AN EVENT OF GREAT IMPORTANCE TO THE PRINCIPAL ACTORS IN THIS
HISTORY.--GODOLPHIN A SECOND TIME LEAVES ENGLAND.
Goldolphin was welcomed with enthusiasm by the London world. His graces,
his manners, his genius, his bon ton, and his bonnes fortunes, were the
theme of every society. Verses imputed to him,--some erroneously, some
truly,--were mysteriously circulated from hand to hand; and every one
envied the fair inspirers to whom they were supposed to be addressed.
It is not my intention to reiterate the wearisome echo of novelists,
who descant on fashion and term it life. No description of rose-coloured
curtains and buhl cabinets--no miniature paintings of boudoirs and
salons--no recital of conventional insipidities, interlarded with
affected criticisms, and honoured by the name of dramatic dialogue,
shall lend their fascination to these pages. Far other and far deeper
aims are mine in stooping to delineate the customs and springs of polite
life. The reader must give himself wholly up to me; he must prepare to
go with me through the grave as through the gay, and unresistingly to
thread the dark and subtle interest which alone I can impart to these
memoirs, or--let him close the book at once. I promise him novelty; but
it is not, when duly scanned, a novelty of a light and frivolous cast.
But throughout that routine of dissipation in which he chased the
phantom Forgetfulness, Godolphin sighed for the time he had fixed on
for leaving the scenes in which it was pursued. Of Constance’s present
existence he heard nothing; of her former triumphs and conquests he
heard everywhere. And when did he ever meet one face, however fair,
which could awaken a single thought of admiration? while hers was
yet all faithfully glassed in his remembrance. I know nothing that
so utterly converts society into “the gallery of pictures,” as the
recollection of one loved and lost. That recollection has but two
cures--Time and the hermitage. Foreigners impute to us the turn for
sentiment; alas! there are no people who have it less. We seek for ever
after amusement; and there is not one popular prose-book in our language
in which the more tender and yearning secrets of the heart form the
subject-matter. The Corinne and the Julie weary us, or we turn them into
sorry jests!
One evening, a little before his departure from England--that a
lingering and vague hope, of which Constance was the object, had
considerably protracted beyond the allotted time--Godolphin was at a
house in which the hostess was a relation to Lord Erpingham.
“Have you heard,” asked Lady G----, “that my cousin Erpingham is to be
married?”
“No, indeed; to whom?” said Godolphin, eagerly. “To Miss Vernon.”
Sudden as was the shock, Godolphin heard, and changed neither hue nor
muscle.
“Are you certain of this?” asked a lady present.
“Quite: Lady Erpingham is my authority; I received the news from herself
this very day.”
“And does she seem pleased with the match?”
“Why, I can scarcely say, for the letter contradicts itself in every
passage. Now, she congratulates herself on having so charming a
daughter-in-law; now, she suddenly stops short to observe what a pity it
is that young men should be so precipitate! Now, she says what a great
match it will be for her dear ward! and now, what a happy one it will
be for Erpingham! In short, she does not know whether to be pleased or
vexed; and that, pour dire vrai, is my case also.”
“Why, indeed,” observed the former speaker, “Miss Vernon has played her
cards well. Lord Erpingham would have been a great match in himself,
with his person and reputation. Ah! she was always an ambitious girl.”
“And a proud one,” said Lady G----. “Well, I suppose Erpingham House
will be the rendezvous to all the blues, and wits, and savans. Miss
Vernon is another Aspasia, I hear.”
“I hate girls who are so designing,” said the lady who spoke before, and
had only one daughter, very ugly, who, at the age of thirty-five, was
about to accept her first offer, and marry a younger son in the Guards.
“I think she’s rather vulgar; for my part, I doubt if--I shall patronise
her.”
“Well, what do _you_ think of it, Mr. Godolphin?--you have seen Miss
Vernon?”
Godolphin was gone.
It was about ten days after this conversation that Godolphin, waiting at
a hotel in Dover the hour at which the packet set sail for Calais, took
up the Morning Post; and the first passage that met his eye was the one
which I transcribe:--
“Marriage in High Life.--On Thursday last, at Wendover Castle, the Earl
of Erpingham, to Constance, only daughter of the celebrated Mr. Vernon.
The bride was dressed, &c., ----” And then followed the trite, yet
pompous pageantry of words--the sounding nothings--with which ladies who
become countesses are knelled into marriage.
“The dream is over!” said Godolphin mournfully, as the paper fell to the
ground; and, burying his face within his hands, he remained motionless
till they came to announce the moment of departure.
And thus Percy Godolphin left, for the second time, his native shores.
When we return to him, what changes will the feelings now awakened
within him, have worked in his character! The drops that trickle within
the cavern harden, yet brighten into spars as they indurate. Nothing is
more polished, nothing more cold, than that wisdom which is the work
of former tears, of former passions, and is formed within a musing and
solitary mind!