CHAPTER LXVIII.
THE LAST CONVERSATION BETWEEN GODOLPHIN AND CONSTANCE.--HIS THOUGHTS AND
SOLITARY WALK AMIDST THE SCENES OF HIS YOUTH.--THE LETTER.--THE DEPARTURE.
They had denied themselves to all the visitors who had attacked the
Priory; but on their first arrival, they had deemed it necessary to
conciliate their neighbours by concentrating into one formal act of
hospitality all those social courtesies which they could not persuade
themselves to relinquish their solitude in order singly to perform.
Accordingly, a day had been fixed for one grand fete at the Priory; it was
to follow close on the election, and be considered as in honour of that
event. The evening for this gala succeeded that which I have recorded in
the last chapter. It was with great reluctance that they prepared
themselves to greet this sole interruption of their seclusion; and they
laughed, although they did not laugh cordially, at the serious annoyance
which the giving a ball was for the first time to occasion to persons who
had been giving balls for a succession of years.
The day was remarkably still and close; the sun had not once pierced
through the dull atmosphere, which was charged with the yet silent but
gathering thunder; and as the evening came on, the sullen tokens of an
approaching storm became more and more loweringly pronounced.
"We shall not, I fear, have propitious weather for our festival to-night,"
said Godolphin; "but after a general election, people's nerves are
tolerably hardened: what are the petty fret and tumult of nature, lasting
but an hour, to the angry and everlasting passions of men?"
"A profound deduction from a wet night, dear Percy," said Constance,
smiling.
"Like our friend C----," rejoined Godolphin, in the same vein; "I can
philosophise on the putting on one's gloves, you know:" and therewith
their conversation flowed into a vein singularly contrasted with the
character of the coming events. Time fled on as they were thus engaged
until Constance started up, surprised at the lateness of the hour, to
attend the duties of the toilette.
"Wear this, dearest," said Godolphin, taking a rose from a flower-stand by
the window, "in memory of that ball at Wendover Castle, which although
itself passed bitterly enough for me, has yet left so many happy
recollections." Constance put the rose into her bosom; its leaves were
then all fresh and brilliant--so were her prospects for the future. He
kissed her forehead as they parted;--they parted for the last time.
Godolphin, left alone, turned to the window, which, opening to the ground,
invited him forth among the flowers that studded the grass-plots which
sloped away to the dark and unwavering trees that girded the lawn. That
pause of nature which precedes a storm ever had a peculiar attraction to
his mind; and instinctively he sauntered from the house, wrapped in the
dreaming, half-developed thought which belonged to his temperament.
Mechanically he strayed on until he found himself beside the still lake
which the hollows of the dismantled park embedded. There he paused,
gazing unconsciously on the gloomy shadows which fell from the arches of
the Priory and the tall trees around. Not a ripple stirred the broad
expanse of waters; the birds had gone to rest; no sound, save the voice of
the distant brook that fed the lake beside which, on the first night of
his return to his ancestral home, he had wandered with Constance, broke
the universal silence. That voice was never mute. All else might be
dumb; but that living stream, rushing through its rocky bed, stilled not
its repining music. Like the soul of the landscape is the gush of a fresh
stream; it knows no sleep, no pause; it works for ever--the life, the
cause of life to all around. The great frame of nature may repose, but
the spirit of the waters rests not for a moment. As the soul of the
landscape is the soul of man, in our deepest slumbers its course glides
on, and works unsilent, unslumbering, through its destined channel.
With slow step and folded arms Godolphin moved along. The well-remembered
scenes of his childhood were all before him; the wild verdure of the fern,
the broken ground, with its thousand mimic mounts and valleys, the deep
dell overgrown with matted shrubs and dark as a wizard's cave; the remains
of many a stately vista, where the tender green of the lime showed forth,
even in that dusky light, beneath the richer leaves of the chestnut; all
was familiar and home-breathing to his mind. Fragments of boyish verse,
forgotten for years, rose hauntingly to his remembrance, telling of wild
thoughts, unsatisfied dreams, disappointed hopes.
"But I am happy at last," said he aloud; "yes, happy. I have passed that
bridge of life which divides us from the follies of youth; and better
prospects, and nobler desires, extend before me. What a world of wisdom
in that one saying of Radclyffe's, 'Benevolence is the sole cure to
idealism;' to live for others draws us from demanding miracles for
ourselves. What duty as yet have I fulfilled? I renounced ambition as
unwise, and with it I renounced wisdom itself. I lived for pleasure--I
lived the life of disappointment. Without one vicious disposition, I have
fallen into a hundred vices; I have never been actively selfish, yet
always selfish. I nursed high thoughts--for what end? A poet in heart, a
voluptuary in life. If mine own interest came into clear collision with
that of another, mine I would have sacrificed, but I never asked if the
whole course of my existence was not that of a war with the universal
interest. Too thoughtful to be without a leading principle in life, the
one principle I adopted has been one error. I have tasted all that
imagination can give to earthly possession: youth, health, liberty,
knowledge, love, luxury, pomp. Woman was my first passion,--what woman
have I wooed in vain? I imagined that my career hung upon Constance's
breath--Constance loved and refused me. I attributed my errors to that
refusal; Constance became mine--how have I retrieved them? A vague, a
dim, an unconfessed remorse has pursued me in the memory of Lucilla; yet,
why not have redeemed that fault to her by good to others? What is
penitence not put into action, but the great fallacy in morals? A sin to
one, if irremediable, can only be compensated by a virtue to some one
else. Yet was I to blame in my conduct to Lucilla? Why should conscience
so haunt me at that name? Did I not fly her? Was it not herself who
compelled our union? Did I not cherish, respect, honour, forbear with
her, more than I have since with my wedded Constance? Did I not resolve
to renounce Constance herself, when most loved, for Lucilla's sake alone?
Who prevented that sacrifice--who deserted me--who carved out her own
separate life?--Lucilla herself. No, so far, my sin is light. But ought
I not to have left all things to follow her, to discover her, to force
upon her an independence from want, or possibly from crime? Ah, there was
my sin, and the sin of my nature; the sin, too, of the children of the
world--passive sin. I could sacrifice my happiness, but not my indolence;
I was not ungenerous, I was inert. But is it too late? Can I not yet
search, discover her, and remove from my mind the anxious burthen which
her remembrance imposes on it? For, oh, one thought of remorse linked
with the being who has loved us, is more intolerable to the conscience
than the gravest crime!"
Muttering such thoughts, Godolphin strayed on until the deepening night
suddenly recalled his attention to the lateness of the hour. He turned to
the house and entered his own apartment. Several of the guests had
already come. Godolphin was yet dressing, when a servant knocked at the
door and presented him with a note.
"Lay it on the table," said he to the valet; "it is probably some excuse
about the ball."
"Sir," said the servant, "a lad has just brought it from S----," naming a
village about four miles distant; "and says he is to wait for an answer.
He was ordered to ride as fast as possible."
With some impatience Godolphin took up the note; but the moment his eye
rested on the writing, it fell from his hands; his cheek, his lips, grew
as white as death; his heart seemed to refuse its functions; it was
literally as if life stood still for a moment, as by the force of a sudden
poison. With a strong effort he recovered himself, tore open the note,
and read as follows:
"Percy Godolphin, the hour has arrived-once more we shall meet. I summon
you, fair love, to that meeting--the bed of death. Come! Lucilla
Volktman."
"Don't alarm the countess," said Godolphin to his servant, in a very low,
calm voice; "bring my horse to the postern, and send the bearer of this
note to me."
The messenger appeared--a rough country lad, of about eighteen or twenty.
"You brought this note?"
"I did, your honour."
"From whom?"
"Why, a sort of a strange lady as is lying at the 'Chequers,' and not
expected to live. She be mortal bad, sir, and do run on awesome."
Godolphin pressed his hands convulsively together.
"And how long has she been there?"
"She only came about two hours since, sir; she came in a chaise, sir, and
was taken so ill, that we sent for the doctor directly. He says she can't
get over the night."
Godolphin walked to and fro, without trusting himself to speak, for some
minutes. The boy stood by the door, pulling about his hat, and wondering,
and staring, and thoroughly stupid.
"Did she come alone?"
"Eh, your honour?"
"Was no one with her?"
"Oh, yes! a little nigger girl: she it was sent me with the letter."
"The horse is ready, sir," said the servant; "but had you not better have
the carriage brought out? It looks very black; it must rain shortly, sir;
and the ford between this and S---- is dangerous to cross in so dark a
night."
"Peace!" cried Godolphin, with flashing eyes, and a low convulsive laugh.
"Shall I ride to that death-bed at my ease and leisure?"
He strode rapidly down the stairs, and reached the small postern door: it
was a part of the old building: one of the grooms held his impatient
horse--the swiftest in his splendid stud; and the dim but flaring light,
held by another of the servitors, streamed against the dull heavens and
the imperfectly seen and frowning ruins of the ancient pile.
Godolphin, unconscious of all around, and muttering to himself, leaped on
his steed: the fire glinted from the coursers hoofs; and thus the last
lord of that knightly race bade farewell to his father's halls. Those
words which he had muttered, and which his favourite servant caught and
superstitiously remembered, were the words in Lucilla's note--"The hour
has arrived!"
