The short conversation recorded in the last chapter could not but show to
Godolphin the dangerous ground on which his fidelity to Lucilla rested.
Never before,--no, not in the young time of their first passion, had
Constance seemed to him so lovely or so worthy of love. Her manners now
were so much more soft and unreserved than they had necessarily been at a
period when Constance had resolved not to listen to his addresses or her
own heart, that the only part of her character that had ever repulsed his
pride or offended his tastes seemed vanished for ever. A more subdued and
gentle spirit had descended on her surpassing beauty, and the change was
of an order that Percy Godolphin could especially appreciate. And the
world, for which he owned reluctantly that she yet lived too much, had,
nevertheless, seemed rather to enlarge and animate the natural nobleness
of her mind, than to fritter it down to the standard of its common
votaries. When she spoke he delighted in, even while he dissented from,
the high and bold views which she conceived. He loved her indignation of
all that was mean and low-her passion for all that was daring and exalted.
Never was he cast down from the height of the imaginative part of his love
by hearing from her lips one petty passion or one sordid desire; much
about her was erroneous, but all was lofty and generous--even in error.
And the years that had divided them had only taught him to feel more
deeply how rare was the order of her character, and how impossible it was
ever to behold her like. All the sentiments, faculties, emotions, which
in his affection for Lucilla had remained dormant, were excited into full
play the moment he was in the presence of Constance. She engrossed no
petty portion--she demanded and obtained the whole empire--of his soul.
And against this empire he had now to contend! Torn as he was by a
thousand conflicting emotions, a letter from Lucilla was suddenly put into
his hands; its contents were as follows:--

LUCILLA'S LETTER.