CONSTANCE MAKES A DISCOVERY THAT TOUCHES AND ENLIGHTENS HER AS TO
GODOLPHIN'S NATURE.--AN EVENT, ALTHOUGH IN PRIVATE LIFE, NOT WITHOUT ITS
INTEREST.
If Constance most bitterly reproached herself, or rather her slackened
nerves, her breaking health, that she had before another--that other too,
not of her own sex--betrayed her dependence upon even her husband's heart
for happiness; if her conscience instantly took alarm at the error (and it
was indeed a grave one) which had revealed to any man her domestic griefs;
yet, on the other hand, she could not control the wild thrill of delight
with which she recalled those words that had so solemnly assured her she
was still beloved by Godolphin. She had a firm respect in Radclyffe's
penetration and his sincerity, and knew that he was one neither to deceive
her nor be deceived himself. His advice, too, came home to her. Had she,
indeed, with sufficient address, sufficient softness, insinuated herself
into Godolphin's nature? Neglected herself, had she not neglected in
return? She asked herself this question, and was never weary of examining
her past conduct. That Radclyffe, the austere and chilling Radclyffe,
entertained for her any feeling warmer than friendship, she never for an
instant suspected; that suspicion alone would have driven him from her
presence for ever. And although there had been a time, in his bright and
exulting youth, when Radclyffe had not been without those arts which win,
in the opposite sex, affection from aversion itself, those arts doubled,
ay, a hundredfold, in their fascination, would not have availed him with
the pure but disappointed Constance, even had a sense of right and wrong
very different from the standard he now acknowledged permitted him to
exert them. So that his was rather the sacrifice of impulse, than of any
triumph that impulse could afterwards have gained him.
Many, and soft and sweet were now the recollections of Constance. Her
heart flew back to her early love among the shades of Wendover; to the
first confession of the fair enthusiastic boy, when he offered at her
shrine a mind, a genius, a heart capable of fruits which the indolence of
after-life, and the lethargy of disappointed hope, had blighted before
their time.
If he was now so deaf to what she considered the nobler, because more
stirring, excitements of life, was she not in some measure answerable for
the supineness? Had there not been a day in which he had vowed to toil,
to labour, to sacrifice the very character of his mind, for a union with
her? Was she, after all, was she right to adhere so rigidly to her
father's dying words, and to that vow afterwards confirmed by her own
pride and bitterness of soul? She looked to her father's portrait for an
answer; and that daring and eloquent face seemed, for the first time, cold
and unanswering to her appeal.
In such meditations the hours passed, and midnight came on without
Constance having quitted her apartment. She now summoned her woman, and
inquired if Godolphin was at home. He had come in about an hour since,
and, complaining of fatigue, had retired to rest. Constance again
dismissed her maid, and stole to his apartment. He was already asleep,
his cheek rested on his arm, and his hair fell wildly over a brow that now
worked under the influence of his dreams. Constance put the light softly
down, and seating herself beside him, watched over a sleep which, if it
had come suddenly on him, was not the less unquiet and disturbed. At
length he muttered, "Yes, Lucilla, yes; I tell you, you are avenged. I
have not forgotten you! I have not forgotten that I betrayed, deserted
you! but was it my fault? No, no! Yet I have not the less sought to
forget it. These poor excesses,--these chilling gaieties,--were they not
incurred for you?--and now you come--you--ah, no--spare me!"
Shocked and startled, Constance drew back. Here was a new key to
Godolphin's present life, his dissipation, his thirst for pleasure. Had
he indeed sought to lull the stings of conscience? And she, instead of
soothing, of reconciling him to the past, had she left him alone to
struggle with bitter and unresting thoughts, and to contrast the devotion
of the one lost with the indifference of the one gained? She crept back
to her own chamber, to commune with her heart and be still.
"My dear Percy," said she, the next day, when he carelessly sauntered
into her boudoir before he rode out, "I have a favour to ask of you."
"Who ever denied a favour to Lady Erpingham?"
"Not you, certainly; but my favour is a great one."
"It is granted."
"Let us pass the summer in ----shire."
Godolphin's brow clouded.
"At Wendover Castle?" said he, after a pause.
"We have never been there since our marriage," said Constance evasively.
"Humph!--as you will."
"It was the place," said Constance, "where you, Percy, first told me you
loved!"
The tone of his wife's voice struck on the right chord in Godolphin's
breast; he looked up, and saw her eyes full of tears and fixed upon him.
"Why, Constance," said he, much affected, "who would have thought that you
still cherished that remembrance?"
"Ah! when shall I forget it?" said Constance; "then you loved me!"
"And was rejected."
"Hush! but I believe now that I was wrong."
"No, Constance; you were wrong, for your own happiness, that the rejection
was not renewed."
"Percy!"
"Constance!" and in the accent of that last word there was something that
encouraged Constance, and she threw herself into Godolphin's arms, and
murmured:--
"If I have offended, forgive me; let us be to each other what we once
were."
Words like these from the lips of one in whom such tender supplications,
such feminine yearnings, were not common, subdued Godolphin at once. He
folded her in his arms, and kissing her passionately, whispered, "Be
always thus, Constance, and you will be more to me than ever."