While her mother was undergoing some of those attentions to which Venetia had recently submitted, and had retired for a few minutes into an adjoining apartment, our little lady of Cherbury strolled about the saloon in which she had been left, until her attention was attracted by a portrait of a young man in an oriental dress, standing very sublimely amid the ruins of some desert city; a palm tree in the distance, and by his side a crouching camel, and some recumbent followers slumbering amid the fallen columns.
‘That is Lord Cadurcis, my love,’ said her aunt, who at the moment joined her, ‘the famous poet. All the young ladies are in love with him. I dare say you know his works by heart.’
‘No, indeed, aunt,’ said Venetia; ‘I have never even read them; but I should like very much.’
‘Not read Lord Cadurcis’ poems! Oh! we must go and get them directly for you. Everybody reads them. You will be looked upon quite as a little barbarian. We will stop the carriage at Stockdale’s, and get them for you.’
At this moment Lady Annabel rejoined them; and, having made all their arrangements, they reentered the carriage.
‘Stop at Stockdale’s,’ said her ladyship to the servant; ‘I must get Cadurcis’ last poem for Venetia. She will be quite back in her learning, Annabel.’
‘Cadurcis’ last poem!’ said Lady Annabel; ‘do you mean Lord Cadurcis? Is he a poet?’
‘To he sure! Well, you are countrified not to know Lord Cadurcis!’
‘I know him very well,’ said Lady Annabel, gravely; ‘but I did not know he was a poet.’
The Countess laughed, the carriage stopped, the book was brought; Lady Annabel looked uneasy, and tried to catch her daughter’s countenance, but, strange to say, for the first time in her life was quite unsuccessful. The Countess took the book, and immediately gave it Venetia. ‘There, my dear,’ said her aunt, ‘there never was anything so charming. I am so provoked that Cadurcis is a Whig.’
‘A Whig!’ said Lady Annabel; ‘he was not a Whig when I knew him.’
‘Oh! my dear, I am afraid he is worse than a Whig. He is almost a rebel! But then he is such a genius! Everything is allowed, you know, to a genius!’ said the thoughtless sister-in-law.
Lady Annabel was silent; but the stillness of her emotion must not be judged from the stillness of her tongue. Her astonishment at all she had heard was only equalled by what we may justly term her horror. It was impossible that she could have listened to any communication at the same time so astounding, and to her so fearful.
‘We knew Lord Cadurcis when he was very young, aunt,’ said Venetia, in a quiet tone. ‘He lived near mamma, in the country.’
‘Oh! my dear Annabel, if you see him in town bring him to me; he is the most difficult person in the world to get to one’s house, and I would give anything if he would come and dine with me.’
The Countess at last set her relations down at their hotel. When Lady Annabel was once more alone with her daughter, she said, ‘Venetia, dearest, give me that book your aunt lent you.’
Venetia immediately handed it to her, but her mother did not open it; but saying, ‘The Bishop dines at four, darling; I think it is time for us to dress,’ Lady Annabel left the room.
To say the truth, Venetia was less surprised than disappointed by this conduct of her mother’s; but she was not apt to murmur, and she tried to dismiss the subject from her thoughts.
It was with unfeigned delight that the kind-hearted Masham welcomed under his own roof his two best and dearest friends. He had asked nobody to meet them; it was settled that they were to be quite alone, and to talk of nothing but Cherbury and Marringhurst. When they were seated at table, the Bishop, who had been detained at the House of Lords, and been rather hurried to be in time to receive his guests, turned to his servant and inquired whether any one had called.
‘Yes, my lord, Lord Cadurcis,’ was the reply.
‘Our old companion,’ said the Bishop to Lady Annabel, with a smile. ‘He has called upon me twice, and I have on both occasions unfortunately been absent.’
Lady Annabel merely bowed an assent to the Bishop’s remark. Venetia longed to speak, but found it impossible. ‘What is it that represses me?’ she asked herself. ‘Is there to be another forbidden subject insensibly to arise between us? I must struggle against this indefinable despotism that seems to pervade my life.’
‘Have you met Lord Cadurcis, sir?’ at length asked Venetia.
‘Once; we resumed our acquaintance at a dinner party one day; but I shall soon see a great deal of him, for he has just taken his seat. He is of age, you know.’
‘I hope he has come to years of discretion in every sense,’ said Lady Annabel; ‘but I fear not.’
‘Oh, my dear lady!’ said the Bishop, ‘he has become a great man; he is our star. I assure you there is nobody in London talked of but Lord Cadurcis. He asked me a great deal after you and Cherbury. He will be delighted to see you.’
‘I cannot say,’ replied Lady Annabel, ‘that the desire of meeting is at all mutual. From all I hear, our connections and opinions are very different, and I dare say our habits likewise.’
‘My aunt lent us his new poem today,’ said Venetia, boldly.
‘Have you read it?’ asked the Bishop.
‘I am no admirer of modern poetry,’ said Lady Annabel, somewhat tartly.
‘Poetry of any kind is not much in my way,’ said the Bishop, ‘but if you like to read his poems, I will lend them to you, for he gave me a copy; esteemed a great honour, I assure you.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Lady Annabel, ‘both Venetia and myself are much engaged now; and I do not wish her to read while she is in London. When we return to Cherbury she will have abundance of time, if desirable.’
Both Venetia and her worthy host felt that the present subject of conversation was not agreeable to Lady Annabel, and it was changed. They fell upon more gracious topics, and in spite of this somewhat sullen commencement the meeting was quite as delightful as they anticipated. Lady Annabel particularly exerted herself to please, and, as was invariably the case under such circumstances with this lady, she was eminently successful; she apparently endeavoured, by her remarkable kindness to her daughter, to atone for any unpleasant feeling which her previous manner might for an instant have occasioned. Venetia watched her beautiful and affectionate parent, as Lady Annabel now dwelt with delight upon the remembrance of their happy home, and now recurred to the anxiety she naturally felt about her daughter’s approaching presentation, with feelings of love and admiration, which made her accuse herself for the recent rebellion of her heart. She thought only of her mother’s sorrows, and her devotion to her child; and, grateful for the unexpected course of circumstances which seemed to be leading every member of their former little society to honour and happiness, she resolved to persist in that career of duty and devotion to her mother, from which it seemed to her she had never deviated for a moment but to experience sorrow, misfortune, and remorse. Never did Venetia receive her mother’s accustomed embrace and blessing with more responsive tenderness and gratitude than this night. She banished Cadurcis and his poems from her thoughts, confident that, so long as her mother approved neither of her continuing his acquaintance, nor perusing his writings, it was well that the one should be a forgotten tie, and the other a sealed book.
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