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

Yet was he sorrowful! He was gloomy, and fell into a reverie about himself, a subject to him ever perplexing and distressing. His conversation of the morning with Doctor Masham recurred to him. What did the Doctor mean by his character not being formed, and that he might yet live to change all his opinions? Character! what was character? It must be will; and his will was violent and firm. Young as he was, he had early habituated himself to reflection, and the result of his musings had been a desire to live away from the world with those he loved. The world, as other men viewed it, had no charms for him. Its pursuits and passions seemed to him on the whole paltry and faint. He could sympathise with great deeds, but not with bustling life. That which was common did not please him. He loved things that were rare and strange; and the spell that bound him so strongly to Venetia Herbert was her unusual life, and the singular circumstances of her destiny that were not unknown to him. True he was young; but, lord of himself, youth was associated with none of those mortifications which make the juvenile pant for manhood. Cadurcis valued his youth and treasured it. He could not conceive love, and the romantic life that love should lead, without the circumambient charm of youth adding fresh lustre to all that was bright and fair, and a keener relish to every combination of enjoyment. The moonbeam fell upon his mother’s monument, a tablet on the cloister wall that recorded the birth and death of KATHERINE CADURCIS. His thoughts flew to his ancestry. They had conquered in France and Palestine, and left a memorable name to the annalist of his country. Those days were past, and yet Cadurcis felt within him the desire, perhaps the power, of emulating them; but what remained? What career was open in this mechanical age to the chivalric genius of his race? Was he misplaced then in life? The applause of nations, there was something grand and exciting in such a possession. To be the marvel of mankind what would he not hazard? Dreams, dreams! If his ancestors were valiant and celebrated it remained for him to rival, to excel them, at least in one respect. Their coronet had never rested on a brow fairer than the one for which he destined it. Venetia then, independently of his passionate love, was the only apparent object worth his pursuit, the only thing in this world that had realised his dreams, dreams sacred to his own musing soul, that even she had never shared or guessed. And she, she was to be his. He could not doubt it: but tomorrow would decide; tomorrow would seal his triumph.

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

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

‘I thought you would be here early,’ she remarked, ‘and therefore I rose to meet you.’

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

‘Dear Plantagenet,’ she said, ‘for indeed you are very dear to me; I told you last night that I would speak to you today on your wishes, that are so kind to me and so much intended for my happiness. I do not love suspense; but indeed last night I was too much surprised, too much overcome by what occurred, that exhausted as I naturally was by all our pleasure, I could not tell you what I wished; indeed I could not, dear Plantagenet.’

‘My own Venetia!’

‘So I hope you will always deem me; for I should be very unhappy if you did not love me, Plantagenet, more unhappy than I have even been these last two years; and I have been very unhappy, very unhappy indeed, Plantagenet.’

‘Unhappy, Venetia! my Venetia unhappy?’

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

‘You amaze me!’

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

‘You have been away five years, Plantagenet.’

‘But you have pardoned that.’

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

‘But it was wicked to have been so silent.’

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

‘Love! adore!’

‘Five years are a long space of time, Plantagenet. Events will happen in five years, even at Cherbury. I told you I was changed.’

‘Yes!’ said Lord Cadurcis, in a voice of some anxiety, with a scrutinising eye.

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

‘Good God, Venetia! this suspense is awful. Be brief, I pray you. Has any one —’

Venetia looked at him with an air of perplexity. She could not comprehend the idea that impelled his interruption.

‘Go on,’ Lord Cadurcis added, after a short pause; ‘I am indeed all anxiety.’

‘You remember that Christmas which you passed at the hall and walking at night in the gallery, and —’

‘Well! Your mother, I shall never forget it.’

‘You found her weeping when you were once at Marringhurst. You told me of it.’

‘Ay, ay!’

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

‘Often, Venetia; it was a mystery.’

‘I have penetrated it,’ replied Venetia in a solemn tone; ‘and never have I known what happiness is since.’

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

‘Plantagenet, I have a father.’

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

‘Know it!’ exclaimed Venetia with astonishment. ‘Who could have told you the secret?’

‘It is no 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 this concealment then? I know that I am not the child of shame!’ she added, after a moment’s pause, with an air of pride. A tear stole down the cheek of Cadurcis.

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

‘Is there not your mother?’ said Lord Cadurcis, in a broken tone.

‘Forbidden, utterly forbidden. If I speak, they tell me her heart will break; and therefore mine is breaking.’

‘Have you no friend?’

‘Are not you my friend?’

‘Doctor Masham?’

‘I have applied to him; he tells me that he lives, and then he shakes his head.’

‘You never saw your father; think not of him.’

‘Not think of him!’ exclaimed Venetia, with extraordinary energy. ‘Of what else? For what do I live but to think of him? What object have I in life but to............