Venetia

  CHAPTER VII.

  Cadurcis returned to the abbey, but not to slumber. That love ofloneliness which had haunted him from his boyhood, and which everasserted its sway when under the influence of his passions, came overhim now with irresistible power. A day of enjoyment had terminated,and it left him melancholy. Hour after hour he paced the moon-litcloisters of his abbey, where not a sound disturbed him, save themonotonous fall of the fountain, that seems by some inexplicableassociation always to blend with and never to disturb our feelings;gay when we are joyful, and sad amid our sorrow.

  Yet was he sorrowful! He was gloomy, and fell into a reverie abouthimself, a subject to him ever perplexing and distressing. Hisconversation of the morning with Doctor Masham recurred to him. Whatdid the Doctor mean by his character not being formed, and thathe might yet live to change all his opinions? Character! what wascharacter? It must be will; and his will was violent and firm. Youngas he was, he had early habituated himself to reflection, and theresult of his musings had been a desire to live away from the worldwith those he loved. The world, as other men viewed it, had no charmsfor him. Its pursuits and passions seemed to him on the whole paltryand faint. He could sympathise with great deeds, but not with bustlinglife. That which was common did not please him. He loved things thatwere rare and strange; and the spell that bound him so strongly toVenetia Herbert was her unusual life, and the singular circumstancesof her destiny that were not unknown to him. True he was young;but, lord of himself, youth was associated with none of thosemortifications which make the juvenile pant for manhood. Cadurcisvalued his youth and treasured it. He could not conceive love, and theromantic life that love should lead, without the circumambient charmof youth adding fresh lustre to all that was bright and fair, and akeener relish to every combination of enjoyment. The moonbeam fellupon his mother's monument, a tablet on the cloister wall thatrecorded the birth and death of KATHERINE CADURCIS. His thoughts flewto his ancestry. They had conquered in France and Palestine, and lefta memorable name to the annalist of his country. Those days were past,and yet Cadurcis felt within him the desire, perhaps the power, ofemulating them; but what remained? What career was open in thismechanical age to the chivalric genius of his race? Was he misplacedthen in life? The applause of nations, there was something grand andexciting in such a possession. To be the marvel of mankind what wouldhe not hazard? Dreams, dreams! If his ancestors were valiant andcelebrated it remained for him to rival, to excel them, at least inone respect. Their coronet had never rested on a brow fairer thanthe one for which he destined it. Venetia then, independently of hispassionate love, was the only apparent object worth his pursuit, theonly thing in this world that had realised his dreams, dreams sacredto his own musing soul, that even she had never shared or guessed. Andshe, she was to be his. He could not doubt it: but to-morrow woulddecide; to-morrow would seal his triumph.

  His sleep was short and restless; he had almost out-watched the stars,and yet he rose with the early morn. His first thought was of Venetia;he was impatient for the interview, the interview she promised andeven proposed. The fresh air was grateful to him; he bounded along toCherbury, and brushed the dew in his progress from the tall grass andshrubs. In sight of the hall, he for a moment paused. He was beforehis accustomed hour; and yet he was always too soon. Not to-day,though, not to-day; suddenly he rushes forward and springs down thegreen vista, for Venetia is on the terrace, and alone!

  Always kind, this morning she greeted him with unusual affection.Never had she seemed to him so exquisitely beautiful. Perhaps hercountenance to-day was more pale than wont. There seemed a softness inher eyes usually so brilliant and even dazzling; the accents of hersalutation were suppressed and tender.

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

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

  'Dear Plantagenet,' she said, 'for indeed you are very dear to me; Itold you last night that I would speak to you to-day on your wishes,that are so kind to me and so much intended for my happiness. I do notlove suspense; but indeed last night I was too much surprised, toomuch overcome by what occurred, that exhausted as I naturally was byall our pleasure, I could not tell you what I wished; indeed I couldnot, dear Plantagenet.'

  'My own Venetia!'

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

  'Unhappy, Venetia! my Venetia unhappy?'

  'Listen! I will not weep. I can control my feelings. I have learnt todo this; it is very sad, and very different to what my life once was;but I can do it.'

  'You amaze me!'

  Venetia sighed, and then resumed, but in a tone mournful and low, andyet to a degree firm.

  'You have been away five years, Plantagenet.'

  'But you have pardoned that.'

  'I never blamed you; I had nothing to pardon. It was well for you tobe away; and I rejoice your absence has been so profitable to you.'

  'But it was wicked to have been so silent.'

  'Oh! no, no, no! Such ideas never entered into my head, nor evenmamma's. You were very young; you did as all would, as all must do.Harbour not such thoughts. Enough, you have returned and love us yet.'

  'Love! adore!'

  'Five years are a long space of time, Plantagenet. Events will happenin five years, even at Cherbury. I told you I was changed.'

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

  'You left me a happy child; you find me a woman, and a miserable one.'

  'Good God, Venetia! this suspense is awful. Be brief, I pray you. Hasany one--'

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

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

  'You remember that Christmas which you passed at the hall and walkingat night in the gallery, and--'

  'Well! Your mother, I shall never forget it.'

  'You found her weeping when you were once at Marringhurst. You told meof it.'

  'Ay, ay!'

  'There is a wing of our house shut up. We often talked of it.'

  'Often, Venetia; it was a mystery.'

  'I have penetrated it,' replied Venetia in a solemn tone; 'and neverhave I known what happiness is since.'

  'Yes, yes!' said Lord Cadurcis, very pale, and in a whisper.

  'Plantagenet, I have a father.'

  Lord Cadurcis started, and for an instant his arm quitted Venetia's.At length he said in a gloomy voice, 'I know it.'

  'Know it!' exclaimed Venetia with astonishment. 'Who could have toldyou the secret?'

  'It is no secret,' replied Cadurcis; 'would that it were!'

  'Would that it were! How strange you speak, how strange you look,Plantagenet! If it be no secret that I have a father, why thisconcealment then? I know that I am not the child of shame!' she added,after a moment's pause, with an air of pride. A tear stole down thecheek of Cadurcis.

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

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

  'Forbidden, utterly forbidden. If I speak, they tell me her heart willbreak; and therefore mine is breaking.'

  'Have you no friend?'

  'Are not you my friend?'

  'Doctor Masham?'

  'I have applied to him; he tells me that he lives, and then he shakeshis head.'

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

  'Not think of him!' exclaimed Venetia, with extraordinary energy. 'Ofwhat else? For what do I live but to think of him? What object have Iin life but to see him? I have seen him, once.'

  'Ah!'

  'I know his form by heart, and yet it was but a shade. Oh, what ashade! what a glorious, what an immortal shade! If gods were uponearth they would be like my father!'

  'His deeds, at least, are not godlike,' observed Lord Cadurcis dryly,and with some bitterness.

  'I deny it!' said Venetia, her eyes sparkling with fire, her formdilated with enthusiasm, and involuntarily withdrawing her arm fromher companion. Lord Cadurcis looked exceedingly astonished.

  'You deny it!' he exclaimed. 'And what should you know about it?'

  'Nature whispers to me that nothing but what is grand and noble couldbe breathed by those lips, or fulfilled by that form.'

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

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

  'She was his victim, as a thousand others may have been.'

  'She is his wife!' replied Venetia, with some anxiety.

  'Yes, a deserted wife; is that preferable to being a cherishedmistress? More honourable, but scarcely less humiliating.'

  'She must have misunderstood him,' said Venetia. 'I have perused thesecret vows of his passion. I have read his praises of her beauty.I have pored over the music of his emotions when he first became afather; yes, he has gazed on me, even though but for a moment, withlove! Over me he has breathed forth the hallowed blessing of a parent!That transcendent form has pressed his lips to mine, and held me withfondness to his heart! And shall I credit aught to his dishonour? Isthere a being in existence who can persuade me he is heartless orabandoned? No! I love him! I adore him! I am devoted to him with allthe energies of my being! I live only on the memory that he lives,and, were he to die, I should pray to my God that I might join himwithout delay in a world where it cannot be justice to separate achild from a father.'

  And this was Venetia! the fair, the serene Venetia! the young, theinexperienced Venetia! pausing, as it were, on the parting thresholdof girlhood, whom, but a few hours since, he had fancied couldscarcely have proved a passion; who appeared to him barely tocomprehend the meaning of his advances; for whose calmness or whosecoldness he had consoled himself by the flattering conviction of herunknowing innocence. Before him stood a beautiful and inspired Moenad,her eye flashing supernatural fire, her form elevated above heraccustomed stature, defiance on her swelling brow, and passion on herquivering lip!

  Gentle and sensitive as Cadurcis ever appeared to those he loved,there was in his soul a deep and unfathomed well of passions that hadbeen never stirred, and a bitter and mocking spirit in his brain, ofwhich he was himself unconscious. He had repaired this hopeful morn toCherbury to receive, as he believed, the plighted faith of a simpleand affectionate, perhaps grateful, girl. That her unsophisticated anduntutored spirit might not receive the advances of his heart with anequal and corresponding ardour, he was prepared. It pleased himthat he should watch the gradual development of this bud of sweetaffections, waiting, with proud anxiety, her fragrant and herfull-blown love. But now it appeared that her coldness or herindifference might be ascribed to any other cause than the one towhich he had attributed it, the innocence of an inexperienced mind.This girl was no stranger to powerful passions; she could love, andlove with fervency, with devotion, with enthusiasm. This child of joywas a woman of deep and thoughtful sorrows, brooding in solitude overhigh resolves and passionate aspirations. Why were not the emotionsof such a tumultuous soul excited by himself? To him she was calm andimperturbable; she called him brother, she treated him as a child. Buta picture, a fantastic shade, could raise in her a tempestuous swellof sentiment that transformed her whole mind, and changed the colourof all her hopes and thoughts. Deeply prejudiced against her father,Cadurcis now hated him, and with a fell and ferocious earnestness thatfew bosoms but his could prove. Pale with rage, he ground his teethand watched her with a glance of sarcastic aversion.

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

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

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

  'I led you here,' replied Venetia, in a subdued tone, and looking onthe ground, 'to thank you for your love, and to confess to you that Ilove another.'

  'Love another!' exclaimed Cadurcis, in a tone of derision. Simpleton!The best thing your mother can do is to lock you up in the chamberwith the picture that has produced such marvellous effects.'

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

  They had stopped in the earlier part of this conversation on a littleplot of turf surrounded by shrubs; Cadurcis walked up and down thisarea with angry steps, occasionally glancing at Venetia with a look ofmortification and displeasure.

  'I tell you, Venetia,' he at length said, 'that you are a little fool.What do you mean by saying that you cannot marry me because you loveanother? Is not that other, by your own account, your father? Love himas much as you like. Is that to prevent you from loving your husbandalso?'

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

  'I congratulate you on your parent, Miss Herbert.'

  'I feel that I ought to be proud of him, though, alas I can only feelit. But, whatever your opinion may be of my father, I beg you toremember that you are speaking to his child.'

  'I shall state my opinion respecting your father, madam, with the mostperfect unreserve, wherever and whenever I choose; quite convincedthat, however you esteem that opinion, it will not be widely differentfrom the real sentiments of the only parent whom you ought to respect,and whom you are bound to obey.'

  'And I can tell you, sir, that whatever your opinion is on any subjectit will never influence mine. If, indeed, I were the mistress of myown destiny, which I am not, it would have been equally out of mypower to have acted as you have so singularly proposed. I do not wishto marry, and marry I never will; but were it in my power, or inaccordance with my wish, to unite my fate for ever with another's, itshould at least be with one to whom I could look up with reverence,and even with admiration. He should be at least a man, and a greatman; one with whose name the world rung; perhaps, like my father, agenius and a poet.'

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

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