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 ^
 
 VENETIA. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 " VIVIAN GREY" AND "HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 
 
 " Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ?" 
 
 " The child of love, though boru in bitternes*, 
 And nurtured in convulsion."' 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXXXVII.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 BRADBUllY ANJJ EVANS, PIl[NTF.RS, 
 
 WHITF.FKIARS.
 
 %X3 
 
 TO LORD LYNDHURST. 
 
 s<T In happier hours, when I first mentioned to you the 
 r,^ idea of this Work, it was my intention, while inscribing 
 r '-i it with your name, to have entered into some details as 
 Y to the principles which had guided me in its composi- 
 tion, 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 oidy express a 
 hope that the time may come when in these pages you 
 may find some relaxation from the cares, and some dis- 
 traction from the sorrows, of existence, and that you 
 >vill then receive this dedication as a record of my respect 
 and my affection. 
 
 May, 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 ex- 
 tensive forest, an ancient hall that belonged to 
 the Herberts, but which, though ever well pre- 
 served, had not until that period been visited 
 by any member of the family, since the exile 
 of the Stuarts. It was an edifice of con- 
 siderable size, built of grey stone, much covered 
 with ivy, and placed upon the last gentle 
 elevation of a long ridge of hills, in the centre 
 of a crescent of woods, that far overtopped its 
 clusters of tall chimneys and turrcted gables. 
 
 VOL. r. B
 
 2 VENETIA. 
 
 Although the principal chambers were on the 
 first story, you could nevertheless step forth 
 from their windows on a very broad terrace, 
 whence you descended into the gardens by a 
 double flight of broad stone steps, exactly in 
 the middle of its length. These gardens were 
 of some extent, and filled with evergreen 
 shrubberies of remarkable overgrowth, while 
 occasionally turfy vistas, cut in the distant 
 woods, came sloping down to the south, as if 
 they opened to receive the sunbeam that greeted 
 the genial aspect of the mansion. The ground- 
 floor was principally occupied by the hall itself, 
 which of course was of great dimensions, hung 
 round with many a family portrait and rural 
 picture, furnished with long oaken seats covered 
 with scarlet cushions, and ornamented with a 
 parti-coloured floor of alternate diamonds of 
 black and white marble. From the centre of 
 the roof of the mansion, which was always 
 covered with pigeons, rose the clock-tower of 
 the chapel, surmounted by a vane; and, before
 
 VENETIA. S 
 
 the mansion itself, was a large plot of grass, 
 with a fountain in its middle, surrounded by a 
 hedge of honeysuckle. 
 
 '"■This plot of grass was separated from an 
 extensive park, that opened in front of the hall, 
 by very tall iron gates, on each of the pillars of 
 which w^as a lion rampant supporting the 
 escutcheon of the family. The deer wandered 
 in this enclosed and well-wooded demesne, and 
 about a mile from the mansion, in a direct line 
 with the iron gates, was an old-fashioned lodge, 
 which marked the limit of the park, and from 
 which you emerged into a very 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 inter- 
 minable, while on the other the eye rested on 
 the dark heights of the neighbouring forest. 
 
 This picturesque, and very secluded abode, 
 was the residence of Lady Annabel Herbert 
 3 2
 
 4 VENETIA. 
 
 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 mo- 
 ther educated her child, and the child interested 
 lier 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 
 very lovely. That she was wealthy her estab- 
 lishment 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 cpunty where she was personally unknown, 
 distant from the metropolis, estranged from all
 
 VENETIA. D 
 
 her own relatives and connexions, and witlioiit 
 tlie resource of even a single neighbour, for the 
 only place of importance in her vicinity was 
 uninhabited. The general impression of the 
 villagers was that Lady Annabel was a widow ; 
 and yet there were some speculators who would 
 shrewdly remark, that her ladyship had never 
 worn weeds, although, if Venetia were her only 
 child, her husband could not have been long 
 dead when she first arrived at Cherbury. On 
 the whole, however, these good people were not 
 very inquisitive, and it was fortunate for them ; 
 for there was little chance and slight means of 
 gratifying their curiosity. The whole of the 
 establishment had been formed at Cherbury, 
 with the exception of her ladyship's waiting- 
 woman, Mistress Pauncefort, and she was by 
 far too great a personage to condescend to reply 
 to any question which was not made to her by 
 Lady Annabel herself. 
 
 The beauty of the young Venetia was not 
 the hereditary gift of her beautiful mother. It
 
 Jp VENETIA. 
 
 was not from Lady Annabel that Yenetia Her- 
 bert 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 man- 
 hood, 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 briUiancy, 
 like some winged minister of RafFael or Murillo. 
 The peasants that passed the lady and her 
 daughter in their walks, and who blessed her 
 as they passed, for all her grace and goodness, 
 often marvelled why so fair a mother and so 
 fair a child should be so dissimilar, that one 
 indeed might be compared to a starry night, and 
 the other to a sunny day.
 
 YENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It was a bright and soft spring morning : the 
 dewy vistas of Cherbury sparkled in the sun, 
 the cooing of the pigeons sounded around, the 
 peacocks strutted about the terrace and spread 
 their tails with infinite enjoyment and conscious 
 pride, and Lady Annabel came forth with her 
 little daughter, to breathe the renovating odours 
 of the season. The air was scented with the 
 violet, tufts of daffodils were scattered all about, 
 and, though the snowdrop had vanished, and the 
 primroses were fast disappearing, their wild and 
 shaggy leaves still looked picturesque and glad, 
 
 " Mamma," said the little Venetia, «' is this
 
 S VENETIA. 
 
 ** This is spring, my child," replied Lady 
 Annabel, " beautiful spring ! The year is young 
 and happy, like my little girl.'* 
 
 "If Venetia be like the spring, mamma is 
 like the summer!" replied the child; and the 
 mother smiled. *' And is not the summer young 
 and happy ? " resumed Venetia. 
 
 ''It is not quite as young as the spring,'" said 
 Lady Annabel, looking down with fondness on 
 her little companion, " and, I fear, not quite as 
 happy." 
 
 " But it is as beautiful," said Venetia. 
 
 " It is not beauty that makes us happy," said 
 Lady Annabel ; " to be happy, my love, we 
 must be good." 
 
 " Am I good? " said Venetia. 
 
 "Very good," said Lady Annabel. 
 
 " I am very happy," said Venetia ; " I wonder 
 whether, if I be always good, I shall always be 
 happy." 
 
 " You cannot be happy without being good, 
 my love ; but happiness depends upon the will
 
 VENETIA. 9 
 
 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 con- 
 
 science r 
 
 p.. 
 
 " You are not yet quite old enough to under- 
 stand," said Lady Annabel, "but some day I 
 Avill teach you. Mamma is now going to take a 
 long walk, and Venetia shall walk with her." 
 
 So saying, the Lady Annabel summoned 
 Mistress Pauncefort, a gentlewoman of not more 
 discreet years than might have been expected m 
 the attendant of so young a mistress ; but one 
 well-quahfied for her office, very zealous and de- 
 voted, somewhat consequential, full of energy 
 and decision, capable of directing, fond of giving 
 advice, and habituated to command. The Lady 
 Annabel, leading her daughter, and accompanied 
 by her faithful blood-hound, Marmion, ascended 
 one of those sloping vistas that we have noticed, 
 B 3
 
 10 VENETIA. 
 
 Mistress Pauncefort following them about a pace 
 behind, and after her a groom, at a very respect- 
 ful distance, leading Miss Herbert''s donkey. 
 
 They soon entered a winding path through 
 the wood, which was the background of their 
 dwelling. Lady Annabel was silent, and lost 
 in her reflections ; Venetia plucked the beautiful 
 wild hyacinths that then abounded in the wood, 
 in such profusion that their beds spread like 
 patches of blue enamel, and gave them to Mis- 
 tress 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
 
 VENETIA. 11 
 
 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, par- 
 tially wooded ; and at their base was a rich 
 valley, its green meads fed by a clear and rapid 
 stream, which glittered in the sun as it coursed 
 on, losing itself at length in a wild and sedgy 
 lake that formed the furthest limit of a widely 
 spreading park. In the centre of this park, and 
 not very remote from the banks of the rivulet, 
 was an ancient gothic building, that had once 
 been an abbey of great repute and wealth, and 
 had not much suffered in its external character, 
 by having served for nearly two centuries and a 
 half as the principal dwelling of an old baronial 
 family. 
 
 Descending the downy hill, that here and 
 there was studded with fine old trees, enriching 
 
 by their presence the view from the abbey, Lady 
 Annabel and her party entered the meads, and,
 
 12 VENETIA. 
 
 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 game-keeper: hundreds of wild 
 cats, dned to blackness, stretched their down-
 
 VENETIA. 13 
 
 ward heads and legs from the mouldering wall ; 
 hawks, magpies, and jays hung in tattered rem- 
 nants ; but all grey, and even green, with age ; 
 and the heads of birds in plenteous rows, nailed 
 beak upward, and so dried and shrivelled by the 
 suns and winds and frosts of many seasons, that 
 their distinctive characters were lost. 
 
 " Do you know, my good Pauncefort," said 
 Lady Annabel, "that I have an odd fancy 
 to-day to force an entrance into the old abbey. 
 It is strange, fond as I am of this walk, that we 
 have never yet entered it. Do you recollect our 
 last vain efforts ? Shall we be more fortunate 
 this time, think you ? " 
 
 Mistress Pauncefort smiled and smirked, and, 
 advancing to the old gloomy porch, gave a very 
 determined rinoj at the bell. Its sound miirht 
 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
 
 14 VENETIA. 
 
 disappoiatment, 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." 
 
 " 'T is a pity," said Lady Annabel, '« for, 
 with all its desolation, there is something about 
 this spot which ever greatly interests me.*" 
 
 " Mamma, why does no one live here ? " said 
 Venetia, 
 
 " The master of the abbey lives abroad, my 
 child." 
 
 " Why does he, mamma ? " 
 
 " Never ask questions, Miss Venetia," said 
 Mistress Pauncefort, in a hushed and solemn 
 tone ; " it is not pretty." Lady Annabel had 
 moved away. 
 
 The groom returned, and said he had met a 
 very old man, picking water-cresses, and he was 
 the only person who lived in the abbey, except
 
 VENETIA. 15 
 
 his wife, and she was bed-ridden. The old man 
 had promised to admit them when he had com- 
 pleted his task, but not before, and the groom 
 feared it would be some time before he arrived. 
 
 '' Come, Pauncefort, rest yourself on this 
 bench," said Lady Annabel, seating herself in 
 the porch ; *' and Venetia, my child, come hither 
 to me." 
 
 " Mamma," said Venetia, " what is the name 
 of the gentleman to whom this abbey belongs ? " 
 
 " Lord Cadurcis, love.**' 
 
 " I should like to know why Lord Cadurcis 
 lives abroad ?" said Venetia, musingly. 
 
 " There are many reasons why persons may 
 choose to quit their native country, and dwell in 
 another, my love,'' said Lady Annabel, ver}^ 
 quietly ; '' some change the climate for their 
 health;' 
 
 " Did Lord Cadurcis, mamma ? " asked Ve- 
 netia. 
 
 " I do not know Lord Cadurcis, dear, or any 
 thing of him, except that he is a very old man, 
 and has no family."
 
 16 VENETIA. 
 
 At this moment there was a sound of bars and 
 bolts withdrawn, and the falling of a chain, and 
 at length the massy door slowly opened, and the 
 old man appeared and beckoned to them to enter. 
 
 *« 'T is eight years, come Martinmas, since I 
 opened this door,'** said the old man, " and it 
 sticks a bit. You must walk about by your- 
 selves, for I have no breath, and my mistress is 
 bed-ridden. There, straiglit down the cloister, 
 you can't miss your way ; there is not much to 
 see." 
 
 The interior of the abbey formed a quadrangle, 
 surrounded by the cloisters, and in this inner 
 court was a very curious fountain, carved with 
 exquisite skill by some gothic artist in one of 
 those capricious moods of sportive invention, that 
 produced those grotesque medleys for which the 
 feudal sculptor was celebrated. Not a sound 
 was heard except the fall of the fountain and the 
 light echoes that its voice called up. 
 
 The staircase led Lady Annabel and her 
 party through several small rooms, scantily gar- 
 nished with very ancient furniture, in some of
 
 VENETIA. 17 
 
 Avhich were portraits of the family, until they at 
 length entered a noble saloon, once the refectory 
 of the abbey, and not deficient in splendour, 
 though sadly soiled and worm-eaten. It was 
 hung with tapestry representing the Cartoons of 
 Raffael, and their still vivid colours contrasted 
 with the faded hangings and the dingy damask 
 of the chairs and sofas. A mass of Cromwellian 
 armour was huddled together in a corner of a 
 long monkish gallery, with a standard, encrusted 
 with dust, and a couple of old drums, one broken. 
 From one of the windows they had a good view 
 of the old walled garden, which did not tempt 
 them to enter it ; it was a wilderness, the walks 
 no longer distinguishable from the rank vegeta- 
 tion of the once cultivated lawns ; the terraces 
 choked up with the unchecked shrubberies; and 
 here and there a leaden statue, a goddess or a 
 satyr, prostrate, and covered with moss and 
 lichen. 
 
 ** It makes me melancholy,'** said Lady Anna- 
 bel ; *' let us return."
 
 18 VENETIA. 
 
 " 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 know- 
 ledge, you will not believe in them, Venetia,*' 
 replied Lady Annabel. 
 
 Our friends left Cadurcis abbey. Venetia 
 mounted her donkey, her mother walked by her 
 side ; the sun was beginning to decline when 
 they again reached Cherbury, and the air was 
 brisk. Lady Annabel was glad to find her- 
 self by her fireside in her little terrace-room, 
 and Venetia, fetching her book, read to her 
 mother until their dinner hour.
 
 VENETIA. If 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Two serene and innocent years had glided 
 away at Cherbury since this morning ramble to 
 Cadurcis abbey, and Venetia had grown in love- 
 liness, in goodness, and intelligence. Her lively 
 and somewhat precocious mind had become 
 greatly developed ; and, though she was only 
 nine years of age, it scarcely needed the affection 
 of a mother to find in her an interesting and 
 engaging companion. Although feminine educa- 
 tion 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,
 
 20 VENETIA. 
 
 "the complete art of making pastry," and read- 
 ing '' The Wliole Duty of Man." She had 
 profited, when a child, by the guidance of her 
 brother's tutor, who Iiad bestowed no un- 
 fruitful pains upon no ordinary capacity. She 
 was a good linguist, a fine musician, v.as well 
 read in our elder poets and their Italian originals, 
 was no unskilful artist, and had acquired some 
 knowledge of botany when wandering, as a girl, 
 in her native woods. Since her retirement to 
 Cherbury, reading had been her chief resource. 
 The hall contained a library whose shelves, 
 indeed, were more full than choice; but amid 
 folios of theological controversy and civil law, 
 there might be found the first editions of most 
 of the celebrated writers of the reign of Anne, 
 which the contemporary proprietor of Cher- 
 bury, 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
 
 VENETIA. 21 
 
 the principal duty of Lady Annabel, but her 
 chief delight. To cultivate the nascent intelli- 
 gence of a child, in those days, was not the 
 niere piece of scientific mechanism that the admi- 
 rable 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 
 excitem.ent than '• Tom Thumb," or even 
 '' Goody Two-Shoes." " The Seven Cham- 
 pions " was a great resource and a great fa- 
 vourite; but it required all the vigilance of a 
 mother to eradicate the false impressions which 
 Such studies were continuallv making on so 
 tender a student ; and to disenchant, by rational 
 discussion, the fascinated imagination of her
 
 22 VENETIA. 
 
 child. Lady Annabel endeavoured to find some 
 substitute in the essays of Addison and Steele ; 
 but they required more knowledge of the every- 
 day world for their enjoyment than an infant, 
 bred in such seclusion, could at present afford ; 
 and at last Venetia lost herself in the wildering 
 pages of Clelia and the Arcadia, which she 
 pored over with a rapt and ecstatic spirit, that 
 would not comprehend the warning scepticism 
 of her parent. Let us picture to ourselves 
 the high-bred Lady Annabel in the terrace 
 room of her ancient hall, working at her 
 tapestry, and, seated at her feet, her little 
 daughter Venetia, reading aloud the Arcadia ! 
 The peacocks have jumped up on the window 
 sill, to look at their friends who love to feed them, 
 and by their pecking have aroused the blood- 
 hound, crouching at Lady AnnabePs 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 !
 
 VENETIA. 23 
 
 Thus it will be seen that the hfe and studies 
 of Venetia tended rather dangerously, in spite 
 of all the care of her mother, to the development 
 of her imagination, in case indeed she possessed 
 that terrible and fatal gift. She passed her 
 days in unbroken solitude, or broken only by 
 affections which softened her heart, and in a 
 scene which itself might well promote any pre- 
 disposition of the kind ; beautiful and pic- 
 turesque objects surrounded her on all sides; 
 she wandered, as it were, in an enchanted 
 wilderness, and watched the deer reposing under 
 the green shadow of stately trees ; the old 
 hall itself Avas calculated to excite mysterious 
 curiosity; one wing was uninhabited and shut 
 up ; each morning and evening she repaired 
 with her mother and the household througli 
 long galleries to the chapel, where she knelt 
 to her devotions, illumined by a window bla- 
 zoned with the arms of that illustrious family 
 of which she was a member, and of which she 
 knew nothing. She had an indefinite and
 
 ^4 VENETIA. 
 
 painful consciousness that she had been early 
 checked in the natural inquiries which occur 
 to every child ; she had insensibly been trained 
 to speak only of what she saw ; and, when she 
 listened, at night, to the long ivy rustling 
 about the windows, and the wild owls hooting 
 about the mansion, with their pining, melan- 
 choly voices, she might have been excused for 
 believing in those spirits, which her mother 
 warned her to discredit ; or she forgot these 
 mournful impressions in dreams caught from 
 her romantic volumes, of bright knights and 
 beautiful damsels. 
 
 Only one event of importance had occurred 
 at Cherbury, during these two years, if indeed 
 that be not too strong a phrase to use in 
 reference to an occurrence which occasioned so 
 slight and passing an interest. Lord Cadurcis 
 had died. He had left his considerable pro- 
 perty to his natural children, but the abbey 
 had descended with the title to a very distant 
 relative. The circle at Cherbury had heard,
 
 VENETIA. 25 
 
 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 im- 
 pression. The abbey was still deserted and 
 desolate as ever. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 2G VF.NETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Every Sunday afternoon, the rector of a 
 neighbouring, though still somewhat distant 
 2)arish, of which the rich living was in the gift 
 of the Herberts, came to perform divine service 
 at Cherbury. It was a subject of deep regret 
 to Lady Annabel that herself and her family 
 were debarred from the advantage of more 
 frequent and convenient spiritual consolation ; 
 but, at this time, the parochial discipline of the 
 Church of England was not so strict as it 
 fortunately is at present. Cherbury, though a 
 vicarage, possessed neither parish church, nor a 
 residence for the clergyman; nor was there in- 
 deed a village. The peasants on the estate, or
 
 VENETIA. 27 
 
 labourers as they are now styled, a term whose 
 introduction into our rural world is much to be 
 lamented, lived in the respective farm-houses on 
 the lands which they cultivated. These were 
 scattered about at considerable distances, and 
 many of their inmates found it more convenient to 
 attend the church of the contiguous parish than 
 to repair to the hall chapel, where the household 
 and the dwellers in the few cottages scattered 
 about the park and woods always assembled. 
 The Lady Annabel, whose lot it had been in 
 life to find her best consolation in religion, and 
 who was influenced by not only a sincere, but even 
 a severe piety, had no other alternative, there- 
 fore, but engaging a chaplain; but this, after 
 much consideration, she had resolved not to do. 
 She was indeed her own chaplain, herself per- 
 forming 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 Restora- 
 tion to the conclusion of the last reign, liave so 
 c 2
 
 28 VENETIA. 
 
 eminently distinguished the communion of our 
 national Church. 
 
 Each Sunday, after the performance of divine 
 service, the Rev. Dr. Mash am 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 some- 
 what 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,
 
 VENETIA. 29 
 
 SO beautiful, so dignified, so amiable and higlily 
 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 dis- 
 interested enough to regret that she led so 
 secluded a life, and often lamented that nothing 
 would induce her to show her elegant person on 
 a race-course, or to attend an assize ball, an 
 assembly which was then becoming much the 
 fashion. The little Venetia was a charming 
 child, and the kind-hearted Doctor, though a 
 bachelor, loved children ; 
 
 " O ! matre pulchra, filia pulchrior," 
 
 was the Rev. Dr. Masham's apposite and 
 favourite quotation after his weekly visit to 
 Cherbury. 
 
 Divine service was concluded ; the Doctor had 
 preached a capital sermon ; for he had been 
 one of the shining lights of his university until 
 his rich but isolating preferment had apparently
 
 30 VENETIA. 
 
 closed the great career which it was once sup- 
 posed awaited him. The accustomed walk on 
 the terrace was completed, and dinner was an- 
 nounced. This meal was always celebrated at 
 Cherbury, where new fashions stole down wdth 
 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 neigh- 
 bouring counties. The Lady Annabel and her 
 good pastor seated themselves at each end of the 
 table, while Venetia, mounted on a high chair, 
 was waited on by Mistress Pauncefort, who 
 never condescended by any chance attention to 
 notice the presence of any other individual but 
 her little charge, on whose chair she just leaned 
 with an air of condescending devotion. The 
 butler stood behind his lady, and two other 
 servants watched the Doctor ; rural bodies all, 
 but decked on this day in gorgeous livery coats 
 of blue and silver, which had been made ori- 
 ginally for men of very different size and
 
 VENETIA. 81 
 
 bearing. Simple as was the usual diet at Cher- 
 bury, the cook was permitted on Sunday full 
 play to her art, which, in the eighteenth century? 
 indulged in the production of dishes more nu- 
 merous and substantial than our refined tastes 
 could at present tolerate. The Doctor appre- 
 ciated a good dinner, and his countenance glis- 
 tened with approbation as he surveyed the 
 ample tureen of potage royal, with a boned duck 
 swimming in its centre. Before him still 
 scowled in death the grim countenance of a 
 huge roast pike, flanked on one side by a leg of 
 mutton d-la-daiihe^ and on the other by the 
 tempting delicacies of bombarded veal. To 
 these succeeded that masterpiece of the culinary 
 art, a grand battalia pie, in which the bodies of 
 chickens pigeons and rabbits were embalmed in 
 spices, cocks'* combs, and savory balls, and well 
 bedewed with one of those rich sauces of claret, 
 anchovy, and sweet herbs, in which our great- 
 grandfathers delighted, and which was techni- 
 cally termed a Lear. But the grand essay of
 
 32 VENETIA. 
 
 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 inven- 
 tions, and the repast closed with a dish of oyster 
 loaves and a pompetone of larks. 
 
 Notwithstanding the abstemiousness of his 
 hostess, the Doctor was never deterred from 
 doing justice to her hospitality. Few were the 
 dishes that ever escaped him. The demon 
 dyspepsia had not waved its fell wings over the 
 eighteenth century, and wonderful were the 
 feats then achieved by a country gentleman 
 with the united aid of a good digestion and a 
 good conscience. 
 
 The servants had retired and Dr. Masham 
 had taken his last glass of port, and then he 
 rang a bell on the table, and — I trust my fair 
 readers will not be frightened from proceeding
 
 VENETIA. Sa 
 
 with this history — a servant brought him his 
 pipe. The pipe was well stuffed, duly lighted, 
 and duly puffed ; and then, taking it from his 
 mouth, the Doctor spoke. 
 
 " And so, my honoured lady, you have got 
 a neighbour at last." 
 
 '' Indeed ! " exclaimed Lady Annabel. 
 
 But the claims of the pipe prevented the good 
 Doctor from too quickly satisfying her natural 
 curiosity. Another puff or two, and he then 
 continued. 
 
 " Yes," said he, '* the old abbey has at last 
 found a tenant." 
 
 " A tenant, Doctor ? " 
 
 " Ay ! the best tenant in the world — its pro- 
 prietor." 
 
 *' You quite surprise me. When did this 
 occur ? '* 
 
 " They have been there these three days ; I 
 have paid them a visit. Mrs. Cadurcis has 
 come to live at the abbey with the little lord." 
 
 *' This is indeed news to us," said Lady 
 c 3
 
 34 VENETIA. 
 
 Annabel ; " and what kind of people are 
 they ? " 
 
 " You know, my dear madam," said the Doc- 
 tor, 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 pro- 
 perty to his unlawful children, with the excep- 
 tion of this estate entailed on the title, as all 
 estates should be. 'Tis a fine place, but no 
 great rental. I doubt whether His 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 spendthrift. He was a 
 bad manager, and, worse, a bad husband. Pro-
 
 VENETIA. 35 
 
 vidence 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 
 as well as we have to-day. A very limited 
 income, my dear madam ; a very limited income, 
 indeed. And the guardians, I am told, will 
 only allow the little Lord a hundred a-year ; 
 but, on her own income, whatever it may be, and 
 that addition, she has resolved to live at the 
 abbey ; and I believe — I believe she has it rent- 
 free ; but I don't know." 
 
 " Poor woman ! " said Lady Annabel, and 
 not without a sigh. " I trust her child is her 
 consolation." 
 
 Venetia had not spoken during this conversa- 
 tion, but she had listened to it very attentively. 
 At length she said, " Mamma, is not a widow a 
 wife that has lost her husband ? '*
 
 36 VENETIA. 
 
 " You are right, tny dear," said Lady Anna- 
 bel, 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 Anna- 
 bel ; " 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 ex- 
 ception to my rule." 
 
 " I would not ask you to sacrifice your inchna- 
 tions 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 ;
 
 VENETIA. 37 
 
 and here is a case where, believe me, they might 
 be fulfilled." 
 
 The Doctor's horses now appeared. Both 
 master and groom wore their pistols in their 
 holsters. The Doctor shook hands warmly 
 with Lady Annabel, and patted Venetia on her 
 head, as she ran up from a little distance, with 
 an eager countenance, to receive her accustomed 
 blessing. Then mounting his stout mare, he 
 once more waved his hand with an air of court- 
 liness to his hostess, and was soon out of sight. 
 Lady Annabel and Venetia returned to the 
 terrace room.
 
 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 complain when 
 my betters are satisfied, and after all I am 
 always content, if your ladyship be ; still there 
 is no denying the fact, that this is a terrible 
 lonesome life after all. And I cannot help 
 thinking your ladyship has not been looking 
 so well of late, and a little society would
 
 VENETIA. 39 
 
 do your ladyship good ; and Miss Venetia, 
 too, after all, she wants a playfellow ; I am 
 certain sure that I was as tired of playing at 
 ball with her this morning as if I had never sat 
 down in my born days; and, I dare say, the 
 little Lord will play with her all day long." 
 
 " If I thought that this visit would lead 
 to what is understood by the word society, my 
 good Pauncefort, I certainly should refrain 
 from paying it/' said "Lady Annabel, very 
 quietly. 
 
 " Oh ! Lord, dear my lady, I was not for a 
 moment dreaming of any such thing,'' replied 
 Mistress Pauncefort ; " society, I know as well 
 as any one, means grand balls, Ranelagh, and 
 the masquerades. I can't abide the thought of 
 them, I do assure your ladyship ; all I meant 
 was that a quiet dinner now and then with a 
 few friends, a dance perhaps in the evening, or 
 a hand of whisk, or a game of romps at Christ- 
 mas, when the abbey will of course be quite 
 full, a—"
 
 40 VENETIA. 
 
 " I believe there is as little chance of the 
 abbey being full at Christmas, or any other tirae, 
 as there is of Cherbury," said Lady Annabel, 
 *' Mrs. Cadurcis is a widow, with a very slender 
 fortune. Her son will not enjoy his estate until 
 he is of age, and its rental is small. I am led 
 to believe that they will live quite as quietly as 
 ourselves ; and when I spoke of Christian 
 charity, I was thinking only of kindness towards 
 them, and not of amusement for ourselves." 
 
 " Well, my lady, your la'ship knows best,'* 
 replied Mistress Pauncefort, evidently very 
 disappointed; for she had indulged in mo- 
 mentary visions of noble visiters 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.
 
 VENETIA. 41 
 
 The next morning the old fawn-coloured 
 chariot, which had not been used since Lady 
 Annabel's arrival at Cherbury, and four black 
 long-tailed coach-horses, that from absolute 
 necessity had been degraded, in the interval, 
 to the service of the cart and the plough, made 
 their appearance, after much bustle and effort, 
 before the hall-door. Although a morning's 
 stroll from Cherbury through the woods, Cadur- 
 cis was distant nearly ten miles by the road, and 
 that road was in great part impassable, save in 
 favourable seasons. This visit, therefore, was 
 an expedition ; and Lady Annabel, fearing the 
 fatigue for a child, determined to leave Venetia 
 at home, from whom she had actually never been 
 separated one hour in her life. Venetia could 
 not refrain from shedding a tear when her mother 
 embraced and quitted her, and begged, as a last 
 favour, that she might accompany her through 
 the park to the avenue lodge. So Pauncefort 
 and herself entered the chariot, that rocked like 
 a ship, in spite of all the skill of the coachman 
 and the postilion.
 
 ^ VENETIA. 
 
 Venetia walked home with Mistress Paunce- 
 fort, but Lady Amiabers 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 very 
 thoughtful tone, " Mistress Pauncefort, I should 
 have liked to have gone and seen the little boy/' 
 
 "You shall go and see him another day. Miss," 
 replied her attendant. 
 
 " Mistress Pauncefort," said Venetia, " are 
 you a widow ? " 
 
 Mistress Pauncefort almost started ; had the 
 inquiry been made by a man, she would almost 
 have supposed he was going to be very rude. 
 She was indeed very much surprised. 
 
 " And pray. Miss Venetia, what could put it 
 in your head to ask such an odd question ? " ex- 
 claimed Mistress Pauncefort. " A widow ! Miss 
 Venetia ; I have never yet changed my name, 
 and I shall not in a hurry, that .1 can tell you." 
 
 "Do widows change their names?" said 
 Venetia.
 
 VENETIA. 43 
 
 ^' All women change their names when they 
 marry," responded Mistress Pauncefort. 
 
 " Is mamma married ? " inquired Venetia. 
 
 *' La ! Miss Venetia. Well, to be sure, you 
 do ask the strangest questions. Married ! To be 
 sure she is married,'' said Mistress Pauncefort, 
 exceedingly flustered. 
 
 " And whom is she married to ? " pursued the 
 unwearied Venetia. 
 
 '' Your papa, to be sure," said Mistress 
 Pauncefort, blushing up to her eyes, and looking 
 very confused ; '^ that is to say, Miss Venetia, 
 you are never to ask questions about such sub- 
 jects. Have not I often told you it is not 
 pretty ? '' 
 
 « Why is it not pretty ? '' said Venetia. 
 
 '« Because it is not proper," said Mistress 
 Pauncefort ; " because your mamma does not 
 like you to ask such questions, and she will be 
 very angry with me for answering them, I can 
 tell you that." 
 
 '* I tell you what, Mistress Pauncefort," said 
 Venetia, " I think mamma is a widow."
 
 44 VENETIA. 
 
 " And what then. Miss Venetia ? There is no 
 shame in that." 
 
 " Shame ! " exclaimed Venetia. " What is 
 shame ? '* 
 
 " Look, there is a pretty butterfly ! " ex- 
 claimed Mistress Pauncefort. " Did you ever 
 see such a pretty butterfly, Miss?" 
 
 " I do not care about butterflies to-day. Mis- 
 tress Pauncefort ; I like to talk about widows." 
 
 " Was there ever such a child ? " exclaimed 
 Mistress Pauncefort, with a wondering glance. 
 
 " I must have had a papa," said Venetia ; 
 " all the ladies I read about had papas, and 
 married husbands. Then whom did my mamma 
 marry ? " 
 
 " Lord ! Miss Venetia, you know very well 
 your mamma always tells you that all those 
 books you read are a pack of stories," observed 
 Mistress Pauncefort, with an air of triumphant 
 art. 
 
 " There never were such persons, perhaps,**' 
 said Venetia, "but it is not true that there 
 never were such things as papas and husbands,
 
 VEXETIA. 45 
 
 for all people have papas ; you must have had a 
 papa, Mistress Pauncefort ? *" 
 
 " To be sure I had,'"' said Mistress Pauncefort, 
 bridling up. 
 
 *' And a mamma, too ? " said Venetia. 
 
 " As honest a woman as ever lived,"" said 
 Mistress Pauncefort. 
 
 " Then if I have no papa, mamma must 
 be a wife that has lost her husband, and 
 that, mamma told me at dinner yesterday, was 
 a widow."*' 
 
 " Was the like ever seen ? " exclaimed Mis- 
 tress Pauncefort. " And what then. Miss 
 Venetia ? *' 
 
 " It seems to me so odd that only two people 
 should live here, and both be widows," said 
 Venetia, " and both have a little child ; the 
 only difference is, that one is a little boy, and I 
 am a little girl."" 
 
 '• When ladies lose their husbands, they do 
 not like to have their names njentioned/* said 
 Mistress Pauncefort ; " and so you must never
 
 46- VENETIA. 
 
 talk of your papa to my lady, and that is 
 the truth." 
 
 ** I will not now," said Venetia. 
 
 When they returned home. Mistress Paunce- 
 fort brought her work, and seated herself 
 on the terrace, that she might not lose sight of 
 her charge. Venetia played about for some 
 little time ; she made a castle behind a tree, and 
 fancied she was a knight, and then a lady, and 
 conjured up an ogre in the neighbouring shrub- 
 bery ; 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 foun- 
 tain ; the grand room, with the tapestry hang- 
 ings; that desolate garden, with the fallen
 
 VENETIA, 47 
 
 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 alone with Mistress Paunce- 
 fort; 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.
 
 48- VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A FEW days after the visit to Cadurcis, when 
 Lady Annabel was sitting alone, a post-chaise 
 drove up to the hall, whence issued a short and 
 very stout woman with a rubicund countenance, 
 and dressed in a style which remarkably blended 
 the shabby with the tawdry. She was accom- 
 panied by a boy between eleven and twelve 
 years of age, whose appearance, however, very 
 much contrasted with that of his mother, for he 
 was very pale and slender, with long curling 
 black hair and large black eyes, which occa- 
 sionally, 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
 
 VENETIA. 49 
 
 was received by Lady Annabel with the greatest 
 courtesy. 
 
 " A terrible journey," exclaimed Mrs. Ca- 
 durcis, fanning herself as she took her seat, 
 " and so very hot ! Plantagenet, my love, 
 make your bow ; have not I always told you to 
 make a bow when you enter a room, especially 
 where there are strangers ? This is Lady 
 Annabel Herbert, who was so kind as to call 
 upon us. IMake your bow to Lady Annabel." 
 
 The boy gave a sort of sulky nod, but Lady 
 Annabel received it so graciously and expressed 
 herself so kindly to him that his features re- 
 laxed 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 worso roads, if possible, 
 than we had in Northumberland, where, indeed, 
 there were no roads at all. Cherbury a de- 
 lightful place, very unlike the abbey ; dreadfully 
 lonesome I assure you I find it, Lady Annabel. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 VENETIA. 
 
 Great change for us from a little town and all 
 our kind neighbours. Very different from 
 Morpeth; is it not, Plantagenet ?" 
 
 " 1 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. Be- 
 sides, 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 edu- 
 cate this dear child!" continued Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 turning to Lady Annabel, and speaking in a 
 semi- tone. " I have done it all myself, I assure 
 you ; and, when he likes, he can be as good as 
 any one. Can't you, Plantagenet ?" 
 
 Lord Cadurcis gave a grim smile ; seated 
 himself at the very back of the deep chair and 
 swung his feet, which no longer reached the 
 ground, to and fro. 
 
 '« I am sure that Lord Cadurcis always be- 
 haves well," said Lady Annabel. 
 
 " There, Plantagenet," exclaimed Mrs. Ca-
 
 VENETIA. 51 
 
 durcis, ^' only listen to that. Hear what Lady 
 Annabel Herbert says ; she is sure you always 
 behave well. Now mind, never give her lady- 
 ship cause to change her opinion." 
 
 Plantagenet curled his lip, and half-turned his 
 back on his companions. 
 
 <i I regretted so much that I was not at home 
 when you did me the honour to call," resumed 
 Mrs. Cadurcis ; "but I had gone over for the day 
 to Southport, buying furniture. What a business 
 it is to buy furniture, Lady Annabel f added 
 Mrs. Cadurcis, with a piteous expression. 
 
 " It is indeed very troublesome/* said Lady 
 Annabel. 
 
 " Ah ! you have none of these cares," con- 
 tinued 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 
 D 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 VENETIA. 
 
 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 dif- 
 ferent. 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 tantaruras at 
 the abbey, and particularly in winter, I hardly 
 know what will become of me !"*' 
 
 "I am sure Lord Cadurcis will do every 
 thing to make the abbey comfortable to you. 
 Besides it is but a very short walk from Cher- 
 bury, and you must come [very often and see 
 lis." 
 
 "Oh ! Plantagenet can be good if he likes, I
 
 VEXETIA. 53 
 
 can assure you. Lady Annabel ; and behave 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 chatting 
 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 pro- 
 mised me to be good ! " 
 
 " Well! what have I done?" 
 
 " Lord Cadurcis," said Lady Annabel, in- 
 terfering, '* 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
 
 54 VENETIA. 
 
 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. Ca- 
 durcis; "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 anyone ?'' 
 
 The little lord indulged in a suppressed growl. 
 
 *' There was a little play last Christmas," 
 continued Mrs. Cadurcis, " and he acted quite 
 delightfull3% Now you would not think that 
 from the w^ay he sits upon that chair. Planta- 
 genet, my dear, I do insist upon your behaving 
 yourself. Sit like a man." 
 
 " I am not a man," said Lord Cadurcis very 
 quietly; *' I wish I were." 
 
 " Plantagenet l" said the mother, " have not
 
 VEXETIA. 55 
 
 I always 'told you that you are never to answer 
 me ? It is not proper for children to answer. 
 Oh ! Lady Annabel, if you knew what it cost 
 me to educate my son. He never does any- 
 thing 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, every body hears you, Mrs. Cadurcis," 
 said the little lord. 
 
 " Don't call me Mrs. Cadurcis," exclaimed 
 the mother in a dreadful rao-e. " 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
 
 66 VENETIA. 
 
 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 misunder- 
 stood him." 
 
 '^ Yes ! she always misunderstands me," said 
 Lord Cadurcis in a softer tone, but with pouting 
 lips and suffused eyes. 
 
 " Now he is going on," said his mother, be- 
 ginning 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 Anna- 
 bel, *' 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
 
 VENETIA. 67 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis, " except at my meals. But one 
 glass of Mountain, if you please, I would just 
 take the liberty of tasting, for the weather is so 
 dreadfully hot ; and Plantagenet has so aggra- 
 vated me, I really do not feel myself." 
 
 Lady Annabel sounded her silver hand-bell, 
 and the butler brouijjht some cakes and the 
 Mountain. Mrs. Cadurcis revived by virtue of 
 her single glass, and the providential co-opera- 
 tion of a few subsequent ones. 'Even the cakes 
 and the Mountain, however, would not tempt her 
 son to open his mouth ; and this, in spite of her 
 returning composure, drove her to desperation. 
 A conviction that the Mountain and the cakes 
 were delicious, an amiable desire that the palate 
 of her spoiled child should be gratified, some 
 reasonable maternal anxiety that after so long 
 and fatiguing a drive he in fact needed some 
 refreshment, and the agonising consciousness 
 that all her own physical pleasure at the moment 
 was destroyed by the mental sufferings she 
 endured at having quarrelled with her son, and 
 D 3
 
 58 VENETIA. 
 
 that he was depriving himself of what was so 
 agreeable only to pique her, quite overwhelmed 
 the ill-regulated mind of this fond mother. 
 Between each sip and each mouthful, she appealed 
 to him to follow her example, now with cajolery, 
 now with menace, till at length, worked up by 
 the united stimulus of her copious draughts of 
 Mountain and her own ungovernable rage, she 
 dashed do^vn 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,
 
 VENETIA. 59 
 
 and dashed through a pane of glass ; Mrs. Ca- 
 durcis made a desperate charge, and her son, 
 a little frightened at her almost maniacal passion, 
 saved himself by suddenly seizing Lady Anna- 
 bel's work-table, and whirling it before her ; 
 Mrs. Cadurcls fell over the leg of the table, and 
 went into violent hysterics ; while the blood- 
 hound, who had long started from his repose, 
 looked at his mistress for instructions, and in 
 the mean time continued barking. The asto- 
 nished and agitated Lady Annabel assisted Mrs. 
 Cadurcis to rise, and led her to a couch. Lord 
 Cadurcis, pale and dogged, stood in a corner, 
 and after all this uproar there was a comparative 
 calm, only broken by the sobs of the mother, 
 each instant o-rowinoj fainter and fainter. 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Mistress 
 Pauncefort ushered in the little Venetia. She 
 really looked like an angel of peace sent from 
 heaven on a mission of concord, with her long 
 golden hair, her bright face, and smile of inef- 
 fable loveliness.
 
 60 VENETIA. 
 
 " Mamma ! " said Venetia, in the sweetest 
 tone. 
 
 *' Hush ! darling," said Lady Annabel, "this 
 lady is not very well." 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis opened her eyes and sighed. 
 She beheld Venetia, and stared at her with a 
 feeling of wonder* " O ! Lady Annabel," she 
 faintly exclaimed, " what must you think of 
 me ! But was there ever such an unfortunate 
 mother ! and I have not a thought in the world 
 but for that boy. I have devoted my life to him, 
 and never would have buried myself in this 
 abbey but for his sake. And this is the way he 
 treats me, and his father before him treated me 
 even worse. x\m I not the most unfortunate 
 woman you ever knew ?" 
 
 " My dear madam,'' said the kind Lady An- 
 nabel, in a soothing tone, " you will be very 
 kappy yet. All will be quite right and quite 
 
 happy." 
 
 *« Is this angel your child ?" inquired Mrs. 
 Cadurcis, in a low voice.
 
 VENETIA. 61 
 
 <« This is my little girl — Venetia. Come 
 hither, Venetia, and speak to Mrs. Cadurcis." 
 
 '' How do you do, Mrs. Cadurcis ? " said 
 Venetia. *' I am so glad you have come to live 
 at the abbey." 
 
 *' The angel I " 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 moi'ti- 
 fied 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. ! Plantagenet, I 
 am sure you will break my heart.'* 
 
 Venetia went up to the little lord in the corner, 
 and gently stroked his dark cheek. " Are you 
 the little boy ? " she said. 
 
 Cadurcis looked at her ; at first the glance 
 was rather fierce, but it instantly relaxed. 
 " What is your name ? " he said, in a low, but 
 not unkind, tone.
 
 62 VENETIA. 
 
 " Venetia." 
 
 " I like you, Venetia," said the boy. '^ Do 
 you live here ? " 
 
 " Yes, with my mamma." 
 
 " I like your mamma, too ; but not as much 
 as you. I like your gold hair.'^ 
 
 " Oh, how funny ! to like my gold hair ! " 
 
 " If you had come in sooner," said Cadurcis, 
 *< we should not have had this row.'* 
 
 "What is a row, little boy?" said Venetia. 
 
 " Do not call me little boy,'"" he said, but not 
 in an unkind tone ; '' call me by my name." 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " Lord Cadurcis ; but you may call me by 
 my Christian name, because I like you." 
 
 " What is your Christian name ? " 
 
 «' Plantagenet." 
 
 " Plantagenet ! What a long name ! " said 
 Venetia. " Tell me, then, Plantagenet, what 
 is a row?" 
 
 " What often takes place between me and my
 
 VEXETIA. 63 
 
 mother, but which I am very sorry now has 
 happened here, for I like this place, and should 
 like to come often. A row is a quarrel." 
 
 " A quarrel ! What ! do you quarrel with 
 your mamma ? " 
 
 « Often." 
 
 " Why, then, you are not a good boy." 
 
 " Ah ! my mamma is not like yours," said 
 the little lord, with a sigh. " It is not my fault. 
 But now I want to make it up ; how shall I 
 do it?" 
 
 " Go and give her a kiss." 
 
 " Poh ! that is not the way.'' 
 
 " Shall I go and ask my mamma what is best 
 to do ? " said Venetia, and she stole away on 
 tiptoe, and whispered to Lady Annabel that 
 Plantagenet wanted her. Her mother came 
 forward and invited Lord Cadurcis to walk on 
 the terrace with her, leaving Venetia to amuse 
 her other guest. 
 
 Lady Annabel, though very kind, was very 
 frank and firm in her unexpected confidential
 
 64 VENETIA. 
 
 interview with her new friend. She placed 
 before him very 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 intelhgent. His observations, 
 indeed, were distinguished by remarkable acute- 
 ness ; and though he could not, and indeed did 
 not even attempt to vindicate his conduct, he 
 incidentally introduced much that might be 
 ui-gcd in its extenuation. There was, indeed, 
 in this his milder moment, something very win- 
 ning in his demeanour, and Lady Annabel 
 deeply regretted that a nature of so much pro- 
 mise 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
 
 VENETIA. 65 
 
 ask her forgiveness ; so they re-entered the room. 
 Venetia was listening to a very long storv from 
 Mrs. Cadurcis, who appeared to have entirely 
 recovered herself : bat her countenance assumed 
 a befitting expression of grief and gravity when 
 she observed her son. 
 
 " My dear madam," said Lady Annabel, 
 " your son is very unhappy that he should have 
 offended you^ and he has asked my kind offices 
 to effect a perfect reconcihation 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 very 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
 
 66 VENETIA 
 
 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 imme- 
 diately thrown together after this storm, she very 
 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 inau- 
 spiciously, turned out one of the most agreeable, 
 both to Mrs. Cadurcis and her child. The two 
 mothers conversed together, and, as Mrs. Cadur- 
 cis was a great workwoman, there was at least
 
 VENETIA. 67 
 
 one bond of sympathy between her and the tapes- 
 try 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 wei'e 
 permitted to stroll about together, attended by 
 Mistress Pauncefort, while Mrs. Cadurcis, chat- 
 ting without ceasing, detailed to Lady Annabel 
 all the history of her life, all the details of her 
 various complaints and her economical arrange- 
 ments, and all the secrets of her husband'*s treat- 
 ment of her, — that favourite subject on which 
 she ever waxed most eloquent. Plantagen^t, 
 equally indulging in confidence, which with him, 
 however, was very 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
 
 68 VEXETIA. 
 
 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 post-chaise was an- 
 nounced. 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, 
 througli the wood, and come and take another 
 walk with her.
 
 VENETIA. 69 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 This settlement of Mrs. Cadurcis and her 
 son in the neighbourhood was an event of no 
 slight importance in the life of the family at 
 Cherbury. Venetia at length found a com- 
 panion of her own age, itself an incident which, 
 in its influence upon her character and pur- 
 suits, 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 otlicr a sin- 
 gular affection, not displeasing to Lady Annabel, 
 who observed, without dissatisfaction, the in- 
 creased happiness of her child, and encouraged
 
 70 VENETIA. 
 
 by her kindness the frequent visits of the boy, 
 who soon learnt the shortest road from the abbey, 
 and almost daily scaled the hill, and traced his 
 way through the woods, to the hall. There 
 was much, indeed, in the character and the 
 situation of Lord Cadurcis which interested Lady 
 Annabel Herbert. His mild, engaging, and af- 
 fectionate 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 out-breaks not unfre- 
 quently attracted her notice; with none to guide 
 him, and with only one heart to look up to for 
 fondness ; and that, too, one that had already 
 contrived to forfeit the respect even of so young 
 a child. 
 
 Yet Lady Annabel was too sensible of the 
 paramount claims of a mother — herself, indeed, 
 too jealous of any encroachment on the full pri- 
 vileges of maternal love — to sanction in the 
 slightest degree, by her behaviour, any neglect
 
 VENETIA. 71 
 
 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 tem- 
 per, far from well informed, and — from the so- 
 ciety in which, in spite of her original good 
 birth, her later years had passed — very far from 
 being refined, she was not without her good 
 qualities. She was generous, kind-hearted, and 
 grateful ; not insensible of her own deficiencies, 
 and respectable from her misfortunes. Lady 
 Annabel was one of those who always judged 
 individuals rather by their good qualities than 
 their bad. AVith the exception of her violent 
 temper, which — under the control of Lady 
 Annabel's presence, and by the aid of all that 
 kind person's skilful management— Mrs. Cadurcis 
 generally contrived to bridle, her principal faults 
 were those of manner, which, from the force of 
 habit, every day became less painful. Mrs. 
 Cadurcis — who, indeed, was only a child of a
 
 72 VENETIA. 
 
 larger growth — became scarcely less attached to 
 the Herbert family than her son ; she felt that 
 her life, under their influence, was happier and 
 serener than of yore ; that there were less domes- 
 tic broils than in old days; that her son w^as 
 more dutiful ; and, as she could not help sus- 
 pecting, though she found it diflicult to analyse 
 the cause, herself more amiable. The truth was, 
 Lady Annabel always treated Mrs. Cadurcis 
 with studied respect ; and the children, and espe- 
 cially Venetia, followed her example. Mrs. 
 Cadurcis' self-complacency was not only less 
 shocked, but more gratified, than before; and 
 this was the secret of her happiness. For no 
 one was more mortified by her rages, when they 
 were past, than IMrs. Cadurcis herself: she felt 
 they compromised her dignity, and had lost her 
 all moral command over a child whom she loved 
 at the bottom of her heart with a kind of wild 
 passion, though she would menace and strike 
 him, and who often precipitated these paroxysms 
 by denying his mother that duty and affection
 
 YENETIA. 73 
 
 which were, after all, the great charm and pride 
 of her existence. 
 
 As Mrs. Cadurcis was unable to walk to Cher- 
 bury, 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 post-chaise regularly on Saturday, and 
 remain at Cherbury until the following Monday ; 
 by these means botli 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 neighbour- 
 hood, and of the country in general ; amused her 
 with an occasional anecdote of the Queen and the 
 young Princesses ; and always lent her the last 
 number of " Sylvanus Urban." 
 
 This weekly visit to Cherbury, the great per- 
 sonal attention which she always received there, 
 and the frequent morning walks of Lady Anna- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 VENETIA. 
 
 bel to the abbey, effectually repressed on the 
 whole the jealousy which was a characteristic of 
 Mrs. Cadurcis' nature, and which the constant 
 absence of her son from her in the mornings 
 might otherwise have fatally developed. But 
 Mrs. Cadurcis could not resist the conviction 
 that the Herberts were as much her friends as 
 her child's; her jealousy was balanced by her 
 gratitude; she was daily, almost hourly, sensible 
 of some kindness of Lady Annabel, for there 
 were a thousand services in the power of the 
 opulent and ample establishment of Cherbury to 
 afford the limited and desolate household at the 
 abbey. Living in seclusion, it is difficult to 
 refrain from imbibing even a strong regard for 
 our almost solitary companion, however incom- 
 patible may be our pursuits, and however our 
 tastes may vary, especially when that companion 
 is grateful, and duly sensible of the condescen- 
 sion of our intimacy. And so it happened that, 
 before a year had elapsed, that very Mrs. Ca- 
 durcis, whose first introduction at Cherbury had
 
 VENETIA. 75 
 
 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 revolting, 
 had succeeded in establishing a strong hold upon 
 the affections of her refined neighbour, who 
 sought, on every occasion, her society, and omit- 
 ted few opportunities of contributing to her com- 
 fort and welfare. 
 
 In the mean time 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 liis part 
 on every occasion that he had incurred the dis- 
 pleasure 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," 
 E 2
 
 To VENETIA. 
 
 and '' The Old Universal History," and " Plu- 
 tarch ; " and had turned over — in the book-room 
 of an old gentleman at Morpeth, who had been 
 attracted by his intelligence — not a few curious 
 old folios, from which he had gleaned no con- 
 temptible store of curious instances of human 
 nature. His guardian, whom he had never seen, 
 and who was a great nobleman and lived in 
 London, had signified to Mrs. Cadurcis his in- 
 tention of sending his ward to Eton ; but that 
 time had not yet arrived, and Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 who dreaded parting with her son, determined to 
 postpone it by every maternal artifice in her 
 power. At present it would have seemed that 
 her son's intellect was to be left utterly unculti- 
 vated, for there was no school in the neighbour- 
 hood 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 lord- 
 ship could have been himself. 
 
 It was by degre2s that Lord Cadurcis became
 
 VENETIA. 77- 
 
 the partner of ^'enetia in her studies. Lady 
 Annabel had consulted Dr. Masham about the 
 poor little boy, whose neglected state she de- 
 plored ; and the good Doctor had offered to ride 
 over to Cherbury at least once a week, besides 
 Sunday, provided Lady Annabel would under- 
 take that his directions, in his absence, should be 
 attended to. This her ladyship promised cheer- 
 fully ; nor had she any difficulty in persuading 
 Cadurcis to consent to the arrangement. He 
 listened with docih'ty and patience to her repre- 
 sentation of the fatal effects, in his after-hfe, 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 sub- 
 mit to her supervision. The little lord expressed 
 to her his determination to do all that she de- 
 sired, and voluntarily promised her that she 
 should never repent her goodness. And he kept 
 his word. So every morning, with the full con- 
 currence of Mrs. Cadurcis, whose advice and
 
 78 VENETIA. 
 
 opinion on the affair were most formally solicited 
 by Lady Annabel, Plantagenet arrived early at 
 the hall, and took his writing and French lessons 
 with Venetia, and then they alternately read 
 aloud to Lady Annabel from the histories of 
 Hooke and Echard. When Venetia repaired to 
 her drawing, Cadurcis sat down to his Latin 
 exercise, and, in encouraging and assisting him, 
 Lady Annabel, a proficient in Italian, began 
 herself to learn the ancient language of the 
 Romans. With such a charming mistress even 
 these Latin exercises were achieved. In vain 
 Cadurcis, after turning leaf over leaf, would 
 look round with a piteous air to his fair assistant 
 — " O ! Lady Annabel, I am sure the word is 
 not in the dictionary ; " Lady Annabel was in a 
 moment at his side, and, by some magic of her 
 fair fingers the word would somehow or other 
 make its appearance. After a little exposure of 
 this kind, Plantagenet would labour with double 
 energy, until, heaving a deep sigh of exhaustion 
 and vexation, he would burst forth — " O ! Lady
 
 VENETIA. t9 
 
 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 I^ord Ca- 
 durcis' studies, and when he neither wrote, nor 
 read, nor learnt French with Venetia, but gave 
 up all his soul to Dr. Masham, he usually ac- 
 quitted himself to that good person's satisfaction, 
 who left him, in general, with commendations 
 that were not lost on the pupil, and plenty of 
 fresh exercises to occupy him and Lady Anna- 
 bel until the next week. When a year had thus 
 passed away, the happiest year yet in Lord 
 Cadurcis' life, in spite of all his disadvantages, 
 he had contrived to make no inconsiderable 
 progress. Almost deprived of a tutor, he had 
 advanced in classical acquirement more than
 
 80 VENETIA. 
 
 (luring the whole of his preceding years of 
 scholarship; while his hand-writing began to 
 become intelligible, he could read Frencli with 
 comparative facility, and had turned over man}'^ 
 a volume in the well-stored library at Cherbury.
 
 VENETIA. 81 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When the hours of study were past, the 
 children, with that zest for play which occupa- 
 tion 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. Un- 
 wearied was the innocent sport of their virgin 
 E 3
 
 82 VENETIA. 
 
 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, ex- 
 hausted by the unconscious efforts of his fancy, 
 depressed by the separation from his sweet com- 
 panion, and shrinking from the unpoetical re- 
 ception 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
 
 VENETIA. 8$ 
 
 description occurred to him. It was a trance of 
 unmeaning abstraction ; all that he felt was a 
 mystical pleasure in watching the sunset, and a 
 conviction that, if he were not with Venetia, 
 that which he loved next best was to be alone. 
 
 The little Cadurcis in general returned home 
 moody and silent, and his mother too often, 
 irritated by his demeanour, indulged in all the 
 expressions of a quick and offended temper ; but 
 since his intimacy with the Herberts, Plantagenet 
 had learnt to control his emotions, and often 
 successfully laboured to prevent those scenes of 
 domestic recrimination once so painfully fre- 
 quent. 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
 
 84 VENETIA. 
 
 mother and the child contrived to live together 
 with far greater comfort than they had of old. 
 
 Bed-time was always a great relief to Plan- 
 tagenet, for it secured him solitude. He would 
 lie awake for hours, indulging in sweet and 
 unconscious reveries, and brooding over the 
 future morn, that always brought happiness. 
 All that he used to sigh for was to be Lady 
 AnnabeFs son ; were he Venetians brother, then 
 he was sure he never should be for a moment 
 unhappy — that parting from Cherbury, and the 
 gloomy evenings at Cadurcis, would then be 
 avoided. In such a mood, and lying awake 
 upon his pillow, he sought refuge from the 
 painful reality that surrounded him in the 
 creative solace of his imagination. Alone, in 
 his little bed, Cadurcis was Venetia''s brother, 
 and he conjured up a thousand scenes in which 
 they were never separated, and wherein he 
 always played an amiable and graceful part. 
 Yet he loved the abbey ; his painful infancy was 
 not associated with that scene ; it was not con-
 
 VEKETIA. 85 
 
 nected with any of those grovelling common- 
 places of his life, from which he had shrunk 
 back with instinctive disgust, even at a very 
 tender age. Cadurcis was the spot to which, in 
 his most miserable moments at Morpeth, he had 
 always looked forward, as the only chance of 
 emancipation from the distressing scene that 
 surrounded him. He had been brought up with 
 a due sense of his future position, and although 
 he had ever affected a haughty indifference on 
 the subject, from his disrelish for the coarse 
 acquaintances who were perpetually reminding 
 him, with chuckling self-complacency, of his 
 future greatness, in secret he had ever brooded 
 over his destiny as his only consolation. He 
 had imbibed from his own reflections, at a very 
 early period of life, a due sense of the im- 
 portance 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
 
 86 VENETIA. 
 
 passions, by which his race had been ever 
 characterised, were to him a source of secret 
 exultation. Even the late lord, who certainly 
 had no claims to his gratitude, for he had 
 robbed the inheritance to the utmost of his 
 power, commanded, from the wild decision of 
 his life, the savage respect of his successor. In 
 vain Mrs. Cadurcis would pour forth upon this, 
 the favourite theme for her wrath and her 
 lamentations, all the bitter expressions of her 
 rage and woe. Plantagenet had never imbibed 
 her prejudices against the departed, and had 
 often irritated his mother by maintaining that 
 the late lord was perfectly justified in his C9n- 
 duct. 
 
 But in these almost daily separations between 
 Plantagenet and Venetia, how different was her 
 lot to that of her companion ! She was the 
 confidante of all his domestic sorrows, and often 
 he had requested her to exert her influence to 
 obtain some pacifying missive from Lady Anna- 
 bel, which might secure him a quiet evening at
 
 VENETIA. 87 
 
 Cadurcis ; and whenever this had not been ob- 
 tained, 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 
 aifection sweeter than music. She found an 
 engaging companion, who had no thought but 
 for her welfare, her amusement, and her instruc- 
 tion ; and often, when the curtains were drawn, 
 the candles lit, and Venetia, holding her mother's 
 hand, opened her book, she thought of poor 
 Plantagenet, so differently situated, with no one 
 to be kind to him, with no one to sympathise 
 with his thoughts, and perhaps, at the very 
 moment, goaded into some unhappy quarrel with 
 his mother.
 
 88 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The appearance of the Cadurcis family on 
 the limited stage of her life, and the engrossing 
 society of her companion, had entirely dis- 
 tracted the thoughts of Venetia from a subject 
 to which in old days they were constantly re- 
 curring, and that was her father. By a pro- 
 cess which had often perplexed her, and which 
 she could never succeed in analysing, there had 
 arisen in her mind, without any ostensible agency 
 on the part of her mother which she could dis- 
 tinctly recal, a conviction that this was a topic 
 on which she was never to speak. This idea 
 had once haunted her, and she had seldom found 
 herself alone without almost unconsciously 
 musing over it. Notwithstanding the unvarying
 
 VENETIA. 89 
 
 kindness of Lady Annabel, she exercised over 
 her child a complete and unquestioned control. 
 Venetia was brought up with strictness, which 
 was only not felt to be severe, because the 
 system was founded on the most entire affection 
 but, fervent as her love was for her mother, it 
 was equalled by her profound respect, which 
 every word and action of Lady Annabel tended 
 to maintain. 
 
 In all the confidential effusions with Planta- 
 genet, Venetia had never dwelt upon this mys- 
 terious 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 nar-
 
 90 VENETIA. 
 
 ratives, she was not familiar ; and it was to her 
 sympathising heart that he confided all his 
 future hopes and prospects, and confessed the 
 strong pride he experienced in being a Cadurcis^ 
 which from all others was studiously concealed. 
 It had happened that the first Christmas-day 
 after the settlement of the Cadurcis family at the 
 abbey occurred in the middle of the week ; and 
 as the weather was severe, in order to prevent 
 two journeys at such an inclement season, Lady 
 Annabel persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to pass the 
 whole week at the hall. This arrangement gave 
 such pleasure to Plantagenet that the walls of the 
 abbey, as the old 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 
 expressions, Avhich 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
 
 VENETIA. 91 
 
 occasionally break out, and which notlnng could 
 withstand. When he was alone with Venetia, 
 he would imitate the old maids of Morpeth, 
 and all the ceremonies of a provincial tea party, 
 with so much life and genuine fun, that Venetia 
 was often obliged to stop in their rambles to 
 indulge her overwhelming mirth. When they 
 were alone, and he was gloomy, she was often 
 accustomed to say, ''Now, dear Plantagenet, 
 tell me how the old ladies at Morpeth drink 
 tea;' 
 
 This morning at the abbey Cadurcis was 
 irresistible, and, the more excited his mother 
 became with the difficulties which beset herj the 
 more gay and fluent were his quips and cranks. 
 Puffing, panting, and perspiring, now di- 
 recting her waiting-woman, now scolding her 
 man-servant, and now ineffectually attempting 
 to box her son's ears, Mrs. Cadurcis indeed of- 
 fered a most ridiculous spectacle. 
 
 " John !" screamed Mrs. Cadurcis, in a voice 
 of bewildered passion, and stamping with rage,
 
 92 VENETTA. 
 
 ** is tliat the place for my cap-box ! You do 
 it on purpose, that you do V 
 
 ''John/' mimicked Lord Cadurcis, *' How 
 dare you do it on purpose ! '* 
 
 " Take that, you brat," shrieked the mother, 
 and she struck her own hand against the door- 
 way. " Oh ! I'll give it you, I'll give it you," 
 she bellowed under the united influence of rage 
 and pain, and she pursued her agile child, who 
 dodged her on the other side of the post-chaise, 
 which he persisted in calling the family carriage. 
 
 " Oh ! ma''am, my lady," exclaimed the wait- 
 ing-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 ; 't aynt her place." 
 
 This rebelUon of Mrs. Bro^^^l was a diver- 
 sion in favour of P^lantagenet. Mrs. Cadurcis 
 waddled down the cloisters with precipitation, 
 rushed into the kitchen, seized the surprised 
 Mrs. Brown by the shoulder, and gave her a 
 good shake ; and darting at the cage, Avhich held
 
 VENETIA. 93 
 
 the parrot, she bore it in triumph to the car- 
 riage. " I will take the bird with me/' said 
 Mrs. Cadurcis. 
 
 " We cannot take the bird inside, niadam,"" 
 said Plantagenet, ''for it will overhear all our 
 conversation, and repeat it. We shall not be 
 able to abuse ourfriends.'* 
 
 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 mcan;^, but go by your-
 
 04 VENETIA. 
 
 self; I shall not go : go to your friends. Lord 
 Cadurcis ; they are your friends, not mine, and 
 I hope they are satisfied, now that they have 
 robbed me of the affections of my child. I have 
 seen what they have been after all this time. I 
 am not so bhnd as some people think. No ! 
 I see hoAV it is. I am nobody. Your poor 
 mother, who brought you up, and educated you, 
 is nobody. This is the end of all your Latin 
 and French, and your fine lessons. Honour your 
 father and your mother, Lord Cadurcis ; that's 
 a finer lesson than all. Oh ! oh ! oh !" 
 
 This allusion to the Herberts suddenly calmed 
 Plantagenet. He felt in an instant the inju- 
 diciousness of fostering by his conduct the la- 
 tent 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, 
 1 will give you a kiss for a Christmas-box, mo- 
 ther, and the parrot shall go inside if you like."
 
 VENETIA. 95 
 
 " The parrot may stay at home, I do not 
 care about it : but I cannot bear quarrelling ; it 
 is not my temper, you naughty, very naughty 
 boy." 
 
 " My dear mother," continued his lordship, in 
 a soothing tone, " these scenes always happen 
 when people are going to travel. I assure you 
 it is quite a part of packing up." 
 
 " You will be the death of me, that you will,'"* 
 said the mother, " with all your violence. You 
 are worse than your father, that you are." 
 
 "Come, mother," said her son, drawing nearer, 
 and just touching her shoulder with his hand, 
 '' will you not have my Christmas-box ? " 
 
 The mother extended her cheek, which the 
 son slightly touched with his lip, and then Mrs. 
 Cad urcis jumped up as lively as ever, called for 
 a glass of Mountain, and began rating the foot- 
 boy. 
 
 At length the post-chaise was packed ; they 
 had a long journey before them, because Lord 
 Cadurcis would go round by Southport, to call
 
 VENETIA. 
 
 upon a tradesman whom a month before lie had 
 commissioned to get a trinket made for him in 
 London, according to the newest fashion, as a 
 present for Venetia. The commission was exe- 
 cuted ; Mrs. Cadurcis, who had been consulted 
 in confidence by her son on the subject, was 
 charmed with the result of their united taste. 
 She had very good-naturedly contributed one 
 of her own few, but very fine, emeralds, to the 
 gift ; upon the back of the brooch was 
 engraved : — 
 
 TO VENETIA, FROM HER AFFECTIONATE 
 BROTHER, PLANTAGENET. 
 
 " I hope she will be a sister, and more than 
 a sister, to you,"" said Mrs. Cadurcis. 
 
 " Why ? " inquired her son, rather confused. 
 
 " You may look farther, and fare worse,'* 
 said Mrs. Cadurcis. 
 
 Plantagenet blushed ; and yet he wondered 
 why he blushed : he understood his mother, but 
 he could not pursue the conversation ; his heart 
 fluttered.
 
 VENETIA. 97 
 
 A most cordial greeting awaited them at 
 Cherbury ; Dr. ^Slasham was there, and was to 
 remain until Monday. Mrs. Cadurcis would 
 have opened about the present immediately, but 
 her son warned her on the threshold that if she 
 said a word about it, or seemed to be aware of its 
 previous existence, even when it was shown, he 
 would fling it instantly away into the snow ; and 
 her horror of this catastrophe bridled her tongue. 
 Mrs. Cadurcis, however, was happy, and Lady 
 Annabel was glad to see her so ; the Doctor, too, 
 paid her some most 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 nuich 
 astonished. 
 
 VOL. r. F
 
 9S VENETIA. 
 
 " You see, Venetia," he added, leaving it in 
 her hand, " it is yours." 
 
 Venetia turned the jewel ; her eye was 
 dazzled with its brilliancy. 
 
 " It is too grand for a little girl, Plantagenet," 
 she exclaimed, a little pale. 
 
 " No, it is not," said Plantagenet, firmly ; 
 " besides, you will not always be a little girl ; 
 and then, if ever we do not live together as we 
 do now, you will always remember you have a 
 brother." 
 
 " I must show it mamma ; I must ask her 
 permission to take it, Plantagenet." 
 
 Venetia went up to her mother, who was 
 talking to Mrs. Cadurcis. She had not courage 
 to speak before that lady and Dr. Masham, so 
 she called her mother aside. 
 
 " Mamma," she said, '' something has hap- 
 pened.*" 
 
 " What, my dear ? " said Lady Annabel, 
 somewhat surprised at the seriousness of her 
 tone.
 
 VENETTA. 99 
 
 " Look at this, mamma ! '' said Venctia, 
 giving her the brooch. 
 
 Lady Annabel looked at the jewel, and read 
 the inscription. It was a more precious offering 
 than the mother would willingly have sanc- 
 tioned, but she was too highly bred, and too 
 thoughtful of the feelings of others, to hesitate 
 for a moment to admire it herself, and authorise 
 its acceptance by her daughter. So she walked 
 up to Cadurcis and gave him a mother's embrace 
 for his magnificent present to his sister, placed 
 the brooch itself near Venetians heart, and then 
 led her daughter to Mrs. Cadurcis, that the 
 gratified mother might admire the testimony of 
 her son's taste and affection. It was a most 
 successful present, and Cadurcis felt grateful to 
 his mother for her share in its production, and 
 the very proper manner in which she received 
 the announcement of its offering. 
 
 F 2
 
 100 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 This was Christmas-eve ; the snow was falling 
 briskly. After dinner they were glad to cluster 
 round the large fire in the green drawing-room. 
 Dr. Masham had promised to read the evening 
 service in the chapel, which was now lit up, and 
 the bell was sounding, that the cottagers might 
 have the opportunity of attending. 
 
 Plantagenet and Venetia followed the elders to 
 the chapel ; they walked hand-in-hand down the 
 long galleries. 
 
 «' I should like to go all over this house," 
 said Plantagenet, to his companion. " Have 
 you ever been ? " 
 
 " Never,'** said Venetia ; " half of it is shut 
 up. Nobody ever goes into it, except mamma."
 
 VENETIA. 101 
 
 In the night there was a violent snow-storm ; 
 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 com- 
 munication was stopped. This was an adventure 
 that amused the children, though the rest looked 
 rather grave. Plantagenet expressed to Venetia 
 his wish that the snow would never melt, and 
 tfeat they might remain at Cherbury for ever. 
 
 The children were to have a holyday this 
 week, and they had planned some excursions in 
 the park and neighbourhood, but now they were 
 all prisoners to the house. They wandered 
 about, turning the staircase into mountains, the 
 great hall into an ocean, and the different rooms 
 into so many various regions. They amused 
 themselves with their adventures, and went on 
 endless voyages of discovery. Every moment 
 Plantagenet longed still more for the opportunity 
 of exploring the uninhabited chambers; but 
 Venetia shook her head, because she was sure
 
 102 VENETIA, 
 
 Lady Annabel would not grant them per- 
 mission. 
 
 " Did you ever live at any place before you 
 came to Cherbury ? " inquired Lord Cadurcis of 
 Venetia. 
 
 " I know I was not born here/' said Venetia ; 
 '' but I was so young that I have no recollection 
 of any other place." 
 
 " And did any one live here before you 
 came ? "" said Plantagenet. 
 
 " I do not know," said Venetia, ^' I never 
 heard if anybody did. I — I." she continued, a 
 little constrained, " I know nothing."" 
 
 "Do you remember your papa? " said Plan- 
 tagenet. 
 
 "No," said Venetia. 
 
 *' Then he must have died almost as soon as 
 you were born," said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 " I suppose he must," said Venetia, and her 
 heart trembled. 
 
 " I wonder if he ever lived here ? " said 
 Plantagenet.
 
 VENETIA. 103 
 
 " Mamma does not like me to ask questions 
 about my papa,"" said Venetia, "and I cannot tell 
 you anything." 
 
 " Ah ! your papa was different to mine, Ve- 
 netia," said Lord Cadurcis ; " my mother talks 
 of him often enough. They did not agree very 
 well; and, when we quarrel, she always says I 
 remind her of him. I dare say Lady Annabel 
 loved your papa very much." 
 
 " I am sure mamma did," replied Venetia. 
 
 The children returned to the drawing-room, 
 and joined their friends : Mrs. Cadurcis was 
 sitting on the sofa, occasionally dozing over a 
 sermon ; Dr. Masham was standing with Lady 
 Annabel in the recess of a distant window. Her 
 ladyship's countenance was averted; she was 
 reading a newspaper, which the Doctor had 
 given her. As the door opened, Lady Annabel 
 glanced round ; her countenance was agitated ; 
 she folded up the newspaper rather hastily, and 
 gave it to the Doctor. 
 
 "And what have you been doing, little
 
 104 VENETIA. 
 
 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 snow-storm is a great 
 trial for you ; I begin to believe that, after all, 
 you would be more pleased to take your holydays 
 at another opportunity." 
 
 " We could amuse ourselves very well," said 
 Plantagenet, ^' if Lady Annabel would be so kind 
 as to permit us to explore the part of the house 
 that is shut up." 
 
 " That would be a strange mode of di- 
 version," said Lady Annabel, very 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." 
 
 " And so nicely dressed as you are too ! " said
 
 VEKETIA. 105 
 
 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. Holydays, 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 tliat 
 she would let us go there." 
 F 3
 
 106 VENETIA. 
 
 <* Last night ! " said Venetia ; " When could 
 you have seen her last night ? " 
 
 *' Very late : the fact is, I could not sleep, and 
 I took it into my head to walk up and down the 
 gallery. I often do so at the abbey. I like to 
 walk up and down an old gallery alone at night. 
 I do not know why; but I like it very much. 
 Everything is so still, and then you hear the 
 owls. I cannot make out why it is ; but nothing 
 gives me more pleasure than to get up when 
 everybody is asleep. It seems as if one were 
 the only living person in the world. I sometimes 
 think, when I am a man, I will always get up in 
 the night, and go to bed in the day-time. Is 
 not that odd ? " 
 
 " But mamma ! " said Venetia, " how came 
 you to see mamma ? '* 
 
 " Oh ! I am certain of it," said the little 
 lord ; " 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
 
 VENETIA, 107 
 
 I was determined, whatever happened, not to cry 
 out." 
 
 " Oh ! you frighten me so, Plantagenet ! " 
 said Venetia. 
 
 " Ah ! you might have been frightened if 
 you had been there ; past midnight, a tall white 
 figure, and a light ! — However, there is nothing to 
 be alarmed about ; it was Lady Annabel, nobody 
 else. I saw her as clearly as I see you now. 
 She walked along the gallery, and went to the 
 very door you showed me the other morning. 
 I marked the door ; I could not mistake it. 
 She unlocked it, and she went in." 
 
 "And then ?" inquired Venetia, eagerly. 
 
 "Why, then, like a fool, I went back to 
 bed," said Plantagenet. " I thought it would 
 seem so foolish 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,
 
 108 VENETIA. 
 
 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 
 misletoe, and the parti-coloured berries looked 
 bright in a straggling sunbeam which had fought 
 its way through the still loaded sky, and fell 
 upon the terrace. 
 
 In the evening, as they sat round the fire, 
 Mrs. Cadurcis began telling Venetia a long 
 rambling ghost story, which she declared 
 was a real ghost story, and had happened in 
 her oAvn family. Such communications were 
 not very pleasing to Lady Annabel, but she was 
 too well bred to interrupt her guest. When, 
 however, the narrative was finished, and Venetia, 
 by her observations, evidently indicated the 
 effect that it had produced upon her mind, her 
 mother took the occasion of impressing upon 
 her the little credibility which should be attached 
 to such legends, and the rational process by 
 which many unquestionable "apparitions might 
 be accounted for. Dr. Masham, follo\ving this
 
 VENETIA. 109 
 
 train, recounted a story of a ghost which had 
 been generally received in a neighbouring vil- 
 lage for a considerable period, and attested by 
 the most veracious witnesses, but which was ex- 
 plained afterwards by turning out to be an 
 instance of somnambulism. Venetia appeared 
 to be extremely interested in the subject ; she 
 inquired much about sleep-walkers and 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, 
 smihng ; " I should hope not." 
 
 " WeU, do you know,"" said Plantagenet, who 
 had hitherto listened in silence, " it is very cu- 
 rious, but I once dreamt that you did, Lady 
 Annabel." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the lady. 
 
 " Yes ! and I dreamt it last night too," con- 
 tinued the little lord. '' I thought I was sleeping 
 in the uninhabited rooms here, and the door 
 opened, and you walked in with alight."
 
 110 VENETIA. 
 
 " No i Plantagenet," said Venetia, who was 
 seated by him, and who spoke in a whisper, " it 
 was not — " 
 
 '' Hush ! " said Lord Cadurcisjin 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.
 
 VEKETIA. Ill 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The spring returned ; the intimate relations 
 between the two families were each day more 
 confirmed. Laby Annabel had presented her 
 daughter and Plantagenet each with a beautiful 
 pony, but their rides were at first to be con- 
 fined to the park, and to be ever attended by a 
 groom. In time, however, duly accompanied, 
 they were permitted to extend their progress as 
 far as Cadurcis. Mrs. Cadurcis had consented 
 to the wishes of her son to restore the old gai- 
 den, and Venetia was his principal adviser and 
 assistant in the enterprise. Plantagenet was 
 fond of the old abbey, and nothing but the 
 agreeable society of Cherbury on the one hand.
 
 112 VENETIA. 
 
 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 accom- 
 panied 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 car- 
 riage ; but that lady w^as an invahd, and declined 
 the journey ; so Lady Annabel, who was herself
 
 VENETIA. 113 
 
 a good horsewoman, mounted her mare with 
 Venetia and Plantagenet. 
 
 Marringhurst was only five miles from Cher- 
 bury by a cross-road, Avhich was scarcely pass- 
 able 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 of pleasure grounds; 
 but there was a capital bowling-green, and, 
 above all, a grotto, where the Doctor smoked 
 his evening pipe, and moralized in the midst of 
 his cucumbers and cabbages. On each side ex- 
 tended 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
 
 114 VENETIA. 
 
 as such a hearty friend might be expected to 
 afford. Dr. Masham was scarcely less delighted 
 at the excursion than the children themselves, 
 and rejoiced in the sunny day that made every- 
 thing more glad and bright. The garden, the 
 grotto, the bowling-green, and all the novelty 
 of the spot, greatly diverted his young compa- 
 nions; they visited his farm-yard, were intro- 
 duced 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 the most admirable order. The o'oddess of 
 neatness and precision reigned supreme, espe- 
 cially in his hall, which, though barely six 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 ;
 
 VENETIA. 115 
 
 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 splen- 
 did, for the Doctor was one of the most renowned 
 scholars in the kingdom, and his pictures, his 
 prints, and his gold fish, and his canary birds ; it 
 seemed they never could exhaust such sources of 
 endless amusement ; to say nothing of every other 
 room in the house, for, from the garret to the 
 dairy, his guests encouraged him in introducing 
 them to every thing, every person, and every 
 place. 
 
 " And this is the way we old bachelors con- 
 trive 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 very substantial 
 one; he seemed resolved, at one ample swoop, 
 to repay Lady Annabel for all her hospitality ; 
 and he really took such delight in their partici- 
 pation of it, that his principal guest was con-
 
 116 VENETIA. 
 
 strained to check herself in more thiin one warn- 
 ing intimation that moderation was desirable, were 
 it only for the sake of the strawberries and cream. 
 All this time, his housekeeper, Goody Blount, as 
 he called her, in her lace cap and ruffles, as precise 
 and starch as an old picture, stood behind liis 
 chair with pleased solemnity, directing, with 
 unruffled composure, the movements of the 
 liveried bumpkin who this day was promoted 
 to the honour of " waiting at table." 
 
 " Come," said the Doctor, as the cloth was 
 cleared, '^ I must bargain for one toast. Lady 
 Annabel : Church and State." 
 
 " What is Church and State?" said Venetia. 
 
 " As good things. Miss Venetia, as straw- 
 berries 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
 
 VENETIA. 117 
 
 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 suc- 
 cessful ; but he shook his head, and said, he had 
 not asked. 
 
 " Why did you not ?" said Venetia. 
 
 " I did not like," he replied, looking very 
 serious; " something happened." 
 
 '' What could have happened ?'' said Xc- 
 netia. 
 
 " 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
 
 118 VENETIA. 
 
 reply ; " I am sure she does not want us to 
 know she is crying.*" 
 
 '^ What did she say to you ?" 
 
 " She did not see me; the Doctor did, and 
 he gave me a nod to go away." 
 
 '' I never saw mamma cry," said Venetia. 
 
 " Don't you say anything about it, Venetia," 
 said Plantagenet, with a very manly air. '' Lis- 
 ten 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 win- 
 dows, and your mamma was standing up, with 
 her back to me, and leaning on the mantelpiece, 
 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 rae a sign to go away, and I went di- 
 rectly." 
 
 " Are you sure mamma was crying?" 
 
 " I heard her sob."
 
 VENETIA. 119 
 
 " 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, 1 shall never tell you any- 
 thing again." 
 
 " What do you think she was crying about, 
 Plantagenet?" 
 
 " I cannot say ; perhaps she had been talking 
 about your papa. I do not want to play at 
 bowls now," added Plantagenet. " Let us go 
 and see the cows." 
 
 In the course of half an hour the servant 
 summoned the children to the house. The 
 horses were ready, and they were now to return. 
 Lady Annabel received them with her usual 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 " Well, dear children," she said, " have you 
 been very much amused?" 
 
 Venetia ran forward, and embraced her mother 
 with even unusual fondness. She was mindful 
 of Plantagenet's injunctions, and was resolved 
 not to revive her mother's grief by any allusion
 
 120 VEXETIA. 
 
 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.
 
 VKNETIA. 121 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 This happy summer was succeeded by a sin- 
 gularly wet autumn. Weeks of continuous rain 
 rendered it difficult even for the little Cadurcis, 
 who defied the elements, to be as constant as 
 heretofore in his daily visits to Cherbury. His 
 mother, too, grew daily a greater invalid, and, 
 with increasing sufferings and infirmities, the 
 natural captiousness of her temper proportioii- 
 ably 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 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 • VENETIA. 
 
 whole, behaved very well ; he thought of Lady 
 Annabel's injunctions, and restrained his passion. 
 Yet he was not repaid for the sacrifice ; his mo- 
 ther made no effort to render their joint society 
 agreeable, or even endurable. She was rarely 
 in an amiable mood, and generally either irrita- 
 ble 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 pas- 
 sion ; 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 natu- 
 rally silent under any circumstances, his mother 
 would indulge in that charming monologue, so 
 conducive to domestic serenity, termed " talk- 
 ing 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.
 
 VENETIA. 123 
 
 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. Ca- 
 durcis had found some opportunities of pouring 
 forth his griefs and mortification into the ear of 
 Venetia, and they had reached her mother ; but 
 Lady Annabel, though she sympathised with 
 this interesting boy, invariably counselled duty. 
 The morning studies were abandoned, but a 
 quantity of books were sent over from Cherbury 
 for Plantagenet, and Lady Annabel seized every 
 opportunity of conciliating Mrs. Cadurcis' tem- 
 per in favour of her child, by the attention 
 which she paid the mother. The weather, 
 however, prevented either herself or Venetia 
 from visiting the abbey ; and, on the whole, the 
 communications between the two establishments 
 and their inmates had become very rare. 
 
 Though now a continual inmate of the 
 abbey, Cadurcis was seldom the companion of 
 his mother. They met^ at their meals, and that 
 G 2
 
 121 VENETIA. 
 
 was all. He entered the room every day with 
 an intention of conciliating; but the mutual 
 tempers of the mother and the son were so 
 quick and sensitive, that he always failed in his 
 purpose, and could only avoid a storm by 
 dogged silence. This enraged Mrs. Cadurcis 
 more even than his impertinence; she had no 
 conduct ; she lost all command over herself, and 
 did not hesitate to address to her child terms of 
 reproach and abuse, which a vulgar mind could 
 only conceive and a coarse tongue alone express. 
 What a contrast to Cherbury, to the mild 
 maternal elegance and provident kindness of 
 Lady Annabel, and the sweet tones of Venetians 
 ever-sympathising voice ! Cadurcis, though so 
 very young, was gifted with an innate fastidious- 
 ness, 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
 
 VENETIA. 125 
 
 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 pennyless orphan of a pennyless brother 
 of his father, and who had been sent to sea at a 
 very early age ; 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 ser- 
 vants loved him ; and then take refuge in his 
 solitary woe.
 
 126 VENETIA. 
 
 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 up- 
 rooted from its ancient settlement. Irresistibly 
 the conviction impressed itself upon his mind, 
 that, if he were alone in this old abbey, with no 
 mother to break that strange fountain of fancies 
 that seemed always to bubble up in his solitude, 
 he might be happy. He wanted no companions ; 
 he loved to be alone, to listen to the winds, and 
 gaze upon the trees and waters, and wander in 
 those dim cloisters and that gloomy gallery. 
 
 From the first hour of his arrival he had 
 loved the venerable hall of his fathers. Its
 
 VENETIA. 1:27 
 
 appearance harmonised with all the associations 
 of his race. Power and pomp, ancestral fame, 
 the legendary respect of ages, all that was great, 
 exciting, and heroic, all that was marked out 
 from the 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 sympathised with their glory ; he was 
 capable of dying sooner than of disgracing 
 them ; and then came the memory of his mother's 
 sharp voice and harsh vulgar words, and he 
 shivered with disgust. 
 
 Forced into solitude, forced to feed upon his 
 own mind, Cadurcis found in that solitude each 
 day a dearer charm, and in that mind a richer 
 treasure of interest and curiosity. He loved to 
 wander about, dream of the past, and conjure up 
 a future as glorious. What was he to be ? — 
 What should be his career? — Whither should 
 he wend his course ? Even at this early age, 
 dreams of far lands flitted over his mind, and
 
 128 VENETIA, 
 
 schemes of fantastic and adventurous life. But 
 now he was a boy — a wretched boy — controlled by 
 a vulgar and narrow-minded woman ! And this 
 servitude must last for years ; yes ! years must 
 elapse before he was his own master. Oh ! if he 
 could only pass them alone, without a human 
 voice to disturb his musings, a single form to 
 distract his vision ! 
 
 Under the influence of such feelings, even 
 Cherbury figured to his fancy in somewhat 
 faded colours. There indeed he was loved and 
 cherished ; there indeed no sound was ever 
 heard, no sight ever seen, that could annoy or 
 mortify the high pitch of his unconscious ideal ; 
 but still, even at Cherbury, he was a child. 
 Under the influence of daily Intercourse, his 
 tender heart had balanced, perhaps even out- 
 weighed, 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
 
 VENETIA. 129 
 
 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 delight- 
 ful conviction that to-morrow would renew the 
 spell whose enchantment had enabled him to 
 endure the present vexation. But now the 
 magic of that intercourse had ceased ; after a 
 few days of restlessness and repining, he dis- 
 covered that he must find in his desolation sterner 
 sources of support than the memory of Venetia, 
 and the recollections of the domestic joys of 
 Cherbury. It was astonishing with what ra- 
 pidity 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 amuse- 
 ment of a book. He was at this time deeply 
 G 3
 
 180 VENETIA. 
 
 interested in Purchases 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 col- 
 lection 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 Cher- 
 bury 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 mo- 
 tion excited his mind ; he fancied himself, as he 
 embraced Venetia, some chieftain who had 
 escaped for a moment from his castle to visit his 
 mistress; his imagination conjured up a war 
 between the opposing towers of Cadurcis and 
 Cherbury; and when his mother fell into a 
 passion on his return, it passed with him only, 
 according to its length and spirit, as a brisk 
 skirmish or a general engagement.
 
 VENETIA. 1 31 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 One afternoon, on his return from Cherbury,, 
 Plantagenet found the fire extinguished in the 
 little room which he had appropriated to him- 
 self, and where he kept his books. As he had 
 expressed his wish to the servant that the fire 
 should be kept up, he complained to him of the 
 neglect, but was informed, in reply, that the fire 
 had been allowed to go out by his mother's 
 orders, and that she desired in future that he 
 would always read in the saloon. Plantagenet 
 had sufficient self-control to make no observa- 
 tion before the servant, and soon after joined 
 his mother, who looked very suUen, as if she 
 were conscious that she had laid a train for an 
 explosion.
 
 132 VENETIA. 
 
 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, 
 Lord Cadurcis said, in a very quiet tone, " I 
 think I shall write to my guardian to-moiTow 
 about my going to Eton." 
 
 " You shall do no such thing," said Mrs, 
 Cadurcis, bristling up, " I never heard such a 
 ridiculous idea in my life as a boy like you 
 writing letters on such subjects to a person 
 you have never even 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.
 
 VENETIA. 133 
 
 '< Time enough to find fault with me when I 
 do, ma'am.'' 
 
 " There is enough to find fault about at all 
 times, sir." 
 
 "On which side, Mrs. Cadurcis?" inquired 
 Plantagenet, with a sneer. 
 
 «* Don't aggravate me, Lord Cadurcis,'* said 
 his mother. 
 
 " How am I aggravating you, ma'am?'* 
 
 *^ I won't be answered," said the mother. 
 
 " I prefer silence myself," said the son. 
 
 " I won't be insulted in my own room, sir," 
 said Mrs. Cadurcis. 
 
 " I am not insulting you, Mrs. Cadurcis,'* 
 said Plantagenet, rather fiercely ; " and as for 
 your own room, I never wish to enter it. 
 Indeed I should not be here at this moment, 
 had you not ordered my fire to be put out, and 
 particularly requested that I should sit in the 
 saloon." 
 
 " Oh ! you are a vastly obedient person, I 
 dare say," replied Mrs. Cadurcis, very pettishly.
 
 184 VENETIA. 
 
 " How long, I should like to know, have my 
 requests received such particular attention? 
 Pooh!" 
 
 " Well, then, I will order my fire to be lighted 
 
 again 
 
 said Plantaffenet. 
 
 "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. Non- 
 sense shall be very good sense ; you shall find 
 that, sir, that you shall. Nonsense, indeed ! 
 I'll >vrite to your guardian, that I will ! You 
 call your mother nonsense, do you ? And where 
 did you learn that, I should like to know?
 
 VENETIA. 13o 
 
 Nonsense, indeed ! This comes of your going to 
 Cherbury ! So your mother is nonsense; a pretty 
 lesson for Lady Annabel to teach you. Oh ! 
 ril speak ray mind to her, that I wiU." 
 
 «« What has Lady Annabel to do with it r" 
 inquired Lord Cadurcis in a loud tone. 
 
 ^' Don't threaten me, sir," said Mrs. Cadui'cis, 
 with violent gesture, " I won't be menaced ; I 
 won't be menaced by my son. Pretty goings 
 on, indeed ! But I will put a stop to them ; 
 will I not ? that is all. Nonsense, indeed ; 
 your mother nonsense ! " 
 
 " Well you do talk nonsense, and the greatest," 
 said Plantagenet, doggedly ; " you are talking 
 nonsense now, you are always talking nonsense, 
 and you never open your mouth about Lady 
 Annabel without talking nonsense.'* 
 
 " If I was not very ill I woidd 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 !
 
 13$ VENETIA. 
 
 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 f said Lord Cadurcis. 
 
 " What should you know about your father, 
 sir?" said Mrs. Cadurcis, "How dare you 
 speak about your father V 
 
 " Who should speak about a father but a 
 son?" 
 
 " Hold your impudence, sir ! '* 
 
 " I am not impudent, ma'am." 
 
 "You aggravating brat!" exclaimed the 
 enraged woman, " I wish I had something to 
 throw at you ! " 
 
 " Did you throw things at my father?" asked 
 his lordship. 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis went into an hysterical rage ; 
 thenj suddenly jumping up, she rushed at her 
 son. Lord Cadurcis took up a position behind 
 the table, but the sportive and mocking air 
 which he generally instinctively assumed on these 
 occasions, and which, while it irritated his
 
 VENETIA. 137 
 
 mother more, was in reality affected by the boy 
 from a sort of nervous desire of preventing these 
 dreadful exposures from assuming a too tragic 
 tone, did not characterise his countenance on the 
 present occasion ; on the contrary, it was pale, 
 but composed and very serious. Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 after one or two ineffectual attempts to catch him, 
 paused and panted for breath. He took ad- 
 vantage of this momentary cessation, and spoke 
 thus — " Mother, I am in no humour for frolics. 
 I moved out of your way that you might not 
 strike me, because I have made up my 
 mind that, if you ever strike me again, I will live 
 with you no longer. Now I have given you 
 warning ; do what you please; I shall sit down 
 in this chair, and not move. If you strike me, 
 you know the consequences." So saying, his 
 lordship resumed his chair. 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis simultaneously sprang forward 
 and boxed his ears; and then her son rose 
 without the slightest expression of any kind, and 
 slowly quitted the chamber.
 
 138 VENETIA. 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis remained alone in a savage 
 sulk: hours passed away, and her son never 
 made his appearance. Then she rang the bell, 
 and ordered the servant to tell Lord Cadurcis 
 that tea was ready ; but the servant returned, 
 and reported that his lordship had locked him- 
 self up in his room, and would not reply to his 
 inquiries. Determined not to give in, Mrs. 
 Cadurcis, at length, retired for the night, rather 
 regretting her violence, but still sullen. Having 
 well scolded her waiting- woman, she, at length, 
 fell asleep. 
 
 The morning brought breakfast, but no Lord 
 Cadurcis ; in vain were all the messages of his 
 mother, her son would make no reply to them. 
 ,Mrs. Cadurcis, at length, personally repaired to 
 his room and knocked at the door, but she was as 
 unsuccessful as the servants ; she began to think 
 he would starve, and desired the servant to offer 
 from himself to bring his meal. Still silence. 
 Indignant at his treatment of these overtures of 
 conciliation, Mrs. Cadurcis returned to the
 
 VENETIA. 139 
 
 saloon, confident that hunger, if no other im- 
 pulse, would bring her wild cub out of his lair ; 
 but, just before dinner, her waiting-woman came 
 running into the room. 
 
 '' Oh, ma'am, ma'am, I don''t know where 
 Lord Cadurcis has gone; but I have just seen 
 John, and he says there was no pony in the stable 
 this morning." 
 
 Mrs. Cadurcis sprang up, rushed to her son's 
 chamber, found the door still locked, ordered it 
 to be burst open, and then it turned out that his 
 lordship had never been there at all, for the bed 
 was unused. Mrs. Cadurcis was frightened out 
 oi* her hfe ; the servants, to console her, assured 
 her that Plantagenet must be at Cherbury ; and 
 while she believed their representations, which 
 were probable, she became not only more com- 
 posed, but resumed her jealousy and sullenness. 
 Gone to Cherbury, indeed ! No doubt of it ! 
 Let him remain at Cherbury. Execrating Lady 
 Annabel, she flung herself into her easy chair,
 
 140 VENETIA. 
 
 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 lady- 
 ship would not permit Plantagenet to remain at 
 Cherbury. Nevertheless, jealous, passionate, 
 and obstinate, she stifled her fears, vented her 
 spleen on her unhappy domestics, and, finally, 
 exhausting herself by a storm of passion about 
 some very unimportant subject, again sought 
 refuge in sleep. 
 
 She awoke early in a fright, and inquired im- 
 mediately 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 him-
 
 VENETIA. 141 
 
 self in the lake. Then she went into hysterics ; 
 called Plantagenet her lost darling ; declared 
 he was the best and most dutiful of sons, and 
 the image of his poor father,— -then abused all 
 the servants, and then abused herself. 
 
 About noon she grew quite distracted, and 
 rushed about the house with her hair dishevelled, 
 and in a dressing-gown — looked in all the closets, 
 behind the screens, under the chairs, into her 
 work-box — but, strange to say, with no success. 
 Then she went off into a swoon, and her ser- 
 vants, alike frightened about master and mistress, 
 mother and son, despatched a messenger imme- 
 diately to Cherbury for intelligence, advice, and 
 assistance. In less than an hour's time the mes- 
 senger returned, and informed them that Lord 
 Cadurcis had not been at Cherbury since two 
 days back, but that Lady Annabel was very sorry 
 to hear that their mistress was so ill, and would 
 come on to see her immediately. In the mean 
 time Lady Annabel added, that she had sent to 
 Dr. Masham, and had great hopes that Lord
 
 142 VENETIA. 
 
 Cadurcis was at Marringhurst. Mrs. Cadurcis, 
 who had now come to, as her waiting-woman de- 
 scribed the returning consciousness of her mis- 
 tress, eagerly embraced the hope held out of 
 Plantagenet being at Marringhurst, poured forth 
 a thousand expressions of gratitude, admiration, 
 and affection for Lady Annabel, who, she 
 declared, was her best, her only friend, and the 
 being in the world whom she loved most, next 
 to her unhappy and injured child. 
 
 After another hour of suspense Lady Anna- 
 bel arrived, and her entrance was the signal for 
 a renewed burst of hysterics from Mrs. Cadur- 
 cis, so wild and terrible, that they must have 
 been contagious to any female of less disciplined 
 emotions than her guest.
 
 VENETIA. 143 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Towards the 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.
 
 144 VENETIA. 
 
 In the mean time let us return to the little 
 lord himself. Having secured the advantage of 
 a long start, by the device of turning the key of 
 his chamber, he repaired to the stables, and, 
 finding no one to observe him, saddled his pony 
 and galloped away, without plan or purpose. 
 An instinctive love of novelty and adventure 
 induced him to direct his course by a road which 
 he had never before pursued ; and, after two 
 or three miles' progress through a wild open 
 country of brushwood, he found that he had 
 entered that considerable forest which formed 
 the boundary of many of the views from Ca- 
 durcis. 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 turfj occasionally 
 shaded by picturesque groups of doddered oaks. 
 The calm beauty of the sylvan scene wonder- 
 fully touched the fancy of the youthful fugitive ; 
 it soothed and gratified him. He pulled up his 
 pony ; patted its lively neck, as if in gratitude
 
 VENETIA. 145 
 
 for its good service, and, confident that he could 
 not be successfully pursued, indulged in a thou- 
 sand 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 farm- 
 house. Towards sunset he determined to make 
 use of the remaining light, and pushed on 
 apace; but it soon grew so dark, that he found 
 it necessary to resume his walking pace, from 
 fear of the overhanging branches and tlie 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 VENETIA. 
 
 trunks of felled trees which occasionally crossed 
 his way. 
 
 Notwithstanding the very probable prospect of 
 passing his night in the forest, our little adven- 
 turer did not lose heart. Cadurcis was a very 
 intrepid child, and, when in the company of 
 those with whom he was not famihar, 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 very 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 hghts 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
 
 VENETIA. 147 
 
 attracted his attention, but the red flames of a 
 watch-fire, round which some dark figures had 
 hitherto been clustered. The sound of horses'* 
 feet had disturbed them, and the fire was now 
 more and more visible. As Cadurcis approached, 
 he observed some low tents, and in a few minutes 
 he was in the centre of an encampment of 
 gipsies. He Avas for a moment somewhat dis- 
 mayed, for he had been brought up with the 
 usual terror of these wild people ; nevertheless, 
 he was not unequal to the occasion. He was sur- 
 rounded in an instant, but only with women and 
 children ; for the gipsy-men never immediately 
 appear. They smiled with their bright eyes, 
 and the flames of the watch-fire threw a lurid 
 glow over their dark and flushing countenances ; 
 they held out their practised hands ; they uttered 
 unintelligible, but not unfriendly sounds. The 
 heart of Cadurcis faltered, but his voice did not 
 betray him. 
 
 " I am cold, good people," said the undaunted 
 boy ; ** will you let me warm myself by your 
 fire?" 
 
 H 2
 
 148 VENETIA. 
 
 A beautiful girl, with significant gestures, 
 pressed her liand to her heart, then pointed in 
 the direction of the tents, and then rushed away, 
 soon reappearing with a male. He was a short 
 thin man, inchning to middle age, but of a 
 compact and apparently powerful frame, lithe, 
 supple, and sinewy. His complexion was dark, 
 but clear; his eye large, liquid, and black ; but 
 his other features small, though precisely 
 moulded. He wore a green jacket and a pair 
 of black velvet breeches, his legs and feet being 
 bare, with the exception of slippers. Round 
 his head was twisted a red handkerchief, which, 
 perhaps, might not have looked like a turban on 
 a countenance less oriental. 
 
 " What would the young master ? " inquired 
 the gipsy-man, in a voice far from disagreeable, 
 and with a gesture of courtesy; but, at the 
 same time, he shot a scrutinising glance first at 
 Plantagenet, and then at his pony. 
 
 " I would remain with you," said Lord Ca- 
 durois ; '' that is, if you will let me.''' 
 
 The gipsy-man made a sign to the women, and
 
 VENETIA. 149 
 
 Plantagenet was lifted by them off his pony 
 before he could be aware of their purpose ; the 
 children led the pony away, and the gipsy-man 
 conducted Plantagenet to the fire, where an old 
 woman sat, presiding over the mysteries of an 
 enormous flesh-pot. Immediately his fellows, 
 who had originally been clustered around it, re- 
 appeared; fresh blocks and branches were 
 thrown on, the flames crackled and rose, the 
 men seated themselves around, and Plantagenet, 
 excited by the adventure, rubbed his hands 
 before the fire, and determined to fear nothing. 
 
 A savoury steam exuded from the flesh-pot. 
 
 " That smells well,'" said Plantagenet. 
 
 " 'Tis a dimber cove," 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 apparently the leader, " but 
 the welcome is hearty." 
 
 The woman and girls now came with wooden 
 bowls and platters, and, after serving the men, 
 * 'Tis a lively lad.
 
 150 VENETIA. 
 
 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 *." 
 
 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. Cadur- 
 cis helped himself, with a bold but gracious air. 
 The pannier w^as 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 -arge 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 
 
 * Come, old woman ; look after the turkej-. Are we 
 to wait till night ? And, Beruna, cut the bread.
 
 VENETIA. 151 
 
 was provided with his knife, but the guest had 
 none. Morgana immediately gave up his own. 
 
 " Beruna !" he shouted, " gibel a chiv for the 
 gentry cove*.'* 
 
 " 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 covef." 
 
 Cadurcis really thought it was the most de- 
 lightful 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 Be- 
 runa, with her portion, came and seated herself 
 by Plantagenet, looking at him with a blended 
 glance of delight and astonishment, like a beau- 
 tiful young savage, and then turning to her 
 
 * Bring a knife for the gentleman, 
 f Eat, eat, gentleman.
 
 'iS2 VENETIA. 
 
 .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. Ca- 
 durcis glanced at his companions, and gazed 
 upon the scene with feelings of ravishing excite- 
 ment; and then, almost unconscious of what he 
 was saying, he 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* of you 
 yet," said an old gipsy, " never fear that.'* 
 
 " Bah ! Peter,'' said Morgana with an angry 
 
 * 7. E. We will teach you to steal a turkey.
 
 VENETIAi 153 
 
 ]ook, ** your red rag will never lie still. And 
 what was the purpose of your present travel ?" 
 he continued to Plantaorenet. 
 
 o 
 
 *' 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 toiit*.'^ 
 
 " Well, you shall see a little more of us before 
 you decide,"" said Morgana thoughtfully, and 
 turning the conversation. " Beruna !" 
 
 *' Ay ! ay ! Morgana !" 
 
 " Tip rae the clank, like a dimker mort as 
 you are ; trim a ken for the gentry cove ; he is 
 no lanspresado, or I am a kinchin -I*," 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! Morgana," gaily exclaimed tlie 
 girl, and she ran off to prepare a bed for the 
 Lord of Cadurcis. 
 
 * His mother will make a hue-and-cry after the gentle- 
 man yet : justice of the peace will be the word, if we don't 
 look sharp. 
 
 t Give rae the tiiikard, like a pretty girl. Get a bed 
 ready for the gentleman. He is no informer, or I am an 
 infant. 
 
 Ji 3
 
 154 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Dr. Masham could gain no tidings of the 
 object of his pursuit at Southport : here, how- 
 ever, he ascertained that Plantagenet could not 
 have fled to London, for in those days public 
 conveyances were rare. There was only one 
 coach that ran, or rather jogged, along this road, 
 and it went but once a week, it being expected 
 that very night; while the innkeeper was confi- 
 dent that, as far as Southport was concerned, 
 his little lordship had not sought refuge in the 
 waggon, which was more frequent, though some- 
 what slower, in its progress to the metropolis. 
 Unwilling to return home, although the evening 
 was now drawing in, the Doctor resolved to pro-
 
 VENETIA. 155 
 
 ceed to a considerable town about twelve miles 
 further, which Cadurcis might have reached by 
 a cross road ; so drawing his cloak around him, 
 looking to his pistols, and desiring his servant to 
 follow his example, the stout-hearted Rector of 
 Marringhurst pursued his way. 
 
 It was dark when the Doctor entered the 
 town, and he proceeded immediately to the inn 
 where the coach was expected, with some faint 
 hope that the fugitive might be discovered 
 abiding within its walls ; but, to all his inquiries 
 about young gentlemen and ponies, he received 
 very unsatisfactory answers; so, reconciling him- 
 self as well as he could to the disagreeable pos- 
 ture of affairs, he settled himself in the parlour 
 of the inn, with a good fire, and, lighting his 
 pipe, desired his servant to keep a sharp look- 
 out. 
 
 In due time a great uproar in the inn-yard 
 announced the arrival of the stage, — an unwieldy 
 machine, carrying six inside, and dragged by as 
 many horses. The Doctor, opening the door of
 
 156 VENETIA. 
 
 his apartment, — which led on to a gallery that 
 ran round the inn-yard, — leaned over the balus- 
 trade with his pipe in his mouth, and watched 
 proceedings. It so happened that the stage was 
 to discharge one of its passengers at this town, 
 who had come from the north, and the Doctor 
 recognised in him a neighbour and brother ma- 
 gistrate, one Squire Mountmeadow, a very 
 important personage in his way, the terror of 
 poachers, and somewhat of an oracle on the 
 bench, as it was said that he could even take a 
 deposition without the assistance of his clerk. 
 Although, in spite of the ostler's lanterns, it was 
 \ery 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 atten- 
 tion which they require on every occasion. 
 
 '' Coachman !" said the authoritative voice of 
 the Squire ; " Where is the coachman ? Oh ! 
 you are there, Sir, are you ? Postilion ! Where 
 is the postilion ? Oh ! you are there, Sir, are
 
 VENETIA. 157 
 
 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 f 
 
 *' How long am I to wait ? Oh ! you are 
 there. Sir, are you ? Coachman!" 
 
 '' Your worship 1" 
 
 " Postilion !'' , 
 
 ** Yes, your worship !" 
 
 " Host !" 
 
 " Your worship's servant 1" 
 
 " Waiter !'' 
 
 *' Your worship's honour's humble servant 1*" 
 
 " I am going to alight." 
 
 All four attendants immediately bowed, and 
 extended their arms to assist this very great 
 man ; but Squire Mountmeadow, scarcely deign- 
 ing 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
 
 158 VENETIA. 
 
 that Doctor Masham's servant approached him, 
 and informed his worship that his master was at 
 the inn, and would be happy to see him. The 
 countenance of the great Mountmeadow relaxed 
 at the mention of the name of a brother magis- 
 trate, and in an audible voice he bade the groom 
 " tell my worthy friend, his worship, your 
 worthy master, that I shall be rejoiced to pay 
 my respects to an esteemed neighbour and a 
 brother magistrate." 
 
 With slow and solemn steps, preceded by the 
 host, and followed by the waiter, Squire Mount- 
 meadow ascended the staircase of the external 
 gallery, pausing occasionally, and looking around 
 him with thoughtful importance, and making an 
 occasional inquiry as to the state of the town and 
 neighbourhood during his absence, in this fa- 
 shion : — " 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 !
 
 VENETIA. 159 
 
 Never easy, if absent only four-and-twenty hours. 
 The law must be obeyed." 
 
 " Yes, your worship." 
 
 '* Lead on, Sir. And, waiter ; where are you, 
 waiter ? Oh ! you are there, Sir, are you ? And 
 so my brother magistrate is here ? "'"' 
 
 ^'' Yes, your honour's worship.'* 
 
 " Hem ! What can he want ? — something in 
 the wind ; wants my advice, I dare say ; shall 
 have it. Soldiers ruly ; king's servants ; must 
 be obeyed." 
 
 *' Yes, your worship ; quite ruly, your wor- 
 ship," said the host. 
 
 " As obliging and obstreporous as can be," 
 said the waiter. 
 
 " Well, very well," and here the Squire had 
 gained the gallery, where the Doctor was ready 
 to receive him. 
 
 " It always gives me pleasure to meet a bro- 
 ther magistrate," said Squire Mountmeadow, 
 bowing witli cordial condescension ; *' and a gen- 
 tleman of your cloth, too. The clergy must be
 
 160 VENETIA. 
 
 respected ; I stand or fal] by the Church. After 
 you. Doctor, — after you." So saying, the two 
 magistrates entered the room. 
 
 '' An unexpected pleasure, Doctor," said the 
 Squire ; " and what brings your worship to 
 town ? " 
 
 *' A somewhat strange business," said the Doc- 
 tor; " 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 dis- 
 cuss it afterwards. ' Tis for your private ear." 
 
 " Oh ! ho ! " said the Squire, looking very 
 mysterious and important. "With your wor- 
 ship's permission," he added, fiUing a pipe. 
 
 The host was no laggard in waiting on two 
 such important guests. The brother magistrates 
 despatched their rump-steak ; the foaming tan- 
 kard was replenished ; the fire renovated. At
 
 VENETIA. 161 
 
 length, the table and the room being alike clear, 
 Squire Mountmeadow drew a long puff*, and 
 said, " Now for business. Doctor."" 
 
 His companion then informed him of the exact 
 object of his visit, and narrated to him as mucli 
 of the preceding incidents as was necessary. 
 The Squire listened in solemn silence, elevating 
 his eyebrows, nodding his head, trimming his 
 pipe, with profound interjections ; and finally, 
 being appealed to for his opinion by the Doctor, 
 delivered himself of a most portentous " Hem !" 
 
 " I question. Doctor," said the Squire, " whe- 
 ther we should not communicate with the Secre- 
 tary 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 com- 
 panion. *' Prove the truancy, Doctor : prove 
 it. ' Tis a case of disappearance ; and how do
 
 162 VENETIA. 
 
 we know that there is not a Jesuit at the bottom 
 of it ? '» 
 
 "There is something in that," said the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " There is everything in it," said the Squire, 
 triumphantly. " We must offer rewards ; we 
 must raise the posse comitatus." 
 
 " For the sake of the family, I would make 
 as little stir as necessary," said Dr. Masham. 
 
 *' For the sake of the family ! " said the 
 Squire. " Think of the nation, Sir ! For the 
 sake of the nation we must make as much stir 
 as possible. 'Tis a Secretary of State''s busi- 
 ness; '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 Jus- 
 tices of the Peace, and a Doctor of Divinity to 
 boot — should doubt the fact for an instant."
 
 VENETIA. 163 
 
 " We have not heard much of the Jesuits of 
 late years," said the Doctor. 
 
 *' The very reason that they are more active/' 
 said the Squire. 
 
 '* An only child ! " said Dr. Masham. 
 
 *' A Peer of the realm I " said Squire Mount- 
 meadow. 
 
 " I should think he must be in the neighbour- 
 hood." 
 
 " More likely at St. Omer's." 
 
 ^' They would scarcely take him to the planta- 
 tions with this war ? " 
 
 " Let us drink * Confusion to the rebels ! ' ** 
 said the Squire. ^' Any news ? '* 
 
 *' Howe sails this week/** said the Doctor. 
 
 " May he burn Boston ! '* said the Squire. 
 
 " I would rather he would reduce it, without 
 such extremities,**' said Dr. Masham. 
 
 " Nothing is to be done without extremities,'* 
 said Squire Mountmeadow. 
 
 " But this poor child ? '* said the Doctor,
 
 164 VENETIA. 
 
 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 Lon- 
 don ; — he would have been recognised here or 
 at Southport." 
 
 " With his hair cropped, and in a Jesuit's 
 cap ? " inquired the Squire, with a slight sneer. 
 *' Ah ! Doctor, Doctor, you know not the gentry 
 you have to deal with ! " 
 
 *' We must hope," said Dr. Masham. <* To- 
 morrow we must organise some general search." 
 
 *' I fear it will be of no use,'*'' said the Squire, 
 replenishing his pipe. " These Jesuits are deep 
 fellows."
 
 VENETIA. 165 
 
 "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."
 
 166 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 It was on the following morning, as the Doc- 
 tor was und^^ 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 con- 
 stable. 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
 
 VENETIA. 167 
 
 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 Doc- 
 tor ; *' follow me, like true men," and the 
 Doctor ran down stairs in his silk nightcap, for 
 his wig was not yet prepared. 
 
 " There he is," said Peter ; and true enough 
 there was a man in a smock frock, and mounted 
 on the very pony which Lady Annabel had 
 presented to Plantagenet. 
 
 " Seize this man in the King's name," said the 
 Doctor, hastily advancing to him. " Ostler, do 
 your duty ; Peter, be firm. I charge you all ; 
 I am a justice of the peace. I charge you arrest 
 this man." 
 
 The man seemed very much astonished; but 
 he was composed, and offered no resistance. He
 
 168 VENETIA. 
 
 was dressed like a small farmer, in top boots 
 
 and a smock frock. His hat was rather jauntily 
 
 placed on his curly red hair. 
 
 ^ '-Why am I seized?" at length said the 
 
 man. 
 
 " Where did you get that pony ? " said the 
 Doctor. 
 
 '' I bought it " was the reply. 
 
 " Of whom 'r 
 
 " A stranger at market." 
 
 " You are accused of robbery, and suspected 
 of murder,"" said Dr. Masham. '« Mr. Consta- 
 ble," said the Doctor, turning to that function- 
 ary, who had now arrived, " handcuff this man, 
 and keep him in strict custody until further 
 orders." 
 
 The report that a man was arrested for rob- 
 bery, and suspected of murder, at the Red 
 Dragon, spread like wildfire through the town ; 
 and the inn-yard was soon crowded with the 
 curious and excited inhabitants. 
 
 Peter and the barber, to whom he had com-
 
 VENETIA. 169 
 
 municated everything, were well qualified to do 
 justice to the important information of which 
 they were the sole depositaries ; the tale lost 
 nothing by their telling ; and a circumstantial 
 narrative of the robbery and murder of no less 
 a personage than Lord Cadurcis, of Cadurcis 
 Abbey, was soon generally prevalent. 
 
 The stranger was secured in a stable, before 
 which the constable kept guard ; mine host, and 
 the waiter, and the ostlers, acted as a sort of 
 supernumerary police, to repress the multitude ; 
 while Peter held the real pony by the bridle, 
 whose identity, which he frequently attested, 
 was considered by all present as an incontro- 
 vertible evidence of the commitment of the 
 crime. 
 
 In the mean time Dr. Masham, really very 
 agitated, roused his brother magistrate, and 
 communicated to his worship the important dis- 
 covery. The Squire fell into a solemn flutter. 
 «' We must be regular, brother Masham ; we 
 must proceed by rule ; we are a bench in our- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 VENETIA. 
 
 selves. Would that my clerk were here I We 
 must send for Seal signer forthwith. I will not 
 decide without the statutes. The law must be 
 consulted, and it must be obeyed. The fellow 
 hath not brought ray wig. 'Tis a case of mur- 
 der, no doubt. A Peer of the realm murdered ! 
 You must break the intelligence to his surviving 
 parent, and I will communicate to the Secretary 
 of State. Can the body be found ? That will 
 prove the murder. Unless the body be found, 
 the murder will not be proved, save the villain 
 confess, which he will not do, unless he hath sud- 
 den compunctions. I have known sudden com- 
 punctions go a great way. We had a case be- 
 fore our bench last month ; there was no evi- 
 dence. 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 sta- 
 tutes. 'Tis not simple murder this ; it involves 
 petty treason,"
 
 VENETIA. 171 
 
 By this time his worship had completed his 
 toilet, and he and his colleague took their way 
 to the parlour they had inhabited the preceding 
 evening. Mr. Signsealer was in attendance, 
 much to the real, though concealed, satisfaction 
 of Squire Mountmeadow. Their worships were 
 seated like two consuls before the table, which 
 Mr. Signsealer had duly arranged with writing 
 materials and various piles of calf-bound volumes. 
 Squire Mountmeadow then, arranging his coun- 
 tenance, announced that the bench was prepared, 
 and mine host was instructed forthwith to sum- 
 mon 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 
 I 2
 
 17^ VENETIA. 
 
 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 re- 
 quired only Mountmeadow slowly to rise, and, 
 di'awing himself up to the fulj height of his 
 gaunt figure, to knit his severe brow, and throw 
 one of his pecuhar looks around the chamber, to 
 insure a most awful stillness. Instantly every- 
 thing was so hushed, that you might have heard 
 Signsealer knib his pen. 
 
 The witnesses were sworn ; Peter proved that 
 the pony belonged to Lord Cadurcis, and that 
 his lordship had been missing from home for 
 several days, and was believed to have quitted 
 the abbey on this identical pony. Dr. Masham 
 was ready, if necessary, to confirm this evidence. 
 The accused adhered to his first account, that he 
 had purchased the animal the day before at a 
 neighbouring fair, and doggedly declined to 
 answer any cross-examination. Squire Mount- 
 meadow looked alike pompous and puzzled ;
 
 VENETIA. 173 
 
 whispered to the Doctor ; and then shook his 
 head at Mr. Signsealer. 
 
 " I doubt whether there be satisfactory evi- 
 dence of the murder, brother Mashani,'" said 
 the Squire; " what shall be our next step ?" 
 
 "There is enough evidence to keep this fellow 
 in custody," said the Doctor. "We must remand 
 him, and make inquiries at the market town. 
 I shall proceed there immediately. He is a 
 strange-looking fellow," added the Doctor: 
 " were it not for his carroty locks, I should 
 scarcely take him for a native." 
 
 "Hem!" said the Squire, "I have my 
 suspicions. Fellow," continued his worship, in 
 an awful tone, *' you say that you are a stranger, 
 and that your name is Morgan ; very suspicious 
 all this ; you have no one to speak to your cha- 
 racter or station, and you are found in possession 
 of stolen goods. The bench will remand you for 
 the present, and will at any rate commit you for 
 trial for the robbery. But here is a Peer of the 
 realm missing, fellow, and you are most griev-
 
 174 VENETIA. 
 
 ously suspected of being concerned in his spi- 
 riting 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 con- 
 sider your situation. Have you no compunc- 
 tions? Compunctions might save you, if not 
 a principal offender. It is your duty to assist 
 the bench in executing justice. The Crown is 
 merciful ; you may be king's evidence.'' 
 
 Mr. Signsealer whispered the bench ; he pro- 
 posed that the prisoner's hat should be examined, 
 as the name of its maker might afford a clue to 
 his residence. 
 
 '' True, true, Mr. Clerk," said Squire Mount- 
 meadow, " 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
 
 VENETIA. 175 
 
 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 charac- 
 ter with the countenance than its previous co- 
 vering. 
 
 " A Jesuit, after all!" exclaimed the Squire. 
 
 *• A gipsey, as it seems to me," whispered the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " Still worse," said the Squire. 
 
 " Silence in the Court !" exclaimed the awful 
 voice of Squire Mountmeadow, for the excitement 
 of the audience was considerable. The disguise 
 was generally esteemed as incontestable evidence 
 of the murder. '-Silence, or I will order the 
 Court to be cleared. Constable, proclaim silence. 
 This is an awful business," added the Squire, 
 with a very long face. "Brother Masham, we 
 must do our duty ; but this is an awful 
 business. At any rate we must try to discover 
 the body. A Peer of the realm must not be 
 suffered to lie murdered in a ditch. He must
 
 170 VENETIA, 
 
 have Christian burial, if possible, in the vaults of 
 his ancestors." 
 
 When Morgana, for it was indeed he, observed 
 ihe 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 communi- 
 cation to the bench. Squire Mountmeadow lifted 
 up his eyes to Heaven, as if entreating the inter- 
 position of Providence to guide him in his course; 
 then turned to his brother magistrate, and then 
 nodded to the clerk. 
 
 "He has compunctions, brother Masham,'* 
 said his worship : *' I told you so; he has com- 
 punctions. Trust me to deal with these fellows. 
 He knew not his perilous situation ; the hint of 
 petty treason staggered him. Mr. Clerk, take 
 down the prisoner's confession ; the Court must 
 be cleared ; constable, clear the Court. Let a 
 stout man stand on each side of the prisoner, to 
 protect the bench. The magistracy of England 
 will never shrink from doing their duty, but
 
 VENETIA. 177 
 
 they must be protected. Now, prisoner, the 
 bench is ready to hear your confession. Con- 
 ceal nothing, and if you were not a principal in 
 the murder, or an accessary 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 cheer- 
 fully 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 wor- 
 ship. ** 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 yovmg gentleman to whom this pony 
 belongs," continued the gipsey, " may or may 
 not be a lord. I never asked him his name, and 
 he never told it me ; but he sought hospitalitv of 
 me and my people, and we gave it him, and he 
 I 3
 
 178 VENETIA. 
 
 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 gipsey!" ex- 
 claimed the Squire. " A very likely tale I TU 
 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 gipsey, appealing to Dr. 
 Masham, '* you, sir, appear to be a friend of this 
 youth. You will not regain him by sending me 
 to gaol. Load me, if you will, with irons, 
 surround me with armed men, but at least give 
 me the opportunity of proving the truth of what 
 I say. I offer in two hours to produce to you 
 the youth, and you shall find he is living with my 
 people in content and peace." 
 
 " Content and fiddlestick !" said the Squire, 
 in a rage.
 
 VENETIAi 179 
 
 *' Brother Mountmeadow," said the Doctor, in 
 alow tone, to his colleague, " I have private duties 
 to perform to this family. Pardon me if, ^\'ith all 
 deference to your sounder judgment and greater 
 experience, I myself accept the prisoner's offer.'" 
 
 '' Brother Masham, you are one of his ma- 
 jesty'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-gipseying ? Is it 
 possible that you can credit this preposterous 
 tale ? Brother Masham, there will be a rescue, 
 or my name is not Mountmeadow." 
 
 In spite, however, of all these solemn warnings, 
 the good Doctor, who was not altogether un- 
 aware of the character of his pupil, and could 
 comprehend that it was very possible the state- 
 ment of the gipsey 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 ;
 
 180 VENETIA. 
 
 and consequently, well-secured and guarded, and 
 preceding the Doctor, who rode behind the cart 
 with his servant, the gipsey soon sallied forth 
 from the inn-yard, and requested the driver to 
 guide his course in the direction of the forest.
 
 VENETIA. 181 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 It was the afternoon of the third day after 
 the arrival of Cadurcis at the gypsey encamp- 
 ment, and nothing had yet occurred to make 
 him repent his flight from the abbey, and the 
 choice of life he had made. He had expe- 
 rienced nothing but kindness and hospitahty, 
 while the beautiful Beruna seemed quite con- 
 tent 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 turf, with his 
 Jiead on Beruna's lap, and his eyes fixed upon 
 the rich forest foliage glowing in the autumnal 
 sunset, Plantagenet only wondered that he could
 
 182 VENETIA. 
 
 have endured, for so many years, the shackles 
 of his common-place home. 
 
 His companions were awaiting the return of 
 their leader, Morgana, who had heen absent 
 since the preceding day, and who had departed 
 on Plantagenet's pon}'. Most of them were 
 lounging or strolling in the vicinity of their 
 tents ; the children were playing ; the old wo- 
 man was cooking at the fire ; and altogether, 
 save that the hour was not so late, the scene 
 presented much the same aspect as when Ca- 
 durcis had first beheld it. As for his present 
 occupation, Beruna was giving him a lesson in 
 the gypsey language, which he was acquiring 
 with a rapid faciHty, 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 for- 
 Avard as a spy, on the pretence of telling for- 
 tunes. This bright-eyed professor of palmistry 
 soon, however, returned, running, and out of
 
 VENETIA. 183 
 
 breath, yet chatting all the time with incon- 
 ceivable rapidity, and accompanying the start- 
 ling communication she was evidently making 
 with the most animated gestures. Beruna started 
 up and, leaving the astonished Cadurcis, joined 
 them. She seemed alarmed. Cadurcis was 
 soon convinced there was consternation in the 
 camp. 
 
 Suddenly a horseman galloped up, and was 
 immediately followed by a companion. They 
 called out, as if encouraging followers, and one 
 of them immediately galloped away again, as if 
 to detail the results of their reconnoissance. Be- 
 fore Cadurcis could well rise and make inquiries 
 as to what was going on, a light cart, containing 
 several men, drove up, and in it, a prisoner, 
 he detected Morgana. The branches of the trees 
 concealed for a moment two other horsemen who 
 followed the cart ; but Cadurcis, to his infinite 
 alarm and mortification, soon recognised Dr. 
 Masham and Peter. 
 
 When the gypscys found ihcir leader was
 
 184 VENETIA. ^ 
 
 captive, they no longer attempted to conceal 
 themselves ; they all came forward, and would 
 have clustered round the cart, had not the rid- 
 ers, as well as those who more immediately 
 guarded the prisoner, prevented them. Morgana 
 spoke some words in a loud voice to the gypseys, 
 and they immediately appeared less agitated 
 then turning to Dr. Masham, he said in English , 
 « Behold your child ! " 
 
 Instantly two gypsey men seized Cadurcis, and 
 led him to the Doctor. 
 
 " How, now, my lord ? " said the worthy Rec- 
 tor, 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 per- 
 son, 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
 
 VENETIA. 185 
 
 of this child, and some compensation for your 
 detention. Mount your pony, Lord Cadurcis, 
 and return to your home with me." 
 
 " This is my home. Sir," said Plantagenet. 
 
 " Lord Cadurcis, this childish nonsense must 
 cease ; it has already endangered the life of your 
 mother, nor can I answer for her safety, if you 
 lose a moment in returning." 
 
 "Child, you must return," said Morgana. 
 
 " Child ! " said Plantagenet, and he walked 
 some steps away, and leant against a tree. " You 
 promised that I should remain," said he, address- 
 ing himself reproachfully to Morgana. 
 
 **You are not your own master," said the 
 gypsey ; " your remaining here will only endan- 
 ger and disturb us. Fortunately we have no- 
 thing to fear from laws we have never outraged ; 
 but had there been a judge less wise and gentle 
 than the master here, our peaceful family might 
 have been all harassed and hunted to the very 
 death." 
 
 He waved his hand, and addressed some
 
 186 VENETIA. 
 
 words to his tribe, whereupon two brawny fel- 
 lows 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 be- 
 ginning to get ludicrous. Morgana, pocketing 
 his five guineas, leaped over the side of the cart, 
 and offered to guide the Doctor and his attend- 
 ants through the forest. They moved on accord- 
 ingly. It was the work of an instant, and Cadur- 
 cis suddenly found himself returning home be- 
 tween the Hector and Peter. Not a word, how- 
 ever, 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
 
 VENETIA. 187 
 
 guidance of Morgana, the equestrians gained 
 the road, though it still ran through the forest. 
 Here the Doctor dismissed the gypsey 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 com- 
 plied with the intimation. At this rate, in the 
 course of little more than another hour, they ar- 
 rived in sight of the demesne of Cadurcis, where 
 they pulled up their steeds. 
 
 They entered the park — they approached the 
 portal of the abbey — at length they dismounted. 
 Their coming was announced by a servant, who 
 had recognised his lord at a distance, and had 
 ran on before with the tidings. When they 
 entered the abbey, they were met by Lady x\n-
 
 188 VENETIA. 
 
 nabel in the cloisters ; her countenance was very 
 serious. She shook hands with Doctor 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 very 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 it. She seemed greatly disturbed. When 
 she saw him, she put her arm round his neck 
 very affectionately, and said in a low voice, '' My 
 dearest Plantagenet, it has devolved upon me to 
 communicate to you some very distressing intel- 
 ligence.'* Her voice faultered, and the tears 
 stole down her cheek.
 
 VENETIA. 189 
 
 '* My mother, then, is dangerously ill ?" he 
 inquired in a calm but softened tone. 
 
 "It is even sadder news than that, dear 
 child." 
 
 Cadurcis looked about him wildly, and then 
 with an inquiring glance at Lady Annabel — 
 
 " There can be but one thing worse than that/ 
 he at length said. 
 
 " What if it have happened ?" said Lady 
 Annabel. 
 
 He threw himself into a chair, and covered his 
 face with his hands. After a few minutes he 
 looked up and said, in a low but distinct voice — 
 *' It is too terrible to think of; it is too terrible 
 to mention ; but, if it have happened, let me be 
 alone." 
 
 Lady Annabel approached him with a light 
 step ; she embraced him, and, whispering that 
 she should be found in the next room, she quitted 
 the apartment. 
 
 Cadurcis remained seated for more than half 
 an hour without changing in the slightest degree
 
 190 VENETIAr 
 
 his position. The twilight died away ; it grew 
 quite dark ; he looked up with a slight shiver, 
 and then quitted the apartment. 
 
 In the adjoining room. Lady Annabel was 
 seated with Doctor Masham, and giving him 
 the details of the fatal event. It had occurred 
 that morning. Mrs. Cadurcis, who had never 
 slept a wink since her knowledge of her son's 
 undoubted departure, and scarcely for an 
 hour been free from the most 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 probably be at the 
 abbey in the course of the morning. She said 
 it would be too late. They endeavoured to 
 encourage her, but she asked to see Lady Anna-
 
 VENETIA, 191 
 
 bel, who was immediately called, and lost no 
 time in repairing to her. When Mrs. Cadurcis 
 recognised her, she held out her hand, and said 
 in a dying tone — " It was my fault ; it w^as ever 
 my fault ; it is too late now ; let hun 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 debat- 
 ing 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 commu- 
 nication 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 hear- 
 ing the sounds frequently repeated, she entered 
 the room, which, but for her candle, would have 
 been quite dark, and there she found Lord Ca- 
 durcis kneeling and weeping by his mother's 
 bed-side. He seemed annoyed at being seen
 
 19*2 VENETIA. 
 
 and disturbed, but his spirit was too broken to 
 murmur. " La! my lord," said Mistress 
 Pauncefort, " you must not take on so ; you 
 must not, indeed. I am sure this dark room is 
 enough to put any one in low spirits. Now do 
 go down stairs, and sit with my lady and the 
 Doctor, and try to be cheerful ; that is a dear 
 good young gentleman. I wish Miss Venetia 
 were here, and then she would amuse you. But 
 you must not take on, because there is no use in 
 it. You must exert yourself, for what is done 
 cannot be undone ; and, as the Doctor told us 
 last Sunday, we must all die ; and well for those 
 who die with a good conscience ; and I am sure 
 the poor dear lady that is gone, must have had a 
 good conscience, because she had a good heart, 
 and I never heard any one say the contrary. 
 Now do exert yourself, my dear lord, and try to 
 be cheerful, do ; for there is nothing like a little 
 exertion in these cases, for God's will must be 
 done, and it is not for us to say yea or nay, and 
 taking on is a murmuring against God's provi-
 
 VENETIA. 193 
 
 dence." 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 !" 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 TENETIA, 
 
 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 immor- 
 tal. 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 very power- 
 ful 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
 
 VENETIA. 195 
 
 the world's ways, at least for a time, with 
 changed and tempered feelings. It recalls the 
 past, it makes us ponder over the future ; and 
 youth, gay and light-hearted youth, is taught, 
 for the first time, to regret and to fear. 
 
 On Lord Cadurcis, a child of pensive tem- 
 perament, and in whose strange and yet unde- 
 veloped character there was, amid lighter ele- 
 ments, a constitutional principle of melancholy, 
 the sudden decease of his mother produced a very 
 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, tlie 
 friend with whom we have cultivated mutual 
 K 2
 
 196 VENEIIA. 
 
 trust for years is often suddenly or gradually 
 estranged from us, or becomes, from painful, yet 
 irresistible, circumstances, even our deadliest 
 foe. As for women, as for the mistresses of our 
 hearts, who has not learnt that the links of 
 passion are fragile as they are glittering ; and 
 that the bosom on which we have reposed with 
 idolatry all our secret sorrows and sanguine 
 hopes, eventually becomes the very heart that 
 exults in our misery and baffles our welfare ? 
 Where is the enamoured face that smiled upon 
 our early love, and was to shed tears over our 
 grave? Where are the choice companions of 
 our youth, with whom we were to breast the 
 difficulties and share the triumphs of existence ? 
 Even in this inconstant world, what changes 
 like the heart ? Love is a dream, and friendship 
 a delusion. No wonder we grow callous; for 
 how few have the opportunity of returning to 
 the hearth which they quitted in levity or 
 thoughtless weariness, yet which alone is faith- 
 ful to them ; whose sweet affections require not
 
 VENETIA. 197 
 
 the' stimulus of prosperity or fame, the hire of 
 accomplishments, or the tribute of flattery ; but 
 which are constant to us in distress, and console 
 us even in disgrace ? 
 
 Before she retired for the night, Lady Anna- 
 bel was anxious to see Plantagenet. Mistress 
 Pauncefort had informed her of his visit to his 
 mother's room. Lady Annabel found Cadurcis 
 in the gallery, now partially lighted by the moon, 
 which had recently risen. She entered with lier 
 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 liim by tlie 
 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 Amiabel, 
 *' you had better come and sit with us.*'
 
 198 VENETIA. 
 
 " I like to be alone " was his answer ; but not 
 in a sullen voice, low and faltering. 
 
 " But in sorrow we should be with our friends," 
 said Lady Annabel. 
 
 " I have no friends," he answered. " I only 
 had one.^' 
 
 " I am your friend, dear child; I am your 
 mother now, and you shall find me one if you 
 like. And Venetia, have you forgotten your 
 sister ? Is she not your friend ? And Dr. 
 Masham, surely you cannot doubt liis friend- 
 ship?" 
 
 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 
 very 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
 
 VENETIA. 199 
 
 Cherbury, and you shall find it a home, a real 
 home." 
 
 He pressed her hand to his lips ; the hand was 
 covered with his tears. 
 
 " We will go to Cherbury to-morrow, dear 
 Plantagenet ; remaining here will only make 
 you sad." 
 
 " I will never leave Cadurcis again while my 
 mother is in this house," he said, in a firm and 
 serious voice. And then, after a moment's 
 pause, he added. '^ I wish to know when the 
 burial is to take place." 
 
 " We will ask Dr. Masham," replied Lady 
 Annabel, " Come, let us go to him ; come, my 
 own child." 
 
 He permitted himself to be led awa}'. They 
 descended to the small apartment where liady 
 Annabel had been previously sitting. They 
 found the Doctor there ; he rose and pressed 
 Plantagenet's hand with great emotion. They 
 made room for him at the fire between them ; 
 he sat in silence with his gaze intently fixed
 
 200 VENETIA. 
 
 upon the decaying embers, yet did not quit his 
 hold of Lady Annabel's hand. He found it a 
 consolation to him ; it linked him to a being 
 who seemed to love him. As long as he held 
 her hand he did not seem quite alone in the 
 world. 
 
 Now nobody spoke ; for Lady Annabel felt 
 that Cadurcis was in some degree solaced ; and 
 she thought it unwise to interrupt the more 
 composed train of his thoughts. It was, indeed, 
 Plantagenet himself who first broke silence. 
 
 *^ I do not think I can go to bed. Lady An- 
 nabel,"" 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 hke to see her."^
 
 VENETIA. 201 
 
 Lady Annabel and the Doctor exchanged 
 looks. 
 
 " I think," said the Doctor, '^ you had better 
 sleep in my room, and then, if you wake in the 
 night, you will have some one to speak to. You 
 will find that a comfort." 
 
 " Yes, that you will," said Lady Annabel. 
 " I will go and have the sofa bed made up in 
 the Doctor's room for you. Indeed that will 
 be the very best plan." 
 
 So at last, but not without a struggle, they 
 persuaded Cadurcis to retire. Lady Annabel 
 embraced him tenderly when she bade him 
 good night; and, indeed, he felt consoled by 
 her affection. 
 
 As nothing could persuade Plantagenet to 
 leave the abbey until his mother was buried, 
 Lady Annabel resolved to take up her abode 
 there, and she sent the next morning for Ve- 
 netia. There were a great many arrangements 
 to make about the burial and the mourning; 
 and Lady Annabel and Dr. Masham were
 
 202 VENETIAv. 
 
 obliged, in consequence, to go the next morning 
 to Southport ; but they delayed their depar- 
 ture 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 Cher- 
 bury. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Cadurcis, " they will not leave 
 me here ; I am sure of that, I think our happy 
 days are over, Venetia." 
 
 What mourner has not felt the magic of time? 
 Before the funeral could take place, Cadurcis 
 had recovered somewhat of his usual cheerful- 
 ness, and would indulge with Venetia in plans 
 of their future life. And living, as they all 
 were, under the same roof, sharing the same sor- 
 rows, participating in the same cares, and all 
 about to wear the same mournful emblems of 
 their domestic calamity, it was difficult for him
 
 VENETIA. 203 
 
 to believe that he was indeed that desolate being 
 he had at first correctly estimated himself. Here 
 were true friends, if such could exist ; here were 
 fine sympathies, pure affections, innocent and 
 disinterested hearts ! Every domestic tie yet 
 remained perfect, except the spell-bound tie of 
 blood. That wanting, all w^as a bright and 
 happy vision, that might vanish in an instant, 
 and for ever ; that perfect, even the least grace- 
 ful, the most repulsive home, had its irresistible 
 charms; and its loss, when once experienced, 
 might be mourned for ever, and could never be 
 restored.
 
 204 VENETIA. 
 
 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 ful- 
 filled by Lady Annabel and her daughter, and, 
 under their benignant influence, he soon regained 
 his usual demeanour. His days were now spent 
 as in the earlier period of their acquaintance, 
 with the exception of those painful returns to 
 home, which had once been a source to him of so 
 much gloom and unhappiness. He pursued his 
 studies as of old, and shared the amusements of 
 Venetia. His allotted room was ornamented by
 
 VENETIA. 205 
 
 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 con- 
 tented manner, when one day Doctor Masham, 
 who, since the death of his mother, had been in 
 correspondence with his guardian, received a 
 letter from that nobleman, to announce that he 
 had made arrangements for sending his ward to 
 Eton, and to request that he would accordingly 
 instantly proceed to the metropolis. This 
 announcement occasioned both Cadurcis aud 
 Venetia poignant affliction. The idea of sepa- 
 ration was to both of them most painful ; and 
 although Lady Annabel herself was in some 
 degree prepared for an arrangement, which 
 sooner or later she considered inevitable, she was 
 herself scarcely less distressed. The good 
 Doctor, in some degree to break the bitterness 
 of parting, proposed accompanying Plantagenet 
 to London, and himself personally delivering the
 
 206 VENETIA. 
 
 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 dehght in their mutual studies, 
 but passed the day walking about and visit- 
 ing old haunts, and endeavouring to console 
 each other for what they both deemed a great 
 calamity, and which was, indeed, the only serious 
 misfortune Venetia had herself experienced in 
 the whole course of her serene career. 
 
 *' But if I were really your brother," said 
 Plantagenet, " I must have quitted you the 
 same, Venetia. Boys always go to school ; and 
 then we shall be so happy when I return ! " 
 
 " Oh ! but we are so happy now, Plantagenet. 
 I cannot believe that we are going to part. And 
 are you sure that you will return? Perhaps 
 your guardian will not let you, and will wish you 
 to spend your holidays at his house. His 
 house will be your home now."
 
 VENETIA. 207 
 
 It was impossible for a moment to forget the 
 sorrow that was impending over them. There 
 were so many preparations to be made for his 
 departure, that every instant something occurred 
 to remind them of their sorrow. Venetia sat 
 with tears in her eyes marking his new pocket- 
 handkerchiefs, which they had all gone to South- 
 port to purchase, for Plantagenet asked, as a 
 particular favour, that no one should mark them 
 but Venetia. Then Lady Annabel gave Plan- 
 tagenet 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
 
 208 VENETIA. 
 
 always say ; " or, " O ! my lady, your la'ship 
 cannot form an idea of what a state my lord's 
 stockings are in, my lady. I think I had better 
 go over to Southport with John, my lady, and 
 buy him some ; " or " Please, my lady, did I 
 understand your la'ship spoke to the tailor on 
 Thursday about my lord's things? I suppose 
 your la'ship knows my lord has got no great-coat?**' 
 
 Every one of these inquiries made Venetia's 
 heart tremble. Then there was the sad habit of 
 dating every coming day by its distance from the 
 fatal one. There was the last day but four, and 
 the last day but three, and the last day but two. 
 The last day but one at length arrived ; and at 
 length, too, though it seemed incredible, the last 
 day itself. 
 
 Plantagenet and Venetia both rose very early, 
 that they might make it as long as possible. 
 They sighed involuntarily when they met, and 
 then they went about to pay last visits to every 
 creature and object of which they had been so 
 long fond. Plantagenet went to bid farewell to
 
 VENETIA. 209 
 
 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 
 every thing," 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 every 
 thing, 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.
 
 210 VENETIA. 
 
 " I am glad the Doctor," he continued, *' is 
 going to take me to town. I should be very 
 wretched by myself. But he will put me in 
 mind of Cherbury, and we can talk together of 
 Lady Annabel and you. Hark ! the bell rings ; 
 we must go to breakfast, the last breakfast but 
 one." 
 
 Lady Annabel endeavoured, by unusual 
 good spirits, to cheer up her little friends. She 
 spoke of Plantagenet's speedy return so much 
 as a matter of course, and the pleasant things 
 they were to do when he came back, that she 
 really succeeded in exciting a smile in Venetians 
 April face, for she was smiling amid tears. 
 
 Although it was the last day, time hung 
 heavily on their hands. Alter 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 pro- 
 gress, they passed the door of the closed apart- 
 ments, and here, holding Venetia's hand, he
 
 YE NET! A. 211 
 
 stopped, and, with an expression of irresistible 
 humour, making a very 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 ! " 
 
 Doctor Masham arrived for dinner, and in a 
 post-chaise. The unusual conveyance reminded 
 them of the morrow very keenly. Venetia could, 
 not bear to see the Doctor'*s portmanteau taken 
 out and carried into the hall. She had hopes, 
 until then, that something would happen and 
 prevent all this misery. Cadurcis whispered 
 her, " I say, Venetia, do not you wish this was 
 winter ? " 
 
 " Why, Plantagenet ? " 
 
 " Because then we might have a good snow- 
 storm, 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.
 
 212 VENETIA. 
 
 "Are you cold. Sir?*' said Venetia, ap- 
 proaching him. 
 
 " I am, my little maiden," said the Doctor. 
 
 " Do you think there is any chance of its 
 snowing, Doctor Masham ? " 
 
 " Snowing ! my little maiden ; what can you 
 be thinking of?" 
 
 The dinner was rather gayer than might have 
 been expected. The Doctor was jocular, Lady 
 Annabel very lively, and Plantagenet excited by 
 an extraordinary glass of wine. Venetia alone 
 remained dispirited. The Doctor made mock 
 speeches and proposed toasts, and told Plan- 
 tagenet that he must learn to make speeches too, 
 or what would he do when he was in the House 
 of Lords ? And then Plantagenet tried to make a 
 speech, and proposed Venetia's health ; and then 
 Venetia, who could not bear to hear herself 
 praised by him on such a day — the last day — 
 burst into tears. Her mother called her to her 
 side and consoled her, and Plantagenet jumped 
 up and wiped her eyes with one of those very
 
 VENETIA. 
 
 2l3 
 
 pocket-handkerchiefs on which she had embroi- 
 dered his cipher and coronet with her own 
 beautiful hair. 
 
 Towards evening Plantagenet began to expe- 
 rience 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 fire- 
 side. Both were very sad and silent. At last 
 Venetia said, " O Plantagenet, I wish I were 
 your real sister ! Perhaps, when I see you 
 again, you will forget this,*' and she turned the 
 jewel that was suspended round her neck, and 
 showed him the inscription. 
 
 " I am sure when I see you again, Venetia,''* 
 he replied, " the only difference will be that I 
 shall love you more than ever."" 
 
 " I hope so," said Venetia. 
 
 " I am sure of it. Now remember what we 
 are talking about. When we meet again, we 
 shall see which of us two will love each other 
 the most."
 
 214 VENETIA. 
 
 '' O Plantagenet, I hope they will be kind 
 to you at Eton." 
 
 "I will make them." 
 
 " And, whenever you are the least unhappy, 
 you will write to us?" 
 
 " I shall neverbe unhappyabout 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 Doctor Masham to come and 
 see you, and they will attend to him; and I 
 would ask him too." 
 
 " I wonder," she continued, after a moment's 
 pause, '' if you have everything you want. I 
 am quite sure, the instant you are gone, we shall 
 remember something you ought to have ; and 
 then I shall be quite brokenhearted." 
 
 " I have got everything.'*' 
 
 " You said you wanted a large knife." 
 
 *' Yes ! but I am going to buy one in London. 
 Doctor Masham says he will take me to a place 
 where the finest knives in the world are to be
 
 VENETIA. 215 
 
 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 even- 
 ing." 
 
 " Lady Annabel is to write it in the Bible, 
 and you are to write it in the Prayer-book." 
 
 " You are to ^vrite to us from London by 
 Doctor Masham, if only a line." 
 
 " I shall not fail.'' 
 
 ** Never mind about your hand-writing; but 
 mind you write." 
 
 At this moment Lady AnnabePs 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,
 
 216 VENETIA. 
 
 lights followed, the servant made up the fire, 
 and the room looked cheerful again. After tea, 
 the names were duly written in the Bible and 
 Prayer-book ; the last arrangements were made, 
 all the baggage was brought down into the hall, 
 all ransacked their memory and fancy to see if it 
 were possible that anything that Plantagenet 
 could require was either forgotten or had been 
 omitted. The clock struck ten ; Lady Annabel 
 rose. The travellers were to part at an early 
 hour: she shook hands with Doctor Masham,but 
 Cadurcis was to bid her farewell in her dressing- 
 room, and then, with heavy hearts and glistening 
 eyes, they all separated. And thus ended the 
 last day !
 
 VENETIA. 217 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Venetia passed a restless night. She was 
 so resolved to be awake in time for Planta- 
 genet's departure, that she could not sleep ; and 
 at length, towards morning, fell, from exhaus- 
 tion, 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. 
 
 " You are in good time,'' said Lady Annabel, 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 VENETIA, 
 
 who was seated in an easy chair when Planta- 
 genet entered her room. " Is the Doctor up ?" 
 
 '* He is breakfasting." 
 
 *^ And have you breakfasted ? " 
 
 " I have no appetite." 
 
 " You should take something, my child, before 
 you go. Now, come hither, my dear Plantagenet," 
 she said, extending her hand ; " listen to me, 
 one word. When you arrive in London, you 
 will go to your guardian^s. He is a great man, 
 and I believe a very good one, and the law and 
 your father's will have placed him in the posi- 
 tion 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. As long as you act accord- 
 ing to his wishes, you cannot be wrong. But, 
 my dear Plantagenet, if by any chance it ever 
 happens, for strange things sometimes happen in 
 this world, that you are in trouble and require a 
 friend, remember that Cherbury is also your
 
 VENETIA. 219 
 
 home J 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, al- 
 though not legally, in the light of a parent to you. 
 You will find Eton a great change ; you will ex- 
 perience many trials and temptations ; but you 
 will triumph over and withstand them all, if you 
 will attend to these few directions. Fear God ; 
 morning and night, let nothing induce you ever 
 to omit your prayers to him ; you will find that 
 praying will make you happy. Obey your su- 
 periors, always treat your masters with respect. 
 Ever speak the truth. As 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 arc, and 
 also that it is your duty to excel. Providence 
 L 2
 
 220 VENETIA. 
 
 has given you a great lot. Think ever that you 
 are born to perform great duties. 
 
 " God bless you, Plantagenet ! " continued 
 her ladyship, after a slight pause, with a falter- 
 ing 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 em- 
 braced him, and placed in his hand Venetia's 
 well-lined purse. " Do not forget Cherbury 
 and all it contains ; hearts that love you dearly, 
 and will pray ever for your welfare." 
 
 Plantagenet leant upon her bosom. He had 
 entered the room resolved to be composed, with 
 an air even of cheerfulness, but his tender heart 
 yielded to the first appeal to his affections. He 
 could only murmur out some broken syllables of 
 devotion, and almost unconsciously found that 
 he had quitted the chamber. 
 
 With streaming eyes and hesitating steps he 
 was proceeding along the vestibule, when he 
 heard his name called by a low sweet voice. 
 He looked round : it was Venetia. Never had
 
 VENETIA. 221 
 
 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 em- 
 braced, they mingled their tears together, and 
 every instant they wept more plenteously. At 
 length a footstep was heard; Venetia mur- 
 mured a blessing, and vanished. 
 
 Cadurcis lingered on the stairs a moment to 
 compose himself. He wiped his eyes ; he tried 
 to look undisturbed. All the servants were in 
 the hall ; from Mistress Pauncefort to the scul- 
 lion 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
 
 222 VENETIA. 
 
 something to the coachman about his pony ; and 
 begged Mistress Pauncefort, quite aloud, to 
 take great care of her young mistress. As he 
 was speaking, he felt something rubbing against 
 his hand : it was Marmion, the old blood-hound. 
 He also came to bid his adieus. Cadurcis pat- 
 ted him with great affection, and said, " Ah ! 
 my old fellow, we shall yet meet again." 
 
 The Doctor appeared, smiling as usual, made 
 his inquiries whether all were right, nodded to 
 the weeping household, called Plantagenet his 
 brave boy, and patted him on the back, and 
 bade him jump into the chaise. Another mo- 
 ment, and Doctor Mashamhad 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 ! 
 
 THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
 
 YENETIA. 223 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Life is not dated merely by years. Events 
 are sometimes the best calendars. There are 
 epochs in our existence which cannot be ascertain- 
 ed by a formal appeal to the registry. The arri- 
 val of the Cadurcis family at their old abbey, their 
 consequent intimacy at Cherbury, the death of 
 the mother, and the departure of the son — these 
 were events which had been crowded into a 
 space of less than two years ; but those two 
 years were not only the most eventful in the life 
 of Venetia Herbert, but in their influence upon 
 the development of her mind, and the forma- 
 tion of her character, far exceeded the effects of 
 all her previous existence.
 
 224 VENETIA. 
 
 Venetla once more found herself with no com- 
 panion but her mother, but in vain she attempted 
 to recall the feelings she had before experienced 
 under such circumstances, and to revert to the 
 resources she had before commanded. No longer 
 could she wander in imaginary kingdoms, or 
 transform the limited world of her experience 
 into a boundless region of enchanted amusement. 
 Her play-pleasure hours were fled for ever. She 
 sighed for her faithful and sympathising com- 
 panion. The empire of fancy yielded without 
 a struggle to the conquering sway of memory. 
 
 For the first few wrecks Venetia was restless 
 and dispirited, and when she was alone she often 
 wept. A mysterious instinct prompted her, 
 however, not to exhibit such emotion before 
 her mother. Yet she loved to hear Lady 
 Annabel talk of Plantagenet, and a visit to the 
 abbey was ever her favourite walk. Sometimes, 
 too, a letter arrived from Lord Cadurcis, and this 
 was great joy, but such communications were 
 rare. Nothing is more difficult than for a junior
 
 VEXETIA. 22.5 
 
 boy at a public school to maintain a correspond- 
 ence ; yet his letters were most affectionate, and 
 always dwelt upon the prospect of his return. 
 The period for this hoped-for return at length 
 arrived, but it brought no Plantagenet. His 
 guardian wished that the holydays should be 
 spent under his roof. Still at intervals Cadur- 
 cis wrote to Cherbury, to which, as time flew on, 
 it seemed destined he never was to return. 
 Vacation followed vacation, alike passed with his 
 guardian, either in London or at a country seat 
 still more remote from Cherbury, until at length 
 it became so much a matter of course that his 
 guardian''s house should be esteemed his home, 
 that Plantagenet ceased to allude even to the 
 prospect of return. In time his letters became 
 rarer and rarer, until, at length, they alto- 
 gether ceased. Meanwhile Venetia had over- 
 come 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 
 L 3
 
 226 VENETIA. 
 
 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 accomphshed wo- 
 man. She had a fine ear for music, a ready 
 tongue for languages ; ah-eady she emulated her 
 mother's skill in the arts ; while the library of 
 Cherbury afforded welcome and inexhaustible 
 resources to a girl whose genius deserved the 
 richest and most sedulous cultivation, and whose 
 peculiar situation, independent of her studious 
 predisposition, rendered reading a pastime to her 
 rather than a task. Lady Annabel watched 
 the progress of her daughter with the most 
 lively interest, and spared no efforts to assist 
 the formation of her principles and her taste. 
 That deep religious feeling which was the 
 characteristic of the mother had been carefully 
 and early cherished in the heart of the child, 
 and in time the unrivalled w ritings of the great 
 divines of our Church became a principal por- 
 tion of her reading. Order, method, severe
 
 VE>rETiA. 227 
 
 study, strict religious exercise, with no amuse- 
 ment or relaxation but of the most simple and 
 natural character, and with a complete seclu- 
 sion 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 a very 
 extraordinary woman ; a system, however, against 
 which her lively and somewhat restless mind 
 might probably have rebelled, had not that sys- 
 tem been so thoroughly imbued with all the 
 melting spell of maternal affection. It was the 
 inspiration of this sacred love that hovered like 
 a guardian angel over the life of Venetia. It 
 roused her from her morning slumbers with an 
 embrace, it sanctified her evening pillow with a 
 blessing; it anticipated the difficulty of the 
 student's page, and guided the faltering hand of 
 the hesitating artist ; it refreshed her memory, 
 it modulated her voice ; it accompanied her in 
 the cottage, and knelt by her at the altar. Mar- 
 vellous and beautiful is a mother's love ! And
 
 228 VENETIA. 
 
 when Venetia, with her strong feehngs 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, in- 
 structing with sweetness, and soft even with 
 advice, her whole soul rose to her mother, all 
 thoughts and feelings were concentrated in that 
 sole existence, and she desired no happier des- 
 tiny than to pass through life living in the light 
 of her mother's smiles, and clinging with pas- 
 sionate trust to that beneficent and guardian 
 form. 
 
 But with all her quick and profound feelings 
 Venetia was thoughtful, and even shrewd, and 
 when she was alone her very love for her mother, 
 and her gratitude for such an ineffable treasure 
 as parental affection, would force her mind 
 to a subject which at intervals had haunted her 
 even from her earliest childhood. Why had 
 she only one parent ? What mystery was this 
 that enveloped that great tie? For that there 
 was a mystery Venetia felt as assured as that she
 
 VENETIA. 229 
 
 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 influ- 
 enced in her conduct by the by-gone and arbi- 
 trary intimations of a menial ; nevertheless, that 
 the mention of her father would afford pain to 
 the being she loved best in the world was a 
 conviction which had grown with her years and 
 strengthened with her strength. Pardonable, 
 natural, even laudable as was the anxiety of the 
 daughter upon such a subject, an instinct with 
 which she could not struggle closed the lips of 
 Venetia for ever upon this topic. His name 
 was never mentioned, his past existence was 
 never alluded to. Who was he ? That he was 
 of noble family, and great position, her name 
 betokened, and the state in which they lived. 
 He must have died very early ; perhaps even 
 before her mother gave her birth. A dreadful 
 lot indeed ; and yet was the grief that even such
 
 230 VENETIA. 
 
 a dispensation might occasion, so keen, so over- 
 whelming, that after fourteen long years his 
 name might not be permitted, even for an in- 
 stant, to pass the pale lips of his bereaved wife ? 
 Was his child to be deprived of the only solace 
 for his loss, the consolation of cherishing his me- 
 mory ? Strange, passing strange indeed, and 
 very bitter ! At Cherbury the family of Her- 
 bert were honoured onl}'^ from tradition. Until 
 the arrival of Lady Annabel, as we have before 
 mentioned, they had not resided at the hall for 
 more than half a century. There were no old 
 retainers there from whom Venetia might glean, 
 without suspicion, the information for which she 
 panted. Slight, too, as was Venetians experience 
 of society, there were times when she could not re- 
 sist 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
 
 VENETIA. 231 
 
 world, brood with a repining soul over the 
 will of her Creator? Such conduct was entirely 
 at variance with all the tenets of Lady AnnabeL 
 It was not thus she consoled the bereaved, that 
 she comforted the widow, and solaced the orphan. 
 Venetia, too, observed everything and forgot 
 nothing. Not an incident of her earliest child- 
 hood that was not as fresh in her memory as if it 
 had occurred yesterday. Her memory was na- 
 turally keen ; living in solitude, with notliing to 
 distract it, its impressions 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 in- 
 terview with that gentleman ; yet the presence of 
 the Doctor always gave her pleasure, and he was 
 the most kind-hearted and cheerful of men. Per- 
 haps, 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
 
 232 VENETIA. 
 
 overcame her ; perhaps she ventured to speak of 
 him to Doctor Masham, though not to her daugh- 
 ter, and tliis might account for that occasional 
 agitation which Venetia had observed at his 
 visits. And yet, and yet, and yet — in vain 
 she reasoned. There is a strange sympathy 
 which whispers convictions that no evidence can 
 authorise, and no arguments dispel. Venetia 
 Herbert, particularly as she grew older, could not 
 refrain at times from yielding to the irresistible 
 belief that her existence was enveloped in some 
 mystery. Mystery too often presupposes the 
 idea of guilt. Guilt ! Who was guilty ? Ve- 
 netia 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 re- 
 ceived her with smiles ; and buried her face in 
 the bosom of Lady Annabel.
 
 VENETIA. 233 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 We have indicated in a few pages the pro- 
 gress of three years. How differently passed 
 to the two preceding ones, when the Cadurcis 
 family were settled at the abbey ! For during 
 this latter period it seemed that not a single 
 incident had occurred. They had glided away 
 in one unbroken course of study, religion, and 
 domestic love, the enjoyment of nature, and the 
 pursuits of charity ; like a long summer sab- 
 bath-day, sweet and serene and still, undis- 
 turbed by a single passion, hallowed and 
 hallowing. 
 
 If the Cadurcis family were now not abso- 
 lutely forgotten at Cherbury, they were at least
 
 234 VENExrA. 
 
 only occasionally remembered. These last 
 three years so completely harmonised with the 
 life of Venetia before their arrival, that, taking 
 a general view of her existence, their residence 
 at the abbey figured only as an episode in her 
 career ; active indeed and stirring, and one that 
 had left some impressions not easily discarded ; 
 but, on the whole, mellowed by the magic of 
 time, Venetia looked back to her youthful 
 friendship as an event that was only an excep- 
 tion in her lot, and she viewed herself as a 
 being born and bred up in a seclusion which she 
 was never to quit, with no. aspirations beyond 
 the little world in which she moved, and where 
 she was to die in peace, as she had lived in 
 purity. 
 
 One Sunday, the conversation after dinner 
 fell upon Lord Cadurcis. Doctor Masham 
 had recently met a young Etonian, and had made 
 some inquiries about their friend of old days. 
 The information he had obtained was not very 
 satisfactory. It seemed that Cadurcis was a
 
 VENETIA. 235 
 
 more popular boy with his companions than 
 his tutors ; he had been rather unruly, and had 
 only escaped expulsion by the influence of his 
 guardian, who was not only a great noble, but a 
 powerful minister. 
 
 This conversation recalled old times. They 
 talked over the arrival of Mrs. Cadurcis at the 
 abbey, her strange character, her untimely end. 
 Lady Annabel expressed her conviction of the 
 natural excellence of Plantagenet's disposition, 
 and her regret of the many disadvantages under 
 which he laboured ; it gratified Venetia to listen 
 to his praise. 
 
 '' He has quite forgotten us, mamma/' said 
 Venetia. 
 
 " My love, he was very young when he quitted 
 us," replied Lady Annabel ; " and you must 
 remember the influence of a change of life at so 
 tender an age. He lives now in a busy world.*' 
 
 " I wish that he had not forgotten to write to 
 us sometimes," said Venetia. 
 
 " Writing a letter is a great achievement for
 
 236 VENETIA. 
 
 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
 
 VENETIA. 237 
 
 pity," said Venetia, '^ 'tis an orphan. Oh ! 
 what should I be without mamma ? And Plan- 
 genet, poor Plantagenet, he has no mother, no 
 father.*' Venetia added, with a faltering voice ; 
 " I can sympathise with him in some degree, I, I, 
 I know, I feel the misfortune, the misery, — " her 
 face became crimson, yet she could not restrain 
 the irresistible words, — *' the misery of never 
 having known a father," she added. 
 
 There was a dead pause, a most solemn 
 silence. In vain Venetia struggled to look calm 
 and unconcerned ; every instant she felt the 
 blood mantling in her cheek with a more lively 
 and spreading agitation. She dared not look 
 up ; it was not possible to utter a word to turn 
 the conversation. She felt utterly confounded, 
 and absolutely mute. At length Lady Annabel 
 spoke. Her tone was severe and choking, very 
 different to her usual silvery voice. 
 
 " I am sorry that my daughter should feel so 
 keenly the want of a parent's love," said her 
 ladyship.
 
 238 VENETIA. 
 
 "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 motion- 
 less, with her eyes fixed on the table, and with 
 a burnhig 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 Doc- 
 tor, 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 ;
 
 VENETIA. 239 
 
 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 em- 
 brace, that seemed to acknowledge that the pang 
 of even momentary separation could only be 
 alleviated by this graceful homage to the heart. 
 — What had she done ? Venetia was about to 
 follow Lady Annabel, but she checked herself. 
 Agony at having offended her mother, and for 
 the first time, was blended with a strange curio- 
 sity as to the cause, and some hesitating in- 
 dignation at her treatment. Venetia remained 
 anxiously awaiting the return of Lady Annabel, 
 but her ladyship did not reappear. Every 
 instant the astonishment and the grief of Venetia 
 increased. It was the first domestic difference 
 that had occurred between them. It shocked her 
 \ery much. She thought of Plantagenet and Mrs. 
 Cadurcis. There was a mortifying resemblance.
 
 240 VENETIA. 
 
 however slight, between the respective situations 
 of the two families. Venetia, too, had quarrelled 
 with her mother ; that mother who, for fourteen 
 years, had only looked upon her with fondness 
 and joy ; who had been ever kind, without being 
 ever weak, and had rendered her child happy 
 by making her good ; that mother, whose bene- 
 ficent wisdom had transformed duty into delight ; 
 that superior yet gentle being, so indulgent yet 
 so just, so gifted yet so condescending, who 
 dedicated all her knowledge, and time, and care, 
 and intellect to her daughter. 
 
 Venetia threw herself upon a couch and wept. 
 They were the first tears of unmixed pain that 
 she had ever shed. It was said by the house- 
 hold 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 ra- 
 diant heroine of a golden age. She had, indeed, 
 wept over the sorrows and the departure of Ca-
 
 VfiNETIA. 241 
 
 durcis; but those were soft showers of sympathy 
 and affection sent from a warm heart, Hke drops 
 from a summer sky. But now this grief was 
 agony : her brow throbbed, her hand was clench- 
 ed, her heart beat with tumultuous palpitation ; 
 the streaming torrent came scalding down her 
 cheek like fire rather than tears, and, in- 
 stead 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 brood- 
 ing over the halls of Cherbury. The moan of 
 the rising wind might be distinctly heard, and 
 ever and anon the branches of neio^bbourinfj 
 trees swung with a sudden yet melancholy sound 
 against the windows of the apartment, of which 
 the curtains had remained undrawn. Venetia 
 looked up; the room would have been in per- 
 fect darkness but for a glimmer which just indi- 
 cated the site of the expiring fire, and an un- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 VENETIA. 
 
 certain light, or rather modified darkness, that 
 seemed the sky. Alone and desolate! Alone 
 and desolate and unhappy I Alone and deso- 
 late 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 inno- 
 cence, that bright emanation of love and beauty, 
 that airy creature of grace and gentleness, who 
 had never said an unkind word or done an 
 unkind thing in her whole career, but had 
 glanced and glided through existence, scattering 
 happiness and joy, and receiving the pleasure 
 which she herself imparted, how overwhelming 
 was her first struggle with that dark stranger — 
 Sorrow ! 
 
 Some one entered the room ; it was Mistress 
 Pauncefort. She held a taper in her hand, and 
 came tripping gingerly in, with a new cap stream- 
 ing with ribands, and scarcely, as it were, con- 
 descending to execute the mission with which 
 she was intrusted, which was no greater than
 
 VENETIA. 243 
 
 fetching her lady's reticule. She glanced at the 
 table, but it was not there ; and she tunied up 
 her nose at a chair or two, which she even con- 
 descended 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. Mis- 
 tress 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 Mis- 
 tress 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 palpi- 
 tation." 
 
 Venetia, affecting composure, said she was 
 M 2
 
 244 VENETIA. 
 
 rather unwell ; that she had a headache, and 
 rising, murmured that she would go to bed. 
 " A headache !" exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, 
 " I hope no worse, for there is my lady, and 
 she is as out of sorts as possible. She has a head- 
 ache too; and when I shut the door just now, I 
 am sure as quiet as a lamb, she told me not to 
 make so much noise when I left the room. 'Noise I* 
 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 head- 
 ache, and my lady has a headache too. I only 
 hope we have not got the epidemy. I vow, 
 Miss Venetia, that your eyes are as red as if 
 you had been running against the wind. Well, 
 to be sure, if you have not been crying ! I 
 must go and tell my lady immediately." 
 
 " Light me to my room," said Venetia;
 
 VENETIA. 245 
 
 ** I will not disturb my mother, as she is un- 
 well." 
 
 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 Ve- 
 netia 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 Mis- 
 tress 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 An- 
 nabel's and her daughter's apartments opened. 
 
 An hour elapsed, and at length the sound was 
 heard. Convinced that Pauncefort had now
 
 246 VENETIA, 
 
 quitted her mother for the night, Venetia ven- 
 tured forth ; and, stopping before the door of 
 her mother's room, she knocked gently. There 
 was no reply, and in a few minutes Venetia 
 knocked again, and rather louder. Still no an- 
 swer. " Mamma," said Venetia in a faltering 
 tone, but no sound replied. Venetia then tried the 
 door, and found it fastened. Then she gave 
 up the effort in despair, and, retreating to her 
 own chamber, she threw herself on her bed, and 
 wept bitterly. 
 
 Some time elapsed before she looked up again ; 
 the candles were flaring in their sockets. It 
 was a wild windy night ; Venetia rose, and 
 withdrew the curtain of her window. The black 
 clouds were scudding along the sky, revealing, 
 in their occasional but transient rifts, some 
 ghmpses of the moon, that seemed unusually 
 bright ; or of a star, that trembled with super- 
 natural brilliancy. She stood a while gazing ou 
 the outward scene, that hai'monized with her 
 own internal agitation : her grief was like the
 
 TENETIA. 247 
 
 Storm, lier love like the light of that bright 
 moon and star. There came over her a desire 
 to see her mother, which she felt irresistible ; 
 she was resolved that no difficalty,no impediment, 
 should prevent her instantly from throwing her- 
 self 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 ves- 
 tibule, and approached with a nervous but des- 
 perate step her mother's chamber. To her 
 astonishment, the door was ajar, but there was a 
 light within. With trembling step and down- 
 cast 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
 
 248 VENETIA. 
 
 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 Crea- 
 tor 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 sohtude, to one 
 whom she could not deceive, how unintentional 
 was the trespass ; if she were only misappre- 
 hended, she supplicated for comfort and conso- 
 lation ; for support under the heaviest visitation 
 she had yet experienced, the displeasure of that 
 earthly parent whom she revered only second to 
 her heavenly Father. 
 
 " For thou art my Father," said Venetia, *' I 
 have no other father but thee, O God ! Forgive 
 me, then, my heavenly parent, if in my wilful- 
 ness, 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
 
 VENETIA. 24^ 
 
 to me the heart of that mother whom I have 
 offended ! Let her look upon her child as be- 
 fore ; 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. 
 
 M 3
 
 250 VENETIA. 
 
 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 pain- 
 ful 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 opportu- 
 nities of intimately studying her character, might 
 have suspected that an occasion only were wanted 
 to display or develop in that lady's conduct no 
 tr. fling evidence of a haughty, proud, and even 
 inexorable, spirit. Circumstanced as she was
 
 <^^ENETIA. 251 
 
 at Cherbury, with no one capable or desirous of 
 disputing her will, the more gracious and ex- 
 alted qualities of her nature were alone apparent. 
 Entertaining a severe, even a sublime sense of 
 the paramount claims of duty in all conditions 
 and circumstances of life, her own conduct af- 
 forded an invariable and consistent example of 
 her tenet ; from those around her she required 
 little, and that was cheerfully granted ; while on 
 the other hand, her more eminent situation alike 
 multiplied her own obligations, and enabled her 
 to fulfil them ; she appeared, therefore, to pass her 
 life in conferring happiness and in receiving gra- 
 titude. Strictly religious, of immaculate repu- 
 tation, rigidly just, systematically charitable, 
 dignified in her manners, yet more than cour- 
 teous 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,
 
 252 VENETIA. 
 
 was qualified in any way to question her un- 
 doubted 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 
 Annabe?s life, and she had hitherto met that 
 success which usually awaits in this world the 
 strong purpose of a determined spirit. Lady An- 
 nabel 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 sus- 
 ceptible temperament of Venetia, means were 
 offered by which the heart might be trained not
 
 VENETIA. 253 
 
 only to cope with but overpower the intellect. 
 "With great powers of pleasing, beauty, accom- 
 plishments, a sweet voice, a soft manner, a 
 sympathetic heart, Lady Annabel was qualified to 
 charm the world ; she had contrived to fascinate 
 her daughter. She had inspired Venetia with 
 the most romantic attachment for her : such as 
 rather subsists between two female friends of the 
 same age and hearts, than between individuals 
 in the relative situations which they bore to 
 each other. Yet while Venetia thus loved her 
 mother, she could not but also respect and re- 
 vere the superior being whose knowledge was her 
 guide on all subjects, and whose various accom- 
 plishments 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 peer- 
 less lady had no other ambition but to be her 
 guardian and attendant spirit; gratitude, fer- 
 vent and profound, mingled with admiring re- 
 verence and passionate affection, and together
 
 £54 VENETIA. 
 
 formed a spell that encircled the mind of Venetia 
 with talismanic sway. 
 
 Under the despotic influence of these en- 
 chanted feelings, Venetia was fast growing into 
 womanhood, without a single cloud having ever 
 disturbed or sullied the pure and splendid heaven 
 of her domestic life. Suddenly the horizon had 
 become clouded, a storm had gathered and burst, 
 and an echpse could scarcely have occasioned 
 more terror to the untutored roamer of the wil- 
 derness, 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 en- 
 countering the agony of another misunderstand- 
 ing with her mother, that she recoiled with trem- 
 bling from that subject which had so often and 
 so deeply engaged her secret thoughts; and the 
 idea of her father, associated as it now was with 
 pain, mortification, and misery, never rose to her 
 imagination but instantly to be shunned as some
 
 VENETIA. Q55 
 
 unhallowed image, of which the bitter contem- 
 plation 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 demonstra- 
 tion to which it led, and the consequence of her 
 boldness, instead of threatening to destroy in an 
 instant the deep and matured system of her mo 
 ther, had, on the whole, greatly contributed to 
 the fulfilment of the very purpose for which 
 Lady Annabel had so long laboured. That 
 lady spared no pains in following up the advan- 
 tage which her acuteness and knowledge of her 
 daughter's character assured her that she had 
 secured. She hovered round her child more 
 like an enamoured lover than a fond mother ; 
 she hung upon her looks, she read her thoughts,
 
 256 VENETIAi 
 
 fihe anticipated every want and wish ; her dulcet 
 tones seemed even sweeter than before; her 
 soft and elegant manners even more tender 
 and refined. Though even in her childhood 
 Lady Annabel had rather guided than com- 
 manded Venetia ; now she rather consulted than 
 guided her. She seized advantage of the ad- 
 vanced character and mature appearance of Vene- 
 tia to treat her as a woman rather than a child, 
 and as a friend rather than a daughter. Venetia 
 yielded herself up to this flattering and fasci- 
 nating 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 oc- 
 casioned by a moment trenching upon its exclu- 
 sive privilege; Venetia could not picture to 
 herself that such a pure and entrancing exist- 
 ence could ever experience a change.
 
 VENETIA. 257 
 
 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?
 
 258 VENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was in the enjoyment of these exquisite 
 feehngs that a year, and more than another year, 
 elapsed at our lone hall of Cherbury. Happi- 
 ness and content seemed at least the blessed des- 
 tiny of the Herberts. Venetia grew in years, 
 and grace, and loveliness ; each day, apparently 
 more her mother's joy, and each day bound to 
 that mother by, if possible, more ardent love. 
 She had never again experienced those uneasy 
 thoughts which at times had haunted her from 
 her infancy ; separated from her mother, indeed, 
 scarcely for an hour together, she had no time 
 to muse. Her studies, each day becoming more 
 various and interesting, and pursued with so
 
 VENETIA. 259 
 
 gifted and charming a companion, entirely en- 
 grossed 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 Cher- 
 bury, brought a letter to Lady Annabel, the 
 perusal of which evidently greatly agitated her. 
 Her countenance changed as her eye glanced 
 over the pages ; her hand trembled as she held 
 it. But she made no remark ; and succeeded in 
 subduing her emotion so quickly, that Venetia, 
 although she watched her mother with anxiety, 
 did not feel justified in interfering with inquiring 
 sympathy. But while Lady Annabel resumed 
 her usual calm demeanour, she relapsed into 
 unaccustomed silence, and, soon rising from the 
 breakfast table, moved to the window, and con- 
 tinued apparently gazing on the garden, with 
 her face averted from Venetia for some time.
 
 260 VENETIA. 
 
 At length she turned to her, and said,^' I think, 
 Venetia, of calling on the Doctor to-day ; there 
 is business on which I wish to consult him, but 
 I will not trouble you, dearest, to accompany me. 
 I must take the carriage, and it is a long and 
 tiring drive." 
 
 There was a tone of decision even in the 
 slightest observations of Lady Annabel, which, 
 however sweet might be the voice in which they 
 were uttered, scarcely encouraged their pro- 
 priety to be canvassed. Now, Venetia was far 
 from desirous of being separated from her 
 mother this morning. It was not a vain and 
 idle curiosity prompted by the receipt of the 
 letter and its consequent effects, both in the 
 emotion of her mother and the visit which it 
 had rendered necessary, that swayed her breast. 
 The native dignity of a well-disciplined mind 
 exempted Venetia from such feminine weakness. 
 But some consideration might be due to the 
 quick sympathy of an affectionate spirit that had 
 witnessed, with corresponding feeling, the dis-
 
 VENETIA, 261 
 
 turbance of the being to whom she was devoted. 
 Why this occasional and painful mystery that 
 ever and anon clouded the heaven of their love, 
 and flung a frigid shadow over the path of a 
 sunshiny life ? Why was not Venetia to share 
 the sorrow or the care of her only friend, as well 
 as participate in her joy and her content ? There 
 were other claims, too, to this confidence, besides 
 those of the heart. Lady Annabel was not 
 merely her only friend, she was her parent, her 
 only parent, almost, for aught she had ever heard 
 or learnt, her only relative. For her mother's 
 family, though she was aware of their existence 
 by the freedom with which Lady Annabel ever 
 mentioned them, and though Venetia was con- 
 scious that an occasional correspondence was 
 maintained between them and Cherbury, 
 occupied no station in Venetia's heart, scarcely 
 in her memory. That noble family were nul- 
 lities to her; far distant, apparently estranged 
 from her hearth, except in form, she had never 
 seen them ; they were associated in her recollec-
 
 262 VENETIA. 
 
 tion with none of the sweet ties of kindred. Her 
 grandfather was dead without her ever having 
 received his blessing; his successor, her uncle, 
 was an ambassador, long absent from his 
 country ; her only aunt married to a soldier, 
 and established at a foreign station. Venetia 
 envied Dr. Masham the confidence which was 
 extended to him ; it seemed to her, even leaving 
 out of siffht the intimate feeliriojs that subsisted 
 between her and her mother, that the claims of 
 blood to this confidence, were at least as strong 
 as those of friendship. But Venetia stifled their 
 emotions ; she parted from her mother with a 
 kind, yet somewhat mournful, expression. Lady 
 Annabel might have read a slight sentiment of 
 affectionate reproach in the demeanour of her 
 daughter when she bade her farewell. Whatever 
 might be the consciousness of the mother, she 
 was successful in concealing her impression. 
 Very kind, but calm and inscrutable. Lady 
 Annabel, having given directions for postponing 
 the dinner-hour, embraced her child and entered 
 the chariot.
 
 VENETIA. 265 
 
 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 em- 
 ployment or amusement of her secluded life. 
 But the favourite volume ceased to interest this 
 morning, and almost fell from her hand. She 
 tried her spinet, but her ear seemed to have lost 
 its music ; she looked at her easel, but the cunning 
 had fled from her touch. 
 
 Restless and disquieted, she knew not why, 
 Venetia went forth again into the garden. All 
 nature smiled around her ; the flitting birds 
 were throwing their soft shadows over the sunny 
 lawns, and rustling amid the blossoms of the 
 variegated groves. The golden wreaths of the 
 laburnum and the silver knots of the chestnut 
 streamed and glittered around ; the bees v/ere as 
 busy as the birds, and the whole scene was
 
 264 VfiNETlA. 
 
 suffused and penetrated with brilliancy and 
 odour. It still was spring, and yet the gorgeous 
 approach of summer, like the advancing pro- 
 cession of some triumphant king, might almost be 
 detected amid the lingering freshness of the 
 year; a lively and yet magnificent period, 
 blending, as it were, Attic grace with Roman 
 splendour ; a time when hope and fruition for 
 once meet, when existence is most full of de- 
 light, 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 sur- 
 rounding scene ? There are moods of mind 
 that baffle analysis, that arise from a mysterious 
 sympathy we cannot penetrate. At this moment 
 the idea of her father irresistibly recurred to 
 the imagination of Venetia. She could not 
 withstand the conviction that the receipt of the 
 mysterious letter and her mother's agitation 
 were by some inexplicable connection linked
 
 VENETIA. 265 
 
 with that forbidden subject. Strange incidents 
 of her life flitted across her memory : her mother 
 weeping on the day they visited Marringhurst, 
 the mysterious chambers — the nocturnal visit of 
 Lady Annabel that Cadurcis had witnessed — her 
 unexpected absence from her apartment, when 
 Venetia in her despair had visited her, some 
 months ago. What was the secret that en- 
 veloped her existence ? Alone, which was un- 
 usual—dispirited, she knew not why — and brood- 
 ing 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 man- 
 sion with an almost fierce desire to penetrate its 
 mysteries. It seemed to her that a strange voice 
 came whispering on the breeze, urging her to the 
 fulfilment of a mystical mission. With a vague, 
 yet wild purpose, she entered the house, and took 
 her way to her mother's chamber. Mistress 
 Pauncefort was there. Venetia endeavoured to 
 assume her accustomed serenity. The waiting- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 2QQ VENETIA. 
 
 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 Venetians 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 intenor of the casket. 
 There must have been something in it, the sight 
 of which greatly agitated her, for Venetia turned 
 pale, and in a moment left the chamber and 
 retired to her own room. 
 
 She locked her door, threw herself in a chair ; 
 almost gasping for breath, she covered her face 
 with her hands. It was some minutes before 
 she recovered comparative composure ; she rose 
 and looked in the mirror ; her face was quite 
 white, but her eyes glittering with excitement. 
 She walked up and down her room with a 
 troubled step, and a scarlet flush alternately
 
 venetia; 267 
 
 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 ves- 
 tibule, as she quitted her mother's chamber. 
 In a few minutes Venetia herself stepped forth 
 into the vestibule, and listened. All was silent. 
 The golden morning had summoned the whole 
 household to its enjoyment. Not a voice, not a 
 domestic sound, broke the complete stillness. 
 Venetia again repaired to the apartment of 
 Lady Annabel. Her step was light, but agi- 
 tated ; it seemed that she scarcely dared to 
 breathe. She opened the door, rushed to the 
 cabinet, pressed the spring lock, caught at some- 
 thing that it contained, and hurried again to her 
 own chamber. 
 
 And what is this prize that the trembling Ve- 
 netia 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 
 n2
 
 268. VENETIA. 
 
 day ? Why is she so palHd and perturbed ? 
 What strong impulse fills her frame ? She 
 clutches in her hand a key ! 
 
 On that tempestuous night of passionate sor- 
 row 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 supplica- 
 tions ; 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 ba- 
 nish and erase from her thought and memory all 
 the associations which that spectacle however 
 slight was calculated to awaken, still, in her 
 present mood, the unexpected vision of the same 
 instrument, identical she could not doubt, had
 
 VENETIA. ^69 
 
 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 precious- 
 ness 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 imme- 
 diate and special protection ; her lips seemed to 
 move, and then she again quitted her apartment. 
 As she passed through an oriel in her way to- 
 wards 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
 
 ^tO VENETIA. 
 
 gallery, and at length stood before the long- 
 sealed door that had so often excited her 
 teange curiosity. Once she looked around ; 
 but no one was near, not a sound was heard. 
 With a faltering hand she touched the lock with 
 the key ; but her powers deserted her : for a 
 minute she believed that the key after all would 
 not solve the mystery. And yet the difficulty 
 arose only from her own agitation. She rallied 
 her courage ; once more she made the trial ; the 
 key fitted with completeness, and the lock opened 
 • with ease, and Venetia found herself in a small 
 and scantily-furnished antechamber. With- 
 drawing then the key from the lock, and closing 
 the door with noiseless care, Venetia stood 
 trembling in the mysterious chamber, where 
 apparently there was nothing to excite wonder. 
 The door of the chamber into which the ante- 
 room opened was still closed, and it was some 
 minutes before the adventurous daufrhter of 
 Lady Annabel could summon courage for the 
 enterprise which awaited her.
 
 VENETIA. 271 
 
 Her hand is upon the lock ; it yields without 
 an effort. Venetia steps into a spacious and 
 lofty chamber. For a moment she paused almost 
 upon the threshold, and looked around her with 
 a vague and misty vision. Anon she dis- 
 tinguished something of the character of the 
 apartment. In the recess of a large oriel window, 
 that looked upon the park, and of which the 
 blinds were nearly drawn, was an old-fashioned 
 yet sumptuous toilet-table of considerable size, 
 arranged as if for use. Opposite this window, 
 in a corresponding recess, was what might be 
 deemed a bridal bed, its furniture being of white 
 satin, richly embroidered; the curtains half 
 closed ; and suspended from the canopy was a 
 wreath of roses, that had once emulated, or rather 
 excelled, the lustrous purity of the hangings, but 
 now were wan and withered. The centre of the 
 inlaid and polished floor of the apartment was 
 covered with a Tournay carpet, of brilliant, yet 
 tasteful, decoration. An old cabinet of fanciful 
 workmanship, some chairs of ebony, and some
 
 VENETIA. 
 
 girandoles of silver, completed the furniture of 
 the room, save that at its extreme end, exactly 
 opposite to the door by which Venetia entered, 
 covered with a curtain of green silk, was what 
 she concluded must be a picture. 
 
 An awful stillness pervaded the apartment : 
 Venetia herself, with a face paler even than the 
 hangings of the mysterious bed, stood motionless 
 with suppressed breath, gazing on the distant cur- 
 tain, with a painful glance of agitated fascination. 
 At length, summoning her energies as if for the 
 achievement of some terrible yet inevitable enter- 
 prise, she crossed the room,[and averting her face, 
 and closing her eyes in a paroxysm of nervous ex- 
 citement, she stretched forth her arm, and with a 
 rapid motion withdrew the curtain. The harsh 
 sound of the brass rings drawn quickly over the 
 rod, the only noise that had yet met her ear in 
 this mystical chamber, made her start and 
 tremble. She looked up — she beheld, in a very 
 broad and massy frame, the full-length portrait 
 of a man.
 
 VENETIA. 273 
 
 A man in the very spring of sunny youth, and 
 of radiant beauty. Above the middle height, 
 and very slender, yet with a form that displayed 
 exquisite grace, he was habited in a green tunic 
 that developed his figure to advantage, and be- 
 came the scene in which he was placed — a park, 
 with a castle in the distance ; while a groom at 
 hand held a noble steed, that seemed impatient 
 for the chase. The countenance of its intended 
 rider met fully the gaze of the spectator. It was 
 a countenance of singular loveliness and power. 
 The lips and the moulding of the chin resem- 
 bled the eager and impassioned tenderness of the 
 shape of Antinous ; but, instead of the effemi- 
 nate 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 
 n3
 
 274 YENETTA. 
 
 of crystalline water that reflect the all-beholding 
 heavens. 
 
 Now when Venetia Herbert beheld this coun- 
 tenance a change came over her. It seemed 
 that, when her eyes met the eyes of the portrait, 
 ,some mutual interchange of sympathy occurred 
 between them. She freed herself in an instant 
 from the apprehension and timidity that before 
 oppressed her. Whatever might ensue, a vague 
 conviction of having achieved a great object 
 pervaded, as it were, her being. Some great 
 end, vast, though indefinite, had been fulfilled. 
 Abstract and fearless, she gazed upon the daz- 
 zling visage with a prophetic heart. Her soul 
 was in a tumult, oppressed with thick-coming 
 fancies too big for words, panting for expres- 
 sion. 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 
 pome invisible and hovering spirit to her rescue
 
 VENETIA. 275 
 
 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 tremu- 
 lous, the broad blue veins of her immaculate 
 brow quivering and distended ; her waving hair 
 falls back over her forehead, and rustles like a 
 wood before the storm. She seems a priestess in 
 the convulsive throes of inspiration, and about 
 to breathe the oracle. 
 
 The picture, as we have mentioned, was hung 
 in a broad and massy frame. In the centre of 
 its base was worked an escutcheon, and beneath 
 the shield this inscription, — 
 
 M ARM ION Herbert, ^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 portrait, the 
 daughter of Lady Annabel had exclaimed 
 «« My father ! ''
 
 276 VENETIA, 
 
 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 be- 
 holds her lost parent. That being of superna- 
 tural 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
 
 VENETIA. 277 
 
 to whom she was bound by the strongest of all 
 earthly ties — of one on whose heart she had a 
 claim second only to that of the being by whose 
 lips his name was never mentioned. Was he, then, 
 no more ? Ah ! could she doubt that bitterest 
 calamity ? Ah ! was it, was it any longer a 
 marvel, that one who had lived in the light of 
 those seraphic eyes, and had watched them until 
 their terrestrial spendour had been for ever ex- 
 tinguished, 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 won- 
 der that Lady Annabel, the desolate Lady An- 
 nabel, that almost the same spring must have 
 witnessed the most favoured and the most dis- 
 consolate 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
 
 '278 VENETIA. 
 
 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 have 
 alone sustained the victim under a lot of such 
 unparalleled bitterness. The tears streamed 
 down her cheek as she thought of her mother's 
 misery, and her mother^s gentle love ; the misery 
 that she had been so cautious her child should 
 never share ; the vigilant affection that, with all 
 her own hopes blighted, had still laboured to 
 compensate to her child for a deprivation, the 
 fullness of which Venetia could only now com- 
 prehend. 
 
 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.
 
 TENETIA. 279 
 
 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 inte- 
 rested her, for her imagination connected every- 
 thing with him. She touched the wreath of 
 withered roses, and one instantly broke away 
 from the circle, and fell ; she knelt down and 
 gathered up the scattered leaves, and placed them 
 in her bosom. She approached the table in the 
 oriel : in its centre was a volume, on which re- 
 posed a dagger of curious workmanship; the 
 volume bound in velvet, and the word " Anna- 
 bel '"* embroidered upon it in gold. Venetia 
 unclasped it. The volume was MS. ; in a fly- 
 leaf were written these words—
 
 280 VENETIA. 
 
 " TO THE LADY OF MY LOVE, FROM HER 
 
 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, de- 
 lineating the feelings of a lover at the first 
 sight of his beloved, — a being to him yet un- 
 known. Venetia perused with breathless inte- 
 rest the graceful and passionate picture of her 
 mother's beauty. A series of similar composi- 
 tions detailed the history of the poet's heart, 
 and all the thrilling adventures of his enchanted 
 life. Not an incident, not a word, not a glance, 
 in that spell -bound prime of existence, that was 
 not commemorated by his lyre in strains as 
 sweet and as witching ! Now he poured forth 
 his passion; now his doubts; now his hopes;
 
 VENETIA. 281 
 
 now came the glowing liour when he was first 
 assured of his felicity ; the next page celebrated 
 her visit to the castle of his fathers ; and an- 
 other 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 per- 
 plexed gaze — apparently succeeds in collecting 
 herself — and then seizes, with an eager grasp, 
 the volume, and throwing herself on her knees 
 before the chair — her long locks hanging on 
 each side over a cheek crimson as the sunset — 
 loses her whole soul in the lines which the 
 next page reveals.
 
 282 VENETIA. 
 
 ON THE NIGHT OUR DAUGHTER WAS BORN. 
 I. 
 
 Within our heaven of love, the new-born star 
 We long devoutly watched, like shepherd kings, 
 Steals into light, and, floating from afar, 
 Methinks some bright transcendent seraph sings, 
 Waving with flashing light her radiant wings. 
 Immortal welcome to the stranger fair : 
 To us a child is born. With transport cUngs 
 The mother to the babe she sighed to bear ; 
 Of all our treasured loves, the long-expected heir! 
 
 II. 
 My daughter ! can it be a daughter now 
 Shall greet my being with her infant smile ? 
 And shall I press that fair and taintless brow 
 With my fond lips, and tempt, with many a wile 
 Of playful love, those features to beguile 
 A parent with their mirth ? In the wild sea 
 Of this dark life, behold a little isle 
 Rises amid the waters, bright and free, 
 A haven for my hopes of fond security !
 
 VENETIA. 283 
 
 III. 
 
 And thou shalt bear a name my line has loved, 
 And their fair daughters owned for many an age, 
 Since first our fiery blood a wanderer roved, 
 And made in sunnier lands his pilgrimage, 
 Where proud defiance with the waters wage 
 The sea-born city''s walls ; the graceful towers 
 Loved by the bard and honoured by the sage i 
 My own Venetia now shall gild our bowers, 
 And with her spell enchain our life's enchanted 
 hours ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! if the blessing of a father^s heart 
 Hath aught of sacred in its deep-breath'd prayer, 
 Skilled to thy gentle being to impart, 
 As fhy bright form itself, a fate as fair ; 
 On thee I breathe that blessing ! Let me share, 
 O God ! her joys ; and if the dark behest 
 Of woe resistless, and avoidless care, 
 Hath not gone forth, oh ! spare this gentle guest. 
 And wreak thy needful wrath on my resigned 
 breast !
 
 284 VENETIA. 
 
 An hour elapsed, and Venetia did not move. 
 Over and over again she conned the only ad- 
 dress from the lips of her father that had ever 
 reached her ear. A strange inspiration seconded 
 the exertion of an exercised memory. The duty 
 was fulfilled — the task completed. Then a sound 
 was heard without. The thought that her 
 mother had returned occurred to her ; she looked 
 up, the big tears streaming down her face; 
 she listened, like a young hind just roused by 
 the still-distant huntsman, quivering and wild ; — 
 she listened, and she sprang up — replaced the 
 volume— arranged the chair — cast one long, lin- 
 gering, feverish glance at the portrait — skimmed 
 through the room— hesitated one moment in 
 the antechamber — opened, as all was silent, the 
 no longer mysterious door — turned the noise- 
 less lock — tripped lightly along the vestibule — 
 glided into her mothers empty apartment — 
 reposited the key that had opened so many 
 wonders in the casket, — and then, having
 
 VENETIA. 285- 
 
 hurried to her own chamber, threw herself 
 on her bed in a paroxysm of contending 
 emotions, that left her no power of pon- 
 dering over the strange discovery that had 
 already given a new colour to her existence.
 
 VENETIA, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Her mother had not returned ; it was a false 
 alarm ; but Venetia could not quit her bed. 
 There she remained, repeating to herself her 
 father's verses. Then one thought alone filled 
 her being. Was he dead ? Was this fond 
 father, who had breathed this fervent blessing 
 over her birth, and invoked on his own head all 
 the woe and misfortunes of her destiny, was he, 
 indeed, no more ? How swiftly must the arrow 
 have sped after he received the announcement 
 that a child was given to him — 
 
 " Of all his treasured loves the long-expected heir ! " 
 He could scarcely have embraced her ere the 
 great Being, to whom he had offered his prayer,
 
 YENETIA. 287 
 
 summoned him to his presence ! Of that father 
 she had not the slightest recollection ; she had 
 ascertained that she had reached Cherbury a 
 child, even in arms, and she knew that her 
 father had never lived under the roof. What an 
 awful bereavement ! Was it wonderful that 
 her mother was inconsolable ? W^as it wonder- 
 ful that she could not endure even his name 
 to be mentioned in her presence — that not the 
 slightest allusion to his existence could be tole- 
 rated 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 ? AVhy 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
 
 288 VENETIA. 
 
 lived? But he was dead; he must be dead; 
 and why did she live ? Could she survive what 
 she had seen and learnt this day ? Did she wish 
 to survive it ? But her mother, her mother 
 with all her sealed-up sorrows, had survived 
 him. Why ? For her sake ; for her child ; for 
 " his own Venetia ! " His own ! 
 
 She clenched her feverish hand — her temples 
 beat with violent palpitations — her brow was 
 burning hot. Time flew on, and every minute 
 Venetia was more sensible of the impossibility of 
 rising to welcome her mother. That mother at 
 length returned ; Venetia oould not again mistake 
 the wheels of the returning carriage. Some 
 minutes passed, and there was a knock at her 
 door. With a choking voice Venetia bade them 
 enter. It was Pauncefort. 
 
 " Well, miss," she exclaimed, " if you ayn'*t 
 hefe, 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.
 
 VENETIA. 289 
 
 My lady has come home, you know, Miss, and 
 has been inquiring for you several times."" 
 
 " Tell mamma that I am not very well," said 
 Venetia, in a low voice, '• and that I have been 
 obliged to lie down." 
 
 " Not well, Miss ! '* exclaimed Pauncefort ; 
 " and what can be the matter with you ? I am 
 afraid you have walked too much ; overdone it, 
 I dare say ; or, mayhap, you have caught cold ; 
 it is an easterly wind ; for I was saying to John 
 this morning, 'John,' says I, * if Miss Venetia will 
 walk about with only a handkerchief tied round 
 her head, why — what can be expected ? ' '' 
 
 " I have only a headach, a very bad headach, 
 Pauncefort ; I wish to be quiet," said Venetia. 
 
 Pauncefort left the j*oom 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 headach. 
 Lady Annabel, of course, did not lose a moment 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 VENETIA. 
 
 in visiting her darling. She entered the room very 
 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 very 
 soft voice, " Are you in pain, darling ? " 
 
 " Is that mamma?" said Venetia, turning 
 with quickness. 
 
 " You are ill, dear," said Lady Annabel, 
 taking her hand. " Your hand is hot ; you are 
 feverish. How long has my Venetia felt ill?" 
 
 Venetia could not answer ; she did nothing 
 but sigh. Her strange manner excited her 
 mother's wonder. Lady Annabel sat by the 
 bedside, still holding her daughter's hand in 
 hers, watching her with a glance of great 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Answer me, my love," she repeated in a 
 voice of tenderness. " What do you feel? " 
 
 " My head, my head," murmured Venetia. 
 
 Her mother pressed her own hand to her
 
 VENETIA. 291 
 
 daughter's brow ; it was very hot. " Does that 
 pain you?" inquired Lady Annabel; but 
 Venetia did not reply ; her look was wild and 
 abstracted. Her mother gently withdrew her 
 hand, and then summoned Pauncefort, with 
 whom she communicated without permitting 
 her to enter the room. 
 
 " Miss Herbert is very ill," said Lady An- 
 nabel, pale, but in a firm tone. " I am alarmed 
 about her. She appears to me to have a 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 un- 
 conscious of all that was occurring. She now 
 lay with her face turned towards her mother, 
 o 2
 
 292 VENETTA. 
 
 but did not exchange even looks with heri 
 She was restless, and occasionally she sighed very 
 deeply. 
 
 Once, by way of experiment. Lady Annabel 
 again addressed her, but Venetia gave no answer. 
 Then the mother concluded what, indeed, had 
 before attracted her suspicion, that Venetians 
 head was affected. But, then, what was this 
 strange, this sudden, attack, which appeared to 
 have prostrated her daughter's faculties in an 
 instant ? A few hours back, and Lady Annabel 
 had parted from Venetia in all the glow of 
 health and beauty. The season was most genial ; 
 her exercise had doubtless been moderate ; as for 
 her general health, so complete was her constitu- 
 tion, and so calm the tenour of her life, that 
 Venetia had scarcely experienced in her whole 
 career a single hour of indisposition. It was an 
 anxious period of suspense until the medical 
 attendant arrived from Southport. Fortunately 
 he was one in whom, from reputation, Lady 
 Annabel was disposed to place great trust ; and
 
 VENETIA. 293 
 
 his matured years, his thoughtful manner, and 
 acute inquiries, confirmed her favourable opinion 
 of him. All that Mr. Hawkins could say, how- 
 ever, was, that Miss Herbert had a great deal of 
 fever, but the cause was concealed, and the sud- 
 denness of the attack perplexed him. He ad- 
 ministered 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 inchned to sleep. Suddenly 
 Venetia spoke; but she said only one word — 
 *« Father r 
 
 Lady Annabel started — her book nearly fell 
 from her hand — she grew very pale. Quite 
 breathless, she hstened, and again Venetia spoke,
 
 294 VENETIA. 
 
 and again called npon her father. Now, with a 
 great effort. Lady Annabel stole on tiptoe to the 
 bedside of her daughter. Venetia was lying on 
 her back, her eyes were closed, her lips still, as 
 it were, quivering with the strange word they 
 had dared to pronounce. Again her voice 
 sounded ; she chanted, in an unearthly voice, 
 verses. The perspiration stood in large drops 
 on the pallid forehead of her mother as she list- 
 ened. Still Venetia proceeded; and Lady An- 
 nabel, 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 myste- 
 rious stanzas. With convulsive agony her mo- 
 ther listened to every fatal line that she uncon- 
 sciously pronounced. 
 
 The secret was then discovered. Yes ! Ve- 
 netia must have penetrated the long-closed 
 f'hamber ; all the labours of long years had in a
 
 VENETIA. 295 
 
 moment been subverted ; Venetia had discovered 
 her parent, and the effects of the discovery might, 
 perhapsj be her death. Then it was that Lady 
 Annabel, in the torture of her mind, poured 
 forth her supphcations that the hfe or the heart 
 of her child might never be lost to her. " Grant, 
 O merciful God!" she exclaimed, "that this 
 sole hope of my being may be spared to me. 
 Grant, if she be spared, that she may never de- 
 sert her mother ! And for him, of whom she has 
 heard this day for the first time, let him be to 
 her as if he were no more ! May she never 
 learn that he lives ! May she never comprehend 
 the secret agony of her mother's life ! Save her, 
 O God ! save her from his fatal, his irresistible 
 influence ! May she remain pure and virtuous 
 as she has yet lived ! May she remain true to 
 thee, and true to thy servant, who now bows be- 
 fore 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
 
 S96 VENETIA. 
 
 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 daugh- 
 ter''s, she controlled herself with a mighty effort. 
 Calm as a statue, she received the medical 
 attendant, who took the hand of the unconscious 
 Venetia with apprehension too visibly impressed 
 upon his grave countenance. As he took her 
 hand, Venetia opened her eyes, stared at her 
 mother and her attendant, and then immediately 
 closed them. 
 
 " She has slept?'* inquired Lady Annabel. 
 
 *' No," said the surgeon, '"no: this is not
 
 VENETIA. 297 
 
 sleep ; it is a feverish trance, that brings her no 
 refreshment." He took out his watch, and 
 marked her pulse with great attention ; then he 
 placed his hand on her brow, and shook his head, 
 *' These beautiful curls must come off,'' he said. 
 Lady Annabel glided to the table, and instantly 
 brought the scissors, as if the delay of an instant 
 might be fatal. The surgeon cut off those long 
 golden locks. Venetia raised her hand to her 
 head, and said, in a low voice, *' They are for 
 my father.^' Lady Annabel leant upon the sur- 
 geon's arm, and shook. 
 
 Now he led the mother to the window, and 
 spoke in a very hushed tone. 
 
 " Is it possible that there is anything on your 
 daughter's mind. Lady Annabel ?" he inquired. 
 The agitated mother looked at the inquirer, 
 and then at her daughter ; and then for a mo- 
 ment she raised her hand to her eyes; then she 
 replied, in a low but firm voice, ^' Yes."" 
 
 *' Your ladyship must judge whether you wish 
 o3
 
 298 VENETIA. 
 
 me to be acquainted with it," said Mr. Hawkins, 
 very calmly. 
 
 " My daughter has suddenly become ac- 
 quainted, Sir, with some family incidents of a 
 very painful nature, and the knowledge of which 
 I have hitherto spared her. They are events 
 long past, and their consequences are now be- 
 yond all control." 
 
 " She knows, then, the worst?" 
 
 " Without her mind, I cannot answer that 
 question," said Lady Annabel. 
 
 " It is my duty to tell you that Miss Herbert 
 is in imminent danger ; she has every appearance 
 of a fever of the most malignant character. I 
 cannot answer for her life." 
 
 *' O God !" exclaimed Lady Annabel. 
 
 " Yet you must compose yourself, my dear 
 lady. Her chance of recovery greatly depends 
 upon the vigilance of her attendants. I shall 
 bleed her again, and place leeches on her tem- 
 ples. There is inflammation on the brain. There
 
 VEKETIA. ^99 
 
 are other remedies also not less powerful. We 
 must not despair ; we have no cause to despair 
 until we find these fail. I shall not leave her 
 again ; and, for your satisfaction, not for my 
 own, I shall call in additional advice,-— the aid 
 of a physician." 
 
 A messenger accordingly was instantly de- 
 spatched for the physician, who resided at a town 
 more distant than Southport ; the very town, 
 by-the-by, where Morgana, the gipsey, was ar- 
 rested. 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 mthered 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 her parched lips, or arrang- 
 ing, at every opportunity, her disordered pil- 
 lows. About an hour past midnight the surgeon
 
 300 venetia; 
 
 retired to rest, for a few hours. In the apartment 
 prepared for him, and Pauncefort, by the desire 
 of her mistress, also withdrew : Lady Annabel 
 Avas alone with her child, and with those agitated 
 thoughts which the strange occurrences of the 
 day were well calculated to excite.
 
 VENETIA. 801 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Early in the morning the physician arrived 
 at Cherbury. It remained for him only to ap- 
 prove of the remedies which had been pursued. 
 No material change, however, had occurred in 
 the state of Venetia : she had not slept, and still 
 she seemed unconscious of what was occurring. 
 The gracious interposition of Nature seemed the 
 only hope. When the medical men had with- 
 drawn to consult in the terrace-room, Lady An- 
 nabel 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
 
 302 VENETIA. 
 
 Mistress Pauncefort ; but Lady Annabel placed 
 her finger on her lip, and checked her. *' There 
 is no doubt of it, there can be no doubt of it, 
 Pauncefort ; she entered it yesterday ; she must 
 have passed the morning there, when you be- 
 lieved she was in the park." 
 
 " But, my lady," said Pauncefort, " how 
 could it be ? For I scarcely left your la' ship's 
 room a second, and Miss Venetia, I am sure, 
 never was near it. And the key, my lady, the 
 key is in the casket. I saw it half an hour ago 
 with my own eyes." 
 
 " There is no use arguing about it, Paunce- 
 fort,"" said Lady Annabel, with decision. " It is 
 as I say. I fear great misfortunes are about to 
 commence at Cherbury." 
 
 *' Oh ! my lady, don't think of such things," 
 said Pauncefort, herself not a little alarmed. 
 " What can happen ?" 
 
 " I fear more than I know," said Lady An- 
 nabel ; "but I do fear much. At present I 
 can only think of her."
 
 VENETIA. SOB 
 
 <• Well ! my lady," said poor Mistress Paunce- 
 fort, looking very 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 de- 
 fend yourself. Go, Pauncefort, I must be alone." 
 Pauncefort withdrew, and Lady Annabel re- 
 sumed 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 commu- 
 nicating this joyful intelligence to her mother. 
 The crisis had occurred, and was past : Venetia 
 had at length sunk into slumber. How different 
 was her countenance from the still, yet settled 
 features, they had before watched with such 
 anxiety ! She breathed lightly, the tension of the 
 eyelids had disappeared, her mouth was slightly
 
 304 VENETIA. 
 
 open. The physician and his colleague declared 
 that immediate danger was past, and they coun- 
 selled Lady Annabel to take repose. On con- 
 dition that one of them should remain by the 
 side of her daughter, the devoted yet miserable 
 mother quitted, for the first time, her child's 
 apartment. Pauncefort followed her to her room. 
 " Oh ! my lady," said Pauncefort, " I am so 
 glad your la*ship is going to lie down a bit." 
 
 *' I am not going to lie down, Pauncefort. 
 Give me the key.'* 
 
 And Lady Annabel proceeded alone to the 
 forbidden chamber, — that chamber which, after 
 what has occurred, we may now enter with her, 
 and where, with so much labour, she had created 
 a room exactly imitative of their bridal apart- 
 ment at her husband's castle. With a slow but 
 resolved step she entered the apartment, and 
 proceeding immediately to the table, took up the 
 book ; it opened at the stanzas to Venetia. The 
 pages had recently been bedewed with tears. 
 Lady Annabel then looked at the bridal bed,
 
 VENETIA. 305 
 
 and marked the missing rose in the garland ; 
 it was as she expected. She seated herself then 
 in the chair opposite the portrait, on which she 
 gazed with a glance rather stern than fond. 
 
 " Marmion,'' she exclaimed, " for fifteen 
 years, a solitary votary, I have mourned over, in 
 this temple of baffled affections, the inevitable 
 past. The daughter of our love has found her 
 way, perhaps by an irresistible destiny, to a spot 
 sacred to my long-concealed sorrows. At length 
 she knows her father. May she never know 
 more ! May she never learn that the being, 
 whose pictured form has commanded her 
 adoration, is unworthy of those glorious 
 gifts that a gracious Creator has bestowed 
 upon him ! Marmion, you seem to smile 
 upon me; you seem to exult in your triumph 
 over the heart of your child. But there is 
 a power in a mother's love that yet shall baffle 
 
 you. Hitherto I have come hereto deplore the 
 past ; hitherto I have come here to dwell upon 
 
 the form that, in spite of all that has happened,
 
 306 VENETIA. 
 
 I still was, perhaps, weak enough to love. Those 
 feelings are past for ever. Yes ! you would rob 
 me of my child, you would tear from my heart 
 the only consolation you have left me. But 
 Venetia shall still be mine ; and I, I am no 
 longer yours. Our love, our still lingering love, 
 has vanished. You have been my enemy; now 
 I am yours. J gaze upon your portrait for the 
 last time ; and thus I prevent the magical fasci- 
 nation of that face again appealing to the sym- 
 pathies 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 canvass ; then, tear- 
 ing with vmflinching 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.
 
 VENETIA. 307 
 
 " 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."
 
 308 YENETIA. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 As Lady Annabel entered the terrace-room, 
 Doctor Masham came forward and grasped her 
 hand. 
 
 " You have heard of our sorrow !" said her 
 ladyship in a faint voice. 
 
 " But this instant," replied the Doctor, in a 
 tone of great anxiety. " Immediate danger — ''* 
 
 ** Is past. She sleeps," replied Lady Annabel. 
 
 '^ A most sudden and unaccountable attack," 
 said the Doctor. 
 
 It is difficult to describe the contending emo- 
 tions of the mother as her companion made this 
 observation. At length she replied, " Sudden, 
 certainly sudden ; but not unaccountable. O !
 
 VENETIA. 309 
 
 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 I'' ex- 
 claimed Doctor Masham. '' Who?" 
 
 " He, he," muttered Lady Annabel ; her 
 speech was incoherent, her manner very dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 " My dear lady," said the Doctor, gazing on 
 her with extreme anxiety, " you are yourself 
 unwell." 
 
 Lady Annabel heaved a deep sigh ; the Doc- 
 tor 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 holdins: 
 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
 
 310 VENETIA. 
 
 and doubtful voice, for he was greatly per- 
 plexed* 
 
 " 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. Who 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!" 
 
 " Shall I send for Pauncefort ?" 
 
 '* No, let me be alone with you, with you. 
 You know all, Pauncefort knows all ; and she, 
 she knows everything. Fate has baffled me ; 
 we cannot struggle with fate. She is his child ; 
 she is like him ; she is not like her mother. Oh ! 
 she hates me ; I know she hates me." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! hush ! "" said the Doctor, 
 himself very agitated. " Venetia loves you, 
 only you. Why should she love any one else ?"
 
 VENETIA. 311 
 
 " 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 cham- 
 ber." 
 
 '* Ah ! " 
 
 *' O ! Doctor, vou 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 Jier mother not watching over her. But I
 
 312 VENETIA. 
 
 was tempted. She slept; I left her for a mo- 
 ment ; I went to destroy the spell. She cannot 
 see him again. No one shall see him again. 
 It was my weakness, the weakness of long years ; 
 and now I am its victim." 
 
 " Nay, nay, my sweet lady, all will be quite 
 well. Be but calm ; Venetia will recover."*' 
 
 " But will she love me ? Oh ! no, no, no. 
 She will think only of him. She will not love 
 her mother. She will yearn for her father now. 
 She has seen him, and she will not rest until she 
 is in his arms. She will desert me, I know it." 
 
 " And I know the contrary," said the Doctor, 
 attempting to reassure her ; " I will answer for 
 Venetia's devotion to you. Indeed she has no 
 thought but your happiness, and can love only 
 you. When there is a fitting time, I will speak 
 to her ; but now — now is the time for repose. 
 And you must rest, you must indeed." 
 
 *' Rest ! I cannot. I slumbered in the chair 
 last night by her bedside, and a voice roused 
 me. It was her own. She was speaking to her
 
 VENETIA. 313 
 
 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. ! 
 Doctor, I could bear all but this ; but ray 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, 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 314 VENETIA. 
 
 "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 over- 
 powered by a marvellous discovery. She will 
 recover, and be to you as she was before.'* 
 
 "We^ll tell her he is dead," said Lady Anna- 
 bel, 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 tlie^ 
 ust time. Now let iis think of her recovery.
 
 VENETIA. 315 
 
 She is no longer in danger. We should be 
 grateful, we should be glad." 
 
 *' Let us pray to God ! Let us humble our- 
 selves/' said Lady Annabel. " Let us beseech 
 him not to desert this house. We have been 
 faithful to him — we have struggled to be faithful 
 to him. Let us supplicate him to favour and 
 support us ! "*** 
 
 " He will favour and support you,**' said the 
 Doctor, in a solemn tone. " He has upheld you 
 in many trials ; he will uphold you still.'' 
 
 " Ah ! why did I love him ! Why did I 
 continue to love him ! How weak, how foolish, 
 how mad I have been ! I have alone been the 
 cause of all this misery. Yes, I have destroyed 
 my child.'* 
 
 *' She lives — she will live. Nay, nay, you 
 must reassure yourself. Come, let me send for 
 your servant, and for a moment repose. Nay ! 
 take my arm. All depends upon you. We 
 have great cares now ; let us not conjure up fan- 
 tastic fears." 
 
 p 2
 
 316 VENETIA. 
 
 " 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 en- 
 tered the room without a sound. In a moment 
 she returned. " She still sleeps," said the mo- 
 ther; " 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 hi this time 
 of trouble and tribulation."
 
 YENETIA. 317 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Venetia still slept : her mother alone in tlie 
 chamber watched by her side. Some hours had 
 elapsed since her interview with Dr. Masham ; 
 the medical attendant had departed for a few 
 hours. 
 
 Suddenly Venetia moved, opened her eyes, 
 and said in a faint voice, " Mamma !" 
 
 The blood rushed to Lady Annabel's heart. 
 That single word afforded her the most exquisite 
 happiness. 
 
 ** I am here, dearest," she replied. 
 
 " Mamma, what is all this ? " inquired 
 Venetia. 
 
 " You have not been well, my o\\n, but now 
 vou are much better."'
 
 318 V£NET1A. 
 
 " I thought I had been dreaming,'" rephed 
 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 weep- 
 ing. 
 
 " Are you sure, mamma, that nothing has 
 been done to my head ? " continued Venetia. 
 '* Why, what is this ? " and she touched a light 
 bandage on her brow . 
 
 " My darling, you have been ill, and you 
 have lost blood ; but now you are getting quite 
 well. I have been very unhappy about you ; 
 but now I am quite happy, my sweet, sweet 
 child." 
 
 '^ How long have I been ill ?" 
 
 " You have been very ill indeed, for four 
 or five days ; you have had a fever, Venetia ; 
 but now the fever is gone, and you are only a 
 little weak, and you will soon be well."
 
 VENETIA. 319 
 
 " 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 agita- 
 tion. 
 
 " All this time ! — all these days and nights I 
 No one would do that but you, mamma. You 
 think only of me." 
 
 " You repay me by your love, Venetia," said 
 Lady Annabel, feeling that her daughter ought 
 not to speak, yet irresistibly impelled to lead out 
 her thoucjhts. 
 
 " How can I help loving you, my dear 
 mam ma. ^ "
 
 $20 TENETIA. 
 
 " You do love mc, you do love me very 
 much ; do you not, sweet child ? '** 
 
 " Better than all the world," replied Venetia 
 to her enraptured parent. " And yet in the 
 fever I seemed to love some one else : but fevers 
 are like dreams ; they are not true." 
 
 Lady Annabel pressed her lips gently to her 
 daughter's, and whispered her that she must 
 speak no more 
 
 When Mr. Hawkins returned he gave a very 
 favourable report of Venetia. He said that all 
 danger was now past, and that all that was re- 
 quired for her recovery were time, care, and 
 repose. He repeated to Lady Annabel alone 
 that the attack was solely to be ascribed to some 
 great mental shock which her daughter had 
 received, and which suddenly had affected her 
 circulation ; leaving it, after this formal intima- 
 tion, 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
 
 VENETIA. 321 
 
 a few moments to Dr. Masham, laden with joy- 
 ful intelligence ; assured of the safety of her 
 child, and, what was still more precious, of her 
 heart, and even voluntarily promising her friend 
 that she should herself sleep this night in her 
 daughter's chamber, on the sofa-bed. The 
 Doctor therefore now bade her adieu, and said 
 that he should ride over from Marringhurst every 
 day, to hear how their patient was proceeding. 
 
 From this time the recovery of Venetia, 
 though slow, was gradual. She experienced no 
 relapse, and in a few weeks quitted her bed. 
 She was rather surprised at her altered appear- 
 ance when it first met her glance in the mirror, 
 but scarcely made any observation on the loss of 
 her locks. During this interval the mind of 
 Venetia had been quite dormant ; the rage of 
 the fever, and the violent remedies to which it 
 had been necessary to have recourse, had so 
 exhausted her, that she had not energy enough 
 to think. All that she felt was a strange indefi- 
 nite conviction that some occurrence had taken 
 r3
 
 322 VENETIA. 
 
 place with which her memory could not grapple. 
 But, as her strength returned, and as she gradu- 
 ally resumed her usual health, by proportionate 
 though almost invisible degrees her memory 
 returned to her, and her intelligence. She 
 clearly recollected and comprehended what had 
 taken place. She recalled the past, compared 
 incidents, weighed circumstances, sifted and 
 balanced the impressions that now crowded upon 
 her consciousness. It is difficult to describe 
 each link in the metaphysical chain which at 
 length connected the mind of Venetia Herbert 
 with her actual experience and precise situation. 
 It was however at length perfect, and gradually 
 formed as she sat in an invalid chair, apparently 
 listless, not yet venturing on any occupation, or 
 occasionally amused for a moment by her mother 
 reading to her. But when her mind had thus 
 resumed its natural tone, and in time its accus- 
 tomed vigour, the past demanded all her solici- 
 tude. At length the mystery of her birth was 
 revealed to her. She svas the daughter of Mar-
 
 VfiNETIA. 323 
 
 mion Herbert — and who was Marmion Herbert ? 
 The portrait rose before her. How distinct was 
 the form — how definite the countenance! No 
 common personage was Marmion Herbert, even 
 had he not won his wife, and celebrated his 
 daughter in such witching strains. Genius was 
 stamped on his lofty brow, and spoke in his 
 brilliant eye ; nobility was in all his form. 
 This chivalric poet was her father. She had 
 read, she had dreamed of such beings, she had 
 never seen them. If she quitted the solitude in 
 which she lived, would she see men like her 
 father ? No other could ever satisfy her imagi- 
 nation ; all beneath that standard would rank 
 but as imperfect creations in her fancy. And 
 this father, he was dead. No doubt. Ah ! was 
 there indeed no doubt ? Eager as was her curi- 
 osity on this all-absorbing subject, Venetia could 
 never summon courage to speak upon it to her 
 mother. Her first disobedience, or rather her 
 first deception of her mother, in reference to this 
 very subject, had brought, and brought so
 
 324 VENETIA, 
 
 swiftly on its retributive wings, such disastrous 
 consequences, that any allusion to Lady Anna- 
 bel 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 asso- 
 ciated with feelings too keen to admit of any 
 other but solitary indulgence. If living, there 
 was a mystery connected with her parents, a 
 mystery evidently of a painful character, and 
 one which it was a prime object with her mother 
 to conceal and to suppress. Could Venetia, 
 then, in defiance of that mother, that fond de- 
 voted mother, that mother who had watched 
 through long days and long nights over her 
 sick bed, and who now, without a murmur, was 
 a prisoner to this very room, only to comfort and 
 console her child — could Venetia take any step 
 which might occasion this matchless parent even 
 a transient pang ? No ; it was impossible. To 
 her mother she could never speak. And yet, to
 
 VENETIA. 325 
 
 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 mean time, her remaining parent com- 
 manded 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 lier daughter. No lover ever watched with 
 such devotion the wants, or even the caprices, of 
 his mistress. A thousand times every day Ve- 
 netia found herself expressing her fondness and 
 her gratitude. It seemed that the late dreadful 
 contingency of losing her daughter had deve- 
 loped in Lady Annabel's heart even additional
 
 326 VENETIA. 
 
 powers of maternal devotion ; and Venetia, the 
 fond and grateful Venetia, ignorant of the 
 strange past, which she believed she so perfectly 
 comprehended, returned thanks to Heaven that 
 her mother was at least spared the mortification 
 of knowing that lier daughter, in her absence, 
 had surreptitiously invaded the sanctuary of her 
 secret sorrow.
 
 VENETIA. 327 
 
 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 per- 
 suaded 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
 
 328 VENETIA. 
 
 a v,'ish on tlie part of her mother, and so she 
 very readily agreed to fall into the arrangement. 
 It was rather a long and rough journey to 
 Marringhurst, for they were obliged to use the 
 old chariot ; but Venetia forgot her fatigues in 
 the cordial welcome of their host, whose spark- 
 ling countenance well expressed the extreme 
 gratification their arrival occasioned him. All 
 that the tenderest soUcitude could devise for the 
 agreeable accommodation of the invahd had 
 been zealously concerted ; and the constant in- 
 fluence of Doctor Masham's cheerful mind was 
 as beneficial to Lady Annabel as to her daugh- 
 ter. The season was very gay, the place was 
 very pleasant ; and although they were only a 
 few miles from home, in a house with which 
 they were so familiar, and thtir 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
 
 VEXETIA. 329 
 
 of an adventure, and seemed at first almost in- 
 vested with the charm and novelty of travel. 
 
 The surrounding country, which, though ver- 
 dant, was very 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 ex- 
 tended 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 revolu- 
 tion in his garden. So time, on the whole, flew 
 cheerfully on, certainly without any weariness, 
 and the day seldom passed that they did not all
 
 330 VEKETIA. 
 
 congratulate themselves on the pleasant and pro- 
 fitable change. 
 
 In the mean time 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 at- 
 tention 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 hap- 
 pened that she was walking alone with him one 
 morning in the neighbourhood of Marringhurst, 
 having gone to visit the remains of a Roman 
 encampment in the immediate vicinity. When 
 they had arrived at the spot, and the Doctor 
 had delivered his usual lecture on the locality, 
 they sat down together on a mound, that 
 Venetia might rest herself. 
 
 " Were you ever in Italy, Doctor Masham ? " 
 said Venetia. 
 
 *' I never was out of my native country," said
 
 VENETIA. 351 
 
 die Doctor. " I once, indeed, was about making 
 the grand tour with a pupil of mine at Ox- 
 ford, but circumstances interfered which changed 
 his plans, and so I remain a regular John Bull." 
 
 "Was my father at Oxford?" said Venetia^ 
 very quietly. 
 
 " He was," replied the Doctor, looking very 
 confused. 
 
 " I should like to see Oxford very 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 en- 
 dowments, its splendid buildings, its great col- 
 leges, 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 af- 
 firm 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 mu-
 
 83:2 VENETIA. 
 
 scums, 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 cer 
 tain my father had been." 
 
 " Still harping of her father," thought the 
 Doctor to himself, and growing very 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 Venc 
 tia, pressing the question. 
 
 " Why," rejoined the Doctor, a little more 
 collected, ^' when you remember that there arc 
 between two and three thousand young men at 
 the university, you must not consider it very 
 surprising that I might not recollect your 
 father."
 
 VENETIA. 333 
 
 '* 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 re- 
 plied. 
 
 '' 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 gra- 
 cious Providence has spared to you one parent, 
 and one so inestimable."
 
 334 YENETIA. 
 
 " I trust I know how to appreciate so great a 
 blessing," replied Venetia ; " but I should be 
 sorry if the natural interest which all children 
 must take in those who have given them birth 
 should be looked upon as idle and unjustifiable 
 curiosity."" 
 
 " My dear young lady, you misapprehend 
 me." 
 
 " No, Doctor Masham, indeed I do not,**' re- 
 plied Venetia, with firmness. *' I can easily 
 conceive that the mention of my father may for 
 various reasons be insupportable to my mother j 
 it is enough for me that I am convinced such is 
 the case : my lips are sealed to her for ever upon 
 the subject ; but I cannot recognise the neces- 
 sity of this constraint to others. For a long time 
 I was kept in ignorance whether I had a father 
 or not. I have discovered, no matter how, who 
 he was. I believe, pardon me, my dearest friend, 
 I cannot help believing, that you were acquainted, 
 or, at least, that you know something of him; 
 and I entreat you ! yes," repeated Venetia with
 
 VENETIA. 335 
 
 great emphasis, laying her hand upon his arm, 
 and looking with earnestness in his face, " I 
 entreat you, by all your kind feehngs to my 
 mother and myself, — by all that friendship we 
 so prize, — by the urgent solicitation of a daugh- 
 ter 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, Doctor Masham, 
 do speak ! " 
 
 " My dear young lady," said the Doctor, with 
 a glistening eye, " it is better that we should 
 both be silent." 
 
 " No, indeed," replied Venetia, " it is not 
 better, it is not well that we should be silent. 
 Candour is a great virtue. There is a charm, a 
 healthy charm, in frankness. Why this mys- 
 tery ? Why these secrets ? Have they worked 
 good.? Have they benefitted us? O! my 
 friend, I would not say so to my mother, I 
 would not be tempted by any sufferings to pain
 
 336 VENETIA. 
 
 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 piomise you, solemnly I promise you, 
 I will ask no more. Tell me, does he live ?" 
 
 " He does !" said the doctor. Venetia sank 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 " My dear young lady, my darling young 
 lady!*' said the Doctor;— "she has fainted. 
 What can I do ? " The unfortunate Doctor placed 
 Venetia in a reclining posture, and hurried to 
 a brook that was nigh, and brought water in his 
 hand to sprinkle on her. She revived ; she made 
 a struggle to restore herself. 
 
 " It is nothing," she said, " I am resolved to 
 be well. I am well. I am myself again. He 
 lives ; my father lives ! I was confident of it ;
 
 VENETIA, 837 
 
 I will ask no more. I am true to my word. 
 O ! Doctor Masham, you have always been my 
 kind friend, but you have never yet conferred 
 on me a favour like the one you have just be- 
 stowed." 
 
 " But it is well," said the Doctor, " as you 
 know so much, that you should know more." 
 
 "Yes! yes!" 
 
 " As we walk along,"" he continued, " we will 
 converse, or at another time ; there is no lack of 
 opportunity."" 
 
 " No, now, now !" eagerly exclaimed Venetia, 
 " I am quite well. It was not pain or illness 
 that overcame me. Now let us walk, now let 
 us talk of these things. He lives ?" 
 
 " I have little to add," said Dr. Masham, after 
 a moment's thought ; " but this, however pain- 
 ful, 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 Doctor Masham ; " and I 
 
 VOL. I. Q,
 
 338 VENETIA. 
 
 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 hfe ; upon this 
 subject with her be for ever silent. Seek to 
 penetrate no mysteries, spare all allusions, ba- 
 nish, if possible, the idea of your father from 
 your memory. Enough, you know he lives. 
 We know no more. Your mother labours to 
 forget him; her only consolation for sorrows 
 such as few women ever experienced, is her 
 child, yourself, your love. Now be no niggard 
 with it. Cling to this unrivalled parent,, who 
 has dedicated her life to you. Soothe her suffer- 
 ings, endeavour to make her share your happi- 
 ness ; but, of this be certain, that if you raise 
 up the name and memory of your father be- 
 tween your mother and yourself, her life will be 
 the forfeit!" 
 
 "His name shall never pass my lips," said 
 Venetia ; " solemnly I swear it. That his image 
 shall be banished from my heart is too much to
 
 VENETIA. 339 
 
 ask, and more than it is in my power to grant. 
 But I am my mother's child. I will exist only 
 for her ; and, if my love can console her, she 
 shall never be without solace. I thank you, 
 Doctor, for all your kindness. We will never 
 talk again upon the subject; yet, believe me, 
 you have acted wisely, you have done good.'*
 
 340 VENETIA, 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Venetia observed her promise to Doctor 
 Masham with strictness. She never alluded to 
 her father, and his name never escaped her 
 mother's lips. Whether Doctor Masham ap- 
 prised Lady Annabel of the conversation that 
 had taken place between himself and her daugh- 
 ter, 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 Vene- 
 tia, after all that had occurred, to enjoy the con- 
 stant society of their friend ; and this change of 
 life, though apparently so slight, proved highly 
 beneficial to Venetia. She daily recovered her 
 health, and a degree of mental composure, which
 
 VENETIA. 341 
 
 she had not for some time enjoyed. On the 
 whole she was greatly satisfied with the disco- 
 veries which she had made. She had ascer- 
 tained the name and the existence of her father : 
 his very form and appearance were now no 
 longer matter for conjecture; and in a degree 
 she had even communicated with him. Time, 
 she still believed, would develope even further 
 wonders. She clung to an irresistible conviction 
 that she should yet see him ; that he might even 
 again be united to her mother. She indulged in 
 dreams as to his present pursuits and position : 
 she repeated to herself his verses, and remem- 
 bered his genius with pride and consolation. 
 
 They returned to Cherbury, they resumed 
 the accustomed tenour of their lives, as if no- 
 thing had occurred to disturb it. The fondness 
 between the mother and her daughter was un- 
 broken and undiminished. They shared again 
 the same studies and the same amusements. 
 Lady Annabel perhaps indulged the conviction 
 that Venetia had imbibed the belief that her 
 (i2
 
 42 VENETIA. 
 
 father was no more, and yet in truth that father 
 was the sole idea on which her child ever 
 brooded. Venetia had her secret now ; and 
 often as she looked up at the windows of the 
 uninhabited portion of the building, she remem- 
 bered with concealed, but not less keen exulta- 
 tion, that she had penetrated their mystery. 
 She could muse for hours over all that chamber 
 had revealed to her, and indulge in a thousand 
 visions, of which her father was the centre. 
 She was his " own Venetia.^' Thus he had 
 hailed her at her birth, and thus he might yet 
 again acknowledge her. If she could only as- 
 certain 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
 
 VENETIA. 343 
 
 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 impru- 
 dent, rash, violent ; but she would not credit for 
 an instant that a stain could attach to the honor 
 or the spirit of Marmion Herbert. 
 
 The summer wore away. One morning, as 
 Lady Annabel and Venetia were sitting to- 
 gether, Mistress Pauncefort bustled into the 
 room with a countenance radiant with smiles and 
 wonderment. Her ostensible business was to 
 place upon the table a vase of flowers, but it 
 was very evident that her presence was occa- 
 sioned by affairs of far greater urgency. The 
 vase was safely deposited ; Mistress Pauncefort 
 gave the last touch to the arrangement of the 
 flowers ; she lingered about Lady Annabel. At 
 length she said, " I suppose you have heard the 
 news, my lady.''"
 
 S44 VENETIA. 
 
 " Indeed, Pauncefort, I have not," replied 
 Lady Annabel, very quietly. " What news ? " 
 
 " My Lord is coming to the abbey.*" 
 
 'indeed!" 
 
 " Oh yes, my lady," said Mistress Paunce- 
 fort ; " I am not at all surprised your ladyship 
 should be so astonished. Never to write, too ! 
 Well, I must say he might have given us a line. 
 But he is coming, I am certain sure of that, 
 my lady. My lord's gentleman has been down 
 these two days ; and all his dogs and guns too, 
 my lady. And the keeper is ordered to be quite 
 ready, my lady, for the first. I wonder if there 
 is going to be a party. I should not be at all 
 surprised." 
 
 •■' Plantagenet returned !" said Lady Anna- 
 bel. " Well, I shall be very glad to see him 
 again." 
 
 " So shall I, my lady,"" said Mistress Paunce- 
 fort ; " but I dare say we shall hardly know 
 him again, he must be so grown. Trimmer has
 
 VENETIA. 345 
 
 been over to the Abbey, my lady, and saw my 
 lord's valet. Quite the fine gentleman. Trim- 
 mer says. I was thinking of walking over my- 
 self, this afternoon, to see poor Mrs. Quin, my 
 lady ; I dare say we might be of use, and 
 neighbours should be handy, as they say. She 
 is a very respectable woman, poor Mrs. Quin, 
 and I am sure for my part, if your ladyship 
 has no objection, I should be very glad to be 
 of service to her." 
 
 " I have of course no objection, Pauncefort, 
 to your being of service to the housekeeper, but 
 has she required your assistance?'" 
 
 " Why no, my lady, but poor Mrs. Quin 
 would hardly like to ask for anything, my lady ; 
 but I am sure we might be of very great use, 
 for my lord's gentleman seems very dissatisfied 
 at his reception. Trimmer says. He has his hot 
 breakfast every morning, my lady, and poor 
 Mrs. Quin says " 
 
 " Well, Pauncefort, that will do,'' said Lady 
 Annabel, and the functionary disappeared.
 
 846 VENETIA. 
 
 " We have almost forgotten Plantagenet, Ve- 
 netian' added Lady Annabel, addressing herself 
 to her daughter. 
 
 " He has forgotten us, I think, mamma,'' said 
 Venetia. 
 
 FND OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 BRADBVRY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFHIARS. 
 
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