Plantagenet leant upon her bosom.  He had entered the room resolved to be composed, with an air even of cheerfulness, but his tender heart yielded to the first appeal to his affections.  He could only murmur out some broken syllables of devotion, and almost unconsciously found that he had quitted the chamber.

With streaming eyes and hesitating steps he was proceeding along the vestibule, when he heard his name called by a low sweet voice.  He looked around; it was Venetia.  Never had he beheld such a beautiful vision.  She was muffled up in her dressing-gown, her small white feet only guarded from the cold by her slippers.  Her golden hair seemed to reach her waist, her cheek was flushed, her large blue eyes glittered with tears.

‘Plantagenet,’ she said—­

Neither of them could speak.  They embraced, they mingled their tears together, and every instant they wept more plenteously.  At length a footstep was heard; Venetia murmured a blessing, and vanished.

Cadurcis lingered on the stairs a moment to compose himself.  He wiped his eyes; he tried to look undisturbed.  All the servants were in the hall; from Mistress Pauncefort to the scullion there was not a dry eye.  All loved the little lord, he was so gracious and so gentle.  Every one asked leave to touch his hand before he went.  He tried to smile and say something kind to all.  He recognised the gamekeeper, and told him to do what he liked at Cadurcis; said something to the coachman about his pony; and begged Mistress Pauncefort, quite aloud, to take great care of her young mistress.  As he was speaking, he felt something rubbing against his hand:  it was Marmion, the old bloodhound.  He also came to bid his adieus.  Cadurcis patted him with affection, and said, ‘Ah! my old fellow, we shall yet meet again.’

The Doctor appeared, smiling as usual, made his inquiries whether all were right, nodded to the weeping household, called Plantagenet his brave boy, and patted him on the back, and bade him jump into the chaise.  Another moment, and Dr. Masham had also entered; the door was closed, the fatal ‘All right’ sung out, and Lord Cadurcis was whirled away from that Cherbury where he was so loved.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

Life is not dated merely by years.  Events are sometimes the best calendars.  There are epochs in our existence which cannot be ascertained by a formal appeal to the registry.  The arrival of the Cadurcis family at their old abbey, their consequent intimacy at Cherbury, the death of the mother, and the departure of the son:  these were events which had been crowded into a space of less than two years; but those two years were not only the most eventful in the life of Venetia Herbert, but in their influence upon the development of her mind, and the formation of her character, far exceeded the effects of all her previous existence.