' 
 
 ' Perhaps that is exactly what he is saying of us two at 
 this moment,' said Cadurcis. ' After all, what is truth ? It 
 changes as you change you clime or your country ; it 
 changes with the century. The truth of a hundred years 
 ago is not the truth of the present day, and yet it may have 
 been as genuine. Truth at Rome is not the truth of Lon- 
 don, and both of them differ from the truth of Constanti- 
 nople. For my part, I believe everything.' 
 
 ' Well, that is practically prudent, if it be metaphysically 
 possible,' said Herbert. ' Do you know that I have always 
 been of opinion, that Pontius Pilate has been greatly mis- 
 represented by Lord Bacon in the quotation of his celebrated 
 question. ' What is truth ?' said jesting Pilate, and would 
 not wait for an answer. Let us be just to Pontius Pilate, 
 who has sins enough surely to answer for. There is no 
 authority for the jesting humour given by Lord Bacon. 
 Pilate was evidently of a merciful and clement disposition ; 
 probably an Epicurean. His question referred to a declara- 
 tion immediately preceding it, that He who was before him 
 came to bear witness to the truth. Pilate inquired what 
 truth? ' 
 
 ' Well, I always have a prejudice against Pontius Pilate,' 
 said Lord Cadurcis ; ' and I think it is from seeing him, 
 when I was a child, on an old Dutch tile fireplace at Mar- 
 ringhurst, dressed like a burgomaster. One cannot get 
 over one's early impressions ; but when you picture him to 
 me as an Epicurean, he assumes a new character. I fancy 
 him young, noble, elegant, and accomplished ; crowned with 
 a wreath and waving a goblet, and enjoying his government 
 vastly.' 
 
 ' Before the introduction of Christianity,' said Herbert, 
 ' the philosophic schools answered to our present religious 
 sects. You said of a man that he was a Stoic or an Epicu-
 
 VENETIA. 435 
 
 reaii, as you say of a man now that lie is a Calvinist or a 
 Wesleyan.' 
 
 ' I should have liked to have known Epicurus,' said Ca- 
 durcis. 
 
 ' I would sooner have known him and Plato than any of 
 the ancients,' said Herbert. ' I look upon Plato as the 
 wisest and the profoundest of men, and upon Epicurus as 
 the most humane and gentle.' 
 
 ' Now, how do you account for the great popularity of 
 Aristotle in modern ages ?' said Cadurcis ; ' and the com- 
 parative neglect of these, at least his equals ? Chance, I 
 suppose, that settles everything.' 
 
 'By no means,' said Herbert. 'If you mean by chance 
 an absence of accountable cause, I do not believe such a 
 quality as chance exists. Every incident that happens, 
 must be a link in a chain. In the present case, the monks 
 monopolised literature, such as it might be, and they exer- 
 cised their intellect only in discussing words. They, there- 
 fore, adopted Aristotle and the Peripatetics. Plato inter- 
 fered with their heavenly knowledge, and Epicurus, who 
 maintained the rights of man to pleasure and happiness, 
 would have afforded a dangerous and seducing contrast to 
 their dark and miserable code of morals.' 
 
 ' I think, of the ancients,' said Cadurcis ; ' Alcibiades and 
 Alexander the Great are my favourites. They were young, 
 beautiful, and conquerors ; a great combination.' 
 
 ' And among the moderns ? ' inquired Herbert. 
 
 ' They don't touch my fancy,' said Cadurcis. ' Who are 
 your heroes ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I have many ; but I confess I should like to pass a 
 day with Milton, or Sir Philip Sidney.' 
 
 ' Among mere literary men,' said Cadurcis, ' I should say 
 Bayle.' 
 
 'And old Montaigne for me,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' Well, I would fain visit him in his feudal chateau,' said 
 Cadurcis. ' His is one of the books which give a spring to 
 the mind. Of modern times, the feudal ages of Italy most 
 r F 2
 
 436 VENETIA. 
 
 interest me. I think that was a springtide of civilisation ; 
 all the fine arts flourished at the same moment.' 
 
 'They ever will,' said Herbert. 'All the inventive arts 
 maintain a sympathetic connection between each other, for, 
 after all, they are only various expressions of one internal 
 power, modified by different circumstances either of the 
 individual or of society. It was so in the age of Pericles ; 
 I mean the interval which intervened between the birth of 
 that great man and the death of Aristotle ; undoubtedly, 
 whether considered in itself, or with reference to the effects 
 which it produced upon the subsequent destinies of civilised 
 man, the most memorable in the history of the world.' 
 
 'And yet the age of Pericles has passed away,' said Lord 
 Cadurcis mournfully, 'and 1 have gazed upon the mouldering 
 Parthenon. Herbert ! you are a great thinker and muse 
 deeply ; solve me the problem why so unparalleled a pro- 
 gress was made during that period in literature and the arts, 
 and why that progress, so rapid and so sustained, so soon 
 received a check and became retrograde ? ' 
 
 'It is a problem left to the wonder and conjecture of 
 posterity,' said Herbert. ' But its solution, perhaps, may 
 principally be found in the weakness of their political insti- 
 tutions. Nothing of the Athenians remains except their 
 genius ; but they fulfilled their purpose. The wrecks and 
 fragments of their subtle and profound minds obscurely 
 suggest to us the grandeur and perfection of the whole. 
 Their language excels every other tongue of the Western 
 world ; their sculptures baffle all subsequent artists ; credible 
 witnesses assure us that their paintings were not inferior ; 
 and we are only accustomed to consider the painters of 
 Italy as those who have brought the art to its highest per- 
 fection, because none of the ancient pictures have been 
 preserved. Yet of all their fine arts, it was music of which 
 the Greeks were themselves most proud. Its traditionary 
 effects were far more powerful than any which we experience 
 from the compositions of our times. And now for their 
 poetry, Cadurcis. It is in poetry, and poetry alone, that
 
 VENETIA. 437 
 
 modern nations have maintained the majesty of genius. Do 
 we equal the Greeks ? Do we even excel them ? ' 
 
 'Let us prove the equality first,' said Cadurcis. 'The 
 Greeks excelled in every species of poetry. In some we do 
 not even attempt to rival them. "We have not a single 
 modern ode, or a single modern pastoral. We have no one 
 to place by Pindai', or the exquisite Theocritus. As for the 
 epic, I confess myself a heretic as to Homer ; I look upon 
 the Iliad as a remnant of national songs ; the wise ones 
 agree that the Odyssey is the work of a later age. My 
 instinct agrees with the result of their researches. I credit 
 their conclusion. The Paradise Lost is, doubtless, a great 
 production, but the subject is monkish. Dante is national, 
 but he has all the faults of a barbarous age. In general the 
 modern epic is framed upon the assumption that the Iliad is 
 an orderly composition. They are indebted for this fallacy 
 to Virgil, who called order out of chaos ; but the ^Bneid, all 
 the same, appears to me an insipid creation. And now for 
 the drama. You will adduce Shakspeare ? ' 
 
 ' There are passages in Dante,' said Herbert, ' not inferior, 
 in my opinion, to any existing literary composition, but, as 
 a whole, I will not make my stand on him ; I am not so 
 clear that, as a lyric poet, Petrarch may not rival the Greeks. 
 Shakspeare I esteem of ineffable merit.' 
 
 ' And who is Shakspeare ? ' said Cadurcis. ' We know of 
 him as much as we do of Homer. Did he write half the 
 plays attributed to him ? Did he ever write a single whole 
 play ? I doubt it. He appears to me to have been an 
 inspired adapter for the theatres, which were then not as 
 good as barns. I take him to have been a botcher up of 
 old plays. His popularity is of modern date, and it may not 
 last ; it would have surprised him marvellously. Heaven 
 knows, at present, all that bears his name is alike admired ; 
 and a regular Shaksperian falls into ecstasies with trash which 
 deserves a niche in the Dunciad. For my part, I abhor your 
 irregular geniuses, and I love to listen to the little nightin- 
 gale of Twickenham.'
 
 438 VENETIA. 
 
 ' I have often observed,' said Herbert, ' that writers of an 
 unbridled imagination themselves, admire those whom the 
 world, erroneously, in my opinion, and from a confusion of 
 ideas, esteems correct. I am myself an admirer of Pope, 
 though I certainly should not ever think of classing him 
 among the great creative spirits. And you, you are the last 
 poet in the world, Cadurcis, whom one would have fancied 
 his votary.' 
 
 ' I have written like a boy,' said Cadurcis. ' I found the 
 public bite, and so I baited on with tainted meat. I have 
 never written for fame, only for notoriety; but I am 
 satiated ; I am going to turn over a new leaf.' 
 
 Tor myself,' said Herbert, ' if I ever had the power to 
 impress my creations on my fellow-men, the inclination is 
 gone, and perhaps the faculty is extinct. My career is 
 over ; perhaps a solitary echo from my lyre may yet, at 
 times, linger about the world like a breeze that has lost 
 its way. But there is a radical fault in my poetic mind, 
 and I am conscious of it. I am not altogether void of 
 the creative faculty, but mine is a fragmentary mind ; I 
 produce no whole. Unless you do this, you cannot last ; 
 at least, you cannot materially affect your species. But 
 what I admire in you, Cadurcis, is that, with all the faults 
 of youth, of which you will free yourself, your creative 
 power is vigorous, prolific, and complete ; your creations 
 rise fast and fair, like perfect worlds.' 
 
 ' "Well, we will not compliment each other,' said Cadur- 
 cis; 'for, after all, it is a miserable craft. What is poetry 
 but a lie, and what are poets but liars ? ' 
 
 ' You are wrong, Cadurcis,' said Herbert, ' poets are the 
 unacknowledged legislators of the world.' 
 
 ' I see the towers of Porto Venere,' said Cadurcis direct- 
 ing the sail ; ' we shall soon be on shore. I think, too, I 
 recognise Venetia. Ah ! my dear Herbert, your daughter 
 is a poem that beats all our inspiration ! '
 
 VENETIA. 439 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ONE circumstance alone cast a gloom over this happy 
 family, and that was the approaching departure of Captain 
 Cadurcis for England. This had been often postponed, but 
 it could be postponed no longer. Not even the entreaties 
 of those kind friends could any longer prevent what was 
 inevitable. The kind heart, the sweet temper, and the 
 lively and companionable qualities of Captain Cadurcis, had 
 endeared him to everyone ; all felt that his departure would 
 occasion a blank in their life, impossible to be supplied. It 
 reminded the Herberts also painfully of their own situation, 
 in regard to their native country, which they were ever 
 unwilling to dwell upon. George talked of returning to 
 them, but the prospect was necessarily vague ; they felt 
 that it was only one of those fanciful visions with which an 
 affectionate spirit attempts to soothe the pang of separa- 
 tion. His position, his duties, all the projects of his life, 
 bound him to England, from which, indeed, he had been 
 too long absent. It was selfish to wish that, for their 
 sakes, he should sink down into a mere idler in Italy ; and 
 yet, when they recollected how little his future life could 
 be connected with their own, everyone felt dispirited. 
 
 ' I shall not go boating to-day,' said George to Yenetia ; 
 ' it is my last day. Mr. Herbert and Plantagenet talk of 
 going to Lavenza ; let us take a stroll together.' 
 
 Nothing can be refused to those we love on the last day, 
 and Venetia immediately acceded to his request. In the 
 course of the morning, therefore, herself and George quitted 
 the valley, in the direction of the coast towards Genoa. 
 Many a white sail glittered on the blue waters ; it was a 
 lively and cheering scene; but both Venetia and her 
 companion were depressed. 
 
 'I ought to be happy,' said George, and sighed. 'The 
 fondest wish of my heart is attained. You remember our
 
 440 VENETIA. 
 
 conversation on the Lago Maggiore, Venetia ? You see I 
 was a prophet, and you will be Lady Cadurcis yet.' 
 
 ' We must keep up our spirits,' said Venetia ; ' I do not 
 despair of our all returning to England yet. So many 
 wonders have happened, that I cannot persuade myself that 
 this marvel will not also occur. I am sure my uncle will 
 do something ; I have a secret idea that the Bishop is all 
 this time working for papa ; I feel assured I shall see 
 Cherbury and Cadurcis again, and Cadurcis will be your 
 home.' 
 
 ' A year ago you appeared dying, and Plantagenet was 
 the most miserable of men,' said Captain Cadurcis. 'You 
 are both now perfectly well and perfectly happy, living 
 even under the same roof, soon, I feel, to be united, and 
 with the cordial approbation of Lady Annabel. Your 
 father is restored to you. Every blessing in the world 
 seems to cluster round your roof. It is selfish for me to 
 wear a gloomy countenance.' 
 
 ' Ah ! dear George, you never can be selfish,' said 
 Venetia. 
 
 'Yes, I am selfish, Venetia. What else can make me 
 sad?' 
 
 ' You know how much you contribute to our happiness,' 
 said Venetia, 'and you feel for our sufferings at your 
 absence.' 
 
 'No, Venetia, I feel for myself,' said Captain Cadurcis 
 with energy ; ' I am certain that I never can be happy, 
 except in your society and Plantagenet's. I cannot express 
 to you how I love you both. Nothing else gives me the 
 slightest interest.' 
 
 ' You must go home and marry,' said Venetia, smiling. 
 ' You must marry an heiress.' 
 
 ' Never,' said Captain Cadurcis. ' Nothing shall ever 
 induce me to marry. No ! all my dreams are confined to 
 being the bachelor uncle of the family.' 
 
 ' Woll, now I think,' said Venetia, ' of all the persons I 
 know, there is no one so qualified for domestic happiness as
 
 VENETIA. 441 
 
 yourself. I think your wife, George, would be a very 
 fortunate woman, and I only wish I had a sister, that you 
 might marry her.' 
 
 ' I wish you had, Venetia ; I would give up my resolu- 
 tion against marriage directly.' 
 
 ' Alas ! ' said Venetia, ' there is always some bitter drop 
 in the cup of life. Must you indeed go, George ? ' 
 
 ' My present departure is inevitable,' he replied ; ' but I 
 have some thoughts of giving up my profession and 
 Parliament, and then I will return, never to leave you 
 again.' 
 
 ' What will Lord say ? That will never do,' said 
 
 Venetia. ' No ; I should not be content unless you prospered 
 in the world, George. You are made to prosper, and I 
 should be miserable if you sacrificed your existence to us. 
 You must go home, and you must marry, and write letters 
 to us by every post, and tell us what a happy man you are. 
 The best thing for you to do would be to live with your 
 wife at the abbey ; or Cherbury, if you liked. You see I 
 settle everything.' 
 
 'I never will marry,' said Captain Cadurcis, seriously. 
 
 ' Yes you will,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' I am quite serious, Venetia. Now, mark my words, 
 and remember this day. I never will marry. I have a 
 reason, and a strong and good one, for my resolution.' 
 
 * What is it ? ' 
 
 ' Because my marriage will destroy the intimacy that 
 subsists between me and yourself, and Plantagenet,' he 
 added. 
 
 ' Your wife should be my friend,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Happy woman ! ' said George. 
 
 ' Let us indulge for a moment in a dream of domestic 
 bliss,' said Venetia gaily. ' Papa and mamma at Cherbury; 
 Plantagenet and myself at the abbey, where you and your 
 wife must remain until we could build you a house ; and 
 Dr. Mashani coming down to spend Christmas with us. 
 Would it not be delightful ? I only hope Plantagenet
 
 442 VENETIA. 
 
 would be tame. I think he would burst out a little some- 
 times.' 
 
 ' Not with you, Venetia, not with you,' said George ; 
 ' you have a hold over him which nothing can ever shake. 
 I could always put him in an amiable mood in an instant 
 by mentioning your name.' 
 
 ' I wish you knew the abbey, George,' said Venetia. ' It 
 is the most interesting of all old places. I love it. You 
 must promise me when you arrive in England to go on a 
 pilgrimage to Cadurcis and Cherbury, and write me a 
 long account of it.' 
 
 ' I will indeed ; I will write to you very often.' 
 
 ' You shall find me a most faithful correspondent, which, 
 I dare say, Plantagenet would not prove.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I beg your pardon,' said George; 'you have no 
 idea of the quantity of letters he wrote me when he first 
 quitted England. And such delightful ones ! I do not 
 think there is a more lively letter- writer in the world ! 
 His descriptions are so vivid; a few touches give you 
 a complete picture ; and then his observations, they are so 
 playful ! I assure you there is nothing in the world more 
 easy and diverting than a letter from Plantagenet.' 
 
 ' If you could only see his first letter from Eton to me ? ' 
 said Venetia. ' I have alsvays treasured it. It certainly 
 was not very diverting ; and, if by easy you mean easy to 
 decipher,' she added laughing, ' his handwriting must have 
 improved very much, lately. Dear Plantagenet, I am 
 always afraid I never pay him sufficient respect ; that I do 
 not feel sufficient awe in his presence ; but I cannot dis- 
 connect him from the playfellow of my infancy ; and, do you 
 know, it seems to me, whenever he addresses me, his voice 
 and air change, and assume quite the tone and manner of 
 childhood.' 
 
 ' I have never known him but as a great man,' said 
 Captain Cadurcis ; ' but he was so frank and simple with 
 me from the very first, that I cannot believe that it is not 
 two years since we first met.'
 
 VENETIA. 443 
 
 'Ah ! I shall never forget that night at Ranelagh,' said 
 Venetia, half with a smile and half with a sigh. ' How 
 interesting he looked ! I loved to see the people stare at 
 him, and to hear them whisper his name.' 
 
 Here they seated themselves by a fountain, overshadowed 
 by a plane-tree, and for a while talked only of Planta- 
 genet. 
 
 ' All the dreams of my life have come to pass,' said 
 Venetia. ' I remember when I was at Weymouth, ill and 
 not very happy, I used to roam about the sands, thinking 
 of papa, and how I wished Plantagenet was like him, a great 
 man, a great poet, whom all the world admired. Little did 
 I think that, before a year had passed, Plantagenet, my 
 unknown Plantagenet, would be the admiration of England; 
 little did I think another year would pass, and I should be 
 living with my father and Plantagenet together, and they 
 should be bosom friends. You see, George, we must never 
 despair.' 
 
 ' Under this bright sun,' said Captain Cadurcis, ' one is 
 naturally sanguine, but think of me alone and in gloomy 
 England.' 
 
 ' It is indeed a bright sun,' said Venetia ; ' how wonder- 
 ful to wake every morning, and be sure of meeting its 
 beam.' 
 
 Captain Cadurcis looked around him with a sailor's eye. 
 Over the Apennines, towards Genoa, there was a ridge 
 of dark clouds piled up with such compactness, that they 
 might have been mistaken in a hasty survey for part of the 
 mountains themselves. 
 
 ' Bright as is the sun,' said Captain Cadurcis, ' we may 
 have yet a squall before night.' 
 
 ' I was delighted with Venice,' said his companion, not 
 noticing his observation ; ' I think of all places in the 
 world it is one which Plantagenet would most admire. I 
 cannot believe but that even his delicious Athens would 
 yield to it.' 
 
 ' He did lead the oddest life at Athens you can conceive,'
 
 444 VENETIA. 
 
 said Captain Cadurcis. ' The people did not know what to 
 make of him. He lived in the Latin convent, a fine 
 building which he had almost to himself, for there are not 
 half a dozen monks. He used to pace up and down the 
 terrace which he had turned into a garden, and on which 
 he kept all sorts of strange animals. He wrote continually 
 there. Indeed he did nothing but write. His only 
 relaxation was a daily ride to Piraeus, about five miles over 
 the plain ; he told me it was the only time in his life he was 
 ever contented with himself except when he was at Cher- 
 bury. He always spoke of London with disgust.' 
 
 ' Plantagenet loves retirement and a quiet life,' said 
 Venetia ; ' but he must not be marred with vulgar sights 
 and common-place duties. That is the secret with him." 
 
 ' I think the wind has just changed,' said Captain 
 Condurcis. ' It seems to me that we shall have a sirocco. 
 There, it shifts again! We shall have a sirocco for certain.' 
 
 ' What did you think of papa when you first saw him ? ' 
 said Venetia. ' Was he the kind of person you expected 
 to see ? ' 
 
 ' Exactly,' said Captain Cadurcis. ' So very spiritual ! 
 Plantagenet said to me, as we went home the first night, 
 that he looked like a golden phantom. I think him very 
 like you, Venetia; indeed, there can be no doubt you 
 inherited your face from your father.' 
 
 ' Ah ! if you had seen his portrait at Cherbury, when he 
 was only twenty ! ' said Venetia. ' That was a golden 
 phantom, or rather he looked like Hyperion. What are 
 you staring at so, George ? ' 
 
 ' I do not like this wind,' muttered Captain Cadurcis. 
 ' There it goes.' 
 
 ' You cannot see the wind, George ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I can, Venetia, and I do not like it at all. Do you. 
 see that black spot flitting like a shade over the sea ? It is 
 like the reflection of a cloud on the water ; but there is no 
 cloud. Well, that is the wind, Venetia, and a very wicked 
 wind too.'
 
 VENETIA. 445 
 
 ' How strange ! Is that indeed the wind ? ' 
 
 'We had better return home,' said Captain Cadurcis. 
 ' I wish they had not gone to Lavenza.' 
 
 ' But there is no danger ? ' said Venetia.' 
 
 ' Danger ? No ! no danger, but they may get a wet 
 jacket.' 
 
 They walked on ; but Captain Cadurcis was rather dis- 
 trait : his eye was always watching the wind ; at last he 
 said, ' I tell you, Venetia, we must walk quickly ; for, by 
 Jove, we are going to have a white squall.' 
 
 They hurried their pace, Venetia mentioned her alarm 
 again about the boat ; but her companion reassured her ; 
 yet his manner was not so confident as his words. 
 
 A white mist began to curl above the horizon, the blue- 
 ness of the day seemed suddenly to fade, and its colour 
 became grey ; there was a swell on the waters that hitherto 
 had been quite glassy, and they were covered with a scurfy 
 foam. 
 
 ' I wish I had been with them,' said Captain Cadurcis, 
 evidently very anxious. 
 
 ' George, you are alarmed,' said Venetia, earnestly. ' I 
 am sure there is danger.' 
 
 ' Danger ! How can there be danger, Venetia ? Perhaps 
 they are in port by this time. I dare say we shall find 
 them at Spezzia. I will see you home and run down to 
 them. Only hurry, for your own sake, for you do not 
 know what a white squall in the Mediterranean is. We 
 have but a few moments.' 
 
 And even at this very instant, the wind came roaring 
 and rushing with such a violent gush that Venetia could 
 scarcely stand ; George put his arm round her to support 
 her. The air was filled with thick white vapour, so that 
 they could no longer sea the ocean, only the surf rising 
 very high all along the coast. 
 
 ' Keep close to me, Venetia,' said Captain Cadurcis ; 
 'hold my arm and I will walk first, for we shall not be able 
 to see a yard before us in a minute. I know where we are.
 
 446 VENETIA. 
 
 We are above the olive wood, and we shall soon be in the 
 ravine. These Mediterranean white squalls are nasty 
 things ; I had sooner by half be in a south-wester ; for one 
 cannot run before the wind in this bay, the reefs stretch 
 such a long way out.' 
 
 The danger, and the inutility of expressing fears which 
 could only perplex her guide, made Venetia silent, but she 
 was terrified. She could not divest herself of apprehension 
 about her father and Plantagenet. In spite of all he said, 
 it was evident that her companion was alarmed. 
 
 They had now entered the valley ; the mountains had in 
 some degree kept off the vapour ; the air was more clear. 
 Venetia and Captain Cadurcis stopped a moment to breathe. 
 ' Now, Yenetia, you are safe,' said Captain Cadurcis. ' I 
 will not come in ; I will run down to the bay at once.' He 
 wiped the mist off" his face : Venetia perceived him deadly 
 pale. 
 
 'George,' she said, 'conceal nothing from me; there is 
 danger, imminent danger. Tell me at once.' 
 
 ' Indeed, Venetia,' said Captain Cadurcis, ' I am sure 
 everything will be quite right. There is some danger, 
 certainly, at this moment; but of course, long ago, they 
 have run into harbour. I have no doubt they are at Spezzia 
 at this moment. Now, do not be alarmed ; indeed there 
 is no cause. God bless you ! ' he said, and bounded away. 
 ' No cause,' thought he to himself, as the wind sounded 
 like thunder, and the vapour came rushing up the ravine. 
 ' God grant I may be right ; but neither between the 
 Tropics nor on the Line have I witnessed a severer squall 
 than this ! What open boat can live in this weather ! 
 Oh! that I had been with them. I shall never forgive 
 myself! '
 
 VENETIA. 447 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 VENETIA found her mother walking up and down the room, 
 as was her custom when she was agitated. She hurried to 
 her daughter. ' You must change your dress instantly, 
 Venetia,' said Lady Annabel. ' Where is George ? ' 
 
 ' He has gone down to Spezzia to papa and Plantagenet ; 
 it is a white squall ; it comes on very suddenly in this sea. 
 He ran down to Spezzia instantly, because he thought they 
 would be wet,' said the agitated Venetia, speaking with 
 rapidity and trying to appear calm. 
 
 ' Are they at Spezzia ? ' inquired Lady Annabel, quickly. 
 
 ' George has no doubt they are, mother,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' No doubt ! ' exclaimed Lady Annabel, in great distress. 
 ' God grant they may be only wet.' 
 
 ' Dearest mother,' said Venetia, approaching her, but 
 speech deserted her. She had advanced to encourage 
 Lady Annabel, but her own fear checked the words on her 
 lips. 
 
 ' Change your dress, Venetia,' said Lady Annabel; 'lose 
 no time in doing that. I think I will send down to Spezzia 
 at once.' 
 
 ' That is useless now, dear mother, for George is there.' 
 
 ' Go, dearest,' said Lady Annabel ; ' I dare say, we have 
 no cause for fear, but I am exceedingly alarmed about your 
 father, about them : I am, indeed. I do not like these 
 sudden squalls, and I never liked this boating ; indeed, I 
 never did. George being with them reconciled me to it. 
 Now go, Venetia; go, my love.' 
 
 Venetia quitted the room. She was so agitated that 
 she made Pauncefort a confidant of her apprehensions. 
 
 ' La ! my dear miss,' said Mistress Pauncefort, ' I should 
 never have thought of such a thing ! Do not you remember 
 what the old man said at Weymouth, " there is many a 
 boat will live in a rougher sea than a ship ; " and it is such
 
 448 VENETIA. 
 
 an unlikely thing, it is indeed, Miss Venetia. I am certain 
 sure my lord can manage a boat as well as a common 
 sailor, and master is hardly less used to it than he. La ! 
 miss, don't make yourself nervous about any such prepos- 
 terous ideas. And I dare say you will find them in the 
 saloon when you go down again. Really I should not 
 wonder. I think you had better wear your twill dress ; I 
 have put the new trimming on.' 
 
 They had not returned when Venetia joined her mother. 
 That indeed she could scarcely expect. But, in about half 
 an hour, a message arrived from Captain Cadurcis that they 
 were not at Spezzia, but from something he had heard, he 
 had no doubt they were at Sarzana, and he was going to 
 ride on there at once. He felt sure, however, from what he 
 had heard, they were at Sarzana. This communication 
 afforded Lady Annabel a little ease, but Venetia's heart 
 misgave her. She recalled the alarm of George in the 
 morning, which it was impossible for him to disguise, and 
 she thought she recognised in this hurried message and 
 vague assurances of safety something of the same appre- 
 hension, and the same fruitless efforts to conceal it. 
 
 Now came the time of terrible suspense. Sarzana was 
 nearly twenty miles distant from Spezzia. The evening 
 must arrive before they could receive intelligence from 
 Captain Cadurcis. In the meantime the squall died away, 
 the heavens became again bright, and, though the waves 
 were still tumultuous, the surf was greatly decreased. Lady 
 Annabel had already sent down more than one messenger 
 to the bay, but they brought no intelligence ; she resolved 
 now to go herself, that she might have the satisfaction of 
 herself cross-examining the fishermen who had been driven 
 in from various parts by stress of weather. She would not 
 let Venetia accompany her, who, she feared, might already 
 suffer from the exertions and rough weather of the morning. 
 This was a most anxious hour, and yet the absence of her 
 mother was in some degree a relief to Venetia ; it at least 
 freed her from the perpetual effort of assumed composure.
 
 VENETIA. 449 
 
 While her mother remained, Venetia had affected to read, 
 though her eye wandered listlessly over the page, or to 
 draw, though the pencil trembled in her hand ; anything 
 which might guard her from conveying to her mother that 
 she shared the apprehensions which had already darkened 
 her mother's mind. But now that Lady Annabel was gone, 
 Venetia, muffling herself up in her shawl, threw herself 
 on a sofa, and there she remained without a thought, her 
 mind a chaos of terrible images. 
 
 Her mother returned, and with a radiant countenance. 
 Yenetia sprang from the sofa. ' There is good news ; O 
 mother ! have they returned ? ' 
 
 ' They are not at Spezzia,' said Lady Annabel, throwing 
 herself into a chair panting for breath ; ' but there is good 
 news. You see I was right to go, Venetia. These stupid 
 people we send only ask questions, and take the first 
 answer. I have seen a fisherman, and he says he heard 
 that two persons, Englishmen he believes, have put into 
 Lerici in an open boat.' 
 
 ' God be praised ! ' said Venetia. ' mother, I can now 
 confess to you the terror I have all along felt.' 
 
 ' My own heart assures me of it, my child,' said Lady 
 Annabel weeping ; and they mingled their tears together, 
 but tears not of sorrow. 
 
 ' Poor George ! ' said Lady Annabel, ' he will have a 
 terrible journey to Sarzana, and be feeling so much for us ! 
 Perhaps he may meet them.' 
 
 ' I feel assured he will,' said Venetia ; ' and perhaps ere 
 long they will all three be here again. Joy ! joy ! ' 
 
 ' They must never go in that boat again,' said Lady 
 Annabel. 
 
 ' Oh ! they never will, dearest mother, if you ask them 
 not,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' We will send to Lerici,' said Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' Instantly,' said Venetia ; ' but I dare say they have 
 already sent us a messenger.' 
 
 a a
 
 450 VENETIA. 
 
 ' No ! ' said Lady Annabel ; ' men treat the danger that 
 is past very lightly. We shall not hear from them except 
 in person.' 
 
 Time now flew more lightly. They were both easy in 
 their minds. The messenger was despatched to Lerici : 
 but even Lerici was a considerable distance, and hours 
 must elapse before his return. Still there was the hope of 
 seeing them, or hearing from them in the interval. 
 
 ' I must go out, dear mother,' said Venetia. ' Let us 
 both go out. It is now very fine. Let us go just to the 
 ravine, for indeed it is impossible to remain here.' 
 
 Accordingly they both went forth, and took up a position 
 on the coast which commanded a view on all sides. All 
 was radiant again, and comparatively calm. Venetia 
 looked upon the sea, and said, ' Ah ! I never shall forget a 
 white squall in the Mediterranean, for all this splendour.' 
 
 It was sunset : they returned home. No news yet from 
 Lerici. Lady Annabel grew uneasy again. The pensive 
 and melancholy hour encouraged gloom ; but Yenetia, who 
 was sanguine, encouraged her mother. 
 
 'Suppose they were not Englishmen in the boat,' said 
 Lady Annabel. 
 
 * It is impossible, mother. What other two persons in 
 this neighbourhood could have been in an open boat ? 
 Besides, the man said Englishmen. You remember, he 
 said Englishmen. You are quite sure he did ? It must 
 be they. I feel as convinced of it as of your presence.' 
 
 * I think there can be no doubt,' said Lady Annabel. * I 
 wish that the messenger would return.' 
 
 The messenger did return. No two persons in an open 
 boat had put into Lerici ; but a boat, like the one described, 
 with every stitch of canvas set, had passed Lerici just 
 before the squall commenced, and, the people there doubted 
 not, had made Sarzana. 
 
 Lady Annabel turned pale, but Venetia was still sanguine. 
 ' They are at Sarzana,' she said ; ' they must be at Sarzana; 
 you see George was right. He said he was sure they were
 
 VENETIA. 45 1 
 
 at Sarzana. Besides, dear mother, he heard they were at 
 Sarzana.' 
 
 ' And we heard they were at Lerici,' said Lady Annabel 
 in a melancholy tone. 
 
 'And so they were, dear mother; it all agrees. The 
 accounts are consistent. Do not you see how very con- 
 sistent they are ? They were seen at Lerici, and were off 
 Lerici, but they made Sarzana ; and George heard they were 
 at Sarzana. I am certain they are at Sarzana. I feel quite 
 easy ; I feel as easy as if they were here. They are safe at 
 Sarzana. But it is too far to return to-night. We shall 
 see them at breakfast to-morrow, all three.' 
 
 'Venetia, dearest! do not you sit up,' said her mother. 
 I think there is a chance of George returning; I f ee l 
 assured he will send to-night ; but late, of course. Go 
 dearest, and sleep.' 
 
 ' Sleep ! ' thought Venetia to herself; but to please her 
 mother she retired. 
 
 ' Good-night, my child,' said Lady Annabel. < The mo- 
 ment any one arrives, you shall be aroused.' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 VENETIA, without undressing, lay down on her bed, watching 
 for some sound that might give her hope of George's return 
 Dwelling on'every instant, the time dragged heavily along, 
 and she thought that the night had half passed when 
 Pauncefort entered her room, and she learnt to her 
 surprise, that only an hour had elapsed since she had 
 parted from her mother. This entrance of Pauncefort 
 had gxven Venetia a momentary hope that they had 
 returned. 
 
 ' I assure you, Miss Venetia, it is only an hour,' said 
 Pauncefort, and nothing could have happened. Now do 
 o go to sleep, that is a dear young lady, for I am 
 srtam sure that they will all return in the morning, as I 
 
 O G 2
 
 452 VENETIA. 
 
 am here I was telling my lady just now, I said, says I, I 
 dare say they are all very wet, and very fatigued.' 
 
 ' They would have returned, Pauncefort,' said Venetia, 
 ' or they would have sent. They are not at Sarzana.' 
 
 ' La ! Miss Venetia, why should they be at Sarzana ? 
 Why should they not have gone much farther on ! For, 
 as Vicenzo was just saying to me, and Yicenzo knows all 
 about the coast, with such a wind as this, I should not be 
 surprised if they were at Leghorn.' 
 
 ' O Pauncefort ! ' said Venetia, ' I am sick at heart ! ' 
 
 ' Now really, Miss Venetia, do not take on so ! ' said 
 Pauncefort ; ' for do not you remember when his lordship 
 ran away from the abbey, and went a gipsying, nothing 
 would persuade poor Mrs. Cadurcis that he was not robbed 
 and murdered, and yet you see he was as safe and sound 
 all the time, as if he had been at Cherbury.' 
 
 ' Does Vicenzo really think they could have reached 
 Leghorn ? ' said Venetia, clinging to every fragment of 
 hope. 
 
 ' He is morally sure of it, Miss Venetia,' said Paunce- 
 fort, ' and I feel quite as certain, for Vicenzo is always 
 right.' 
 
 'I had confidence about Sarzana,' said Venetia; 'I 
 really did believe they were at Sarzana. If only Captain 
 Cadurcis would return ; if he only would return, and say 
 they rrere not at Sarzana, I would try to believe they were 
 at Leghorn.' 
 
 ' Now, Miss Venetia,' said Pauncefort, ' I am certain 
 sure that they are quite safe ; for my lord is a very good 
 sailor ; he is, indeed ; all the men say so ; and the boat is 
 as seaworthy a boat as boat can be. There is not the 
 slightest fear, I do assure you, miss.' 
 
 ' Do the men say that Plantagenet is a good sailor ? ' 
 inquired Venetia. 
 
 ' Quite professional ! ' said Mistress Pauncefort ; ' and 
 can command a ship as well as the best of them. They all 
 say that.'
 
 VJENETIA. 453 
 
 ' Hush ! Pauncefort, I hear something.' 
 
 ' It's only my lady, miss. I know her step.' 
 
 ' Is my mother going to bed ? ' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Pauncefort, ' my lady sent me here to see 
 after you. I wish I could tell her you were asleep.' 
 
 ' It is impossible to sleep,' said Venetia, rising up from 
 the bed, withdrawing the curtain, and looking at the sky. 
 ' What a peaceful night ! I wish my heart were like the 
 sky. I think I will go to mamma, Pauncefort ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! dear, Miss Venetia, I am sure I think you had 
 better not. If you and my lady, now, would only just go 
 to sleep, and forget every thing till morning, it would be 
 much better for you. Besides, I am sure if my lady knew 
 you were not gone to bed already, it would only make her 
 doubly anxious. Now, really, Miss Venetia, do take my 
 advice, and just lie down again. You may be sure the 
 moment any one arrives I will let you know. Indeed, I 
 shall go and tell my lady that you are lying down as it is, 
 and very drowsy ; ' and, so saying, Mistress Pauncefort 
 caught up her candle, and bustled out of the room. 
 
 Venetia took up the volume of her father's poems, 
 which Cadurcis had filled with his notes. How little did 
 Plantagenet anticipate, when he thus expressed at Athens 
 the passing impressions of his mind, that, ere a year had 
 glided away, his fate would be so intimately blended with 
 that of Herbert ! It was impossible, however, for Venetia 
 to lose herself in a volume which, under any other circum- 
 stances, might have compelled her spirit ! the very associa- 
 tions with the writers added to the terrible restlessness of 
 her mind. She paused each instant to listen for the 
 wished-for sound, but a mute stillness reigned throughout 
 the house and household. There was something in this 
 deep, unbroken silence, at a moment when anxiety was 
 universally diffused among the dwellers beneath that roof, 
 and the heart of more than one of them was throbbing 
 with all the torture of the most awful suspense, that fell 
 upon Venetia's excited nerves with a very painful and
 
 454 VENETIA. 
 
 even insufferable influence. She longed for sound, for 
 some noise that might assure her she was not the victim 
 of a trance. She closed her volume with energy, and she 
 started at the sound she had herself created. She rose 
 and opened the door of her chamber very softly, and 
 walked into the vestibule. There were caps, and cloaks, 
 and whips, and canes of Cadurcis and her father, lying 
 about in familiar confusion. It seemed impossible but 
 that they were sleeping, as usual, under the same roof. 
 And where were they ? That she should live and be 
 unable to answer that terrible question ! When she felt 
 the utter helplessness of all her strong sympathy towards 
 them, it seemed to her that she must go mad. She gazed 
 around her with a wild and vacant stare. At the bottom 
 of her heart there was a fear maturing into conviction too 
 horrible for expression. She returned to her own chamber, 
 and the exhaustion occasioned by her anxiety, and the 
 increased coolness of the night, made her at length drowsy. 
 She threw herself on the bed and slumbered. 
 
 She started in her sleep, she awoke, she dreamed they 
 had come home. She rose and looked at the progress of 
 the night. The night was waning fast ; a grey light was 
 on the landscape ; the point of day approached. Venetia 
 stole softly to her mother's room, and entered it with a 
 soundless step. Lady Annabel had not retired to bed. 
 She had sat np the whole night, and was now asleep. A 
 lamp on a small table was burning at her side, and she 
 held, firmly grasped in her hand, the letter of her husband, 
 which he had addressed to her at Venice, and which she 
 had been evidently reading. A tear glided down the 
 ckeek of Venetia as she watched her mother retaining that 
 letter with fondness even in her sleep, and when she 
 thought of all the misery, and heartaches, and harrowing 
 hours that had preceded its receipt, and which Venetia 
 believed that letter had cured for ever. What misery 
 awaited them now ? Why were they watchers of the 
 night ? She shuddered when these dreadful questions
 
 VENETIA. 455 
 
 flitted through her mind. She shuddered and sighed. 
 Her mother started, and woke. 
 
 ' Who is there ? ' inquired Lady Annabel. 
 
 ' Venetia.' 
 
 ' My child, have you not slept ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, mother, and I woke refreshed, as I hope you do.' 
 
 * I wake with trust in God's mercy,' said Lady Annabel. 
 Tell me the hour.' 
 
 'It is just upon dawn, mother.' 
 
 ' Dawn ! no one has returned, or come.' 
 
 ' The house is still, mother.' 
 
 ' I would you were in bed, my child.' 
 
 ' Mother, I can sleep no more. I wish to be with you ; ' 
 and Venetia seated herself at her mother's feet, and re- 
 clined her head upon her mother's knee. 
 
 ' I am glad the night has passed, Venetia,' said Lady 
 Annabel, in a suppressed yet solemn tone. ' It has been 
 a trial.' And here she placed the letter in her bosom. 
 Venetia conld only answer with a sigh. 
 
 ' I wish Pauncefort would come,' said Lady Annabel ; 
 ' and yet I do not like to rouse her, she was up so late, 
 poor creature ! If it be the dawn I should like to send 
 out messengers again ; something may be heard at 
 Spezzia.' 
 
 ' Vicenzo thinks they have gone to Leghorn, mother.' 
 
 ' Has he heard anything ! ' said Lady Annabel, eagerly. 
 
 ' ISTo, but he is an excellent judge,' said Venetia, repeating 
 all Pauncefort' s consolatory chatter. ' He knows the coast 
 so well. He says he is sure the wind would carry them on 
 to Leghorn ; and that accounts, you know, mother, for 
 George not returning. They are all at Leghorn.' 
 
 'Would that George would return,' murmured Lady 
 Annabel ; ' I wish I could see again that sailor who said 
 they were at Lerici. He was an intelligent man.' 
 
 ' Perhaps if we send down to the bay he may be there,' 
 said Venetia.' 
 
 ' Hush ! I hear a step ! ' said Lady Annabel.
 
 456 VENETIA. 
 
 Venetia sprung up and opened the door, but it was only 
 Pauncefort in the vestibule. 
 
 ' The household are all up, my lady,' said that important 
 personage entering ; ' 'tis a beautiful morning. Vicenzo has 
 run down to the bay, my lady ; I sent him off immediately. 
 Vicenzo says he is certain sure they are at Leghorn, my 
 lady ; and, this time three years, . the very same thing 
 happened. They were fishing for anchovies, my lady, 
 close by, my lady, near Sarzana ; two young men, or rather 
 one about the same age as master, and one like my lord ; 
 cousins, my lady, and just in the same sort of boat, my lady; 
 and there came on a squall, just the same sort of squall, 
 my lady; and they did not return home; and everyone 
 was frightened out of their wits, my lady, and their wives 
 and families quite distracted; and after all they were at 
 Leghorn ; for this sort of wind always takes your open 
 boats to Leghorn, Vicenzo says.' 
 
 The sun rose, the household were all stirring, and many 
 of them abroad; the common routine of domestic duty 
 seemed, by some general yet not expressed understanding, 
 to have ceased. The ladies descended below at a very 
 early hour, and went forth into the valley, once the happy 
 valley. What was to be its future denomination ? Vicenzo 
 returned from the bay, and he contrived to return with 
 cheering intelligence. The master of a felucca who, in 
 consequence of the squall had put in at Lerici, and in the 
 evening dropped down to Spezzia, had met an open boat 
 an hour before he reached Sarzana, and was quite con- 
 fident that, if it had put into port, it must have been, 
 from the speed at which it was going, a great distance down 
 the coast. No wrecks had been heard of in the neighbour- 
 hood. This intelligence, the gladsome time of day, and the 
 non-arrival of Captain Cadurcis, which according to their 
 mood was always a circumstance that counted either for 
 good or for evil, and the sanguine feelings whicli make us 
 always cling to hope, altogether reassured our friends. 
 Venetia dismissed from her mind the dark thought which.
 
 VENETIA, 457 
 
 for a moment had haunted her in the noon of night ; and 
 still it was a suspense, a painful, agitating suspense, but 
 only suspense that yet influenced them. 
 
 ' Time ! said Lady Annabel. ' Time ! we must wait.' 
 
 Venetia consoled her mother ; she affected even a gaiety 
 of spirit ; she was sure that Vicenzo would turn out to be 
 right, after all ; Pauncefort said he always was right, and 
 that they were at Leghorn. 
 
 The day wore apace ; the noon arrived and passed ; it 
 ,was even approaching sunset. Lady Annabel was almost 
 afraid to counterorder the usual meals, lest Venetia should 
 comprehend her secret terror ; the very same sentiment 
 influenced Yenetia. Thus they both had submitted to the 
 ceremony of breakfast, but when the hour of dinner 
 approached they could neither endure the mockery. They 
 looked at each other, and almost at the same time they 
 proposed that, instead of dining, they should walk down to 
 the bay. 
 
 ' I trust we shall at least hear something before the 
 night,' said Lady Annabel. ' I confess I dread the coming 
 night. I do not think I could endure it.' 
 
 ' The longer we do not hear, the more certain I am of 
 their being at Leghorn,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' I have a great mind to travel there to-night,' said Lady 
 Annabel. 
 
 As they were stepping into the portico, Venetia recog- 
 nised Captain Cadurcis in the distance. She turned pale ; 
 she would have fallen had she not leaned on her mother, 
 who was not so advanced, and who had not seen him. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Venetia ! ' said Lady Annabel, 
 alarmed. 
 
 ' He is here, he is here ! ' 
 
 ' Marmion ? ' 
 
 ' No, George. Let me sit down.' 
 
 Her mother tried to support her to a chair. Lady 
 Annabel took off her bonnet. She had not strength to 
 walk forth. She could not speak. She sat down opposite
 
 458 VENETIA. 
 
 Venetia, and lier countenance pictured distress to so painful 
 a degree, that at any other time Venetia would have flown to 
 her, but in this crisis of suspense it was impossible. George 
 was in sight ; he was in the portico ; he was in the room. 
 
 He looked wan, haggard, and distracted. More than 
 once he essayed to speak, but failed. 
 
 Lady Annabel looked at him with a strange, delirious 
 expression. Venetia rushed forward and seized his arm, 
 and gazed intently on his face. He shrank from her 
 glance ; his frame trembled. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IN the heart of the tempest Captain Cadurcis traced his 
 way in a sea of vapour with extreme danger and difficulty 
 to the shore. On his arrival at Spezzia, however, scarcely 
 a house was visible, and the only evidence of the situation 
 of the place was the cessation of an immense white surf 
 which otherwise indicated the line of the sea, but the ab- 
 sence of which proved his contiguity to a harbour. In 
 the thick fog he heard the cries and shouts of the returning 
 fishermen, and of their wives and children responding from 
 the land to their exclamations. He was forced, therefore, 
 to wait at Spezzia, in an agony of impotent suspense, until 
 the fury of the storm was over and the sky was partially 
 cleared. At length the objects became gradually less 
 obscure ; he could trace the outline of the houses, and 
 catch a glimpse of the water half a mile out, and soon the 
 old castles which guard the entrance of the strait that leads 
 into the gulf, looming in the distance, and now and then a 
 group of human beings in the vanishing vapour. Of these 
 he made some inquiries, but in vain, respecting the boat 
 and his friends. He then made the brig, but could learn 
 nothing except their departure in the morning. He at 
 length obtained a horse and galloped along the coast 
 towards Lerici, keeping a sharp look out as he proceeded,
 
 VENETIA. 459 
 
 and stopping at every village in his progress for intelli- 
 gence. When he had arrived in the course of three hours 
 at Lerici, the storm had abated, the sky was clear, and no 
 evidence of the recent squall remained except the agitated 
 state of the waves. At Lerici he could hear nothing, so he 
 hurried on to Sarzana, where he learnt for the first time 
 that an open boat, with its sails set, had passed more than 
 an hour before the squall commenced. From Sarzana he 
 hastened on to Lavenza, a little port, the nearest sea-point 
 to Massa, and where the Carrara marble is shipped for 
 England. Here also his inquiries were fruitless, and, 
 exhausted by his exertions, he dismounted and rested at 
 the inn, not only for repose, but to consider over the course 
 which he should now pursue. The boat had not been seen 
 off Lavenza, and the idea that they had made the coast 
 towards Leghorn now occurred to him. His horse was so 
 wearied that he was obliged to stop some time at Lavenza, 
 for he could procure no other mode of conveyance ; the 
 night also was fast coming on, and to proceed to Leghorn 
 by this dangerous route at this hour was impossible. At 
 Lavenza therefore he remained, resolved to hasten to 
 Leghorn at break of day. This was a most awful night. 
 Although physically exhausted, Captain Caduris could not 
 sleep, and, after some vain efforts, he quitted his restless 
 bed on which he had laid down without undressing, and 
 walked forth to the harbour. Between anxiety for Herbert 
 and his cousin, and for the unhappy women whom he 
 had left behind, he was nearly distracted. He gazed on 
 the sea, as if some sail in sight might give him a chance of 
 hope. His professional experience assured him of all the 
 danger of the squall. He could not conceive how an open 
 boat could live in such a sea, and an instant return to port 
 so soon as the squall commenced, appeared the only chance 
 of its salvation. Could they have reached Leghorn ? It 
 seemed impossible. There was no hope they could now be 
 at Sarzana, or Lerici. When he contemplated the full con- 
 tingency of 'what might have occurred, his mind wandered,
 
 460 VENETIA. 
 
 and refused to comprehend the possibility of the terrible 
 conclusion. He thought the morning Avould never break. 
 
 There was a cavernous rock by the seashore, that jutted 
 into the water like a small craggy promontory. Captain 
 Cadurcis climbed to its top, and then descending, reclined 
 himself upon an inferior portion of it, which formed a 
 natural couch with the wave on each side. "There, lying at 
 his length, he gazed upon the mpon and stars whose bright- 
 ness he thought would never dim. The Mediterranean is a 
 tideless sea, but the swell of the waves, which still set in to 
 the shore, bore occasionally masses of sea- weed and other 
 marine formations, and deposited them around him, plash- 
 ing, as it broke against the shore, with a melancholy and 
 monotonous sound. The abstraction of the scene, the hour, 
 and the surrounding circumstances brought, however, no 
 refreshment to the exhausted spirit of George Cadurcis. 
 He could not think, indeed he did not dare to think ; 
 but the villa of the Apennines and the open boat in the 
 squall flitted continually before him. His mind was feeble 
 though excited, and he fell into a restless and yet unmean- 
 ing reverie. As long as he had been in action, as long as 
 he had been hurrying along the coast, the excitement of 
 motion, the constant exercise of his senses, had relieved 
 or distracted the intolerable suspense. But this pause, 
 this inevitable pause, overwhelmed him. It oppressed his 
 spirit like eternity. And yet what might the morning 
 bring ? Ho almost wished that he might remain for 
 ever on this rock watching the moon and stars, and that 
 tke life of the world might never recommence. 
 
 He started ; he had fallen into a light slumber ; he had 
 been dreaming ; he thought he had heard the voice of 
 Venetia calling him ; he had forgotten where he was ; he 
 stared at the sea and sky, and recalled his dreadful 
 consciousness. The wave broke with a heavy plash that 
 attracted his attention: it was, indeed, that sound that 
 had awakened him. He looked around ; there was some 
 object; he started wildly from his resting-place, sprang
 
 VENETIA. 461 
 
 over the cavern, and bounded on the beach. It was a 
 corpse ; he is kneeling by its side. It is the corpse of his 
 cousin ! Lord Cadurcis was a fine swimmer, and had evi- 
 dently made strong efforts for his life, for he was partly 
 undressed. In all the insanity of hope, still wilder than 
 despair, George Cadurcis seized the body and bore it some 
 yards upon the shore. Life had been long extinct. The 
 corpse was cold and stark, the eyes closed, an expression of 
 energy, however, yet lingering in the fixed jaw, and the 
 hair sodden with the sea. Suddenly Captain Cadurcis 
 rushed to the inn and roused the household. With a 
 distracted air, and broken speech and rapid motion, he 
 communicated the catastrophe. Several persons, some 
 bearing torches, others blankets and cordials, followed him 
 instantly to the fatal spot. They hurried to the body, they 
 applied all the rude remedies of the moment, rather from 
 the impulse of nervous excitement than with any practical 
 purpose ; for the case had been indeed long hopeless. 
 While Captain Cadurcis leant over the body, chafing the 
 extremities in a hurried frenzy, and gazing intently on the 
 countenance, a shout was heard from one of the stragglers 
 who had recently arrived. The sea had washed on the 
 beach another corpse : the form of Marmion Herbert i It 
 would appear that he had made no struggle to save 
 himself, for his hand was locked in his waistcoat, where, at 
 the moment, he had thrust the Phsedo, showing that he 
 had been reading to the last, and was meditating on 
 immortality when he died. 
 
 END OF BOOK VI.
 
 462 
 
 VENETIA. 
 
 BOOK VH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was the commencement of autumn. The verdure of 
 summer still lingered on the trees ; the sky, if not so cloud- 
 less, was almost as refulgent as Italy; and the pigeons 
 bright and glancing, clustered on the roof of the hall of 
 Cherbury. The steward was in attendance; the household, 
 all in deep mourning, were assembled ; everything was in* 
 readiness for the immediate arrival of Lady Annabel Herbert. 
 "Tis nearly four years come Martinmas,' said the grey- 
 headed butler, ' since my lady left us.' 
 
 'And no good has come of it,' said the housekeeper. 
 And for my part I never heard of good coming from som<r 
 to foreign parts.' . 
 
 'I shall like to see Miss Venetia again,' said a house- 
 maid. ' Bless her sweet face.' 
 
 ' I never expected to see her Miss Venetia again from all 
 we heard,' said a footman. 
 
 ' God's will be done ! ' said the grey-headed butler ; but 
 I hope she will find happiness at home. 'Tis nigh on twenty 
 years since I first nursed her in these arms.' 
 
 ' I wonder if there is any new Lord Cadurcis,' said the 
 footman. ' I think he was the last of the line.' 
 
 ' It would have been a happy day if I had lived to have 
 seen the poor young lord marry Miss Venetia,' said the 
 housekeeper. I always thought that match was made in 
 heaven.' 
 
 'He was a sweetspoken young gentleman,' said the 
 housemaid.
 
 VENETIA. 463 
 
 ' For my part,' said the footman, ' I should like to have 
 seen our real master, Squire Herbert. He was a famous 
 gentleman by all accounts.' 
 
 ' I wish they had lived quietly at home,' said the house- 
 keeper. 
 
 ' I shall never forget the time when my lord returned,' 
 said the grey-headed butler. ' I must say I thought it was 
 a match.' 
 
 ' Mistress Pauncefort seemed to think so,' said the house- 
 maid. 
 
 ' 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 house- 
 keeper sent a message to the steward. 
 
 The carriage might be just discovered at the end of the 
 avenue. It was some time before it entered the iron gates 
 that were thrown open for its reception. The steward 
 stood on the steps with his hat off, the servants were 
 ranged in order at the entrance. Touching their horses 
 with the spur, and cracking their whips, the postilions 
 dashed round the circular plot and stopped at the hall- 
 door. Under any circumstances a return home after an 
 interval of years is rather an awful moment ; there was 
 not a servant who was not visibly affected. On the out- 
 side of the carriage was a foreign servant and Mistress 
 Pauncefort, who was not so profuse as might have been 
 expected in her recognitions of her old friends ; her coun- 
 tenance was graver than of yore. Misfortune and misery 
 had subdued even Mistress Pauncefort. The foreign 
 servant opened the door of the carriage ; a young man, who 
 was a stranger to the household, but who- was in deep 
 mourning, alighted, and then Lady Annabel appeared. The 
 steward advanced to welcome her, the "household bowed and 
 curtseyed. She smiled on them for a moment graciously 
 and kindly, but her countenance immediately reassumed a 
 serious air, and whispering one word to the strange gentle-
 
 464 7ENETIA. 
 
 man, she entered the hall alone, inviting the steward to 
 follow her. 
 
 ' I hope your ladyship is well ; welcome home, my lady ; 
 welcome again to Cherbury ; a welcome return, my lady ; 
 hope Miss Venetia is quite well ; happy to see your lady- 
 ship amongst us again, and Miss Venetia too, my lady.' 
 Lady Annabel acknowledged these salutations with kind- 
 ness, and then, saying that Miss Herbert was not very 
 well and was fatigued with her journey, she dismissed her 
 humble but trusty friends. Lady Annabel then turned and 
 nodded to her fellow-traveller. 
 
 Upon this Lord Cadurcis, if we must indeed use a 
 title from which he himself shrank, carried a shrouded form 
 in his arms into the hall, where the steward alone lingered, 
 though withdrawn to the back part of the scene ; and Lady 
 Annabel, advancing to meet him, embraced his treasured 
 burden, her own unhappy child. 
 
 ' Now, Venetia ! dearest Venetia ! ' she said, ' 'tis past ; 
 we are at home.' 
 
 Venetia leant upon her mother, but made no reply. 
 
 'Upstairs, dearest,' said Lady Annabel: 'a little exer- 
 tion, a very little.' Leaning on her mother and Lord 
 Cadurcis, Venetia ascended the staircase, and they reached 
 the terrace-room. Venetia looked around her as she 
 entered the chamber ; that scene of her former life, 
 endeared to her by so many happy hours, and so many 
 sweet incidents ; that chamber where she had* first seen 
 Plantagenet. Lord Cadurcis supported her to a chair, and 
 then, overwhelmed by irresistible emotion, she sank back 
 in a swoon. 
 
 No one was allowed to enter the room but Pauncefort. 
 They revived her; Lord Cadurcis holding her hand, and 
 touching, with a watchful finger, her pulse. Venetia 
 opened her eyes, and looked around her. Her mind did 
 not wander; she immediately recognised where she was, 
 and recollected all that had happened. She faintly smiled, 
 and said, in a low voice, 'You are all too kind, and I am
 
 VENETIA. 465 
 
 very weak. After our trials, what is this, George ? ' she 
 added, struggling to appear animated ; ' you are at length at 
 Cherbury.' 
 
 Once more at Cherbury ! It was, indeed, an event that 
 recalled a thousand associations. In the wild anguish of 
 her first grief, when the dreadful intelligence was broken 
 to her, if anyone had whispered to Venetia that she would 
 yet find herself once more at Cherbury, she would have 
 esteemed the intimation as mockery. But time and hope 
 will struggle with the most poignant affliction, and their 
 influence is irresistible and inevitable. From her darkened 
 chamber in their Mediterranean villa, Venetia had again 
 come forth, and crossed mountains, and traversed immense 
 plains, and journeyed through many countries. She could 
 not die, as she had supposed at first that she must, and 
 therefore she had exerted herself to quit, and to quit 
 speedily, a scene so terrible as their late abode. She was 
 the very first to propose their return to England, and to 
 that spot where she had passed her early life, and where 
 she now wished to fulfil, in quiet and seclusion, the 
 allotment of her remaining years ; to meditate over the 
 marvellous past, and cherish its sweet and bitter recollec- 
 tions. The native firmness of Lady Annabel, her long 
 exercised control over her emotions, the sadness and 
 subdued tone which the early incidents of her career had 
 cast over her character, her profound sympathy with her 
 daughter, and that religious consolation which never 
 deserted her, had alike impelled and enabled her to bear 
 up against the catastrophe with more fortitude than her 
 child. The arrow, indeed, had struck Venetia with a 
 double barb. She was the victim ; and all the cares o 
 Lady Annabel had been directed to soothe and support this 
 stricken lamb. Yet perhaps these unhappy women must 
 have sunk under their unparalleled calamities, had it not 
 been for the devotion of their companion. In the despair 
 of his first emotions, George Cadurcis was nearly plunging 
 himself headlong into the wave that had already proved so 
 
 H II
 
 466 VENETIA. 
 
 fatal to his house. But when he thought of Lady Annabel 
 and Venetia in a foreign land, without a single friend in their 
 desolation, and pictured them to himself with the dreadful 
 news abruptly communicated by sonie unfeeling stranger ; 
 and called upon, in the midst of their overwhelming agony, 
 to attend to all the heart-rending arrangements which the 
 discovery of the bodies of the beings to whom they were 
 devoted, and in whom all their feelings were centred, must 
 necessarily entail upon them, he recoiled from what he 
 contemplated as an act of infamous desertion. He re- 
 solved to live, if only to preserve them from all their im- 
 pending troubles, and with the hope that his exertions 
 might tend, in however slight a degree, not to alleviate, 
 for that was impossible ; but to prevent the increase of that 
 terrible woe, the very conception of which made his brain 
 stagger. He carried the bodies, therefore, with him to 
 Spezzia, and then prepared for that fatal interview, the 
 commencement of which we first indicated. Yet it must 
 be confessed that, though the bravest of men, his courage 
 faltered as he entered the accustomed ravine. He stopped 
 and looked down on the precipice below ; he felt it utterly 
 impossible to meet them ; his mind nearly deserted him. 
 Death, some great and universal catastrophe, an earth- 
 quake, a deluge, that would have buried them all in an 
 instant and a common fate, would have been hailed by 
 George Cadurcis, at that moment, as good fortune. 
 
 He lurked about the ravine for nearly three hours before 
 he could summon up heart for the awful interview. The 
 position he had taken assured him that no one could ap- 
 proach the villa, to which he himself dared not advance. At 
 length, in a paroxysm of energetic despair, he had rushed 
 forward, met them instantly, and confessed with a whirling 
 brain, and almost unconscious of his utterance, that ' they 
 could not hope to see them again in this world.' 
 
 What ensued must neither be attempted to be described, 
 nor even remembered. It was one of those tragedies of 
 life which enfeeble the most faithful memories at a blow,
 
 VENETIA. 467 
 
 shatter nerves beyond the faculty of revival, cloud the mind 
 for ever, or turn the hair grey in an instant. They carried 
 Venetia delirious to her bed. The very despair, and almost 
 madness, of her daughter forced Lady Annabel to self- 
 exertion, of which it was difficult to suppose that even she 
 was capable. And George, too, was obliged to leave them. 
 He stayed only the night. A few words passed between 
 Lady Annabel and himself j she wished the bodies to be 
 embalmed, and borne to England. There was no time to 
 be lost, and there was no one to be entrusted except 
 George. He had to hasten to Genoa to make all these 
 preparations, and for two days he was absent from the 
 villa. When he returned, Lady Annabel saw him, but 
 Venetia was for a long time invisible. The moment she 
 grew composed, she expressed a wish to her mother 
 instantly to return to Cherbury. All the arrangements 
 necessarily devolved upon George Cadurcis. It was his 
 study that Lady Annabel should be troubled upon no 
 point. The household were discharged, all the affairs were 
 wound up, the felucca hired which was to bear them to 
 Genoa, and in readiness, before he notified to them that 
 the hour of departure had arrived. The most bitter 
 circumstance was looking again upon the sea. It seemed 
 so intolerable to Venetia, that their departure was delayed 
 more than one day in consequence ; but it was inevitable ; 
 they could reach Genoa in no other manner. George 
 carried Venetia in his arms to the boat, with her face 
 covered with a shawl, and bore her in the same manner to 
 the hotel at Genoa, where their travelling carriage awaited 
 them. 
 
 They travelled home rapidly. All seemed to be impelled, 
 as it were, by a restless desire for repose. Cherbury was 
 the only thought in Venetia's mind. She observed nothing ; 
 she made no remark during their journey ; they travelled 
 often throughout the night ; but no obstacles occurred, no 
 inconveniences. There was one in this miserable society 
 whose only object in life was to support Venetia under her 
 H H 2
 
 4G8 VENETIA. 
 
 terrible visitation. Silent, but with, an eye that never 
 slept, George Cadurcis watched Yenetia as a nurse might 
 a child. He read her thoughts, he anticipated her wishes 
 without inquiring them ; every arrangement was unobtru- 
 sively made that could possibly consult her comfort. 
 
 They passed through London without stopping there. 
 George would not leave them for an instant ; nor would 
 he spare a thought to his own affairs, though they urgently 
 required his attention. The change in his position gave 
 him no consolation ; he would not allow his passport to be 
 made out with his title ; he shuddered at being called 
 Lord Cadurcis ; and the only reason that made him hesitate 
 about attending them to Cherbury was its contiguity to 
 his ancestral seat, which he resolved never to visit. There 
 never in the world was a less selfish and more single- 
 hearted man than George Cadurcis. Though the death of 
 his cousin had invested him with one of the most ancient 
 coronets in England, a noble residence and a fair estate, he 
 would willingly have sacrificed his life to have recalled 
 Plantagenet to existence, and to have secured the happiness 
 of Venetia Herbert. 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 THE reader must not suppose, from the irresistible emotion 
 that overcame Venetia at the very moment of her return, 
 that she was entirely prostrated by her calamities. On 
 the contrary, her mind had been employed, during the 
 whole of her journey to England, in a silent effort to endure 
 her lot with resignation. She had resolved to bear up 
 against her misery with fortitude, and she inherited from 
 her mother sufficient firmness of mind to enable her to 
 achieve her purpose. She came back to Cherbury to live 
 with patience and submission ; and though her dreams of 
 happiness might be vanished for ever, to contribute as
 
 VENETIA. 469 
 
 much as was in her power to the content of that dear and 
 remaining relative who was yet spared to her, and who 
 depended in this world only upon the affection of her child. 
 The return to Cherbury was a pang, and it was over. 
 Venetia struggled to avoid the habits of an invalid ; she 
 purposed resuming, as far as was in her power, all the 
 pursuits and duties of her life ; and if it were neither 
 possible, nor even desirable, to forget the past, she dwelt 
 upon it neither to sigh nor to murmur, but to cherish in a 
 sweet and musing mood the ties and affections round which 
 all her feelings had once gathered with so much enjoyment 
 and so much hope. 
 
 She rose, therefore, on the morning after her return to 
 Cherbury, at least serene; and she took an early oppor- 
 tunity, when George and her mother were engaged, and 
 absent from the terrace-room, to go forth alone and wander 
 amid her old haunts. There was not a spot about the park 
 and gardens, which had been favourite resorts of herself 
 find Plantagenet in their childhood, that she did not visit. 
 They were unchanged ; as green, and bright, and still as 
 in old days, but what was she ? The freshness, and 
 brilliancy, and careless happiness of her life were fled for 
 ever. And here he lived, and here he roamed, and here 
 liis voice sounded, now in glee, now in melancholy, now in 
 wild and fanciful amusement, and now pouring into her 
 bosom all his domestic sorrows. It was but ten years 
 since he first arrived at Cherbury, and who could have 
 anticipated that that little, silent, reserved boy should, ere 
 ten years had passed, have filled a wide and lofty space in 
 the world's thought ; that his existence should have 
 influenced the mind of nations, and his death eclipsed 
 their gaiety ! His death ! Terrible and disheartening 
 thought ! Plantagenet was no more. But he had not 
 died without a record. His memory was embalmed in 
 immortal verse, and he had breathed his passion to his 
 Venetia in language that lingered in the ear, and would 
 dwell for ever on the lips, of his fellow-men.
 
 470 VENETU. 
 
 Among these -woods, too, had Venetia first mused over 
 her father; before her rose those mysterious chambers, 
 whose secret she had penetrated at the risk of her life. 
 There were no secrets now. Was she happier ? Now she 
 felt that even in her early mystery there was delight, and 
 that hope was veiled beneath its ominous shadow. There 
 was now no future to ponder over; her hope was gone, 
 and memory alone remained. All the dreams of those 
 musing hours of her hidden reveries had been realised. 
 She had seen that father, that surpassing parent, who had 
 satisfied alike her heart and her imagination ; she had been 
 clasped to his bosom ; she had lived to witness even her 
 mother yield to his penitent embrace. And he too was 
 gone ; she could never meet him again in this world ; in 
 this world in which they had experienced such exquisite 
 bliss ; and now she was once more at Cherbury ! Oh ! 
 give her back her girlhood, with all its painful mystery 
 and harassing doubt ! Give her again a future ! 
 
 She returned to the hall ; she met George on the terrace, 
 she welcomed him with a sweet, yet mournful smile. ' I 
 have been very selfish,' she said, ' for I have been walking 
 alone. I mean to introduce you to Cherbury, but I could 
 not resist visiting some old spots.' Her voice faltered in 
 these last words. They re-entered the terrace-room to- 
 gether, and joined her mother. 
 
 ' Nothing is changed, mamma,' said Venetia, in a more 
 cheerful tone. ' It is pleasant to find something that is the 
 same.' 
 
 Several days passed, and Lord Cadurcis evinced no 
 desire to visit his inheritance. Yet Lady Annabel was 
 anxious that he should do so, and had more than once 
 impressed upon him the propriety. Even Yenetia at 
 length said to him, * It is very selfish in us keeping you 
 here, George. Tour presence is a great consolation, and 
 yet, yet, ought you not to visit your home ? ' She avoided 
 the name of Cadurcis. 
 
 ' I ought, dear Venetia,' said George, 'and I will. I have
 
 VENETIA. 471 
 
 promised Lady Annabel twenty times, but I feel a terrible 
 disinclination. To-morrow, perhaps.' 8 
 
 ' To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,' murmured 
 Venetia to herself, 'I scarcely comprehend now what to- 
 morrow means.' And then again addressing him, and 
 with more liveliness, she said, ' We have only one friend in 
 the world now, George, and I think that we ought to be 
 very grateful that he is our neighbour.' 
 
 'It is a consolation to me,' said Lord Cadurcis, ' for I 
 cannot remain here, and otherwise I should scarcely know 
 how to depart.' 
 
 'I wish you would visit your home, if only for one 
 morning,' said Venetia; 'if only to know how very near 
 you are to us.' 
 
 'I dread going alone,' said Lord Cadurcis. 'I cannot 
 
 ask Lady Annabel to accompany me, because " He 
 
 hesitated. 
 
 ' Because ? ' inquired Venetia. 
 
 ' I cannot ask or wish her to leave you.' 
 
 'You are always thinking of me, dear George,' said 
 Venetia, artlessly. 'I assure you, I have come back to 
 Cherbury to be happy. I must visit your home some day, 
 and I hope I shall visit it often. We will all go, soon,' she 
 added. 
 
 ' Then I will postpone my visit to that day,' said George. 
 'I am in no humour for business, which I know awaits me 
 there. Let me enjoy a little more repose at dear Cherbury.' 
 
 ' I have become very restless of late, I think,' said 
 Venetia, ' but there is a particular spot in the garden that 
 I wish to see. Come with me, George.' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis was only too happy to attend her. They 
 proceeded through a winding walk in the shrubberies 
 until they arrived at a small and open plot of turf, where 
 Venetia stopped. ' There are some associations,' she said, 
 'of this spot connected with both those friends that we 
 have lost. I have a fancy that it should be in some visible 
 manner consecrated to their memories. On this spot, George,
 
 472 VENETIA. 
 
 Plantagenet once spoke to me of my father. I should like 
 to raise their busts here ; and indeed it is a fit place for 
 such a purpose ; for poets,' she added, faintly smiling, 
 ' should be surrounded with laurels.' 
 
 ' I have some thoughts on this head that I am revolving 
 in my fancy myself,' said Lord Cadurcis, ' but I mil not 
 speak of them now.' 
 
 ' Yes, now, George ; for indeed it is a satisfaction for 
 me to speak of them, at least with you, with one who 
 understood them so well, and loved them scarcely less than 
 I did.' 
 
 George tenderly put his arm into hers and led her away. 
 As they walked along, he explained to her his plans, which 
 yet were somewhat crude, but which greatly interested 
 her ; but they were roused from their conversation by the 
 bell of the hall sounding as if to summon them, and there- 
 fore they directed their way immediately to the terrace. A 
 servant running met them ; he brought a message from 
 
 Lady Annabel. Their friend the Bishop of had 
 
 arrived. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 my little daughter,' said the good Masham, 
 advancing as Venetia entered the room, and tenderly 
 embracing her. The kind-hearted old man maintained a 
 conversation on indifferent subjects with animation for 
 some minutes ; and thus a meeting, the anticipation of 
 which would have cost Venetia hours of pain and anxiety, 
 occurred with less uneasy feelings. 
 
 Masham had hastened to Cherbury the moment he heard 
 of the return of the Herberts to England. He did not 
 come to console, but to enliven. He was well aware that 
 even his eloquence, and all the influence of his piety, could 
 not soften the irreparable past ; and knowing, from expe-
 
 VENETIA. 473 
 
 rience, how in solitude the unhappy brood over sorrow, he 
 fancied that his arrival, and perhaps his arrival only, might 
 tend in some degree at this moment to their alleviation 
 and comfort. He brought Lady Annabel and Venetia 
 letters from their relations, with whom he had been staying 
 at their country residence, and who were anxious that 
 their unhappy kinsfolk should find change of scene under 
 their roof. 
 
 'They are very affectionate,' said Lady Annabel, 'but I 
 rather think that neither Venetia nor myself feel inclined 
 to quit Cherbury at present.' 
 
 'Indeed .not, mamma,' said Venetia. 'I hope we shall 
 never leave home again.' 
 
 ' You must come and see me some day,' said the Bishop ; 
 then turning to George, whom he was glad to find here, he 
 addressed him in a hearty tone, and expressed his delight 
 at again meeting him. 
 
 Insensibly to all parties this arrival of the good Masham 
 exercised a beneficial influence on their spirits. They 
 could sympathise with his cheerfulness, because they were 
 convinced that he sympathised with their sorrow. His 
 interesting conversation withdrew their minds from the 
 painful subject on which they were always musing. It 
 seemed profanation to either of the three mourners when 
 they were together alone, to indulge in any topic but the 
 absorbing one, and their utmost effort was to speak of the 
 past with composure ; but they all felt relieved, though at 
 first unconsciously, when one, whose interest in their 
 feelings could not be doubted, gave the signal of with- 
 drawing their reflections from vicissitudes which it was 
 useless to deplore. Even the social forms which the 
 presence of a guest rendered indispensable, and the 
 exercise of the courtesies of hospitality, contributed to 
 this result. They withdrew their minds from the past. 
 And the worthy Bishop, whose tact was as eminent as his 
 good humour and benevolence, evincing as much delicacy 
 of feeling as cheerfulness of temper, a very few days had
 
 474 VENETIA. 
 
 elapsed before each of his companions was aware that his 
 presence had contributed to their increased content. 
 
 * You have not been to the abbey yet, Lord Cadurcis,' 
 said Masham to him one day, as they were sitting together 
 after dinner, the ladies having retired. ' You should go.' 
 
 ' I have been unwilling to leave them,' said George, ' and 
 I could scarcely expect them to accompany me. It is a 
 visit that must revive painful recollections.' 
 
 'We must not dwell on the past,' said Masham; 'we 
 must think only of the future.' 
 
 ' Venetia has no future, I fear,' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 ' Why not ? ' said Masham ; ' she is yet a girl, and with a 
 prospect of a long life. She must have a future, and I hope, 
 and I believe, it will yet be a happy one.' 
 
 ' Alas ! ' said Lord Cadurcis, ' no one can form an idea 
 of the attachment that subsisted between Plantagenet and 
 Venetia. They were not common feelings, or the feelings 
 of common minds, my dear lord.' 
 
 ' No one knew them both better than I did,' said 
 Masham, 'not even yourself: they were my children.' 
 
 ' I feel that,' said George, ' and therefore it is a pleasure 
 to us all to see you, and to speak with you.' 
 
 ' But we must look for consolation,' said Masham ; ' to 
 deplore is fruitless. If we live, we must struggle to live 
 happily. To tell you the truth, though their immediate 
 return to Cherbury was inevitable, and their residence here 
 for a time is scarcely to be deprecated, I still hope they 
 will not bury themselves here. For my part, after the 
 necessary interval, I wish to see Venetia once more in the 
 world.' 
 
 Lord Cadurcis looked very mournful, and shook his head. 
 
 ' As for her dear mother, she is habituated to sorrow and 
 disappointment,' said Masham. ' As long as Venetia lives 
 Lady Annabel will be content. Besides, deplorable as may 
 be the past, there must be solace to her in the reflection 
 that she was reconciled to her husband before his death, 
 and contributed to his happiness. Venetia is the stricken
 
 VENETIA. 475 
 
 lainb, but Venetia is formed for happiness, and it is in the 
 nature of things that she will be happy. We must not, 
 however, yield unnecessarily to our feelings. A violent 
 exertion would be unwise, but we should habituate our- 
 selves gradually to the exercise of our duties, and to our 
 accustomed pursuits. It would be well for you to go to 
 Cadurcis. If I were you I would go to-morrow. Take 
 advantage of my presence, and return and give a report 
 of your visit. Habituate Venetia to talk of a spot with 
 which ultimately she must renew her intimacy*' 
 
 Influenced by this advice, Lord Cadurcis rose early on 
 the next morning and repaired to the seat of his fathers, 
 where hitherto his foot had never trod. When the circle 
 at Cherbury assembled at their breakfast table he was 
 missing, and Masham had undertaken the office of apprising 
 his friends of the cause of his absence. He returned to 
 dinner, and the conversation fell naturally upon the abbey, 
 and the impressions he had received. It was maintained 
 at first by Lady Annabel and the Bishop, but Yenetia 
 ultimately joined in it, and with cheerfulness. Many a 
 trait and incident of former days was alluded to ; they 
 talked of Mrs. Cadurcis, whom George had never seen ; 
 they settled the chambers he should inhabit; they men- 
 tioned the improvements which Plantagenet had once con- 
 templated, and which George must now accomplish. 
 
 ' You must go to London first,' said the Bishop ; * you 
 have a great deal to do, and you should not delay such 
 business. I think you had better return with me. At this 
 time of the year you need not be long absent ; you will not 
 be detained ; and when you return, you will find yourself 
 much more at ease ; for, after all, nothing is more 
 harassing than the feeling, that there is business which 
 must be attended to, and which, nevertheless, is neglected.' 
 
 Both Lady Annabel and Venetia enforced this advice of 
 their friend ; and so it happened that, ere a week had 
 elapsed, Lord Cadurcis, accompanying Masham, found him- 
 self once more in London.
 
 476 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 VENETIA was now once more alone with her mother ; it was 
 as in old times. Their life was the same as before the 
 visit of Plantagenet previous to his going to Cambridge, 
 except indeed that they had no longer a friend at Marring- 
 hurst. They missed the Sabbath visits of that good man ; 
 for, though his successor performed the duties of the day, 
 which had been a condition when he was presented to the 
 living, the friend who knew all the secrets of their hearts 
 was absent. Venetia continued to bear herself with great 
 equanimity, and the anxiety which she observed instantly 
 impressed on her mother's countenance, the moment she 
 fancied there was unusual gloom on the brow of her child, 
 impelled Venetia doubly to exert herself to appear resigned. 
 And in truth, when Lady Annabel revolved in her mind 
 the mournful past, and meditated over her early and 
 unceasing efforts to secure the happiness of her daughter, 
 and then contrasted her aspirations with the result, she 
 could not acquit herself of having been too often un- 
 consciously instrumental in forwarding a very different 
 conclusion than that for which she had laboured. This 
 conviction preyed upon the mother, and the slightest 
 evidence of reaction in Venetia's tranquilised demeanour 
 occasioned her the utmost remorse and grief. The absence 
 of George made both Lady Annabel and Venetia still more 
 finely appreciate the solace of his society. Left to them- 
 selves, they felt how much they had depended on his 
 vigilant and considerate attention, and how much his sweet 
 temper and his unfailing sympathy had contributed to 
 their consolation. He wrote, however, to Venetia by every 
 post, and his letters, if possible, endeared him still more 
 to their hearts. Unwilling to dwell upon their mutual 
 sorrows, yet always expressing sufficient to prove that 
 distance and absence had not impaired his sympathy, he
 
 VENETIA. 477 
 
 contrived, with infinite delicacy, even to amuse their 
 solitude with the adventures of his life of bustle. The 
 arrival of the post was the incident of the day ; and not 
 merely letters arrived ; one day brought books, another 
 music ; continually some fresh token of his thought and 
 aifection reached them. He was, however, only a fortnight 
 absent ; but when he returned, it was to Cadurcis. He 
 called upon them the next day, and indeed every morning 
 found him at Cherbury ; but he returned to his home at 
 night ; and so, without an effort, from their guest he had 
 become their neighbour. 
 
 Plantagenet had left the whole of his property to his 
 cousin : his mother's fortune, which, as an accessory fund, 
 was not inconsiderable, besides the estate. And George 
 intended to devote a portion of this to the restoration of 
 the abbey. Venetia was to be his counsellor in this opera- 
 tion, and therefore there were ample sources of amusement 
 for the remainder of the year. On a high ridge, which was 
 one of the beacons of the county, and which, moreover, 
 marked the junction of the domains of Cherbury and 
 Cadurcis, it was his intention to raise a monument to the 
 united memories of Marmion Herbert and Plantagenet 
 Lord Cadurcis. He brought down a design with him from 
 London, and this was the project which he had previously 
 whispered to Venetia. With George for her companion, 
 too, Venetia was induced to resume her rides. It was her 
 part to make him acquainted Avith the county in which he 
 was so important a resident. Time therefore, at Cherbury, 
 on the whole, flowed on in a tide of tranquil pleasure; 
 and Lady Annabel observed, with interest and fondness, 
 the continual presence beneath her roof of one who, 
 from the first day she had met him, had engaged her 
 kind feelings, and had since become intimately endeared 
 to her. 
 
 The end of November was, however, now approaching, 
 and Parliament was about to reassemble. Masham had 
 written more than once to Lord Cadurcis, impressing upon
 
 478 VENETIA. 
 
 him the propriety and expediency of taking his seat. He 
 had shown these letters, as he showed everything, to 
 Venetia, who was his counsellor on all subjects, and 
 Venetia agreed with their friend. 
 
 ' It is right,' said Venetia ; ' you have a duty to perform, 
 and you. must perform it. Besides, I do not wish the name 
 of Cadurcis to sink again into obscurity. I shall look forward 
 with interest to Lord Cadurcis taking the oaths and his 
 seat. It will please me ; it will indeed.' 
 
 ' But Venetia,' said Geerge, ' I do not like to leave this 
 place. I am happy, if we may be happy. This life suits me. 
 I am a quiet man. I dislike London. I feel alone there.' 
 
 ' You can write to us ; you will have a great deal to say. 
 And I shall have something to say to you now. I must 
 give you a continual report how they go on at the abbey. 
 I will be your steward, and superintend everything.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said George, ' what shall I do in London without 
 you, without your advice ? There will be something oc- 
 curring every day, and I shall have no one to consult. 
 Indeed I shall feel quite miserable ; I shall indeed.' 
 
 ' It is quite impossible that, with your station, and at 
 your time of life, you should bury yourself in the country,' 
 said Venetia. ' You have the whole world before you, and 
 you must enjoy it. It is very well for mamma and myself 
 to lead this life. I look upon ourselves as two nuns. If 
 Cadurcis is an abbey, Cherbury is now a convent.' 
 
 ' How can a man wish to be more than happy ? I am quite 
 content here,' said George. ' What is London to me ? ' 
 
 ' It may be a great deal to you, more than you think,' 
 said Venetia. ' A great deal awaits you yet. However, 
 there can be no doubt you should take your seat. You can 
 always return, if you wish. But take your seat, and 
 cultivate dear Masham. I have the utmost confidence in 
 his wisdom and goodness. You cannot have a friend more 
 respectable. Now mind my advice, George.' 
 
 ' I always do, Venefia.'
 
 VENETIA. 479 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TIME and Faith are the great consolers, and neither of 
 these precious sources of solace were wanting to the 
 inhabitants of Cherbury. They were again living alone, 
 but their lives were cheerful ; and if Venetia no longer 
 indulged in a worldly and blissful future, nevertheless, in 
 the society of her mother, in the resources of art and 
 literature, in the diligent discharge of her duties to her 
 humble neighbours, and in cherishing the memory of the 
 departed, she experienced a life that was not without its 
 tranquil pleasures. She maintained with Lord Cadurcis a 
 constant correspondence ; he wrote to her every day, and 
 although they were separated, there was not an incident of 
 his life, and scarcely a thought, of which she was not 
 cognisant. It was with great difficulty that George could 
 induce himself to remain in London ; but Masham, who 
 soon obtained over him all the influence which Venetia 
 desired, ever opposed his return to the abbey. The good 
 Bishop was not unaware of the feelings with which Lord 
 Cadurcis looked back to the hall of Cherbury, and himself 
 of a glad and sanguine temperament, he indulged in a 
 belief in the- consummation of all that happiness for which 
 his young friend, rather sceptically, sighed. But Masham 
 was aware that time could alone soften the bitterness of 
 Venetia' s sorrow, and prepare her for that change of life 
 which he felt confident would alone ensure the happiness 
 both of herself and her mother. He therefore detained 
 Lord Cadurcis in London the whole of the sessions that, 
 on his return to Cherbury, his society might be esteemed a 
 novel and agreeable incident in the existence of its inhabit- 
 ants, and not be associated merely with their calamities. 
 
 It was therefore about a year after the catastrophe which 
 had so suddenly changed the whole tenor of their lives, and 
 occasioned so unexpected a revolution in his own position, 
 that Lord Cadurcis arrived at his ancestral seat, with no
 
 480 VENETIA. 
 
 intention of again speedily leaving it. He had long and 
 frequently apprised his friends of his approaching presence, 
 and, arriving at the abbey late at night, he was at Cherbury 
 early on the following morning. 
 
 Although no inconsiderable interval had elapsed since 
 Lord Cadurcis had parted from the Herberts, the continual 
 correspondence that had been maintained between himself 
 and Venetia, divested his visit of the slightest embarrass- 
 ment. They met as if they had parted yesterday, except 
 perhaps with greater fondness. The chain of their feelings 
 was unbroken. He was indeed welcomed, both by Lady 
 Annabel and her daughter, with warm affection ; and his ab- 
 sence had only rendered him dearer to them by affording an 
 opportunity of feeling how much his society contributed to 
 their felicity. Venetia was anxious to know his opinion of 
 the improvements at the abbey, which she had super- 
 intended ; but he assured her that he would examine 
 nothing without her company, and ultimately they agreed 
 to walk over to Cadurcis. 
 
 It was a summer day, and they walked through that 
 very wood wherein we described the journey of the child 
 Venetia, at the commencement of this very history. The 
 blue patches of wild hyacinths had all disappeared, but 
 there were flowers as sweet. What if the first feelings of 
 our heart fade, like the first flowers of spring, succeeding 
 years, like the coming summer, may bring emotions not 
 less charming, and, perchance, far more fervent ! 
 
 ' I can scarcely believe,' said Lord Cadurcis, ' that I am 
 once more with you. I know not what surprises me most, 
 Venetia, that we should be walking once more together in 
 the woods of Cherbury, or that I ever should have dared 
 to quit them.' 
 
 'And yet it was better, dear George,' said Venetia. 
 ' You must now rejoice that you have fulfilled your duty, 
 and yet you are here again. Besides, the abbey never 
 would have been finished if you had remained. To complete 
 all our plans, it required a mistress.'
 
 VENETIA. 481 
 
 ' I wish it always liad one,' said George. ' Ah, Vcnetia ! 
 once you told me never to despair.' 
 
 ' And what have you to despair about, George ? ' 
 
 ' Heigh ho ! ' said Lord Cadurcis, ' I never shall be able 
 to live in this abbey alone.' 
 
 'You should have brought a wife from London,' said 
 Venetia. 
 
 ' I told you once, Venetia, that I was not a marrying 
 man,' said Lord Cadurcis ; ' and certainly I never shall 
 bring a wife from London.' 
 
 ' Then you cannot accustom yourself too soon to a 
 bachelor's life,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Ah, Venetia ! ' said George, ' I wish I were clever ; I 
 wish I were a genius ; I wish I were a great man.' 
 
 ' Why, George ? ' 
 
 ' Because, Venetia, perhaps,' and Lord Cadurcis hesitated, 
 ' perhaps you would think differently of me ? I mean 
 perhaps your feelings towards me might ; ah, Venetia ! 
 perhaps you might think me worthy of you ; perhaps you 
 might love me.' 
 
 I am sure, dear George, if I did not love you, I should 
 be the most ungrateful of beings : you are our only friend.' 
 
 ' And can I never be more than a friend to you, Venetia? ' 
 said Lord Cadurcis, blushing very deeply. 
 
 ' I am sure, dear George, I should be very sorry for your 
 sake, if you wished to be more,' said Venetia. 
 
 ' Why ? ' said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 4 Because I should not like to see you unite your destiny 
 with that of a very unfortunate, if not a very unhappy, 
 person.' 
 
 ' The sweetest, the loveliest of women ! ' said Lord 
 Cadurcis. ' O Venetia ! I dare not express what I feel, 
 still less what I could hope. I think so little of myself, so 
 highly of you, that I am convinced my aspirations are too 
 arrogant for me to breathe them.' 
 
 ' Ah ! dear George, you deserve to be happy,' said 
 Venetia. ' Would that it were in my power to make you ! ' 
 
 1 1
 
 482 VENETIA. 
 
 ' Dearest Venetia ! it is, it is,' exclaimed Lord Cadurcis ; 
 then checking himself, as if frightened by his boldness, he 
 added in a more subdued tone, ' I feel I am not worthy of 
 you.' 
 
 They stood upon the breezy down that divided the 
 demesnes of Cherbury and the abbey. Beneath them rose, 
 'embosomed in a valley of green bowers,' the ancient pile 
 lately renovated under the studious care of Venetia. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Lord Cadurcis, ' be not less kind to the 
 master of these towers, than to the roof that you have 
 fostered. You have renovated our halls, restore our 
 happiness ! There is an union that will bring consolation 
 to more than one hearth, and baffle all the crosses of adverse 
 fate. Venetia, beautiful and noble-minded Venetia, con- 
 descend to fulfil it ! ' 
 
 Perhaps the reader will not be surprised that, within a 
 few months of this morning walk, the hands of George, 
 Lord Cadurcis, and Venetia Herbert were joined in the 
 chapel at Cherbury by the good Masham. Peace be with 
 them. 
 
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