THE DECLARATION.--THE APPROACHING NUPTIALS.--IS THE IDEALIST CONTENTED?
As Godolphin returned to health, and, day after day, the presence of
Constance, her soft tones, her deep eyes, grew on him, renewing their
ancient spells, the reader must perceive that bourne to which events
necessarily tended. For some weeks not a word that alluded to the
Siren’s Cave was uttered by either; but when that allusion came at last
from Godolphin’s lips, the next moment he was kneeling beside Constance,
her hand surrendered to his, and her proud cheek all bathed in the
blushes of sixteen.
“And so,” said Saville, “you, Percy Godolphin, are at last the accepted
lover of Constance, Countess of Erpingham. When is the wedding to be?”
“I know not,” replied Godolphin, musingly.
“Well, I almost envy you; you will be very happy for six weeks, and
that’s something in this disagreeable world. Yet now, I look on you,
I grow reconciled to myself again; you do not seem so happy as that I,
Augustus Saville, should envy you while my digestion lasts. What are you
thinking of?”
“Nothing,” replied Godolphin, vacantly; the words of Lucilla were
weighing at his heart, like a prophecy working towards its fulfilment:
“Come what may, you will never find the happiness you ask: you exact too
much.”
At that moment Lady Erpingham’s page entered with a note from Constance,
and a present of flowers. No one ever wrote half so beautifully, so
spiritually as Constance, and to Percy the wit was so intermingled with
the tenderness!
“No,” said he, burying his lips among the flowers; “no! I discard the
foreboding; with you I must be happy!” But conscience, still unsilenced,
whispered Lucilla!
The marriage was to take place at Rome. The day was fixed; and, owing
to Constance’s rank, beauty and celebrity, the news of the event created
throughout “the English in Italy” no small sensation. There was a great
deal of gossip, of course, on the occasion; and some of this gossip
found its way to the haughty ears of Constance. It was said that she had
made a strange match--that it was a curious weakness in one so proud
and brilliant, to look no loftier than a private and not very wealthy
gentleman; handsome, indeed, and reputed clever; but one who had never
distinguished himself in anything--who never would!
Constance was alarmed and stung, not at the vulgar accusation, the
paltry sneer, but at the prophecy relating to Godolphin: “he had never
distinguished himself in anything--he never would.” Rank, wealth, power,
Constance felt these she wanted not, these she could command of herself;
but she felt also that a nobler vanity of her nature required that the
man of her mature and second choice should not be one, in repute, of
that mere herd, above whom, in reality, his genius so eminently exalted
him. She deemed it essential to her future happiness that Godolphin’s
ambition should be aroused, that he should share her ardour for those
great objects that she felt would for ever be dear to her.
“I love Rome!” said she, passionately, one day, as accompanied by
Godolphin, she left the Vatican; “I feel my soul grow larger amidst its
ruins. Elsewhere, through Italy, we live in the present, but here in the
past.”
“Say not that that is the better life, dear Constance; the present--can
we surpass it?”
Constance blushed, and thanked her lover with a look that told him he
was understood.
“Yet,” said she, returning to the subject, “who can breathe the air that
is rife with glory, and not be intoxicated with emulation? Ah, Percy!”
“Ah, Constance! and what wouldst thou have of me? Is it not glory enough
to be thy lover?”
“Let the world be as proud of my choice as I am.” Godolphin frowned; he
penetrated in those words to Constance’s secret meaning. Accustomed to
be an idol from his boyhood, he resented the notion that he had need of
exertion to render him worthy even of Constance; and sensible that it
might be thought he made an alliance beyond his just pretensions, he
was doubly tenacious as to his own claims. Godolphin frowned, then, and
turned away in silence. Constance sighed; she felt that she might not
renew the subject. But, after a pause, Godolphin himself continued it.
“Constance,” said he, in a low firm voice, “let us understand each
other. You are all to me in the world; fame, and honor, and station and
happiness. Am I, also, that all to you? If there be any thought at your
heart which whispers you, ‘You might have served your ambition
better; you have done wrong in yielding to love and love only,’--then,
Constance, pause; it is not too late.”
“Do I deserve this, Percy?”
“You drop words sometimes,” answered Godolphin, “that seem to indicate
that you think the world may cavil at your choice, and that some
exertion on my part is necessary to maintain your dignity. Constance,
need I say, again and again, that I adore the very dust you tread on?
But I have a pride, a self-respect, beneath which I cannot stoop; if
you really think or feel this, I will not condescend to receive even
happiness from you: let us part.”
Constance saw his lips white and quivering as he spoke; her heart smote
her, her pride vanished: she sank on his shoulder, and forgot even
ambition; nay, while she inly murmured at his sentiment, she felt it
breathed a sort of nobility that she could not but esteem. She strove
then to lull to rest all her more worldly anxieties for the future; to
hope that, cast on the exciting stage of English ambition, Godolphin
must necessarily be stirred despite his creed; and if she sometimes
doubted, sometimes despaired of this, she felt at least that his
presence had become dearer to her than all things. Nay, she checked her
own enthusiasm, her own worship of fame, since they clashed with his
opinions; so marvellously and insensibly had Love bowed down the proud
energies and the lofty soul of the daughter of John Vernon.