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and David Widger
GODOLPHIN, Volume 6.
By Edward Bulwer Lytton
(Lord Lytton)
If Constance most bitterly reproached herself, or rather her slackenednerves, her breaking health, that she had before another—that other too,not of her own sex—betrayed her dependence upon even her husband's heartfor happiness; if her conscience instantly took alarm at the error (and itwas indeed a grave one) which had revealed to any man her domestic griefs;yet, on the other hand, she could not control the wild thrill of delightwith which she recalled those words that had so solemnly assured her shewas still beloved by Godolphin. She had a firm respect in Radclyffe'spenetration and his sincerity, and knew that he was one neither to deceiveher nor be deceived himself. His advice, too, came home to her. Had she,indeed, with sufficient address, sufficient softness, insinuated herselfinto Godolphin's nature? Neglected herself, had she not neglected inreturn? She asked herself this question, and was never weary of examiningher past conduct. That Radclyffe, the austere and chilling Radclyffe,entertained for her any feeling warmer than friendship, she never for aninstant suspected; that suspicion alone would have driven him from herpresence for ever. And although there had been a time, in his bright andexulting youth, when Radclyffe had not been without those arts which win,in the opposite sex, affection from aversion itself, those arts doubled,ay, a hundredfold, in their fascination, would not have availed him withthe pure but disappointed Constance, even had a sense of right and wrongvery different from the standard he now acknowledged permitted him toexert them. So that his was rather the sacrifice of impulse, than of anytriumph that impulse could afterwards have gained him.
Many, and soft and sweet were now the recollections of Constance. Herheart flew back to her early love among the shades of Wendover; to thefirst confession of the fair enthusiastic boy, when he offered at hershrine a mind, a genius, a heart capable of fruits which the indolence ofafter-life, and the lethargy of disappointed hope, had blighted beforetheir time.
If he was now so deaf to what she considered the nobler, because morestirring, excitements of life, was she not in some measure answerable forthe supineness? Had there not been a day in which he had vowed to toil,to labour, to sacrifice the very character of his mind, for a union withher? Was she, after all, was she right to adhere so rigidly to herfather's dying words, and to that vow afterwards confirmed by her ownpride and bitterness of soul? She looked to her father's portrait for ananswer; and that daring and eloquent face seemed, for the first time, coldand unanswering to her appeal.
In such meditations the hours passed, and midnight came on withoutConstance having quitted her apartment. She now summoned her woman, andinquired if Godolphin was at home. He had come in about an hour since,and, complaining of fatigue, had retired to rest. Constance againdismissed her maid, and stole to his apartment. He was already asleep,his cheek rested on his arm, and his hair fell wildly over a brow that nowworked under the influence of his dreams. Constance put the light softlydown, and seating herself beside him, watched over a sleep which, if ithad come suddenly on him, was not the less unquiet and disturbed. Atlength he muttered, "Yes, Lu