CHAPTER XLIII.
LOVE STRONG AS DEATH, AND NOT LESS BITTER.
When Godolphin returned home the door was open, as Lucilla had left it,
and he went at once into his apartment. He hastened to the table on which
he had left, with the negligence arising from the emotions of the moment,
the letter to Constance,--the paper on which Lucilla bad written her name
alone met his eye. While yet stunned and amazed, his servant and
Lucilla's entered: in a few moments he had learned all they had to tell
him; the rest Lucilla's handwriting did indeed sufficiently explain. He
comprehended all; and, in a paroxysm of alarm and remorse, he dispersed
his servants, and hurried himself in search of her. He went to the house
of her relations; they had not seen or heard of her. It was now night,
and every obstacle in the way of his search presented itself. Not a clue
could be traced; or, sometimes following a description that seemed to him
characteristic, he chased, and found some wanderer--how unlike Lucilla!
Towards daybreak he returned home, after a vain and weary search; and his
only comfort was in learning from her attendant that she had about her a
sum of money which he knew would in Italy always purchase safety and
attention. Yet, alone, at night, in the streets,--so utter a stranger as
she was to the world,--so young and so lovely--he shuddered, he gasped for
breath at the idea. Might she destroy herself? That hideous question
forced itself upon him; he could not exclude it: he trembled when he
recalled her impassioned and keen temper; and when, in remembering the
tone and words of his letter to Constance, he felt how desperate a pang
every sentence must have inflicted upon her. And, indeed, even his
imagination could not equal the truth, when it attempted to sound the
depths of her wounded feelings. He only returned home to sally out again.
He now employed the police, and those most active and vigilant agents that
at Rome are willing to undertake all enterprises;--he could not but feel
assured of discovering her.
Still, however, noon--evening came on, and no tidings. As he once more
returned home, in the faint hope that some intelligence might await him
there, his servant hurried eagerly out to him with a letter--it was from
Lucilla, and it was worthy of her: give it to the reader.
LUCILLA'S LETTER.
"I have read your letter to another! Are not these words sufficient to
tell you all? All? no! you never, never, never can tell how crushed and
broken my heart is. Why?--because you are a man, and because you have
never loved as I loved. Yes, Godolphin, I knew that I was not one whom
you could love. I am a poor, ignorant, untutored girl, with nothing at my
heart but a great world of love which I could never tell. Thou saidst I
could not comprehend thee: alas! how much was there--is there--in my
nature--in my feelings, which have been, and ever will be, unfathomable to
thy sight!
"But all this matters not; the tie between us is eternally broken. Go,
dear, dear Godolphin! link thyself to that happier other one--seemingly so
much more thine equal than the lowly and uncultivated Lucilla. Grieve not
for me; you have been kind, most kind, to me. You have taken away hope,
but you have given me pride in its stead;--the blow which has crushed my
heart has given strength to my mind. Were you and I left alone on the
earth, we must still be apart; I could never, never live with you again;
my world is not your world; when our hearts have ceased to be in common,
what of union is there left to us? Yet it would be something if, since
the future is shut out from me, you had not also deprived me of the past:
I have not even the privilege of looking back! What! all the while my
heart was lavishing itself upon thee--all the while I had no other
thought, no other dream but thee--all the while I sat by thy side, and
watched thee, hanging on thy wish, striving to foresee thy thoughts--all
the while I was the partner of thy days, and at night my bosom was thy
pillow, and I could not sleep from the bliss of thinking thee so near me:
thy heart was then indeed away from me: thy thoughts estranged; I was to
thee only an encumbrance--a burthen, from which thy sigh was to be free!
Can I ever look back, then, to those hours we spent together? All that
vast history of the past is but one record of bitterness and shame. And
yet I cannot blame thee; it were something if I could: in proportion as
you loved me not, you were kind and generous; and God will bless you for
that kindness to the poor orphan. A harsh word, a threatening glance, I
never had the affliction to feel from thee. Tracing the blighted past, I
am only left to sadden at that gentleness which never came from love!
"Go, Godolphin--I repeat the prayer in all humbleness and sincerity--go to
her whom thou lovest, perhaps as I loved thee; go, and in your happiness I
shall feel at last something of happiness myself. We part for ever, but
there is no unkindness between us; there is no reproach that one can make
against the other. If I have sinned, it has been against Heaven and not
thee; and thou--why, even against Heaven mine was all the fault--the
rashness the madness! You will return to your native land; to that proud
England, of which I have so often questioned you, and which, even in your
answers, seems to me so cold and desolate a spot,--a land so hostile to
love. There, in your new ties, you will learn new objects, and you will
be too busy, and too happy, for your thoughts to turn to me again. Too
happy?--No, I wish I could think you would be; but I whom you deny to
possess sympathies with you--I have at least penetrated so far into your
heart as to fear that, come what may, you will never find the happiness
you ask. You exact too much, you dream too fondly, not to be discontented
with the truth. What has happened to me must happen to my rival--will
happen to you throughout life. Your being is in one world, your soul is
in another. Alas! how foolishly I run on, as if seeking in your nature
and not circumstances, the blow that separates its.
"I shall hasten to a conclusion. I have gained a refuge in this convent;
seek me not, follow me not, I implore, I adjure thee; it can serve no
purpose. I would not see thee; the veil is already drawn between thy
world and me, and it only remains, in kindness and in charity, to bid each
other farewell. Farewell, then! I think I am now with thee; I think my
lips have breathed aside thy long hair, and cling to thy fair temples with
a sister's---that word, at least, is left me--a sister's kiss. As we
stood together, at the grey dawn, when we last parted--as then, in sorrow
and in tears, I hid my face in thy bosom--as then, unconscious of what was
to come, I poured forth my assurances of faithful unswerving thought--as
thrice thou didst tear thyself from me and didst thrice return--and as,
through the comfortless mists of morn I gazed after thee, and fancied for
hours that thy last words yet rang in my ear; so now, but with different
feelings, I once more bid thee farewell--farewell for ever!"
