ntrary, her mind had
been employed, during the whole of her journey to England, in a silent
effort to endure her lot with resignation. She had resolved to bear up
against her misery with fortitude, and she inherited from her mother
sufficient firmness of mind to enable her to achieve her purpose. She
came back to Cherbury to live with patience and submission; and though
her dreams of happiness might be vanished for ever, to contribute as
much as was in her power to the content of that dear and remaining
relative who was yet spared to her, and who depended in this world
only upon the affection of her child. The return to Cherbury was a
pang, and it was over. Venetia struggled to avoid the habits of an
invalid; she purposed resuming, as far as was in her power, all the
pursuits and duties of her life; and if it were neither possible, nor
even desirable, to forget the past, she dwelt upon it neither to sigh
nor to murmur, but to cherish in a sweet and musing mood the ties and
affections round which all her feelings had once gathered with so much
enjoyment and so much hope.

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