We must, however, endeavour to be more intimately acquainted with the heart and mind of Venetia in her present situation, so strongly contrasting with the serene simplicity of her former life, than the limited and constrained opportunities of conversing with the companion of his childhood enjoyed by Lord Cadurcis could possibly enable him to become.  Let us recur to her on the night when she returned home, after having met with Plantagenet at her uncle’s, and having pursued a conversation with him, so unexpected, so strange, and so affecting!  She had been silent in the carriage, and retired to her room immediately.  She retired to ponder.  The voice of Cadurcis lingered in her ear; his tearful eye still caught her vision.  She leant her head upon her hand, and sighed!  Why did she sigh?  What at this instant was her uppermost thought?  Her mother’s dislike of Cadurcis.  ’Your mother hates me.’  These had been his words; these were the words she repeated to herself, and on whose fearful sounds she dwelt.  ’Your mother hates me.’  If by some means she had learnt a month ago at Weymouth, that her mother hated Cadurcis, that his general conduct had been such as to excite Lady Annabel’s odium, Venetia might have for a moment been shocked that her old companion in whom she had once been so interested, had by his irregular behaviour incurred the dislike of her mother, by whom he had once been so loved.  But it would have been a transient emotion.  She might have mused over past feelings and past hopes in a solitary ramble on the seashore; she might even have shed a tear over the misfortunes or infelicity of one who had once been to her a brother; but, perhaps, nay probably, on the morrow the remembrance of Plantagenet would scarcely have occurred to her.  Long years had elapsed since their ancient fondness; a considerable interval since even his name had met her ear.  She had heard nothing of him that could for a moment arrest her notice or command her attention.

But now the irresistible impression that her mother disliked this very individual filled, her with intolerable grief.  What occasioned this change in her feelings, this extraordinary difference in her emotions?  There was, apparently, but one cause.  She had met Cadurcis.  Could then a glance, could even the tender intonations of that unrivalled voice, and the dark passion of that speaking eye, work in an instant such marvels?  Could they revive the past so vividly, that Plantagenet in a moment resumed his ancient place in her affections?  No, it was not that:  it was less the tenderness of the past that made Venetia mourn her mother’s sternness to Cadurcis, than the feelings of the future.  For now she felt that her mother’s heart was not more changed towards this personage than was her own.