He did.  Who could resist that mild and winning glance!  And indeed Lord Cadurcis was scarcely disappointed, and not at all mortified at his reception, or, as he esteemed it, the progress of his suit.  The conduct of Venetia he attributed entirely to her unsophisticated nature and the timidity of a virgin soul.  It made him prize even more dearly the treasure that he believed awaited him.  Silent, then, though for a time they both struggled to speak on different subjects, silent, and almost content, Cadurcis proceeded, with the arm of Venetia locked in his and ever and anon unconsciously pressing it to his heart.  The rosy twilight had faded away, the stars were stealing forth, and the moon again glittered.  With a soul softer than the tinted shades of eve and glowing like the heavens, Cadurcis joined his companions as they entered the gardens of Cherbury.  When they had arrived at home it seemed that exhaustion had suddenly succeeded all the excitement of the day.  The Doctor, who was wearied, retired immediately.  Lady Annabel pressed Cadurcis to remain and take tea, or, at least to ride home; but his lordship, protesting that he was not in the slightest degree fatigued, and anticipating their speedy union on the morrow, bade her good night, and pressing with fondness the hand of Venetia, retraced his steps to the now solitary abbey.

CHAPTER VII.

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