CHAPTER II.
Between the reconciliation of Lady Annabel Herbert with her husband,at the Armenian convent at Venice, and the spring morning in theApennines, which we have just described, half a year had intervened.The political position of Marmion Herbert rendered it impossible forhim to remain in any city where there was a representative of hisBritannic Majesty. Indeed, it was scarcely safe for him to be knownout of America. He had quitted that country shortly after the strugglewas over, chiefly from considerations for his health. His energies hadbeen fast failing him; and a retired life and change of climate hadbeen recommended by his physicians. His own feelings induced him tovisit Italy, where he had once intended to pass his life, and where henow repaired to await death. Assuming a feigned name, and living instrict seclusion, it is probable that his presence would never havebeen discovered; or, if detected, would not have been noticed. Oncemore united with his wife, her personal influence at the court of St.James', and her powerful connections, might secure him from annoyance;and Venetia had even indulged in a vague hope of returning to England.But Herbert could only have found himself again in his native countryas a prisoner on parole. It would have been quite impossible for himto mix in the civil business of his native land, or enjoy any of therights of citizenship. If a mild sovereign in his mercy had indeedaccorded him a pardon, it must have been accompanied with rigorous andmortifying conditions; and his presence, in all probability, wouldhave been confined to his country residence and its immediateneighbourhood. The pride of Lady Annabel herself recoiled from thissufferance; and although Herbert, keenly conscious of the sacrificewhich a permanent estrangement from England entailed upon his wife andchild, would have submitted to any restrictions, however humiliating,provided they were not inconsistent with his honour, it must beconfessed that, when he spoke of this painful subject to his wife,it was with no slight self-congratulation that he had found herresolution to remain abroad under any circumstances was fixed with herhabitual decision. She communicated both to the Bishop of ---- and toher brother the unexpected change that had occurred in her condition,and she had reason to believe that a representation of what hadhappened would be made to the Royal family. Perhaps both the head ofher house and her reverend friend anticipated that time might removethe barrier that presented itself to Herbert's immediate return toEngland: they confined their answers, however, to congratulations onthe reconciliation, to their confidence in the satisfaction it wouldoccasion her, and to the expression of their faithful friendship; andneither alluded to a result which both, if only for her sake, desired.
The Herberts had quitted Venice a very few days after the meeting onthe island of St. Lazaro; had travelled by slow journeys, crossing theApennines, to Genoa; and only remained in that city until they engagedtheir present residence. It combined all the advantages which theydesired: seclusion, beauty, comfort, and the mild atmosphere thatVenetia had seemed to require. It was not, however, the genial airthat had recalled the rose to Venetia's cheek and the sunny smile toher bright eye, or had inspired again that graceful form with all itspristine elasticity. It was a heart content; a spirit at length atpeace. The contemplation of the happiness of those most dear to herthat she hourly witnessed, and the blissful consciousness that herexertions had mainly contributed to, if not completely occasioned,all this felicity, were remedies of far more efficacy than all theconsultations and prescriptions of her physicians. The conduct of herfather repaid her for all her sufferings, and realised all herdreams of domestic tenderness and delight. Tender, grateful, andaffectionate, Herbert hovered round her mother like a delicate spiritwho had been released by some kind mortal from a tedious and revoltingthraldom, and who believed he could never sufficiently testify hisdevotion. There was so much respect blended with his fondness, thatthe spirit of her mother was utterly subdued by his irresistibledemeanour. All her sadness and reserve, her distrust and her fear, hadvanished; and rising confidence mingling with the love she had everborne to him, she taught herself even to seek his opinion, and beguided by his advice. She could not refrain, indeed, from occasionallyfeeling, in this full enjoyment of his love, that she might haveoriginally acted with too much precipitation; and that, had she onlybent for a moment to the necessity of conciliation, and condescendedto the excusable artifices of affection, their misery might have beenprevented. Once when they were alone, her softened heart would haveconfessed to Herbert this painful conviction, but he was too happyand too generous to permit her for a moment to indulge in such aremorseful retrospect. All the error, he insisted, was his own; and hehad been fool enough to have wantonly forfeited a happiness which timeand experience had now taught him to appreciate.
'We married too young, Marmion,' said his wife.
'It shall be that then, love,' replied Herbert; 'but for all that Ihave suffered. I would not have avoided my fate on the condition oflosing the exquisite present!'
It is perhaps scarcely necessary to remark, that Herbert avoided withthe most scrupulous vigilance the slightest allusion to any of thosepeculiar opinions for which he was, unhappily, too celebrated. Musingover the singular revolutions which had already occurred in his habitsand his feelings towards herself, Lady Annabel, indeed, did notdespair that his once self-sufficient soul might ultimately bowto that blessed faith which to herself had ever proved so great asupport, and so exquisite a solace. It was, indeed, the inexpressiblehope that lingered at the bottom of her heart; and sometimes she evenindulged in the delightful fancy that his mild and penitent spirithad, by the gracious mercy of Providence, been already touched by thebright sunbeam of conviction. At all events, his subdued and chastenedtemperament was no unworthy preparation for still greater blessings.It was this hallowed anticipation which consoled, and alone consoled,Lady Annabel for her own estrangement from the communion of hernational church. Of all the sacrifices which her devotion to Herbertentailed upon her, this was the one which she felt most constantlyand most severely. Not a day elapsed but the chapel at Cherbury rosebefore her; and when she remembered that neither herself nor herdaughter might again kneel round the altar of their God, she almosttrembled at the step which she had taken, and almost esteemed ita sacrifice of heavenly to earthly duty, which no consideration,perhaps, warranted. This apprehension, indeed, was the cloud inher life, and one which Venetia, who felt all its validity, founddifficulty in combating.
Otherwise, when Venetia beheld her parents, she felt ethereal,and seemed to move in air; for her life, in spite of its apparenttranquillity, was to her all excitement. She never looked upon herfather, or heard his voice, without a thrill. His society was asdelightful as his heart was tender. It seemed to her that she couldlisten to him for ever. Every word he spoke was different fromthe language of other men; there was not a subject on which hisrichly-cultivated mind could not pour forth instantaneously a flood offine fancies and deep intelligence. He seemed to have read every bookin every language, and to have mused over every line he had read. Shecould not conceive how one, the tone of whose mind was so originalthat it suggested on every topic some conclusion that struck instantlyby its racy novelty, could be so saturated with the learning and theviews of other men. Although they lived in unbroken solitude, and werealmost always together, not a day passed that she did not find herselfmusing over some thought or expression of her father, and which brokefrom his mind without effort, and as if by chance. Literature toHerbert was now only a source of amusement and engaging occupation.All thought of fame had long fled his soul. He cared not for beingdisturbed; and he would throw down his Plato for Don Quixote, or closehis Aeschylus and take up a volume of Madame de Sevigne without amurmur, if reminded by anything that occurred of a passage which mightcontribute to the amusement and instruction of his wife and daughter.Indeed, his only study now was to contribute to their happiness. Forhim they had given up their country and society, and he sought, by hisvigilant attention and his various accomplishments, to render theirhours as light and pleasant as, under such circumstances, waspossible. His muse, too, was only dedicated
to the celebration of anytopic which their life or themselves suggested. He loved to lie underthe trees, and pour forth sonnets to Lady Annabel; and encouragedVenetia, by the readiness and interest with which he invariablycomplied with her intimations, to throw out every fancy which occurredto her for his verse. A life passed without the intrusion of a singleevil passion, without a single expression that was not soft, andgraceful, and mild, and adorned with all the resources of a mostaccomplished and creative spirit, required not the distractionsof society. It would have shrunk from it, from all its artificialexcitement and vapid reaction. The days of the Herberts flowed on inone bright, continuous stream of love, and literature, and gentlepleasures. Beneath them was the green earth, above them the blue sky.Their spirits were as clear, and their hearts as soft as the clime.
The hour of twilight was approaching, and the family were preparingfor their daily walk. Their simple repast was finished, and Venetiaheld the verses which her father had written in the morning, and whichhe had presented to her.
'Let us descend to Spezzia,' said Herbert to Lady Annabel; 'I love anocean sunset.'
Accordingly they proceeded through their valley to the craggy pathwhich led down to the bay. After passing through a small ravine, themagnificent prospect opened before them. The sun was yet an hour abovethe horizon, and the sea was like a lake of molten gold; the colourof the sky nearest to the sun, of a pale green, with two or threeburnished streaks of vapour, quite still, and so thin you could almostcatch the sky through them, fixed, as it were, in this gorgeous frame.It was now a dead calm, but the sail that had been hovering the wholemorning in the offing had made the harbour in time, and had justcast anchor near some coasting craft and fishing-boats, all that nowremained where Napoleon had projected forming one of the arsenals ofthe world.
Tracing their way down a mild declivity, covered with spreadingvineyards, and quite fragrant with the blossom of the vine, theHerberts proceeded through a wood of olives, and emerged on a terraceraised directly above the shore, leading to Spezzia, and studded hereand there with rugged groups of aloes.
'I have often observed here,' said Venetia, 'about a mile out at sea;there, now, where I point; the water rise. It is now a calm, and yetit is more troubled, I think, than usual. Tell me the cause, dearfather, for I have often wished to know.'
'It passes my experience,' said Herbert; 'but here is an ancientfisherman; let us inquire of him.'
He was an old man, leaning against a rock, and smoking his pipe incontemplative silence; his face bronzed with the sun and the roughnessof many seasons, and his grey hairs not hidden by his long blue cap.Herbert saluted him, and, pointing to the phenomenon, requested anexplanation of it.
''Tis a fountain of fresh water, signor, that rises in our gulf,' saidthe old fisherman, 'to the height of twenty feet.'
'And is it constant?' inquired Herbert.
''Tis the same in sunshine and in storm, in summer and in winter, incalm or in breeze,' said the old fisherman.
'And has it always been so?'
'It came before my time.'
'A philosophic answer,' said Herbert, 'and deserves a paul. Mine was acrude question. Adio, good friend.'
'I should like to drink of that fountain of fresh water, Annabel,'said Herbert. 'There seems to me something wondrous fanciful in it.Some day we will row there. It shall be a calm like this.'
'We want a fountain in our valley,' said Lady Annabel.
'We do,' said Herbert; 'and I think we must make one; we must inquireat Genoa. I am curious in fountains. Our fountain should, I think, beclassical; simple, compact, with a choice inscription, the altar of aNaiad.'
'And mamma shall make the design, and you shall write theinscription,' said Venetia.
'And you shall be the nymph, child,' said Herbert.
They were now within a bowshot of the harbour, and a jutting cliff ofmarble, more graceful from a contiguous bed of myrtles, invited themto rest, and watch the approaching sunset.
'Say what they like,' said Herbert, 'there is a spell in the shoresof the Mediterranean Sea which no others can rival. Never was such aunion of natural loveliness and magical associations! On these shoreshave risen all that interests us in the past: Egypt and Palestine,Greece, Rome, and Carthage, Moorish Spain, and feodal Italy. Theseshores have yielded us our religion, our arts, our literature, and ourlaws. If all that we have gained from the shores of the Mediterraneanwas erased from the memory of man, we should be savages. Will theAtlantic ever be so memorable? Its civilisation will be more rapid,but will it be as refined? and, far more important, will it be aspermanent? Will it not lack the racy vigour and the subtle spirit ofaboriginal genius? Will not a colonial character cling to its society,feeble, inanimate, evanescent? What America is deficient in iscreative intellect. It has no nationality. Its intelligence has beenimported, like its manufactured goods. Its inhabitants are a people,but are they a nation? I wish that the empire of the Incas and thekingdom of Montezuma had not been sacrificed. I wish that the republicof the Puritans had blended with the tribes of the wilderness.'
The red sun was now hovering over the horizon; it quivered for aninstant, and then sank. Immediately the high and undulating coast wascovered with a crimson flush; the cliffs, the groves, the bays andjutting promontories, each straggling sail and tall white tower,suffused with a rosy light. Gradually that rosy tint became a brightviolet, and then faded into purple. But the glory of the sunset longlingered in the glowing west, streaming with every colour of the Iris,while a solitary star glittered with silver light amid the shiftingsplendour.
'Hesperus rises from the sunset like the fountain of fresh water fromthe sea,' said Herbert. 'The sky and the ocean have two natures, likeourselves,'
At this moment the boat of the vessel, which had anchored about anhour back, put to shore.
'That seems an English brig,' said Herbert. 'I cannot exactly make outits trim; it scarcely seems a merchant vessel.'
The projection of the shore hid the boat from their sight as itlanded. The Herberts rose, and proceeded towards the harbour. Therewere some rude steps cut in the rock which led from the immediateshore to the terrace. As they approached these, two gentlemenin sailors' jackets mounted suddenly. Lady Annabel and Venetiasimultaneously started as they recognised Lord Cadurcis and hiscousin. They were so close that neither party had time to preparethemselves. Venetia found her hand in that of Plantagenet, while LadyAnnabel saluted George. Infinite were their mutual inquiries andcongratulations, but it so happened that, with one exception, no namewas mentioned. It was quite evident, however, to Herbert, that thesewere very familiar acquaintances of his family; for, in the surpriseof the moment, Lord Cadurcis had saluted his daughter by her Christianname. There was no slight emotion, too, displayed on all sides.Indeed, independently of the agitation which so unexpected arencounter was calculated to produce, the presence of Herbert, afterthe first moments of recognition, not a little excited the curiosityof the young men, and in some degree occasioned the embarrassmentof all. Who was this stranger, on whom Venetia and her mother wereleaning with such fondness? He was scarcely too old to be the admirerof Venetia, and if there were a greater disparity of years betweenthem than is usual, his distinguished appearance might well reconcilethe lady to her lot, or even justify her choice. Had, then, Cadurcisagain met Venetia only to find her the bride or the betrothed ofanother? a mortifying situation, even an intolerable one, if hisfeelings remained unchanged; and if the eventful year that had elapsedsince they parted had not replaced her image in his susceptible mindby another more cherished, and, perhaps, less obdurate. Again, to LadyAnnabel the moment was one of great awkwardness, for the introductionof her husband to those with whom she was recently so intimate, andwho were then aware that the name of that husband was never evenmentioned in her presence, recalled the painful past with a disturbingvividness. Venetia, indeed, did not share these feelings fully,but she thought it ungracious to anticipate her mother in theannouncement.
The Herberts turned with Lo
rd Cadurcis and his cousin; they were aboutto retrace their steps on the terrace, when Lady Annabel, takingadvantage of the momentary silence, and summoning all her energy, witha pale cheek and a voice that slightly faltered, said, 'Lord Cadurcis,allow me to present you to Mr. Herbert, my husband,' she added withemphasis.
'Good God!' exclaimed Cadurcis, starting; and then, outstretching hishand, he contrived to add, 'have I, indeed, the pleasure of seeing oneI have so long admired?'
'Lord Cadurcis!' exclaimed Herbert, scarcely less surprised. 'Is itLord Cadurcis? This is a welcome meeting.'
Everyone present felt overwhelmed with confusion or astonishment; LadyAnnabel sought refuge in presenting Captain Cadurcis to her husband.This ceremony, though little noticed even by those more immediatelyinterested in it, nevertheless served, in some degree, as a diversion.Herbert, who was only astonished, was the first who rallied. PerhapsLord Cadurcis was the only man in existence whom Herbert wished toknow. He had read his works with deep interest; at least, thoseportions which foreign journals had afforded him. He was deeplyimpressed with his fame and genius; but what perplexed him at thismoment, even more than his unexpected introduction to him, was thesingular, the very extraordinary circumstance, that the name of theirmost celebrated countryman should never have escaped the lips eitherof his wife or his daughter, although they appeared, and Venetiaespecially, to be on terms with him of even domestic intimacy.
'You arrived here to day, Lord Cadurcis?' said Herbert. 'From whence?'
'Immediately from Naples, where we last touched,' replied hislordship; 'but I have been residing at Athens.'
'I envy you,' said Herbert.
'It would be a fit residence for you,' said Lord Cadurcis. 'You were,however, in some degree, my companion, for a volume of your poems wasone of the few books I had with me. I parted with all the rest, but Iretained that. It is in my cabin, and full of my scribblement. If youwould condescend to accept it, I would offer it to you.'
Mr. Herbert and Lord Cadurcis maintained the conversation along theterrace. Venetia, by whose side her old companion walked, was quitesilent. Once her eyes met those of Cadurcis; his expression of mingledarchness and astonishment was irresistible. His cousin and LadyAnnabel carried on a more suppressed conversation, but on ordinarytopics. When they had reached the olive-grove Herbert said, 'Here liesour way homeward, my lord. If you and your cousin will accompany us,it will delight Lady Annabel and myself.'
'Nothing, I am sure, will give George and myself greater pleasure,' hereplied. 'We had, indeed, no purpose when you met us but to enjoy ourescape from imprisonment, little dreaming we should meet our kindestand oldest friends,' he added.
'Kindest and oldest friends!' thought Herbert to himself. 'Well, thisis strange indeed.'
'It is but a slight distance,' said Lady Annabel, who thought itnecessary to enforce the invitation. 'We live in the valley, of whichyonder hill forms a part.'
'And there we have passed our winter and our spring,' added Venetia,'almost as delightfully as you could have done at Athens.'
'Well,' thought Cadurcis to himself, 'I have seen many of the world'smarvels, but this day is a miracle.'
When they had proceeded through the olive-wood, and mounted theacclivity, they arrived at a path which permitted the ascent of onlyone person at a time. Cadurcis was last, and followed Venetia. Unableany longer to endure the suspense, he was rather irritated that shekept so close to her father; he himself loitered a few paces behind,and, breaking off a branch of laurel, he tossed it at her. She lookedround and smiled; he beckoned to her to fall back. 'Tell me, Venetia,'he said, 'what does all this mean?'
'It means that we are at last all very happy,' she replied. 'Do younot see my father?'
'Yes; and I am very glad to see him; but this company is the very lastin which I expected to have that pleasure.'
'It is too long a story to tell now; you must imagine it.'
'But are you glad to see me?'
'Very.'
'I don't think you care for me the least.'
'Silly Lord Cadurcis!' she said, smiling.
'If you call me Lord Cadurcis, I shall immediately go back to thebrig, and set sail this night for Athens.'
'Well then, silly Plantagenet!'
He laughed, and they ran on.