the pale light of that crude
and cheerless dawn. When Vernon woke, his eyes, glazed with death,
rolled faintly towards her, fixing and dimming in their sockets as they
gazed;--his throat rattled. But for one moment his voice found vent; a
ray shot across his countenance as he uttered his last words--words that
sank at once and eternally to the core of his daughter's heart--words
that ruled her life, and sealed her destiny: "Constance, remember--the
Oath--Revenge!"

CHAPTER II.

REMARK ON THE TENURE OF LIFE.--THE COFFINS OF GREAT MEN SELDOM
NEGLECTED.--CONSTANCE TAKES REFUGE WITH LADY ERPINGHAM.--THE HEROINE'S
ACCOMPLISHMENTS AND CHARACTER.-THE MANOEUVRING TEMPERAMENT.

What a strange life this is! what puppets we are! How terrible an enigma
is Fate! I never set my foot without my door, but what the fearful
darkness that broods over the next moment rushes upon me. How awful an
event may hang over our hearts! The sword is always above us, seen or
invisible!

And with this life--this scene of darkness and dreadsome men would have
us so contented as to desire, to ask for no other!

Constance was now without a near relation in the world. But her father
predicted rightly: vanity supplied the place of affection. Vernon, who
for eighteen months preceding his death had struggled with the sharpest
afflictions of want--Vernon, deserted in life by all, was interred with
the insulting ceremonials of pomp and state. Six nobles bore his pall:
long trains of carriages attended his funeral: the journals were filled
with outlines of his biography and lamentations at his decease. They
buried him in Westminster Abbey, and they made subscriptions for a
monument in the very best sort of marble. Lady Erpingham, a distant
connection of the deceased, invited Constance to live with her; and
Constance of course consented, for she had no alternative.

On the day that she arrived at Lady Erpingham's house, in Hill Street,
there were several persons present in the drawing-room.

"I fear, poor girl," said Lady Erpingham,--for they were talking of
Constance's expected arrival,--"I fear that she will be quite abashed by
seeing so many of us, and under such unhappy circumstances."

"How old is she?" asked a beauty.

"About thirteen, I believe."

"Handsome?"

"I have not seen her since she was seven years old. She promised then to
be very beautiful: but she was a remarkably shy, silent child."

"Miss Vernon," said the groom of the c