ret and shame if I wound, by like means,
another, more especially"--Constance's voice trembled,--"more especially
_you!_"

As she spoke, she turned her eyes on Godolphin, and they were full of
tears. The tenderness of her voice, her look, melted him at once. Was
it to him, indeed, that the haughty Constance addressed the words of
kindness and apology?--to him whose intrinsic circumstances she had
heard described as so unworthy of her, and, his reason told him, with
such justice?

"Oh, Miss Vernon!" said he, passionately; "Miss Vernon--Constance--dear,
dear Constance! dare I call you so? hear me one word. I love you with a
love which leaves me no words to tell it. I know my faults, my poverty,
my unworthiness; but--but--may I--may I hope?"

And all the woman was in Constance's cheek, as she listened. That cheek,
how richly was it dyed! Her eyes drooped; her bosom heaved. How every
word in those broken sentences sank into her heart! never was a tone
forgotten. The child may forget its mother, and the mother desert the
child: but never, never from a woman's heart departs the memory of the
first confession of love from him whom she first loves! She lifted her
eyes, and again withdrew them, and again gazed.

"This must not be," at last she said; "no, no! it is folly, madness in
both!"

"Not so; nay, not so!" whispered Godolphin, in the softest notes of
a voice that could never be harsh. "It may seem folly--madness if you
will, that the brilliant and all-idolized Miss Vernon should listen to
the vows of so lowly an adorer: but try me--prove me, and own--yes, you
_will_ own some years hence, that that folly has been happy beyond the
happiness of prudence or ambition."

"This!" answered Constance, struggling with her emotions; "this is no
spot or hour for such a conference. Let us meet to-morrow--the western
chamber."

"And the hour?"

"Twelve!"

"And I may hope--till then?"

Constance again grew pale; and in a voice that, though it scarcely
left her lips, struck coldness and dismay into his sudden and delighted
confidence, answered,

"No, Percy, there is no hope!--none!"

(1) Then uncommon.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE INTERVIEW.--THE CRISIS OF A LIFE.

The western chamber was that I have mentioned as the one in which
Constance usually fixed her retreat, when neither sociability nor state
summoned her to the more public apartments. I should have said that
Godolphin slept in the house; for, coming from a dis