There was then, at length
it appeared to this stern-minded woman, another. She had laboured in
the flattering delusion that the devotion of a mother's love might
compensate to Venetia for the loss of that other parent, which in some
degree Lady Annabel had occasioned her; for the worthless husband, had
she chosen to tolerate the degrading connection, might nevertheless
have proved a tender father. But Nature, it seemed, had shrunk from
the vain effort of the isolated mother. The seeds of affection for
the father of her being were mystically implanted in the bosom of his
child. Lady Annabel recalled the harrowing hours that this attempt by
her to curb and control the natural course and rising sympathies
of filial love had cost her child, on whom she had so vigilantly
practised it. She recalled her strange aspirations, her inspired
curiosity, her brooding reveries, her fitful melancholy, her terrible
illness, her resignation, her fidelity, her sacrifices: there came
across the mind of Lady Annabel a mortifying conviction that the
devotion to her child, on which she had so rated herself, might
after all only prove a subtle form of profound selfishness; and that
Venetia, instead of being the idol of her love, might eventually be
the martyr of her pride.
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