her
earliest years, fed by her dreams, strengthened by her studies, and
hardened by the daring energies of a nature lofty yet fanatical, into
the rule, the end, nay, the very religion of life! She tore herself
away from the surprised and dismayed Godolphin; she threw herself on her
knees before the picture; her lips moved rapidly; the rapid and brief
prayer for forgiveness was over, and Constance rose a new being. She
turned to Godolphin, and, lifting her arm towards the picture, as she
regarded, with her bright and kindling eyes, the face of her lover; she
said:--

"As you think now, thought he whose voice speaks to you from the canvas;
he, who pursued the path that you would tread; who, through the same
toil, the same pursuit, that you would endure, used the same powers and
the same genius you would command; he, who won,--what you might win also
at last,--the smile of princes, the trust of nobles, the shifting and
sandy elevation which the best, the wisest, and greatest statesmen in
this country, if unbacked by a sordid and caballing faction, can alone
obtain;--he warns you from that hollow distinction,--from its wretched
consummation. Oh, Godolphin!" she continued, subdued, and sinking from
a high-wrought but momentary paroxysm, uncommon to her collected
character, "Oh, Godolphin! I saw that man dying, deserted,
lonely, cursed by his genius, ruined by his prosperity. I saw him
dying,--die,--of a broken and trampled heart. Could I doom another
victim to the same course, and the same perfidy, and the same fate?
Could I, with a silent heart, watch by that victim; could I, viewing his
certain doom, elate him with false hopes?--No, no! fly from me,--from
the thought of such a destiny. Marry one who can bring you wealth, and
support you with rank; _then_ be ambitious if you will. Leave me to
fulfil my doom,--my vow; and to think, however wretched I may be, that I
have not inflicted a permanent wretchedness on you."

Godolphin sprang forward; but the door closed upon his eyes; and he saw
Constance--as Constance _Vernon_--no more.

CHAPTER XIX.

A RARE AND EXQUISITE OF THE BEST (WORST) SCHOOL.--A CONVERSATION ON A
THOUSAND MATTERS.--THE DECLENSION OF THE "SUI PROFUSUS" INTO THE "ALIENI
APPETENS."

There was, in the day I now refer to, a certain house in Chesterfield
Street, Mayfair, which few young men anxious for the eclat of society
passed without a wish for the acquaintance of the inmate. To that small
and di