’Yes, a deserted wife; is that preferable to being a cherished mistress?  More honourable, but scarcely less humiliating.’

‘She must have misunderstood him,’ said Venetia.  ’I have perused the secret vows of his passion.  I have read his praises of her beauty.  I have pored over the music of his emotions when he first became a father; yes, he has gazed on me, even though but for a moment, with love!  Over me he has breathed forth the hallowed blessing of a parent!  That transcendent form has pressed his lips to mine, and held me with fondness to his heart!  And shall I credit aught to his dishonour?  Is there a being in existence who can persuade me he is heartless or abandoned?  No!  I love him!  I adore him!  I am devoted to him with all the energies of my being!  I live only on the memory that he lives, and, were he to die, I should pray to my God that I might join him without delay in a world where it cannot be justice to separate a child from a father.’

And this was Venetia! the fair, the serene Venetia! the young, the inexperienced Venetia! pausing, as it were, on the parting threshold of girlhood, whom, but a few hours since, he had fancied could scarcely have proved a passion; who appeared to him barely to comprehend the meaning of his advances; for whose calmness or whose coldness he had consoled himself by the flattering conviction of her unknowing innocence.  Before him stood a beautiful and inspired Moenad, her eye flashing supernatural fire, her form elevated above her accustomed stature, defiance on her swelling brow, and passion on her quivering lip!

Gentle and sensitive as Cadurcis ever appeared to those he loved, there was in his soul a deep and unfathomed well of passions that had been never stirred, and a bitter and mocking spirit in his brain, of which he was himself unconscious.  He had repaired this hopeful morn to Cherbury to receive, as he believed, the plighted faith of a simple and affectionate, perhaps grateful, girl.  That her unsophisticated and untutored spirit might not receive the advances of his heart with an equal and corresponding ardour, he was prepared.  It pleased him that he should watch the gradual development of this bud of sweet affections, waiting, with proud anxiety, her fragrant and her full-blown love.  But now it appeared that her coldness or her indifference might be ascribed to any other cause than the one to which he had attributed it, the innocence of an inexperienced mind.  This girl was no stranger to powerful passions; she could love, and love with fervency, with devotion, with enthusiasm.  This child of joy was a woman of deep and thoughtful sorrows, brooding in solitude over high resolves and passionate aspirations.  Why were not the emotions of such a tumultuous soul excited by himself?  To him she was calm and imperturbable; she called him brother, she treated him as a child.  But a picture, a fantastic shade, could raise in her a tempestuous swell of sentiment that transformed her whole mind, and changed the colour of all her hopes and thoughts.  Deeply prejudiced against her father, Cadurcis now hated him, and with a fell and ferocious earnestness that few bosoms but his could prove.  Pale with rage, he ground his teeth and watched her with a glance of sarcastic aversion.