but his from whom I take my name; were I the same in all things, mind and
heart, save in one feeling, one remembrance, one object--that I am now;
Heaven is my witness that I would not cast a thought upon poverty--upon
privation: that I would--nay, I do--I do confide in your vows, your
affection. If you have erred, I know it not. If any but you tell me you
have erred, I believe them not. You I trust wholly and implicitly.
Heaven, I say, is my witness that, did I obey the voice of my selfish
heart, I would gladly, proudly, share and follow your fortunes. You
mistake me if you think sordid and vulgar ambition can only influence me.
No! I could be worthy of you! The daughter of John Vernon could be a
worthy wife to the man of indigence and genius. In your poverty I could
soothe you; in your labour I could support you; in your reverses console,
in your prosperity triumph. But--but, it must not be. Go,
Godolphin--dear Godolphin! There are thousands better and fairer than I
am, who will do for you as I would have done; but who possess the power I
have not--who, instead of sharing, can raise your fortunes. Go!--and if
it comfort, if it soothe you, believe that I have not been insensible to
your generosity, your love. My best wishes, my fondest prayers, my
dearest hopes, are yours."

Blinded by her tears, subdued by her emotions, Constance was still
herself. She rose; she extricated her hand from Godolphin's; she turned
to leave the room. But Godolphin, still kneeling, caught hold of her
robe, and gently, but effectually detained her.

"The picture you have painted," said he, "do not destroy at once. You
have portrayed yourself my soother, guide, restorer. You _can,_ indeed
you can, be this. You do not know me, Constance. Let me say one word for
my self. Hitherto, I have shunned fame and avoided ambition. Life has
seemed to me so short, and all that even glory wins so poor, that I have