‘I am more gratified that we have met here,’ said Lady Annabel.
‘And thus,’ added Cadurcis.
‘You have been a great traveller since we last met?’ said Lady Annabel, a little embarrassed.
‘My days of restlessness are over,’ said Cadurcis. ‘I desire nothing more dearly than to settle down in the bosom of these green hills as you have done.’
‘This life suits Mr. Herbert,’ said Lady Annabel. ‘He is fond of seclusion, and you know I am accustomed to it.’
‘Ah! yes,’ said Cadurcis, mournfully. ‘When I was in Greece, I used often to wish that none of us had ever left dear Cherbury; but I do not now.’
‘We must forget Cherbury,’ said Lady Annabel.
‘I cannot: I cannot forget her who cherished my melancholy childhood. Dear Lady Annabel,’ he added in a voice of emotion, and offering her his hand, ‘forget all my follies, and remember that I was your child, once as dutiful as you were affectionate.’
Who could resist this appeal? Lady Annabel, not without agitation, yielded him her hand, which he pressed to his lips. ‘Now I am again happy,’ said Cadurcis; ‘now we are all happy. Sweetest of friends, you have removed in a moment the bitterness of years.’
Although lights were in the saloon, the windows opening on the portico were not closed. The evening air was soft and balmy, and though the moon had not risen, the distant hills were clear in the starlight. Venetia was standing in the portico conversing with George Cadurcis.
‘I suppose you are too much of a Turk to drink our coffee, Lord Cadurcis,’ said Herbert. Cadurcis turned and joined him, together with Lady Annabel.
‘Nay,’ said Lord Cadurcis, in a joyous tone, ‘Lady Annabel will answer for me that I always find everything perfect under her roof.’
Captain Cadurcis and Venetia now reentered the villa; they clustered round the table, and seated themselves.
‘Why, Venetia,’ said Cadurcis, ‘George met me in Sicily and quite frightened me about you. Is it the air of the Apennines that has worked these marvels? for, really, you appear to me exactly the same as when we learnt the French vocabulary together ten years ago.’
‘“The French vocabulary together, ten years ago!”’ thought Herbert; ‘not a mere London acquaintance, then. This is very strange.’
‘Why, indeed, Plantagenet,’ replied Venetia, ‘I was very unwell when George visited us; but I really have quite forgotten that I ever was an invalid, and I never mean to be again.’
‘“Plantagenet!”’ soliloquised Herbert. ‘And this is the great poet of whom I have heard so much! My daughter is tolerably familiar with him.’
‘I have brought you all sorts of buffooneries from Stamboul,’ continued Cadurcis; ‘sweetmeats, and slippers, and shawls, and daggers worn only by sultanas, and with which, if necessary, they can keep “the harem’s lord” in order. I meant to have sent them with George to England, for really I did not anticipate our meeting here.’
‘“Sweetmeats and slippers,”’ said Herbert to himself, ‘“shawls and daggers!” What next?’
‘And has George been with you all the time?’ inquired Venetia.
‘Oh! we quarrelled now and then, of course. He found Athens dull, and would stay at Constantinople, chained by the charms of a fair Perote, to whom he wanted me to write sonnets in his name. I would not, because I thought it immoral. But, on the whole, we got on very well; a sort of Pylades and Orestes, I assure you; we never absolutely fought.’
‘Come, come,’ said George, ‘Cadurcis is always ashamed of being amiable. We were together much more than I ever intended or anticipated. You know mine was a sporting tour; and therefore, of course, we were sometimes separated. But he was exceedingly popular with all parties, especially the Turks, whom he rewarded for their courtesy by writing odes to the Greeks to stir them up to revolt.’
‘Well, they never read them,’ said Cadurcis. ‘All we, poor fellows, can do,’ he added, turning to Herbert, ‘is to wake the Hellenistic raptures of May Fair; and that they call fame; as much like fame as a toadstool is like a truffle.’
‘Nevertheless, I hope the muse has not slumbered,’ said Herbert; ‘for you have had the happiest inspiration in the climes in which you have resided; not only are they essentially poetic, but they offer a virgin vein.’
‘I have written a little,’ replied Cadurcis; ‘I will give it you, if you like, some day to turn over. Yours is the only opinion that I really care for. I have no great idea of the poetry; but I am very strong in my costume. I feel very confident about that. I fancy I know how to hit off a pasha, or touch in a Greek pirate now. As for all the things I wrote in England, I really am ashamed of them. I got up my orientalism from books, and sultans and sultanas at masquerades,’ he added, archly. ‘I remember I made my heroines always wear turbans; only conceive my horror when I found that a Turkish woman would as soon think of putting my hat on as a turban, and that it was an article of dress entirely confined to a Bond Street milliner.’
The evening passed in interesting and diverting conversation; of course, principally contributed by the two travellers, who had seen so much. Inspirited by his interview with Lady Annabel, and her gracious reception of his overtures, Lord Cadurcis was in one of those frolic humours, which we have before noticed was not unnatural to him. He had considerable powers of mimicry, and the talent that had pictured to Venetia in old days, with such liveliness, the habits of the old maids of Morpeth, was now engaged on more considerable topics; an interview with a pasha, a peep into a harem, a visit to a pirate’s isle, the slave-market, the bazaar, the barracks of the janissaries, all touched with irresistible vitality, and coloured with the rich phrases of unrivalled force of expression. The laughter was loud and continual; even Lady Annabel joined zealously in the glee. As for Herbert, he thought Cadurcis by far the most hearty and amusing person he had ever known, and could not refrain from contrasting him with the picture which his works and the report of the world had occasionally enabled him to sketch to his mind’s eye; the noble, young, and impassioned bard, pouring forth the eloquent tide of his morbid feelings to an idolising world, from whose applause he nevertheless turned with an almost misanthropic melancholy.
It was now much past the noon of night, and the hour of separation, long postponed, was inevitable. Often had Cadurcis risen to depart, and often, without regaining his seat, had he been tempted by his friends, and especially Venetia, into fresh narratives. At last he said, ‘Now we must go. Lady Annabel looks good night. I remember the look,’ he said, laughing, ‘when we used to beg for a quarter of an hour more. O Venetia! do not you remember that Christmas when dear old Masham read Julius Caesar, and we were to sit up until it was finished. When he got to the last act I hid his spectacles. I never confessed it until this moment. Will you pardon me, Lady Annabel?’ and he pressed his hands together in a mockery of supplication.
‘Will you come and breakfast with us tomorrow?’ said Lady Annabel.
‘With delight,’ he answered. ‘I am used, you know, to walks before breakfast. George, I do not think George can do it, though. George likes his comforts; he is a regular John Bull. He was always calling for tea when we were in Turkey!’
At this moment Mistress Pauncefort entered the room, ostensibly on some little affair of her mistress, but really to reconnoitre.
‘Ah! Mistress Pauncefort; my old friend, Mistress Pauncefort, how do you do?’ exclaimed his lordship.
‘Quite well, my lord, please your lordship; and very glad to see your lordship again, and looking so well too.’
‘Ah! Mistress Pauncefort, you always flattered me!’
‘Oh! dear, my lord, your lordship, no,’ said Mistress Pauncefort, with a simper.
‘But you, Pauncefort,’ said Cadurcis, ‘why there must be some magic in the air here. I have been complimenting your lady and Miss Venetia; but really, you, I should almost have thought it was some younger sister.’
‘Oh! my lord, you have such a way,’ said Mistress Pauncefort, retreating with a slow step that still lingered for a remark.
‘Pauncefort, is that an Italian cap?’ said Lord Cadurcis; ‘you know, Pauncefort, you were always famous for your caps.’
Mistress Pauncefort disappeared in a fluster of delight.
And now they had indeed departed. There was a pause of complete silence after they had disappeared, the slight and not painful reaction after the mirthful excitement of the last few hours. At length Herbert, dropping, as was his evening custom, a few drops of orange-flower into a tumbler of water, said, ‘Annabel, my love, I am rather surprised that neither you nor Venetia should have mentioned to me that you knew, and knew so intimately, a man like Lord Cadurcis.’
Lady Annabel appeared a little confused; she looked even at Venetia, but Venetia’s eyes were on the ground. At length she said, ‘In truth, Marmion, since we met we have thought only of you.’
‘Cadurcis Abbey, papa, is close to Cherbury,’ said Venetia.
‘Cherbury!’ said Herbert, with a faint blush. ‘I have never seen it, and now I shall never see it. No matter, my country is your mother and yourself. Some find a home in their country, I find a country in my home. Well,’ he added, in a gayer tone, ‘it has gratified me much to meet Lord Cadurcis. We were happy before, but now we are even gay. I like to see you smile, Annabel, and hear Venetia laugh. I feel, myself, quite an unusual hilarity. Cadurcis! It is very strange how often I have mused over that name. A year ago it was one of my few wishes to know him; my wishes, then, dear Annabel, were not very ambitious. They did not mount so high as you have since permitted them. And now I do know him, and under what circumstances! Is not life strange? But is it not happy? I feel it so. Good night, sweet wife; my darling daughter, a happy, happy night!’ He embraced them ere they retired; and opening a volume composed his mind after the novel excitement of the evening.
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