for the meeting. He took his
station by the recess of the window: in vain--he could rest in no spot:
he walked to and fro, pausing only for a moment as some object before
him reminded him of past and more tranquil hours. The books he had
admired and which, at his departure, had been left in their usual
receptacle at another part of the house, he now discovered on the
tables: they opened of themselves at the passages he had read aloud to
Constance: those pages, in his presence, she had not seemed to admire;
he was inexpressibly touched to perceive that, in his absence, they had
become dear to her. As he turned with a beating heart from this silent
proof of affection, he was startled by the sudden and almost living
resemblance to Constance, which struck upon him in a full-length picture
opposite--the picture of her father. That picture, by one of the best
of our great modern masters of the art, had been taken of Vernon in
the proudest epoch of his prosperity and fame. He was portrayed in the
attitude in which he had uttered one of the most striking sentences
of one of his most brilliant orations: the hand was raised, the foot
advanced, the chest expanded. Life, energy, command, flashed from the
dark eye, breathed from the dilated nostril, broke from the inspired
lip. That noble brow--those modelled features--that air, so full of
the royalty of genius--how startlingly did they resemble the softer
lineaments of Constance!

Arrested, in spite of himself, by the skill of the limner, and the
characteristic of the portrait Godolphin stood, motionless and gazing,
till the door opened, and Constance herself stood before him. She smiled
faintly, but with sweetness as she approached; and seating herself,
motioned him to a chair at a little distance. He obeyed the gesture in
silence.

"Godolphin!" said she, softly. At the sound of her voice he raised his
eyes from the ground, and fixed them on her countenance with a look so
full of an imploring and earnest meaning, so expressive of the passion,
the suspense of his heart, that Constance felt her voice cease at
once. But he saw as he gazed how powerful had been his influence. Not
a vestige of bloom was on her cheek: her very lips were colourless:
her eyes were swollen with weeping; and though she seemed very calm and
self-possessed, all her wonted majesty of mien was gone. The form seemed
to shrink within itself. Humbleness and sorrow--deep, passionate, but
quiet sorrow--had supplan