Chapter V: Renunciation

J'aurais dans ta mémoire une place sacrée;
Mais vivre près de toi, vivre l'âme ulcérée,
O ciel! moi qui n'aurais jamais aimé que toi,
Tous les jours, peux-tu bien y songer sans effroi,
Je te ferais pleurer, j'aurais mille pensées
Que je ne dirais pas, sur les choses passées
J'aurais l'air d'épier, de douter, de souffrir.
VICTOR HUGO.--_Marion de Lorme._

The termination of Cecil's opera was coincident with that fearful scene recorded at the close of our second volume, wherein Marmaduke avowed his passion to Violet, and unwittingly achieved his vengeance upon Mrs. Vyner.

On quitting the room, Violet had promised him to renew their interrupted interview, but she had made that promise unthinkingly, and when in solitude she reflected on all that had passed, felt herself unequal to it. Greatly had Marmaduke's confession relieved her, but greatly also had it pained her.

She could now indulge her love for him without remorseful bitterness and contempt, though not with any hope. He was reinstated in her good opinion. He was not false and fickle. He had not loved Mrs. Vyner. His attentions--those attentions which had given her such pain--were explained; and in her joy at the explanation, she overlooked what had been criminal in them, to see only that they did not affect his love for her. Well was it conceived by the mythologists to make Love blind!

But this joy was dashed with the recollection that he never could be hers. All that had transpired would prevent their union. Neither her father nor her step-mother could be expected to give their consent; and with their consent, if it were given, she still felt that her own must be withheld. How could she ever accept the man who had been both seriously and treacherously the lover of her father's wife--the man whom that wife loved?

The horrible sarcasm in which Mrs. Vyner bade her "accept her leavings," still rankled in the proud soul of Violet, and created an irremediable loathing. It was under these mixed emotions that she sat down and wrote the following letter:--

"Your frankness deserves a frank reply. I feel myself unable to meet you again, after what has passed,--you must understand why; but I cannot refuse an answer to your declaration.

"If it be any consolation--if it alleviate the pain my resolution may inflict upon you--know that your love is returned. Yes, Marmaduke, I love you. I tell you so without reserve, without maidenly timidity. I love you. But the very fearlessness with which I make this avowal arises from the fixedness of my purpose. It is because I can never see you again, because our union has become _impossible_, that I am tempted to unveil my soul before you. No, Marmaduke, I was not playing with you; I was not encouraging attentions because they flattered my vanity--I encouraged them because I loved.

"You asked me for forgiveness; and the deep sad tones of your repentant voice are ringing in my ears. I do forgive you, Marmaduke; forgive you all the pain your conduct gave me--I can excuse your error. I can feel that it was a crime made almost venial by the circumstances and your education. The moment when, with vengeance in your hands, you drew back from its accomplishment, and acknowledged to yourself that it was unworthy of a man, that it was a crime, not an act of justice--that moment purified your soul--that moment redeemed you in your own eyes and in mine.

"But, Marmaduke, I cannot _forget_ as easily as I can forgive. Nothing can banish from my mind the hideous remembrance of what _has been_, and what _is_. The thought that you had once loved _her_ would poison all my happiness; and the thought that she still loves you ... Oh! is that not fearful? You see how undisguisedly I write to you! It tears me to pieces, but it must be done, once for all. I shall not write again. I shall not see you again. Far away from you, I shall struggle with my sorrow, and conquer it, I hope, in time. Far away from you, I shall not cease to think of you; and memory will solace me with your image, I shall hear your voice, see your deep eyes loving me, press your hand, and so cheat my misery. But away from you I must go. Must I not? Do you not see the necessity? Do you not feel that our union is utterly hopeless? How could we escape the circumstances of our unhappy lot? My father would never consent--_she_ would never consent; and if I renounced all, if I fled with you from home and country, how could I escape from my own conscience? how could I forget?

"I renounce the hope of happiness. I have only now to bear with fortitude my wretched fate. Forget me, Marmaduke. No, that is an idle phrase--I do not mean it. Do not forget me; think of me, think of me often, and love me still, if you can; at least pity me, and imitate me. Accept fate; bow your head to its irresistible decree; but do not despair. Life has other purposes than love; other purposes even than happiness; let those occupy you. In this life we are separated, but we shall meet above. It is but a brief moment's pain, and we shall then pass away into a brighter, purer sphere, and have a whole Eternity to love in; there our sorrows will be stilled; that let us await!

"I have stained this paper with my tears--I will not affect to hide them. I must weep, for my heart is breaking, Marmaduke; but I shall not flinch. I know what it is I am about to do; know how much pain it will give me; but I can do it, and I will. Weep I must, for I am a woman; but I can endure.

"If my tears make this almost illegible, do not suppose that they will weaken me. I am unalterable. Tears strengthen me; they relieve the tightness of my straining heart; I do not check them. I shall shed many, very many, ere I quit this world; but life itself is very short, and I look beyond the grave.

"God bless you, my own beloved, and give you courage to bear the inevitable! Love me, and pray for me. God bless you! Oh, how it pains me to say--farewell!

"VIOLET."

This letter was put into the post as the miserable girl departed from home, on a visit to her uncle in Worcestershire, with whom she contemplated passing the remainder of her days; certain that he would be but too happy to have her, and feeling that home was now uninhabitable.