THE INTERVIEW.--THE CRISIS OF A LIFE.
The western chamber was that I have mentioned as the one in which
Constance usually fixed her retreat, when neither sociability nor state
summoned her to the more public apartments. I should have said that
Godolphin slept in the house; for, coming from a distance and through
country roads, Lady Erpingham had proffered him that hospitality, and
he had willingly accepted it. Before the appointed hour, he was at the
appointed spot.
He had passed the hours till then without even seeking his pillow. In
restless strides across his chamber, he had revolved those words with
which Constance had seemed to deny the hopes she herself had created.
All private and more selfish schemes or reflections had vanished, as
by magic, from the mind of a man prematurely formed, but not yet wholly
hardened in the mould of worldly speculation. He thought no more of what
he should relinquish in obtaining her hand; with the ardour of boyish
and real love, he thought only of her. It was as if there existed no
world but the little spot in which she breathed and moved. Poverty,
privation, toil, the change of the manners and habits of his whole
previous life, to those of professional enterprise and self-denial;--to
all this he looked forward, not so much with calmness as with triumph.
“Be but Constance mine!” said he again and again; and again and again
those fatal words knocked at his heart, “No hope--none!” and he gnashed
his teeth in very anguish, and muttered, “But mine she will not--she
will never be!”
Still, however, before the hour of noon, something of his habitual
confidence returned to him. He had succeeded, though but partially, in
reasoning away the obvious meaning of the words; and he ascended to the
chamber from the gardens, in which he had sought, by the air, to cool
his mental fever, with a sentiment, ominous and doubtful indeed, but
still removed from despondency and despair.
The day was sad and heavy. A low, drizzling rain, and labouring yet
settled clouds, which denied all glimpse of the sky, and seemed cursed
into stagnancy by the absence of all wind or even breeze, increased
by those associations we endeavour in vain to resist, the dark and
oppressive sadness of his thoughts.
He paused as he laid his hand on the door of the chamber: he listened;
and in the acute and painful life which seemed breathed into all
his senses, he felt as if he could have heard,--though without the
room,--the very breath of Constance; or known, as by an inspiration, the
presence of her beauty. He opened the door gently; all was silence and
desolation for him--Constance was not there!
He felt, however, as if that absence was a relief. He breathed more
freely, and seemed to himself more prepared for the meeting. He took his
station by the recess of the window: in vain--he could rest in no spot:
he walked to and fro, pausing only for a moment as some object before
him reminded him of past and more tranquil hours. The books he had
admired and which, at his departure, had been left in their usual
receptacle at another part of the house, he now discovered on the
tables: they opened of themselves at the passages he had read aloud to
Constance: those pages, in his presence, she had not seemed to admire;
he was inexpressibly touched to perceive that, in his absence, they had
become dear to her. As he turned with a beating heart from this silent
proof of affection, he was startled by the sudden and almost living
resemblance to Constance, which struck upon him in a full-length picture
opposite--the picture of her father. That picture, by one of the best
of our great modern masters of the art, had been taken of Vernon in
the proudest epoch of his prosperity and fame. He was portrayed in the
attitude in which he had uttered one of the most striking sentences
of one of his most brilliant orations: the hand was raised, the foot
advanced, the chest expanded. Life, energy, command, flashed from the
dark eye, breathed from the dilated nostril, broke from the inspired
lip. That noble brow--those modelled features--that air, so full of
the royalty of genius--how startlingly did they resemble the softer
lineaments of Constance!
Arrested, in spite of himself, by the skill of the limner, and the
characteristic of the portrait Godolphin stood, motionless and gazing,
till the door opened, and Constance herself stood before him. She smiled
faintly, but with sweetness as she approached; and seating herself,
motioned him to a chair at a little distance. He obeyed the gesture in
silence.
“Godolphin!” said she, softly. At the sound of her voice he raised his
eyes from the ground, and fixed them on her countenance with a look so
full of an imploring and earnest meaning, so expressive of the passion,
the suspense of his heart, that Constance felt her voice cease at
once. But he saw as he gazed how powerful had been his influence. Not
a vestige of bloom was on her cheek: her very lips were colourless:
her eyes were swollen with weeping; and though she seemed very calm and
self-possessed, all her wonted majesty of mien was gone. The form seemed
to shrink within itself. Humbleness and sorrow--deep, passionate, but
quiet sorrow--had supplanted the haughtiness and the elastic freshness
of her beauty. “Mr. Godolphin,” she repeated, after a pause, “answer
me truly and with candour; not with the world’s gallantry, but with a
sincere, a plain avowal. Were you not--in your unguarded expressions
last night--were you not excited by the surprise, the passion, of the
moment? Were you not uttering what, had you been actuated only by a calm
and premeditated prudence, you would at least have suppressed?”
“Miss Vernon,” replied Godolphin, “all that I said last night, I now,
in calmness, and with deliberate premeditation, repeat: all that I can
dream of happiness is in your hands.”
“I would, indeed, that I could disbelieve you,” said Constance,
sorrowfully; “I have considered deeply on your words. I am touched--made
grateful--proud--yes, truly proud--by your confessed affection--but--”
“Oh, Constance!” cried Godolphin; in a sudden and agonized voice--and
rising, he flung himself impetuously at her feet--“Constance! do not
reject me!”
He seized her hand: it struggled not with his. He gazed on her
countenance: it was dyed in blushes; and before those blushes vanished,
her agitation found relief in tears, which flowed fast and full.
“Beloved!” said Godolphin, with a solemn tenderness, “why struggle with
your heart? That heart I read at this moment: _that_ is not averse to
me.” Constance wept on. “I know what you would say, and what you feel,”
continued Godolphin: “you think that I--that we both are poor: that you
could ill bear the humiliations of that haughty poverty which those born
to higher fortunes so irksomely endure. You tremble to link your fate
with one who has been imprudent--lavish--selfish, if you will. You
recoil before you intrust your happiness to a man who, if he wreck that,
can offer you nothing in return: no rank--no station--nothing to heal
a bruised heart, or cover its wound, at least, in the rich disguises of
power and wealth. Am I not right, Constance? Do I not read your mind?”
“No!” said Constance with energy. “Had I been born any man’s daughter,
but his from whom I take my name; were I the same in all things, mind
and heart, save in one feeling, one remembrance, one object--that I
am now; Heaven is my witness that I would not cast a thought upon
poverty--upon privation: that I would--nay, I do--I do confide in your
vows, your affection. If you have erred, I know it not. If any but
you tell me you have erred, I believe them not. You I trust wholly and
implicitly. Heaven, I say, is my witness that, did I obey the voice
of my selfish heart, I would gladly, proudly, share and follow your
fortunes. You mistake me if you think sordid and vulgar ambition can
only influence me. No! I could be worthy of you! The daughter of John
Vernon could be a worthy wife to the man of indigence and genius. In
your poverty I could soothe you; in your labour I could support you; in
your reverses console, in your prosperity triumph. But--but, it must not
be. Go, Godolphin--dear Godolphin! There are thousands better and fairer
than I am, who will do for you as I would have done; but who possess
the power I have not--who, instead of sharing, can raise your fortunes.
Go!--and if it comfort, if it soothe you, believe that I have not been
insensible to your generosity, your love. My best wishes, my fondest
prayers, my dearest hopes, are yours.”
Blinded by her tears, subdued by her emotions, Constance was still
herself. She rose; she extricated her hand from Godolphin’s; she turned
to leave the room. But Godolphin, still kneeling, caught hold of her
robe, and gently, but effectually detained her.
“The picture you have painted,” said he, “do not destroy at once. You
have portrayed yourself my soother, guide, restorer. You _can,_ indeed
you can, be this. You do not know me, Constance. Let me say one word for
my self. Hitherto, I have shunned fame and avoided ambition. Life has
seemed to me so short, and all that even glory wins so poor, that I
have thought no labour worth the price of a single hour of pleasure and
enjoyment. For you, how joyfully will I renounce my code! For myself I
could ask no honour: for you, I will labour for all. No toil shall
be dry to me--no pleasure shall decoy. I will renounce my idle and
desultory pursuits. I will enter the great public arena, where all who
come armed with patience and with energy are sure to win. Constance, I
am not without talents, though they have slept within me; say but the
word, and you know not what they can produce.”
An irresolution in Constance was felt as a sympathy by Godolphin; he
continued,--
“We are both desolate in the world, Constance; we are
orphans--friendless, fortuneless. Yet both have made our way without
friends, and commanded our associates, though without fortune. Does not
this declare we have that within us which, when we are united, can
still exalt or conquer our destiny? And we--we--alone in the noisy
and contentious world with which we strive--we shall turn, after each
effort, to our own hearts, and find there a comfort and a shelter. All
things will bind us closer and closer to each other. The thought of
our past solitude, the hope of our future objects, will only feed the
fountain of our present love. And how much sweeter, Constance, will be
honours to you, if we thus win them; sanctified as they will be by the
sacrifices we have made; by the thought of the many hours in which we
desponded, yet took consolation from each other; by the thought how we
sweetened mortifications by sympathy, and made even the lowest successes
noble by the endearing associations with which we allied them! How much
sweeter to you will be such honours than those which you might command
at once, but accompanied by a cold heart; rendered wearisome because won
with ease and low because undignified by fame! Oh, Constance! am I not
heard? Have not love, nature, sense, triumphed?”
As he spoke, he had risen gently, and wound his arms around her
not reluctant form: her head reclined upon his bosom; her hand was
surrendered to his; and his kiss stole softly and unchidden to her
cheek. At that instant, the fate of both hung on a very hair. How
different might the lot, the character, of each have been, had
Constance’s lips pronounced the words that her heart already recorded!
And she might have done so; but as she raised her eyes, the same object
that had before affected Godolphin came vividly upon her, and changed,
as by an electric shock, the whole current of her thoughts. Full and
immediately before her was the picture of her father. The attitude there
delineated, so striking at all times, seemed to Constance at that moment
more than ever impressive, and even awful in the _livingness_ of its
command. It was the face of Vernon in the act of speech--of warning--of
reproof; such as she had seen it often in private life; such as she had
seen it in his bitter maledictions on his hollow friends at the close
of his existence: nay, such as she had seen it,--only more fearful, and
ghastly with the hues of death,--in his last hours; in those hours in
which he had pledged her to the performance of his revenge, and bade her
live not for love but the memory of her sire.
With the sight of the face rushed upon her the dark and solemn
recollections of that time and of that vow. The weakness of love
vanished before the returning force of a sentiment nursed through her
earliest years, fed by her dreams, strengthened by her studies, and
hardened by the daring energies of a nature lofty yet fanatical, into
the rule, the end, nay, the very religion of life! She tore herself
away from the surprised and dismayed Godolphin; she threw herself on her
knees before the picture; her lips moved rapidly; the rapid and brief
prayer for forgiveness was over, and Constance rose a new being. She
turned to Godolphin, and, lifting her arm towards the picture, as she
regarded, with her bright and kindling eyes, the face of her lover; she
said:--
“As you think now, thought he whose voice speaks to you from the canvas;
he, who pursued the path that you would tread; who, through the same
toil, the same pursuit, that you would endure, used the same powers and
the same genius you would command; he, who won,--what you might win also
at last,--the smile of princes, the trust of nobles, the shifting and
sandy elevation which the best, the wisest, and greatest statesmen in
this country, if unbacked by a sordid and caballing faction, can alone
obtain;--he warns you from that hollow distinction,--from its wretched
consummation. Oh, Godolphin!” she continued, subdued, and sinking from
a high-wrought but momentary paroxysm, uncommon to her collected
character, “Oh, Godolphin! I saw that man dying, deserted,
lonely, cursed by his genius, ruined by his prosperity. I saw him
dying,--die,--of a broken and trampled heart. Could I doom another
victim to the same course, and the same perfidy, and the same fate?
Could I, with a silent heart, watch by that victim; could I, viewing his
certain doom, elate him with false hopes?--No, no! fly from me,--from
the thought of such a destiny. Marry one who can bring you wealth, and
support you with rank; _then_ be ambitious if you will. Leave me to
fulfil my doom,--my vow; and to think, however wretched I may be, that I
have not inflicted a permanent wretchedness on you.”
Godolphin sprang forward; but the door closed upon his eyes; and he saw
Constance--as Constance _Vernon_--no more.