There is nothing
about me now that can touch the heart of woman. I am old before my
time; bent with the blended influence of action and of thought, and of
physical and moral suffering. The play of my spirit has gone for ever.
My passions have expired like my hopes. The remaining sands of my life
are few. Once it was otherwise: you can recall a different picture of
the Marmion on whom you smiled, and of whom you were the first love. O
Annabel! grey, feeble, exhausted, penitent, let me stagger over your
threshold, and die! I ask no more; I will not hope for your affection;
I will not even count upon your pity; but endure my presence; let your
roof screen my last days!'
It was read; it was read again, dim as was the sight of Lady Annabel
with fast-flowing tears. Still holding the letter, but with hands
fallen, she gazed upon the shining waters before her in a fit of
abstraction. It was the voice of her child that roused her.
'Mother,' said Venetia in a tone of some decision, 'you are troubled,
and we have only one cause of trouble. That letter is from my father.'
Lady Annabel gave her the letter in silence.
Venetia withdrew almost unconsciously a few paces from her mother. She
felt this to be the crisis of her life. There never was a moment which
she believed required more fully the presence of all her energies.
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