When Godolphin returned home the door was open, as Lucilla had left it,
and he went at once into his apartment. He hastened to the table on which
he had left, with the negligence arising from the emotions of the moment,
the letter to Constance,--the paper on which Lucilla bad written her name
alone met his eye. While yet stunned and amazed, his servant and
Lucilla's entered: in a few moments he had learned all they had to tell
him; the rest Lucilla's handwriting did indeed sufficiently explain. He
comprehended all; and, in a paroxysm of alarm and remorse, he dispersed
his servants, and hurried himself in search of her. He went to the house
of her relations; they had not seen or heard of her. It was now night,
and every obstacle in the way of his search presented itself. Not a clue
could be traced; or, sometimes following a description that seemed to him
characteristic, he chased, and found some wanderer--how unlike Lucilla!
Towards daybreak he returned home, after a vain and weary search; and his
only comfort was in learning from her attendant that she had about her a
sum of money which he knew would in Italy always purchase safety and
attention. Yet, alone, at night, in the streets,--so utter a stranger as
she was to the world,--so young and so lovely--he shuddered, he gasped for
breath at the idea. Might she destroy herself? That hideous question
forced itself upon him; he could not exclude it: he trembled when he
recalled her impassioned and keen temper; and when, in remembering the
tone and words of his letter to Constance, he felt how desperate a pang
every sentence must have inflicted upon her. And, indeed, even his
imagination could not equal the truth, when it attempted to sound the
depths of her wounded feelings. He only returned home to sally out again.
He now employed the police, and those most active and vigilant agents that
at Rome are willing to undertake all enterprises;--he could not but feel
assured of discovering her.