CONSTANCE AT HER TOILET.--HER FEELINGS.--HER CHARACTER OF BEAUTY
DESCRIBED.--THE BALL.--THE DUCHESS OF WINSTOUN AND HER DAUGHTER.--AN
INDUCTION FROM THE NATURE OF FEMALE RIVALRIES.--JEALOUSY IN A
LOVER.--IMPERTINENCE RETORTED.--LISTENERS NEVER HEAR GOOD OF
THEMSELVES.--REMARKS ON THE AMUSEMENTS OF A PUBLIC ASSEMBLY.--THE
SUPPER.--THE FALSENESS OF SEEMING GAIETY.--VARIOUS REFLECTIONS, NEW AND
TRUE.--WHAT PASSES BETWEEN GODOLPHIN AND CONSTANCE.
It was the evening of the ball to be given in honour of Lord
Erpingham’s arrival. Constance, dressed for conquest, sat alone in her
dressing-room. Her woman had just left her. The lights still burned in
profusion about the antique chamber (antique, for it was situated in the
oldest part of the castle); those lights streamed full upon the broad
brow and exquisite features of Miss Vernon. As she leaned back in her
chair--the fairy foot upon the low Gothic stool, and the hands drooping
beside her despondingly--her countenance betrayed much, but not serene,
thought; and, mixed with that thought, was something of irresolution and
of great and real sadness.
It is not, as I have before hinted, to be supposed that Constance’s
lot had been hitherto a proud one, even though she was the most admired
beauty of her day; even though she lived with, and received adulation
from, the high, and noble, and haughty of her land. Often, in the
glittering crowd that she attracted around her, her ear, sharpened by
the jealousy and pride of her nature, caught words that dashed the
cup of pleasure and of vanity with shame and anger. “What! that _the_
Vernon’s daughter? Poor girl! dependent entirely on Lady Erpingham! Ah!
she’ll take in some rich roturier, I hope.”
Such words from ill-tempered dowagers and faded beauties were no
unfrequent interruption to her brief-lived and wearisome triumphs. She
heard manoeuvring mothers caution their booby sons, whom Constance would
have looked into the dust had they dared but to touch her hand, against
her untitled and undowried charms. She saw cautious earls, who were all
courtesy one night, all coldness another, as some report had reached
them accusing their hearts of feeling too deeply her attractions, or,
as they themselves suspected, for the first time, that a heart was not
a word for a poetical nothing, and that to look on so beautiful and
glorious a creature was sufficient to convince them, even yet, of the
possibility of emotion. She had felt to the quick the condescending
patronage of duchesses and chaperons; the oblique hint; the nice and
fine distinction which, in polished circles, divides each grade from
the other, and allows you to be galled without the pleasure of feeling
justified in offence.
All this, which, in the flush and heyday of youth, and gaiety, and
loveliness, would have been unnoticed by other women, rankled deep
in the mind of Constance Vernon. The image of her dying father, his
complaints, his accusations (the justice of which she never for an
instant questioned), rose up before her in the brightest hours of the
dance and the revel. She was not one of those women whose meek and
gentle nature would fly what wounds them: Constance had resolved
to conquer. Despising glitter and gaiety, and show, she burned, she
thirsted for power--a power which could retaliate the insults she
fancied she had received, and should turn condescension into homage.
This object, which every casual word, every heedless glance from
another, fixed deeper and deeper in her heart, took a sort of sanctity
from the associations with which she linked it--her father’s memory and
his dying breath.
At this moment in which we have portrayed her, all these restless, and
sore, and haughty feelings were busy within; but they were combated,
even while the more fiercely aroused, by one soft and tender
thought--the image of Godolphin--of Godolphin, the spendthrift heir of
a broken fortune and a fallen house. She felt too deeply that she loved
him; and, ignorant of his worldlier qualities, imagined that he loved
her with all the devotion of that romance, and the ardour of that
genius, which appeared to her to compose his character. But this
persuasion gave her now no delightful emotion. Convinced that she ought
to reject him, his image only coloured with sadness those objects and
that ambition which she had hitherto regarded with an exulting pride.
She was not less bent on the lofty ends of her destiny; but the glory
and the illusion had fallen from them. She had taken an insight into
futurity, and felt, that to enjoy power was to lose happiness. Yet, with
this full conviction, she forsook the happiness and clung to the power.
Alas! for our best and wisest theories, our problems, our systems, our
philosophy! Human beings will never cease to mistake the means for the
end; and, despite the dogmas of sages, our conduct does not depend on
our convictions.
Carriage after carriage had rolled beneath the windows of the room
where Constance sat, and still she moved not; until at length a certain
composure, as if the result of some determination, stole over her
features. The brilliant and transparent hues returned to her cheek, and,
as she rose and stood erect with a certain calmness and energy on her
lip and forehead, perhaps her beauty had never seemed of so lofty and
august a cast. In passing through the chamber, she stopped for a moment
opposite the mirror that reflected her stately shape in its full height.
Beauty is so truly the weapon of woman, that it is as impossible for
her, even in grief, wholly to forget its effect, as it is for the flying
warrior to look with indifference on the sword with which he has won
his trophies or his fame. Nor was Constance that evening disposed to
be indifferent to the effect she should produce. She looked on the
reflection of herself with a feeling of triumph, not arising from vanity
alone.
And when did mirror ever give back a form more worthy of a Pericles
to worship, or an Apelles to paint? Though but little removed from the
common height, the impression Constance always gave was that of a person
much taller than she really was. A certain majesty in the turn of
the head, the fall of the shoulders, the breadth of the brow, and the
exceeding calmness of the features, invested her with an air which I
have never seen equalled by any one, but which, had Pasta been a beauty,
she might have possessed. But there was nothing hard or harsh in
this majesty. Whatsoever of a masculine nature Constance might have
inherited, nothing masculine, nothing not exquisitely feminine, was
visible in her person. Her shape was rounded, and sufficiently full to
show, that in middle age its beauty would be preserved by that richness
and freshness which a moderate increase of the proportions always gives
to the sex. Her arms and hands were, and are, even to this day, of a
beauty the more striking, because it is so rare. Nothing in any European
country is more uncommon than an arm really beautiful both in hue and
shape. In any assembly we go to, what miserable bones, what angular
elbows, what red skins, do we see under the cover of those capacious
sleeves, which are only one whit less ugly. At the time I speak of,
those coverings were not worn; and the white, round, dazzling arm of
Constance, bare almost to the shoulder, was girded by dazzling gems,
which at once set off, and were foiled by, the beauty of nature. Her
hair was of the most luxuriant, and of the deepest, black; and it was
worn in a fashion--then uncommon, without being bizarre--now hackneyed
by the plainest faces, though suiting only the highest order of
beauty--I mean that simple and classic fashion to which the French
have given a name borrowed from Calypso, but which appears to me suited
rather to an intellectual than a voluptuous goddess. Her long lashes,
and a brow delicately but darkly pencilled, gave additional eloquence
to an eye of the deepest blue, and a classic contour to a profile
so slightly aquiline, that it was commonly considered Grecian. That
necessary completion to all real beauty of either sex, the short and
curved upper lip, terminated in the most dazzling teeth and the ripe
and dewy under lip added to what was noble in her beauty that charm also
which is exclusively feminine. Her complexion was capricious; now pale,
now tinged with the pink of the sea-shell, or the softest shade of the
rose leaf: but in either it was so transparent, that you doubted which
became her the most. To these attractions, add a throat, a bust of the
most dazzling whiteness, and the justest proportions; a foot, whose
least beauty was its smallness, and a waist narrow--not the narrowness
of tenuity or constraint;--but round, gradual, insensibly less in its
compression:--and the person of Constance Vernon, in the bloom of her
youth, is before you.
She passed with her quiet and stately step from her room, through one
adjoining it, and which we stop to notice, because it was her customary
sitting-room when not with Lady Erpingham. There had Godolphin, with the
foreign but courtly freedom, the respectful and chivalric ease of his
manners, often sought her; there had he lingered in order to detain her
yet a moment and a moment longer from other company, seeking a sweet
excuse in some remark on the books that strewed the tables, or the music
in that recess, or the forest scene from those windows through which
the moon of autumn now stole with its own peculiar power to soften and
subdue. As these recollections came across her, her step faltered and
her colour faded from its glow: she paused a moment, cast a mournful
glance round the room, and then tore herself away, descended the lofty
staircase, passed the stone hall, melancholy with old banners and rusted
crests, and bore her beauty and her busy heart into the thickening and
gay crowd.
Her eye looked once more round for the graceful form of Godolphin:
but he was not visible; and she had scarcely satisfied herself of this
before Lord Erpingham, the hero of the evening, approached and claimed
her hand.
“I have just performed my duty,” said he, with a gallantry of speech not
common to him, “now for my reward. I have danced the first dance with
Lady Margaret Midgecombe: I come, according to your promise, to dance
the second with you.”
There was something in these words that stung one of the morbid
remembrances in Miss Vernon’s mind. Lady Margaret Midgecombe, in
ordinary life, would have been thought a good-looking, vulgar girl:--she
was a Duke’s daughter and she was termed a Hebe. Her little nose, and
her fresh colour, and her silly but not unmalicious laugh, were called
enchanting; and all irregularities of feature and faults of shape were
absolutely turned into merits by that odd commendation, so common with
us--“A deuced fine girl; none of your regular beauties.”
Not only in the county of ----shire, but in London, had Lady Margaret
Midgecombe been set up as the rival beauty of Constance Vernon. And
Constance, far too lovely, too cold, too proud, not to acknowledge
beauty in others, where it really existed, was nevertheless unaffectedly
indignant at a comparison so unworthy; she even, at times, despised her
own claims to admiration, since claims so immeasurably inferior could
be put into competition with them. Added to this sore feeling for Lady
Margaret, was one created by Lady Margaret’s mother. The Duchess of
Winstoun was a woman of ordinary birth--the daughter of a peer of
great wealth but new family. She had married, however, one of the most
powerful dukes in the peerage;--a stupid, heavy, pompous man, with four
castles, eight parks, a coal-mine, a tin-mine, six boroughs, and about
thirty livings. Inactive and reserved, the duke was seldom seen in
public: the care of supporting his rank devolved on the duchess; and
she supported it with as much solemnity of purpose as if she had been
a cheesemonger’s daughter. Stately, insolent, and coarse; asked
everywhere; insulting all; hated and courted; such was the Duchess of
Winstoun, and such, perhaps, have been other duchesses before her.
Be it understood that, at that day, Fashion had not risen to the
despotism it now enjoys: it took its colouring from Power, not
controlled it. I shall show, indeed, how much of its present condition
that Fashion owes to the Heroine of these Memoirs. The Duchess of
Winstoun could not now be that great person she was then: there is
a certain good taste in Fashion which repels the mere insolence of
flank--which requires persons to be either agreeable, or brilliant, or
at least original--which weighs stupid dukes in a righteous balance and
finds vulgar duchesses wanting. But in lack of this new authority this
moral sebastocrator between the Sovereign and the dignity hitherto
considered next to the Sovereign’s--her Grace of Winstoun exercised with
impunity the rights of insolence. She had taken an especial dislike
to Constance:--partly because the few good judges of beauty, who care
neither for rank nor report, had very unreservedly placed Miss Vernon
beyond the reach of all competition with her daughter; and principally,
because the high spirit and keen irony of Constance had given more than
once to the duchess’s effrontery so cutting and so public a check, that
she had felt with astonishment and rage there was one woman in that
world--that woman too unmarried--who could retort the rudeness of the
Duchess of Winstoun. Spiteful, however, and numerous were the things
she said of Miss Vernon, when Miss Vernon was absent; and haughty beyond
measure were the inclination of her head and the tone of her voice when
Miss Vernon was present. If, therefore, Constance was disliked by the
duchess, we may readily believe that she returned the dislike. The very
name roused her spleen and her pride; and it was with a feeling all a
woman’s, though scarcely feminine in the amiable sense of the word, that
she learned to whom the honour of Lord Erpingham’s precedence had been
(though necessarily) given.
As Lord Erpingham led her to her place, a buzz of admiration and
enthusiasm followed her steps. This pleased Erpingham more than, at
that moment, it did Constance. Already intoxicated by her beauty, he
was proud of the effect it produced on others, for that effect was a
compliment to his taste. He exerted himself to be agreeable; nay, more,
to be fascinating: he affected a low voice; and he attempted--poor
man!--to flatter.
The Duchess of Winstoun and her daughter sat behind on an elevated
bench. They saw with especial advantage the attentions with which one
of the greatest of England’s earls honoured the daughter of one of the
greatest of England’s orators. They were shocked at his want of dignity.
Constance perceived their chagrin, and she lent a more pleased and
attentive notice to Lord Erpingham’s compliments: her eyes sparkled and
her cheek blushed: and the good folks around, admiring Lord Erpingham’s
immense whiskers, thought Constance in love.
It was just at this time that Percy Godolphin entered the room.
Although Godolphin’s person was not of a showy order, there was
something about him that always arrested attention. His air; his
carriage; his long fair locks; his rich and foreign habits of dress,
which his high bearing and intellectual countenance redeemed from
coxcombry; all, united, gave something remarkable and distinguished to
his appearance; and the interest attached to his fortunes, and to
his social reputation for genius and eccentricity, could not fail of
increasing the effect he produced when his name was known.
From the throng of idlers that gathered around him; from the bows of the
great and the smiles of the fair; Godolphin, however, directed his whole
notice--his whole soul--to the spot which was hallowed by Constance
Vernon. He saw her engaged with a man rich, powerful, and handsome.
He saw that she listened to her partner with evident interest--that he
addressed her with evident admiration. His heart sank within him; he
felt faint and sick; then came anger--mortification; then agony and
despair. All his former resolutions--all his prudence, his worldliness,
his caution, vanished at once; he felt only that he loved, that he was
supplanted, that he was undone. The dark and fierce passions of his
youth, of a nature in reality wild and vehement, swept away at once the
projects and the fabrics of that shallow and chill philosophy he had
borrowed from the world, and deemed the wisdom of the closet. A cottage
and a desert with Constance--Constance all his--heart and hand--would
have been Paradise: he would have nursed no other ambition, nor dreamed
of a reward beyond. Such effect has jealousy upon us. We confide, and we
hesitate to accept a boon: we are jealous, and we would lay down life to
attain it.
“What a handsome fellow Erpingham is!” said a young man in a cavalry
regiment.
Godolphin heard and groaned audibly.
“And what a devilish handsome girl he is dancing with!” said another
young man, from Oxford.
“Oh, Miss Vernon!--By Jove, Erpingham seems smitten. What a capital
thing it would be for her!”
“And for him, too!” cried the more chivalrous Oxonian.
“Humph!” said the officer.
“I heard,” renewed the Oxonian, “that she was to be married to young
Godolphin. He was staying here a short time ago. They rode and walked
together. What a lucky fellow he has been. I don’t know any one I should
so much like to see.”
“Hush!” said a third person, looking at Godolphin.
Percy moved on. Accomplished and self-collected as he usually was, he
could not wholly conceal the hell within. His brow grew knit and gloomy:
he scarcely returned the salutations he received; and moving out of the
crowd, he stole to a seat behind a large pillar, and, scarcely seen by
any one, fixed his eyes on the form and movements of Miss Vernon.
It so happened that he had placed himself in the vicinity of the Duchess
of Winstoun, and within hearing of the conversation that I am about to
record.
The dance being over, Lord Erpingham led Constance to a seat close by
Lady Margaret Midgecombe. The duchess had formed her plan of attack;
and, rising as she saw Constance within reach, approached her with an
air that affected civility.
“How do you do, Miss Vernon? I am happy to see you looking so well. What
truth in the report, eh?” And the duchess showed her teeth--videlicet,
smiled.
“What report does your grace allude to?”
“Nay, nay; I am sure Lord Erpingham has heard it as well as myself; and
I wish for your sake (a slight emphasis), indeed, for both your sakes,
that it may be true.”
“To wait till the Duchess of Winstoun speaks intelligibly would be a
waste of her time and my own,” said the haughty Constance, with the
rudeness in which she then delighted, and for which she has since become
known. But the duchess was not to be offended until she had completed
her manoeuvre.
“Well, now,” said she, turning to Lord Erpingham, “I appeal to you;
is not Miss Vernon to be married very soon to Mr. Godolphin? I am sure
(with an affected good-nature and compassion that stung Constance to the
quick), I am sure I _hope_ so.”
“Upon my word you amaze me,” said Lord Erpingham, opening to their
fullest extent the large, round, hazel eyes for which he was so justly
celebrated. “I never heard this before.”
“Oh! a secret as yet?” said the duchess; “very well! I can keep a
secret.”
Lady Margaret looked down, and laughed prettily.
“I thought till now,” said Constance, with grave composure, “that no
person could be more contemptible than one who collects idle reports: I
now find I was wrong: a person infinitely more contemptible is one who
invents them.”
The rude duchess beat at her own weapons, blushed with anger even
through her rouge: but Constance turned away, and, still leaning on Lord
Erpingham’s arm, sought another seat;--that seat, on the opposite side
of the pillar behind which Godolphin sat, was still within his hearing.
“Upon my word, Miss Vernon,” said Erpingham, “I admire your spirit.
Nothing like setting down those absurd people who try to tease one, and
think one dares not retort. But pray--I hope I’m not impertinent--pray,
may I ask if this rumour have any truth in it?”
“Certainly not,” said Constance, with great effort, but in a clear tone.
“No: I should have thought not--I should have thought not. Godolphin’s
much too poor--much too poor for you. Miss Vernon is not born to marry
for love in a cottage,--is she?”
Constance sighed.
That soft, low tone thrilled to Godolphin’s very heart. He bent forward:
he held his breath: he thirsted for her voice; for some tone, some word
in answer; it came not at that moment.
“You remember,” renewed the earl,--“you remember Miss L----? no: she was
before your time. Well! she married S----, much such another fellow
as Godolphin. He had not a shilling: but he lived well: had a house
in Mayfair; gave dinners; hunted at Melton, and so forth: in short, he
played high. She had about ten thousand pounds. They married, and lived
for two years so comfortably, you have no idea. Every one envied them.
They did not keep a close carriage, but he used to drive her out
to dinners in his French cabriolet.(1) There was no show--no pomp:
everything deuced neat, though; quite love in a cottage--only the
cottage was in Curzon Street. At length, however, the cards turned;
S---- lost everything; owed more than he could ever pay: we were forced
to cut him; and his relation, Lord ----, coming into the ministry a year
afterwards, got him a place in the Customs. They live at Brompton: he
wears a pepper-and-salt coat, and she a mob-cap, with pink ribands: they
have five hundred a year, and ten children. Such was the fate of S----‘s
wife; such may be the fate of Godolphin’s. Oh, Miss Vernon could not
marry _him!_”
“You are right, Lord Erpingham,” said Constance with emphasis; “but you
take too much licence in expressing your opinion.”
Before Lord Erpingham could stammer forth his apology they heard a
slight noise behind: they turned; Godolphin had risen. His countenance,
always inclined to a calm severity--for thought is usually severe in its
outward aspect--bent now on both the speakers with so dark and menacing
an aspect that the stout earl felt his heart stand still for a moment;
and Constance was appalled as if it had been the apparition, and not the
living form, of her lover that she beheld. But scarcely had they seen
this expression of countenance ere it changed. With a cold and polished
smile, a relaxed brow and profound inclination of his form Godolphin
greeted the two: and passing from his seat with a slow step glided among
the crowd and vanished.
What a strange thing, after all, is a great assembly! An immense mob
of persons, who feel for each other the profoundest indifference--met
together to join in amusements which the large majority of them consider
wearisome beyond conception. How unintellectual, how uncivilised, such
a scene, and such actors! What a remnant of barbarous times, when people
danced because they had nothing to say! Were there nothing ridiculous in
dancing, there would be nothing ridiculous in seeing wise men dance. But
that sight would be ludicrous because of the disparity between the
mind and the occupation. However, we have some excuse; we go to these
assemblies to sell our daughters, or flirt with our neighbours’ wives.
A ballroom is nothing more or less than a great market-place of beauty.
For my part, were I a buyer, I should like making my purchases in a less
public mart.
“Come, Godolphin, a glass of champagne,” cried the young Lord Belvoir,
as they sat near each other at the splendid supper.
“With all my heart; but not from that bottle! We must have a new one;
for this glass is pledged to Lady Delmour, and I would not drink to
her health but from the first sparkle! Nothing tame, nothing insipid,
nothing that has lost its first freshness, can be dedicated to one so
beautiful and young.”
The fresh bottle was opened, and Godolphin bowed over his glass to Lord
Belvoir’s sister--a Beauty and a Blue. Lady Delmour admired Godolphin,
and she was flattered by a compliment that no one wholly educated in
England would have had the gallant courage to utter across a crowded
table.
“You have been dancing?” said she.
“No!”
“What then?”
“What then?” said Godolphin. “Ah, Lady Delmour, do not ask.” The look
that accompanied the word, supplied them with a meaning. “Need I add,”
said he, in a lower voice, “that I have been thinking of the most
beautiful person present?”
“Pooh,” said Lady Delmour, turning away her head. Now, that _pooh_ is
a very significant word. On the lips of a man of business, it denotes
contempt for romance; on the lips of a politician it rebukes a theory.
With that monosyllable, a philosopher massacres a fallacy: by those
four letters a rich man gets rid of a beggar. But in the rosy mouth of a
woman the harshness vanishes, the disdain becomes encouragement. “Pooh!”
says the lady when you tell her she is handsome; but she smiles when she
says it. With the same reply she receives your protestation of love,
and blushes as she receives. With men it is the sternest, with women the
softest, exclamation in the language.
“Pooh!” said Lady Delmour, turning away her head:--and Godolphin was in
singular spirits. What a strange thing that we should call such hilarity
from our gloom! The stroke induces the flash; excite the nerves by
jealousy, by despair, and with the proud you only trace the excitement
by the mad mirth and hysterical laughter it creates. Godolphin was
charming comme un amour, and the young countess was delighted with his
gallantry.
“Did you ever love?” asked she, tenderly, as they sat alone after
supper.
“Alas, yes!” said he.
“How often?”
“Read Marmontel’s story of the Four Phials: I have no other answer.”
“Oh, what a beautiful tale that is! The whole history of a man’s heart
is contained in it.”
While Godolphin was thus talking with Lady Delmour, his whole soul
was with Constance; of her only he thought, and on her he thirsted for
revenge. There is a curious phenomenon in love, showing how much vanity
has to do with even the best species of it; when, for your mistress to
prefer another, changes all your affection into hatred:--is it the loss
of the mistress, or her preference to the other? The last, to be sure:
for if the former, you would only grieve--but jealousy does not make you
grieve, it makes you enraged; it does not sadden, it stings. After all,
as we grow old, and look back on the “master passion,” how we smile
at the fools it made of us--at the importance we attach to it--of the
millions that have been governed by it! When we examine the passion
of love, it is like examining the character of some great roan; we are
astonished to perceive the littlenesses that belong to it. We ask in
wonder, “How come such effects from such a cause?”
Godolphin continued talking sentiment with Lady Delmour, until her lord,
who was very fond of his carriage horses, came up and took her away; and
then, perhaps glad to be relieved, Percy sauntered into the ballroom,
where, though the crowd was somewhat thinned, the dance was continued
with that spirit which always seems to increase as the night advances.
For my own part, I now and then look late in at a ball as a warning and
grave memento of the flight of time. No amusement belongs of right so
essentially to the young, in their first youth,--to the unthinking, the
intoxicated,--to those whose blood is an elixir.
“If Constance be woman,” said Godolphin to himself, as he returned to
the ballroom, “I will yet humble her to my will. I have not learned the
science so long, to be now foiled in the first moment I have seriously
wished to triumph.”
As this thought inspired and excited him, he moved along at some
distance from, but carefully within the sight of Constance. He paused
by Lady Margaret Midgecombe. He addressed her. Notwithstanding the
insolence and the ignorance of the Duchess of Winstoun, he was well
received by both mother and daughter. Some persons there are, in all
times and in all spheres, who command a certain respect, bought neither
by riches, rank, nor even scrupulous morality of conduct. They win it
by the reputation that talent alone can win them, and which yet is not
always the reputation of talent. No man, even in the frivolous societies
of the great, obtains homage without certain qualities, which, had
they been happily directed, would have conducted him to fame. Had the
attention of a Grammont, or of a ----, been early turned towards what
ought to be the objects desired, who can doubt that, instead of the
heroes of a circle, they might have been worthy of becoming names of
posterity?
Thus the genius of Godolphin had drawn around him an eclat which made
even the haughtiest willing to receive and to repay his notice; and Lady
Margaret actually blushed with pleasure when he asked her to dance.
A foreign dance, then only very partially known in England, had been
called for: few were acquainted with it,--those only who had been
abroad; and as the movements seemed to require peculiar grace of person,
some even among those few declined, through modesty, the exhibition.
To this dance Godolphin led Lady Margaret. All crowded round to see the
performers; and, as each went through the giddy and intoxicating
maze, they made remarks on the awkwardness or the singularity, or the
impropriety of the dance. But when Godolphin began, the murmurs changed.
The slow and stately measure then adapted to the steps, was one in which
the graceful symmetry of his person might eminently display itself. Lady
Margaret was at least as well acquainted with the dance: and the couple
altogether so immeasurably excelled all competitors, that the rest,
as if sensible of it, stopped one after the other; and when Godolphin,
perceiving that they were alone, stopped also, the spectators made
their approbation more audible than approbation usually is in polished
society.
As Godolphin paused, his eyes met those of Constance. There was not
there the expression he had anticipated there was neither the anger of
jealousy, nor the restlessness of offended vanity, nor the desire
of conciliation, visible in those large and speaking orbs. A deep, a
penetrating, a sad inquiry seemed to dwell in her gaze,--seemed anxious
to pierce into his heart, and to discover whether there she possessed
the power to wound, or whether each had been deceived: so at least
seemed that fixed and melancholy intenseness of look to Godolphin.
He left Lady Margaret abruptly: in an instant he was by the side of
Constance.
“You must be delighted with this evening,” said he, bitterly: “wherever
I go I hear your praises: every one admires you; and he who does not
admire so much as worship you, _he_ alone is beneath your notice.
He--born to such shattered fortunes,--he indeed might never _aspire_ to
that which titled and wealthy idiots deem they may _command,_--the hand
of Constance Vernon.”
It was with a low and calm tone that Godolphin spoke. Constance turned
deadly pale: her frame trembled; but she did not answer immediately. She
moved to a seat retired a little from the busy crowd; Godolphin followed
and sat himself beside her; and then, with a slight effort, Constance
spoke.
“You heard what was said, Mr. Godolphin, and I grieve to think you
did. If I offended you, however, forgive me, I pray you; I pray
sincerely--warmly. God knows I have suffered myself enough from idle
words, and from the slighting opinion with which this hard world visits
the poor, not to feel deep regret and shame if I wound, by like means,
another, more especially”--Constance’s voice trembled,--“more especially
_you!_”
As she spoke, she turned her eyes on Godolphin, and they were full of
tears. The tenderness of her voice, her look, melted him at once. Was
it to him, indeed, that the haughty Constance addressed the words of
kindness and apology?--to him whose intrinsic circumstances she had
heard described as so unworthy of her, and, his reason told him, with
such justice?
“Oh, Miss Vernon!” said he, passionately; “Miss Vernon--Constance--dear,
dear Constance! dare I call you so? hear me one word. I love you with a
love which leaves me no words to tell it. I know my faults, my poverty,
my unworthiness; but--but--may I--may I hope?”
And all the woman was in Constance’s cheek, as she listened. That cheek,
how richly was it dyed! Her eyes drooped; her bosom heaved. How every
word in those broken sentences sank into her heart! never was a tone
forgotten. The child may forget its mother, and the mother desert the
child: but never, never from a woman’s heart departs the memory of the
first confession of love from him whom she first loves! She lifted her
eyes, and again withdrew them, and again gazed.
“This must not be,” at last she said; “no, no! it is folly, madness in
both!”
“Not so; nay, not so!” whispered Godolphin, in the softest notes of
a voice that could never be harsh. “It may seem folly--madness if you
will, that the brilliant and all-idolized Miss Vernon should listen to
the vows of so lowly an adorer: but try me--prove me, and own--yes, you
_will_ own some years hence, that that folly has been happy beyond the
happiness of prudence or ambition.”
“This!” answered Constance, struggling with her emotions; “this is no
spot or hour for such a conference. Let us meet to-morrow--the western
chamber.”
“And the hour?”
“Twelve!”
“And I may hope--till then?”
Constance again grew pale; and in a voice that, though it scarcely
left her lips, struck coldness and dismay into his sudden and delighted
confidence, answered,
“No, Percy, there is no hope!--none!”
(1) Then uncommon.