LUCILLA'S LETTER.--THE EFFECT IT PRODUCES ON GODOLPHIN.
The short conversation recorded in the last chapter could not but show to
Godolphin the dangerous ground on which his fidelity to Lucilla rested.
Never before,--no, not in the young time of their first passion, had
Constance seemed to him so lovely or so worthy of love. Her manners now
were so much more soft and unreserved than they had necessarily been at a
period when Constance had resolved not to listen to his addresses or her
own heart, that the only part of her character that had ever repulsed his
pride or offended his tastes seemed vanished for ever. A more subdued and
gentle spirit had descended on her surpassing beauty, and the change was
of an order that Percy Godolphin could especially appreciate. And the
world, for which he owned reluctantly that she yet lived too much, had,
nevertheless, seemed rather to enlarge and animate the natural nobleness
of her mind, than to fritter it down to the standard of its common
votaries. When she spoke he delighted in, even while he dissented from,
the high and bold views which she conceived. He loved her indignation of
all that was mean and low-her passion for all that was daring and exalted.
Never was he cast down from the height of the imaginative part of his love
by hearing from her lips one petty passion or one sordid desire; much
about her was erroneous, but all was lofty and generous--even in error.
And the years that had divided them had only taught him to feel more
deeply how rare was the order of her character, and how impossible it was
ever to behold her like. All the sentiments, faculties, emotions, which
in his affection for Lucilla had remained dormant, were excited into full
play the moment he was in the presence of Constance. She engrossed no
petty portion--she demanded and obtained the whole empire--of his soul.
And against this empire he had now to contend! Torn as he was by a
thousand conflicting emotions, a letter from Lucilla was suddenly put into
his hands; its contents were as follows:--
LUCILLA'S LETTER.
"Thy last letter, my love, was so short and hurried, that it has not cost
me my usual pains to learn it by heart; nor (shall I tell the truth?) have
I been so eager as I once was to commit all thy words to my memory. Why,
I know not, and will guess not,--but there is something ill thy letters
since we parted that chills me;--they throw back my heart upon itself. I
tear open the seal with so much eagerness--thou wouldst smile if thou
couldst see me, and when I discover how few are the words upon which I am
to live for many days, I feel sick and disappointed, and lay down the
letter. Then I chide myself and say, 'At least these few words will be
kind!'--and I spell them one by one, not to hurry over my only solace.
Alas! before I arrive at the end, I am blinded by my tears; my love for
thee, so bounding and full of life, seems frozen and arrested at every
line. And then I lie down for very weariness, and wish to die. O God, if
the time has come which I have always dreaded--if thou shouldst no longer
love me!--And how reasonable this fear is! For what am I to thee? How
often dost thou complain that I can understand thee not--how often dost
thou imply that there is much of thy nature which I am incapable--
unworthy--to learn! If this be so, how natural is it to dread that thou
wilt find others whom thou wilt fancy more congenial to thee, and that
absence will only remind thee more of my imperfections!
"And yet I think that I have read thee to the letter; I think that my
love, which is always following thee, always watching thee, always
conjecturing thy wishes, must have penetrated into every secret of thy
heart: only I want words to express what I feel, and thou layest the blame
upon the want of feeling! I know how untutored, how ignorant, I must seem
to thee; and sometimes--and lately very often--I reproach myself that I
have not more diligently sought to make myself a worthier companion to
thee. I think if I had the same means as others; I should acquire the
same facility of expressing my thoughts; and my thoughts thou couldst
never blame, for I know that they are full of a love to thee
which--no--not the wisest--the most brilliant--whom thou mayest see could
equal even in imagination. But I have sought to mend this deficiency
since we parted; and I have looked into all the books thou hast loved to
read, and I fancy that I have imbibed now the same ideas which pleased
thee, and in which once thou imaginedst I could not sympathise. Yet how
mistaken thou hast been! I see, by marks thou hast placed on the page,
the sentiments that more especially charm thee; and I know that I have
felt them much, oh! how much more deeply and vividly than they are there
expressed--only they seem to me to have no language--methinks that I have
learned the language now. And I have taught myself songs that thou wilt
love to hear when thou returnest home to me; and I have practised music,
and I think--nay, I am sure, that time will not pass so heavily with thee
as when thou wast last here.
"And when shall I see thee again?--forgive me if I press thee to return.
Thou hast stayed away longer than thou hast been wont; but that I would
not heed; it is not the number of days, but the sensations with which I
have counted them, that make me pine for thy beloved voice, and long once
more to behold thee. Never before did I so feel thy absence, never before
was I so utterly wretched. A secret voice whispers me that we are parted
for ever. I cannot withstand the omens of my own heart. When my poor
father lived, I did not, child as I was, partake of those sentiments with
which he was wont to say the stars inspired us. I could not see in them
the boders of fear and the preachers of sad tidings; they seemed to me
only full of serenity and tenderness, and the promise of enduring love!
And ever when I looked on them, I thought of thee; and thy image to me
then, as thou knowest it was from childhood, was bright with unimaginable
but never melancholy spells. But now, although I love thee so far more
powerfully, I cannot divest the thoughts of thee from a certain sadness;
and so the stars, which are like thee, which are full of thee, have a
sadness also! And this, the bed, where every morning I stretch my arms
for thee, and find thee not, and have yet to live through the day, and on
which I now write this letter to thee--for, I who used to rise with the
sun, am now too dispirited not to endeavour to cheat the weary day--I have
made them place nearer to the window; and I look out upon the still skies
every night, and have made a friend of every star I see. I question it of
thyself, and wonder, when thou lookest at it, if thou hast any thought of
me. I love to look upon the heavens much more than upon the earth; for
the trees, and the waters and the hills around, thou canst not behold; but
the same heaven which I survey is above thee also; and this, our common
companion, seems in some measure to unite us. And I have thought over my
father's lore, and have tried to learn it; Day, thou mayest smile, but it
is thy absence that has taught me superstition.
"But tell me, dearest, kindest, tell me when--oh, when wilt then return?
Return only this once--if but for a day, and I will never persecute thee
again. Truant as thou art, thou shalt have full liberty for life. But I
cannot tell thee how sad and heavy I am grown, and every hour knocks at my
heart like a knell! Come back to thy poor Lucilla--if only to see what
joy is! Come--I know thou wilt! But should anything I do not foresee
detain thee, fix at least the day--nay, if possible, the hour--when we
shall meet, and let the letter which conveys such happy tidings be long,
and kind, and full of thee, as thy letters once were. I know I weary
thee, but I cannot help it. I am weak, and dejected, and cast down, and
have only heart enough to pray for thy return."
"You have conquered--you have conquered, Lucilla!" said Godolphin, as he
kissed this wild and reproachful letter, and thrust it into his bosom;
"and I--I will be wretched rather than you shall be so!"
His heart rebuked him even for that last sentence. This pure and devoted
attachment, was it indeed an unhappiness to obtain, and a sacrifice to
return! Stung by his thoughts, and impatient of rest, he hurried into the
air;--he traversed the city; he passed St. Sebastian's Gate, gained the
Appia Via, and saw, lone and sombre, as of old--the house of the departed
Volktman. He had half unconsciously sought that direction, in order to
strengthen his purpose, and sustain his conscience in its right path. He
now hurried onwards, and stopped not till he stood in that lovely and
haunted spot--the valley of Egeria--in which he had met Lucilla on the day
that he first learned her love. There was a gloom over the scene now, for
the day was dark and clouded: the birds were silent; a heavy oppression
seemed to brood upon the air. He entered that grotto which is the witness
of the most beautiful love-story chronicled even in the soft south. He
recalled the passionate and burning emotions which, the last time he had
been within that cell, he had felt for Lucilla, and had construed
erroneously into real love. As he looked around, how different an aspect
the spot wore! Then, those walls, that spring, even that mutilated
statue, had seemed to him the encouragers of the soft sensations he had
indulged. Now, they appeared to reprove the very weakness which hallowed
themselves--the associations spoke to him in another tone. The broken
statue of the river god--the desert silence in which the water of the
sweet fountain keeps its melancholy course--the profound and chilling
Solitude of the spot--all seemed eloquent, not of love, but the broken
hope and the dreary loneliness that succeed it! The gentle plant (the
capillaire) that overhangs the sides of the grotto, and nourishes itself
on the dews of the fountain, seemed an emblem of love itself after
disappointment--the love that might henceforth be Lucilla's--drooping in
silence on the spot once consecrated to rapture, and feeding itself with
tears. There was something mocking to human passion in the very antiquity
of the spot; four-and-twenty centuries had passed away since the origin of
the tale that made it holy--and that tale, too, was fable! What, in this
vast accumulation of the sands of time, was a solitary atom! What, among
the millions, the myriads, that around that desolate spot had loved, and
forgotten love, was the brief passion of one mortal, withering as it
sprung! Thus differently moralises the heart, according to the passion
which bestows on it the text.
Before he regained his home, Godolphin's resolve was taken. The next day
he had promised Constance to attend her to Tivoli; he resolved then to
take leave of her, and on the following day to return to Lucilla. He
remembered, with bitter reproach, that he had not written to her for a
length of time, treble the accustomed interval between his letters; and
felt that, while at the moment she had written the lines he had now
pressed to his bosom, she was expecting, with unutterable fondness and
anxiety, to receive his lukewarm assurances of continued love, the letter
he was about to write in answer to hers was the first one that would greet
her eyes. But he resolved, that in that letter, at least, she should not
be disappointed. He wrote at length, and with all the outpourings of a
tenderness reawakened by remorse. He informed her of his immediate
return, and even forced himself to dwell upon it with kindly hypocrisy of
transport. For the first time for several weeks, he felt satisfied with
himself as he sealed his letter. It is doubtful whether that letter
Lucilla ever received.