There was no path open
to him; without his father's help he could not get into
Parliament. He could not work as an artist at home. He could
not remain in Florence; never again, he said to himself, would he
see Valentine Charteris--Valentine, who had been the witness of
his humiliation and disgrace. Sooner anything than that. He
would leave the villa and go somewhere--he cared little where.
No quiet, no rest came to him. Had his misfortunes been
accidental--had they been any other than they were, the result
of his boyish folly and disobedience, he would have found them
easier to bear; as it was, the recollection that it was all his
own fault drove him mad.
Before morning he had written a farewell note to Lady Charteris,
saying that he was leaving Florence at once, and would not be
able to see her again. He wrote to Valentine, but the few stiff
words expressed little of what he felt. He prayed her to forget
the miserable scene that would haunt him to his dying day; to
pardon the insults that had driven him nearly mad; to pardon the
mad jealousy, the dishonor of Dora; to forget him and all
belonging to him.
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