Venetia

  CHAPTER II.

  The reader must not suppose, from the irresistible emotion thatovercame Venetia at the very moment of her return, that she wasentirely prostrated by her calamities. On the contrary, her mind hadbeen employed, during the whole of her journey to England, in a silenteffort to endure her lot with resignation. She had resolved to bear upagainst her misery with fortitude, and she inherited from her mothersufficient firmness of mind to enable her to achieve her purpose. Shecame back to Cherbury to live with patience and submission; and thoughher dreams of happiness might be vanished for ever, to contribute asmuch as was in her power to the content of that dear and remainingrelative who was yet spared to her, and who depended in this worldonly upon the affection of her child. The return to Cherbury was apang, and it was over. Venetia struggled to avoid the habits of aninvalid; she purposed resuming, as far as was in her power, all thepursuits and duties of her life; and if it were neither possible, noreven desirable, to forget the past, she dwelt upon it neither to sighnor to murmur, but to cherish in a sweet and musing mood the ties andaffections round which all her feelings had once gathered with so muchenjoyment and so much hope.

  She rose, therefore, on the morning after her return to Cherbury, atleast serene; and she took an early opportunity, when George and hermother were engaged, and absent from the terrace-room, to go forthalone and wander amid her old haunts. There was not a spot about thepark and gardens, which had been favourite resorts of herself andPlantagenet in their childhood, that she did not visit. They wereunchanged; as green, and bright, and still as in old days, but whatwas she? The freshness, and brilliancy, and careless happiness of herlife were fled for ever. And here he lived, and here he roamed, andhere his voice sounded, now in glee, now in melancholy, now in wildand fanciful amusement, and now pouring into her bosom all hisdomestic sorrows. It was but ten years since he first arrived atCherbury, and who could have anticipated that that little, silent,reserved boy should, ere ten years had passed, have filled a wide andlofty space in the world's thought; that his existence should haveinfluenced the mind of nations, and his death eclipsed their gaiety!His death! Terrible and disheartening thought! Plantagenet was nomore. But he had not died without a record. His memory was embalmedin immortal verse, and he had breathed his passion to his Venetia inlanguage that lingered in the ear, and would dwell for ever on thelips, of his fellow-men.

  Among these woods, too, had Venetia first mused over her father;before her rose those mysterious chambers, whose secret she hadpenetrated at the risk of her life. There were no secrets now. Wasshe happier? Now she felt that even in her early mystery there wasdelight, and that hope was veiled beneath its ominous shadow. Therewas now no future to ponder over; her hope was gone, and memory aloneremained. All the dreams of those musing hours of her hidden reverieshad been realised. She had seen that father, that surpassing parent,who had satisfied alike her heart and her imagination; she had beenclasped to his bosom; she had lived to witness even her mother yieldto his penitent embrace. And he too was gone; she could never meet himagain in this world; in this world in which they had experienced suchexquisite bliss; and now she was once more at Cherbury! Oh! give herback her girlhood, with all its painful mystery and harassing doubt!Give her again a future!

  She returned to the hall; she met George on the terrace, she welcomedhim with a sweet, yet mournful smile. 'I have been very selfish,'she said, 'for I have been walking alone. I mean to introduce you toCherbury, but I could not resist visiting some old spots.' Her voicefaltered in these last words. They re-entered the terrace-roomtogether, and joined her mother.

  'Nothing is changed, mamma,' said Venetia, in a more cheerful tone.'It is pleasant to find something that is the same.'

  Several days passed, and Lord Cadurcis evinced no desire to visit hisinheritance. Yet Lady Annabel was anxious that he should do so, andhad more than once impressed upon him the propriety. Even Venetiaat length said to him, 'It is very selfish in us keeping you here,George. Your presence is a great consolation, and yet, yet, ought younot to visit your home?' She avoided the name of Cadurcis.

  'I ought, dear Venetia.' said George, 'and I will. I have promisedLady Annabel twenty times, but I feel a terrible disinclination.To-morrow, perhaps.'

  'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,' murmured Venetia toherself, 'I scarcely comprehend now what to-morrow means.' And thenagain addressing him, and with more liveliness, she said, 'We haveonly one friend in the world now, George, and I think that we ought tobe very grateful that he is our neighbour.'

  'It is a consolation to me,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'for I cannot remainhere, and otherwise I should scarcely know how to depart.'

  'I wish you would visit your home, if only for one morning,' saidVenetia; 'if only to know how very near you are to us.'

  'I dread going alone,' said Lord Cadurcis. 'I cannot ask Lady Annabelto accompany me, because--' He hesitated.

  'Because?' inquired Venetia.

  'I cannot ask or wish her to leave you.'

  'You are always thinking of me, dear George,' said Venetia, artlessly.'I assure you, I have come back to Cherbury to be happy. I must visityour home some day, and I hope I shall visit it often. We will all go,soon,' she added.

  'Then I will postpone my visit to that day,' said George. 'I am inno humour for business, which I know awaits me there. Let me enjoy alittle more repose at dear Cherbury.'

  'I have become very restless of late, I think,' said Venetia, 'butthere is a particular spot in the garden that I wish to see. Come withme, George.'

  Lord Cadurcis was only too happy to attend her. They proceeded througha winding walk in the shrubberies until they arrived at a smalland open plot of turf, where Venetia stopped. 'There are someassociations,' she said, 'of this spot connected with both thosefriends that we have lost. I have a fancy that it should be in somevisible manner consecrated to their memories. On this spot, George,Plantagenet once spoke to me of my father. I should like to raisetheir busts here; and indeed it is a fit place for such a purpose;for poets,' she added, faintly smiling, 'should be surrounded withlaurels.'

  'I have some thoughts on this head that I am revolving in my fancymyself,' said Lord Cadurcis, 'but I will not speak of them now.'

  'Yes, now, George; for indeed it is a satisfaction for me to speak ofthem, at least with you, with one who understood them so well, andloved them scarcely less than I did.'

  George tenderly put his arm into hers and led her away. As they walkedalong, he explained to her his plans, which yet were somewhat crude,but which greatly interested her; but they were roused from theirconversation by the bell of the hall sounding as if to summon them,and therefore they directed their way immediately to the terrace. Aservant running met them; he brought a message from Lady Annabel.Their friend the Bishop of ---- had arrived.