CHAPTER LXXIX.Lady Avondale wrote again and again to Glenarvon. All that a woman would repress, all that she once feared to utter, she now ventured to write. “Glenarvon,” she said, “if I have displeased you, let me at least be told my fault by you: you who have had power to lead me to wrong, need not doubt your influence if you would now but advise me to return to my duty. Say it but gently—speak but kindly to me, and I will obey every wish of yours. But perhaps that dreaded moment is arrived, and you are no longer constant and true. Ah! fear not one reproach from me. I told you how it must end; and I will never think the worse of you for being as all men are. But do not add crueltyto inconstancy. Let me hear from your own lips that you are changed. I but repeat your words, when once my letters failed to reach you—suspense, you then said, was torture: and will you now expose me to those sufferings which you even knew not how to endure? Let no one persuade you to treat her with cruelty, who, whatever your conduct may be, will never cease to honour and to love you.“Forgive, if too presumptuous, I have written with flippant gaiety, or thoughtless folly. Say I have been to blame; but do not you, Glenarvon, do not you be my accuser. You are surrounded by those who possess beauty and talents, far, far above any which I can boast; but all I had it in my power to give, I offered you; and, however little worth, no one can bear to have that all rejected with contempt and ingratitude. And are they endeavouring to blacken me in your opinion? and do they call this actinghonourably and fairly? Lady Trelawney perhaps—ah! no, I will not believe it. Besides, had they the inclination, have they the power to engage you to renounce me thus?“Glenarvon, my misery is at the utmost. If you could but know what I suffer at this moment, you would pity me. O leave me not thus: I cannot bear it. Expose me not to every eye: drive me not to desperation. This suspense is agonizing: this sudden, this protracted silence is too hard to bear. Every one does, every one must, despise me: the good opinion of the wise and just, I have lost for ever; but do not you abandon me, or if you must, oh let it be from your own mouth at least that I read my doom. Say that you love another—say it, if indeed it is already so; and I will learn to bear it. Write it but kindly. Tell me I shall still be your friend. I will not upbraid you: no grief of mine shall make me forget your former kindness.Oh no, I will never learn to hate or reproach you, however you may think fit to trample upon me. I will bless your name with my last breath—call you even from the grave, where you have sent me—only turn one look, one last dear look to me.”Such was her letter. At another time she thus again addressed him:“Glenarvon, my only hope in life, drive me not at once to desperation. Alas! why do I write thus? You are ill perhaps? or my friends surrounding you, have urged you to this? In such case, remember my situation. Say but kindly that my letters are no longer a solace to you, and I will of myself cease to write; but do not hurl me at once from adoration to contempt and hate. Do not throw me off, and doom me to sudden, to certain perdition. Glenarvon, have mercy. Let compassion, if love has ceased, impel you to show me some humanity. I know it is degrading thus to write. I ought tobe silent, and to feel that if you have the heart to treat me with harshness, it is lowering myself still further thus to sue. But oh! my God, it is no longer time to think of dignity—to speak of what is right. I have fallen to the lowest depth. You, you are the first to teach me how low, how miserably I am fallen. I forsook every thing for you. I would have followed you; and you know it. But for yours and other’s sake, I would have sacrificed all—all to you. Alas! I have already done so.“If you should likewise turn against me—if you for whom so much is lost, should be the first to despise me, how can I bear up under it. Dread the violence of my feelings—the agonizing pang, the despair of a heart so lost, and so betrayed. Oh, write but one line to me. Say that another has engaged you to forsake me—that you will love me no more; but that as a friend you will still feel some affection, some interest for me.I am ill, Glenarvon. God knows I do not affect it, to touch you. Such guilt as mine, and so much bitter misery!—how can I bear up under it? Oh pity the dread, the suspense I endure. You know not what a woman feels when remorse, despair and the sudden loss of him she loves, assail her at once.“I have seen, I have heard of cruelty, and falsehood: but you, Glenarvon—oh you who are so young, so beautiful, can you be inhuman? It breaks my heart to think so. Why have you not the looks, as well as the heart of a villain? Oh why take such pains, such care, to lull me into security, to dispel every natural fear and suspicion, a heart that loves must harbour, only to plunge me deeper in agony—to destroy me with more refined and barbarous cruelty? Jest not with my sufferings. God knows they are acute and real. I feel even for myself when I consider what I am going to endure. Oh spare one victim at least.Generously save me: I ask you not to love me. Only break to me yourself this sudden change—tell me my fate, from that dear mouth which has so often sworn never, never to abandon me.”
Lady Avondale wrote again and again to Glenarvon. All that a woman would repress, all that she once feared to utter, she now ventured to write. “Glenarvon,” she said, “if I have displeased you, let me at least be told my fault by you: you who have had power to lead me to wrong, need not doubt your influence if you would now but advise me to return to my duty. Say it but gently—speak but kindly to me, and I will obey every wish of yours. But perhaps that dreaded moment is arrived, and you are no longer constant and true. Ah! fear not one reproach from me. I told you how it must end; and I will never think the worse of you for being as all men are. But do not add crueltyto inconstancy. Let me hear from your own lips that you are changed. I but repeat your words, when once my letters failed to reach you—suspense, you then said, was torture: and will you now expose me to those sufferings which you even knew not how to endure? Let no one persuade you to treat her with cruelty, who, whatever your conduct may be, will never cease to honour and to love you.
“Forgive, if too presumptuous, I have written with flippant gaiety, or thoughtless folly. Say I have been to blame; but do not you, Glenarvon, do not you be my accuser. You are surrounded by those who possess beauty and talents, far, far above any which I can boast; but all I had it in my power to give, I offered you; and, however little worth, no one can bear to have that all rejected with contempt and ingratitude. And are they endeavouring to blacken me in your opinion? and do they call this actinghonourably and fairly? Lady Trelawney perhaps—ah! no, I will not believe it. Besides, had they the inclination, have they the power to engage you to renounce me thus?
“Glenarvon, my misery is at the utmost. If you could but know what I suffer at this moment, you would pity me. O leave me not thus: I cannot bear it. Expose me not to every eye: drive me not to desperation. This suspense is agonizing: this sudden, this protracted silence is too hard to bear. Every one does, every one must, despise me: the good opinion of the wise and just, I have lost for ever; but do not you abandon me, or if you must, oh let it be from your own mouth at least that I read my doom. Say that you love another—say it, if indeed it is already so; and I will learn to bear it. Write it but kindly. Tell me I shall still be your friend. I will not upbraid you: no grief of mine shall make me forget your former kindness.Oh no, I will never learn to hate or reproach you, however you may think fit to trample upon me. I will bless your name with my last breath—call you even from the grave, where you have sent me—only turn one look, one last dear look to me.”
Such was her letter. At another time she thus again addressed him:
“Glenarvon, my only hope in life, drive me not at once to desperation. Alas! why do I write thus? You are ill perhaps? or my friends surrounding you, have urged you to this? In such case, remember my situation. Say but kindly that my letters are no longer a solace to you, and I will of myself cease to write; but do not hurl me at once from adoration to contempt and hate. Do not throw me off, and doom me to sudden, to certain perdition. Glenarvon, have mercy. Let compassion, if love has ceased, impel you to show me some humanity. I know it is degrading thus to write. I ought tobe silent, and to feel that if you have the heart to treat me with harshness, it is lowering myself still further thus to sue. But oh! my God, it is no longer time to think of dignity—to speak of what is right. I have fallen to the lowest depth. You, you are the first to teach me how low, how miserably I am fallen. I forsook every thing for you. I would have followed you; and you know it. But for yours and other’s sake, I would have sacrificed all—all to you. Alas! I have already done so.
“If you should likewise turn against me—if you for whom so much is lost, should be the first to despise me, how can I bear up under it. Dread the violence of my feelings—the agonizing pang, the despair of a heart so lost, and so betrayed. Oh, write but one line to me. Say that another has engaged you to forsake me—that you will love me no more; but that as a friend you will still feel some affection, some interest for me.I am ill, Glenarvon. God knows I do not affect it, to touch you. Such guilt as mine, and so much bitter misery!—how can I bear up under it? Oh pity the dread, the suspense I endure. You know not what a woman feels when remorse, despair and the sudden loss of him she loves, assail her at once.
“I have seen, I have heard of cruelty, and falsehood: but you, Glenarvon—oh you who are so young, so beautiful, can you be inhuman? It breaks my heart to think so. Why have you not the looks, as well as the heart of a villain? Oh why take such pains, such care, to lull me into security, to dispel every natural fear and suspicion, a heart that loves must harbour, only to plunge me deeper in agony—to destroy me with more refined and barbarous cruelty? Jest not with my sufferings. God knows they are acute and real. I feel even for myself when I consider what I am going to endure. Oh spare one victim at least.Generously save me: I ask you not to love me. Only break to me yourself this sudden change—tell me my fate, from that dear mouth which has so often sworn never, never to abandon me.”