CHAPTER VIII.
DOUBTS.
Ask me not, love, what may be in my heart
When, gazing on thee, sudden teardrops start;
When only joy should come where'er thou art.
The human heart is compassed with fears;
And joy is tremulous, for it enspheres
An earth-born star, which melts away in tears.
I am too happy for a careless mirth—
Hence anxious thoughts, and sorrowful, have birth;
Who looks from heaven, is half returned to earth.
How powerless is my fond anxiety!
I feel I could lay down my life for thee,
Yet feel how vain such sacrifice might be.
Hence do I tremble in my happiness;
Hurried and dim the unknown hours press:
I question of a past I dare not guess.
Lord Norbourne was right in supposing that the illness of his daughter arose from the mind, or rather from the heart. If any thing, she exaggerated her own deficiencies; the very intensity of her affection for her husband made her feel as if he deserved even her ideal of perfection. Her introduction into the world had brought its usual bitter fruit—experience. With all the simplicity of seclusion, and a neglected education, Constance had natural talents, and that fine sense which originates in fine feeling. She shrank from talking herself: but she listened with an attention the more keen, as it was undisturbed by most of the usual distractions. Chiefly accustomed to the society of her father and her husband, her mind, unconsciously both to herself and to them, was every day acquiring new powers, only restrained by her naturally timid temper.
But was she happier for her knowledge? Alas, no! she learnt to doubt and to fear. The sneers she now so often heard pointed at others, she took for granted would, also, not spare herself; and what effect might they not have on Norbourne? She had overheard more than one cruel sarcasm on her personal appearance: she heard beauty so vaunted, that it appeared to her necessary to Love.
Her delicate frame was utterly incapable of supporting the fatigue and late hours of the society in which she so suddenly found herself placed; and the exertion to please, and to appear pleased, produced that usual reaction which is so oppressive to the spirits. She had no female friend or relative in whom she could confide; and the greater portion of her time was necessarily passed alone. To catch the last sound of Norbourne's footstep; to spring forward delighted on his return; to watch his every look, and treasure every word; to surround him with a thousand tender cares which have only existence in feminine solicitude—so was her whole existence employed. She would have made any sacrifice to gratify even his slightest wish; or, rather, she would not have made any: for, nothing to her could have appeared a sacrifice, if for him.
Her husband was not—could any man be?—insensible to a devotion so meek and so entire. To hear her express a wish, and to gratify it, was the same thing. His kindness was almost womanly in its anxiety and delicacy: he gave up amusements and engagements to sit, evening after evening, by her languid couch: but one thing was wanting—love alone can answer love; and, kind as he was, attentive as he was, the seeking heart of Constance pined with a perpetual want.
Her meeting with Lady Marchmont gave a sudden clue to an unhappiness, I should rather say a want of happiness, unacknowledged even to herself. A terrible fear which, the more she thought it over, grew more like truth, took possession of her mind. Courtenaye had loved the brilliant stranger whom he now met with such obvious reluctance. What could have separated them? To Constance it appeared impossible that Courtenaye could ever have been rejected; but, whatever the cause had been, to her it mattered not: she looked only to the hopelessness of ever inspiring love in one who had loved Lady Marchmont. She tortured herself by recalling every word and look of her too gifted rival; she remembered her as she sat in the window-seat, gleams of sunshine reflected on her glossy black hair, black with that glancing purple bloom as it is only seen elsewhere in nature on the neck of the raven. The bright face, yet brighter with animation—Constance remembered its effect on herself, as well as the circle of which the lovely countess was the idol. She hid her face on her arm, as if by so doing she could shut out the image which pursued her. Just then Norbourne entered the chamber; and, fancying from her attitude that his wife was asleep, he approached softly, and drew a large shawl around her. This little act completely overcame Constance: the tears rushed into her eyes, and, rising up, she hastily leant her head on his shoulder to conceal them.
"You must not sit up for me to-night," said he, "for I shall be late; and, dearest, you are not strong enough for our London hours."
There was that in this little speech that curdled the blood at her heart.
"Lady Marchmont's dinners are very gay, I believe?" replied she, in a low and constrained voice.
"So I hear," answered Courtenaye: "but, as you are not well enough to go, I do not feel bound to go either. My engagement is at the Haymarket theatre, to witness the fate of a new play by Walter Maynard, whose poems we have so often read together."
"Oh, how I hope it will succeed!" exclaimed she: her sudden feeling of relief giving unusual energy to her words.
"I hope so, indeed!" replied her husband: "but now, Constance, be a good child, and go to bed; for, I forewarn you, I will tell you nothing about it till to-morrow, at the hour
'When lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake,
And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake.'"
He then left her, and Constance held her breath to catch the last sound of his receding steps.
"He is, at least, not gone to Lady Marchmont's," murmured she; but, a moment after, she reproached herself for her joy. What! could she wish him to give up an amusement? Perhaps he had seen her dislike, and had yielded to it: she could not bear to think that he had made the least sacrifice for her. She rose from her seat, and began to pace the room with hurried and agitated steps; suddenly she stopped, and earnestly contemplated a picture of her husband, that hung opposite.
"How handsome he is!" exclaimed she, despondingly:" how well he looks his noble and ancient race!"
She then turned to a mirror beside, and gazed on her own countenance: she could not see its sweet expression, she only saw features contracted with anxiety, a cheek pale as death, and eyes filled with tears. The contrast was too painful; and, sinking back on the couch, gave way to a passionate burst of tears. Again she rose, but it was to drop on her knees, her hands clasped in earnest prayer.
"My God," she whispered, "I am but what thou hast willed I should be! Forgive the sorrow that questions of thy righteous pleasure; forgive the human and sinful nature that murmurs when it should submit: let me not be punished in him. Father of mercies! pardon the prayer that asks, how humbly, how fervently, for his—for my husband's happiness!"