She rose, therefore, on the morning after her return to Cherbury, at least serene; and she took an early opportunity, when George and her mother were engaged, and absent from the terrace-room, to go forth alone and wander amid her old haunts. There was not a spot about the park and gardens, which had been favourite resorts of herself and Plantagenet in their childhood, that she did not visit. They were unchanged; as green, and bright, and still as in old days, but what was she? The freshness, and brilliancy, and careless happiness of her life were fled for ever. And here he lived, and here he roamed, and here his voice sounded, now in glee, now in melancholy, now in wild and fanciful amusement, and now pouring into her bosom all his domestic sorrows. It was but ten years since he first arrived at Cherbury, and who could have anticipated that that little, silent, reserved boy should, ere ten years had passed, have filled a wide and lofty space in the world’s thought; that his existence should have influenced the mind of nations, and his death eclipsed their gaiety! His death! Terrible and disheartening thought! Plantagenet was no more. But he had not died without a record. His memory was embalmed in immortal verse, and he had breathed his passion to his Venetia in language that lingered in the ear, and would dwell for ever on the lips, of his fellow-men.
Among these woods, too, had Venetia first mused over her father; before her rose those mysterious chambers, whose secret she had penetrated at the risk of her life. There were no secrets now. Was she happier? Now she felt that even in her early mystery there was delight, and that hope was veiled beneath its ominous shadow. There was now no future to ponder over; her hope was gone, and memory alone remained. All the dreams of those musing hours of her hidden reveries had been realised. She had seen that father, that surpassing parent, who had satisfied alike her heart and her imagination; she had been clasped to his bosom; she had lived to witness even her mother yield to his penitent embrace. And he too was gone; she could never meet him again in this world; in this world in which they had experienced such exquisite bliss; and now she was once more at Cherbury! Oh! give her back 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 welcomed him with a sweet, yet mournful smile. ‘I have been very selfish,’ she said, ‘for I have been walking alone. I mean to introduce you to Cherbury, but I could not resist visiting some old spots.’ Her voice faltered in these last words. They reentered the terrace-room together, 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 his inheritance. Yet Lady Annabel was anxious that he should do so, and had more than once impressed upon him the propriety. Even Venetia at length said to him, ‘It is very selfish in us keeping you here, George. Your presence is a great consolation, and yet, yet, ought you not to visit your home?’ She avoided the name of Cadurcis.
‘I ought, dear Venetia.’ said George, ‘and I will. I have promised Lady Annabel twenty times, but I feel a terrible disinclination. To-morrow, perhaps.’
‘To-morrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,’ murmured Venetia to herself, ‘I scarcely comprehend now what tomorrow means.’ And then again addressing him, and with more liveliness, she said, ‘We have only one friend in the world now, George, and I think that we ought to be very grateful that he is our neighbour.’
‘It is a consolation to me,’ said Lord Cadurcis, ‘for I cannot remain here, and otherwise I should scarcely know how to depart.’
‘I wish you would visit your home, if only for one morning,’ said Venetia; ‘if only to know how very near you are to us.’
‘I dread going alone,’ said Lord Cadurcis. ‘I cannot ask Lady Annabel to 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 visit your 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 in no humour for business, which I know awaits me there. Let me enjoy a little more repose at dear Cherbury.’
‘I have become very restless of late, I think,’ said Venetia, ‘but there is a particular spot in the garden that I wish to see. Come with me, George.’
Lord Cadurcis was only too happy to attend her. They proceeded through a winding walk in the shrubberies until they arrived at a small and open plot of turf, where Venetia stopped. ‘There are some associations,’ she said, ‘of this spot connected with both those friends that we have lost. I have a fancy that it should be in some visible manner consecrated to their memories. On this spot, George, Plantagenet once spoke to me of my father. I should like to raise their busts here; and indeed it is a fit place for such a purpose; for poets,’ she added, faintly smiling, ‘should be surrounded with laurels.’
‘I have some thoughts on this head that I am revolving in my fancy myself,’ said Lord Cadurcis, ‘but I will not speak of them now.’
‘Yes, now, George; for indeed it is a satisfaction for me to speak of them, at least with you, with one who understood them so well, and loved them scarcely less than I did.’
George tenderly put his arm into hers and led her away. As they walked along, he explained to her his plans, which yet were somewhat crude, but which greatly interested her; but they were roused from their conversation by the bell of the hall sounding as if to summon them, and therefore they directed their way immediately to the terrace. A servant running met them; he brought a message from Lady Annabel. Their friend the Bishop of —— had arrived.
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