THE EMPIRE OF TIME AND OF LOVE.--THE PROUD CONSTANCE GROWN WEARY AND
HUMBLE.--AN ORDEAL.
About this time the fine constitution of Lady Erpingham began to feel
the effects of that life which, at once idle and busy, is the most
exhausting of all. She suffered under no absolute illness; she was free
from actual pain; but a fever crept over her at night, and a languid
debility succeeded it the next day. She was melancholy and dejected;
tears came into her eyes without a cause; a sudden noise made her
tremble; her nerves were shaken,--terrible disease, which marks a new
epoch in life, which is the first token that our youth is about to leave
us!
It is in sickness that we feel our true reliance on others, especially
if it is of that vague and not dangerous character when those around
us are not ashamed or roused into attendance; when the care, and the
soothing, and the vigilance, are the result of that sympathy which true
and deep love only feels. This thought broke upon Constance as she sat
alone one morning in that mood when books cannot amuse, nor music lull,
nor luxury soothe--the mood of an aching memory and a spiritless frame.
Above her, and over the mantelpiece of her favourite room, hung that
picture of her father which I have before described; it had been long
since removed from Wendover Castle to London, for Constance wished it to
be frequently in her sight. “Alas!” thought she, gazing upon the proud
and animated brow that bent down upon her; “Alas! though in a different
sphere, thy lot, my father, has been mine;--toil unrepaid, affection
slighted, sacrifices forgotten;--a harder lot in part; for thou hadst,
at least, in thy stirring and magnificent career, continued excitement
and perpetual triumph. But I, a woman, shut out by my sex from contest,
from victory, am left only the thankless task to devise the rewards
which others are to enjoy; the petty plot, the poor intrigue, the toil
without the honour, the humiliation without the revenge;--yet have I
worked in thy cause, my father, and thou--thou, couldst thou see my
heart, wouldst pity and approve me.”
As Constance turned away her eyes, they fell on the opposite mirror,
which reflected her still lofty but dimmed and faded beauty; the worn
cheek, the dejected eye, those lines and hollows which tell the
progress of years! There are certain moments when the time we have been
forgetting makes its march suddenly apparent to our own eyes; when the
change we have hitherto marked not stares upon us rude and abrupt; we
almost fancy those lines, these wrinkles, planted in a single hour so
unperceived have they been before. And such a moment was this to
the beautiful Constance: she started at her own likeness, and turned
involuntarily from the unflattering mirror. Beside it, on her table,
lay a locket, given her by Godolphin just before they married, and
containing his hair; it was a simple trifle, and the simplicity
seemed yet more striking amidst the costly and modern jewels that were
scattered round it. As she looked on it, her heart, all woman still,
flew back to the day on which, whispering eternal love, he hung it round
her neck. “Ah, happy days! would that they could return!” sighed the
desolate schemer; and she took the locket, kissed it, and softened by
all the numberless recollections of the past, wept silently over it.
“And yet,” she said, after a pause, and wiping away her tears, “and yet
this weakness is unworthy of me. Lone, sad, ill, broken in frame and
spirit as I am, he comes not near me; I am nothing to him, nothing to
any one in the wide world. My heart, my heart, reconcile thyself to thy
fate!--what thou hast been from thy cradle, that shalt thou be to my
grave. I have not even the tenderness of a child to look to--the future
is all blank!”
Constance was yet half yielding to, half struggling with, these
thoughts, when Stainforth Radclyffe (to whom she was never denied) was
suddenly announced. Time, which, sooner or later, repays perseverance,
although in a deceitful coin, had brought to Radclyffe a solid earnest
of future honors. His name had risen high in the science of his country;
it was equally honoured by the many and the few; he had become a marked
man, one of whom all predicted a bright hereafter. He had not yet, it
is true, entered Parliament--usually the great arena in which English
reputations are won--but it was simply because he had refused to enter
it under the auspices of any patron; and his political knowledge, his
depths of thought, and his stern, hard, ambitious mind were not the less
appreciated and acknowledged. Between him and Constance friendship had
continued to strengthen, and the more so as their political sentiments
were in a great measure the same, although originating in different
causes--hers from passion, his from reflection.
Hastily Constance turned aside her face, and brushed away her tears,
as Radclyffe approached; and then seeming to busy herself amongst some
papers that lay scattered on her escritoire, and gave her an excuse
for concealing in part her countenance, she said, with a constrained
cheerfulness, “I am happy you are come to relieve my ennui; I have been
looking over letters, written so many years ago, that I have been forced
to remember how soon I shall cease to be young; no pleasant reflection
for any one, much less a woman.”
“I am at a loss for a compliment in return, as you may suppose,”
answered Radclyffe; “but Lady Erpingham deserves a penance for even
hinting at the possibility of being ever less charming than she is; so I
shall hold my tongue.”
“Alas!” said Constance, gravely, “how little, save the mere triumphs of
youth and beauty, is left to our sex! How much, nay, how entirely, in
all other and loftier objects, is our ambition walled in and fettered!
The human mind must have its aim, its aspiring; how can your sex blame
us, then, for being frivolous when no aim, no aspiring, save those of
frivolity, are granted us by society?”
“And is love frivolous?” said Radclyffe; “is the empire of the heart
nothing?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Constance, with energy; “for the empire never lasts.
We are slaves to the empire we would found; we wish to be loved, but
we only succeed in loving too well ourselves. We lay up our all--our
thoughts, hopes, emotions-all the treasures of our hearts--in one spot;
and when we would retire from the deceits and cares of life, we find the
sanctuary walled against us--we love, and are loved no longer!”
Constance had turned round with the earnestness of the feeling she
expressed; and her eyes, still wet with tears, her flushed cheek, her
quivering lip, struck to Radclyffe’s heart more than her words. He rose
involuntarily; his own agitation was marked; he moved several
steps towards Constance, and then checked the impulse, and muttered
indistinctly to himself.
“No,” said Constance, mournfully, and scarcely heeding him--“it is in
vain for us to be ambitious. We only deceive ourselves; we are not
stern and harsh enough for the passion. Touch our affections, and we are
recalled at once to the sense of our weakness; and I--I--would to God
that I were a humble peasant girl, and not--not what I am!”
So saying, the lofty Constance sank down, overpowered with the
bitterness of her feelings, and covered her face with her hands. Was
Radclyffe a man that he could see this unmoved?--that he could hear
those beautiful lips breathe complaints for the want of love, and not
acknowledge the love that burned at his own heart? Long, secretly,
resolutely, had he struggled against the passion for Constance, which
his frequent intercourse with her had fed, and which his consciousness,
that in her was the only parallel to himself that he had ever met with
in her sex, had first led him to form; and now lone, neglected, sad,
this haughty woman wept over her unloved lot in his presence, and still
he was not at her feet! He spoke not, moved not, but his breath heaved
thick, and his face was as pale as death. He conquered himself.
All within Radclyffe obeyed the idol he had worshipped, even before
Constance; all within him, if ardent and fiery, was also high and
generous. The acuteness of his reason permitted him no self-sophistried;
and he would have laid his head on the block rather than breathe a word
of that love which he knew, from the moment it was confessed, would
become unworthy of Constance and himself.
There was a pause. Lady Erpingham, ashamed, confounded at her own
weakness, recovered herself slowly and in silence. Radclyffe at length
spoke; and his voice, at first trembling and indistinct, grew, as he
proceeded, clear and earnest.
“Never,” said he, “shall I forget the confidence your emotions have
testified in my--my friendship; I am about to deserve it. Do not, my
dear friend (let me so call you), do not forget that life is too short
for misunderstandings in which happiness is concerned. You believe
that--that Godolphin does not repay the affection you have borne him:
do not be angry, dear Lady Erpingham; I feel it indelicate in me to
approach that subject, but my regard for you emboldens me. I know
Godolphin’s heart; he may seem light, neglectful, but he loves you as
deeply as ever; he loves you entirely.”
Constance, humbled as she was, listened in breathless silence; her
cheek burned with blushes, and those blushes were at once to Radclyffe a
torture and a reward.
“At this moment,” continued he, with constrained calmness, “at this
moment he fancies in you that very coldness you lament in him. Pardon
me, Lady Erpingham; but Godolphin’s nature is wayward, mysterious, and
exacting. Have you consulted, have you studied it sufficiently? Note it
well, soothe it; and if his love can repay you, you will be repaid. God
bless you, dearest Lady Erpingham.”
In a moment more Radclyffe had left the apartment.