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pends more upon benevolence, kindness, and discretion than upon medicine itself. Hence we may, I think, observe, that while the distinguished in other professions are more outwardly honoured, the friend of the sick room is most personally loved.

CHAPTER IV,

FEMALE DELICACY.

A woman scorns sometimes what best contents ber.

SHAKSPEARE,

Was it possible for De Vere to quit England without wishing to see Constance? He both wished and sought it; but, extraordinary as it may seem, it was not now so easy.

It may be supposed that, after all we have recorded, the pleasure (never very great) which his uncle had in seeing him had not lately been increased. With Clayton he had terminated, not merely friendship, but acquaint, ance; and the delicate feelings of that gentleman were so overpowered at the sight of the man he had injured, that he always endeavoured to avoid a meeting, which was not indeed more pleasant to De Vere himself. But Clayton was almost always with Lord Mowbray. The morning calls of De Vere had, therefore, been chiefly confined to inquiries after his cousin; and his cousin was, somehow or other, seldom to be seen. The dinner as well as the evening invitations also became much less frequent than they had been.

We have observed, that there are motives for every thing; but Lord Mowbray was too glad to shroud his fear of seeing a man he had injured under another fear, that that man might injure him. In fact, after having given the utmost latitude to the intimacy between his daughter and De Vere, he was taken with a sudden fit of prudence, and thought there was a danger in it, which on every account he ought to avoid.

To do him justice, he possibly never would have thought of this himself. But Lord Cleveland, of whom we have so long lost sight, put it in his head. The un

deviating coldness of Constance had completely estranged this great aristocrat in love, as well as every thing else, from pursuing the only real affair of heart he had ever had. His pride as well as his love had sustained bitter mortification, which, added to his disappointments at court, cankered his bosom; though he understood the demands of pride far too well to let it appear. He carried about with him, therefore, more than ever, that internal gnawing, which, though the vulture did not appear, was not less keen than that of Prometheus itself. His misery was so complete, that, though of success with Constance he had begun to despair, his love itself had not, therefore, abandoned him, and he felt that the success of a rival would have driven him to madness. Against this, therefore, it was his active study to guard. As to his disappointment in politics, he had made a tolerable compromise, in nowhere suffering himself to appear as the subordinate supporter of Lord Oldcastle's ministry, but as the head of a party, powerful in itself, which Lord Oldcastle was supposed to court, under the name of the king's friends. And though for some of those friends the monarch, whose name was usurped, had not the highest respect, yet it was convenient for many to erect a standard for themselves, who either thought they were above serving under the banners of another, or whom no other was very eager to receive. With this standard in his hand, and with some followers, Lord Cleveland contrived to blind the world on the point of his personal consequence with the highest personage in the state; and while that world believed that Lord Oldcastle was no more than his co-equal, and only more than his co-ordinate from his own sufferance, things did pretty well.

Not so with the love of this ambitious person:-he had desisted from his pursuit because too proud to continue it; but, with all his tact, he could not resist the bad taste which now got possession of him, in disparaging the former object of his adoration. But his attempts were ill enough concealed; and men, and women too, drew their own conclusions from the sneering tone he affected.

Poor Constance!-But no! she was not poor!-The dignified and unresenting manner with which she received accounts of this behaviour, and even sometimes personally perceived it, set her far higher than ever in the approbation of mankind; and Lord Cleveland was forced at last to say, that he would no longer raise VOL. II.-3 B

her into consequence by making her the object of his criticism.

But Lord Cleveland had too intimate an acquaintance with his own heart not to know what would be the death wound of its happiness, if ever it had been happy. The success of any man with Constance he dreaded, as much as his female equal in ambition, Madame de Pompadour, ever dreaded à rival mistress with her dissolute monarch. The cup of each was poisoned, and its sweets turned to bitterness, by the all-devouring fear in which they lived. Well might each of them have exclaimed to their ignorant admirers, in the language of the arch-demon of pride himself,

"Ah, me! they little know With what fierce torments inwardly I groan, While they adore me on the throne of hell."

The life of Lord Cleveland had, in this respect, become a perpetual fever. The assiduities of the Duke of Bellamont towards Constance had been wormwood to him; while her resistance of them filled him with still greater fear; for, with his opinions, it was impossi ble for him to think any female heart, not profoundly preoccupied, could resist youth, rank, and wealth such as belonged to this favoured young man.

He watched therefore the approach of all who came near her, and above all that of De Vere,-who, he said, with fierceness, to Clayton, seemed born every where to cross his path. In De Vere himself he could perceive nothing but respectful distance; but (led to the observation by Clayton) in her he saw, or thought he saw, a constraint of manner towards her cousin, which, to one of his experience, told many tales. It made him heartsick; and, in mere relief, he hastened to communicate his suspicions to her father.

That penetrating nobleman was glad of any cause for what had so entirely baffled as well as affected him; namely, the obstinacy, as he called it, of his daughter, in refusing the two greatest matches in England. But when the suspicion got hold of him, that all this was occasioned by love for another, and that other, however nearly allied to him, ruined in his prospects by his own rashness, and, of all men in England, the most destitute, it should seem, in the powers necessary to redeem him

self, the concern and embarrassment of my Lord Mowbray were at their height.

It was his fate always to appear to despise counsel, yet never to be able to act without it; and it mattered little whose or what that counsel was, provided it afforded him an opportunity to unburthen himself. On the present occasion, the obviously best counsellor he could have was at his elbow, in the very party about whom he wished to consult. But this was far beyond his lordship to conceive. On the contrary, it seemed but regular policy to conceal from her all that he wished to discover; though a word, a look, on his part, in parental confidence, would have laid her heart bare to him, from a sense of filial duty alone.

He knew not the jewel he possessed, and took another course, more in the spirit of a politician, but whether se well calculated to succeed was a question which he did not ask. In a word, trusting to the high mind of his sister, he wrote to Lady Eleanor his fears that there might be a greater intimacy between the cousins than it was prudent to cultivate, considering the disparity of their situations, and, in particular, considering the views of many men of the very first consequence in the state in regard to his daughter. In other respects, too, he thought it behooved Lady Eleanor to give her son advice on his personal conduct; "which seemed," he said, "that of a madman, determined on self-ruin, rather than of one who, from his abilities and ancient name, might rise to any height he pleased. Tell him," said he, on my part, (though I have often told it him in vain myself), to remember the maxim which I always propose to all young men, ‘nullum numen abest, si sit prudentia ;' which means, my dear sister (for I dare say it will be necessary to translate it for you), that a man may always make his fortune, if he only have his wits about him."

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Strange as it appeared to Lord Mowbray, this letter did not seem to produce the intended effect upon Lady Eleanor. Far from remonstrating, as he wished, with her son, "It is not for me," she said, in reply, "to give advice to De Vere. In regard to my niece, he knows what honour is too well to stand in need of it. In regard to the world, I will not affront him by offering it. Depend upon it, my son will covet no elevation that is to be pur chased at the expense of principle; and of that principle I willingly leave him to be the judge. At any rate, if

he fail, he has me, and honourable poverty, to retire upon."

Lord Mowbray made a thousand wry faces as he finished reading this letter. Then, muttering something about honourable nonsense, he rang the bell to desire Lady Constance to attend him; and without much reflection, as Lady Eleanor had refused to help him, he thought himself justifiable in placing her letter in the hands of his daughter, leaving the latter to guess the contents of that to which it was an answer.

The delicate Constance was thunderstruck at allusions, and replies to allusions, which, however obscure with out the subject-matter, proved evidently to her sensitive mind that her conduct and feelings, in that which was of the last consequence to a woman's delicacy, had not only been canvassed in a correspondence between her father and her aunt, but had been supposed, by her father at least, to have been the subject of observation in the world. Her fears (as they always will where true modesty is concerned) went before her inquiries, and she felt a shock on the communication of her aunt's letter, from which she could not recover. At length she falteringly asked, what could have given rise to answers so deeply affecting her conduct, perhaps even her reputation in society?

Lord Mowbray, observing her agitation, which was in truth beyond what was warranted by the real circumstances of the case, then perceived the mistake he had made, and lamented that he had not kept a copy of his letter to his sister. "It would have explained all this at once."

"However," added he, "do not be alarmed; I only mentioned what I had been told of the observation of the world upon your intimacy with Mortimer, and desired his mother, for his sake, as well as yours, to give him proper advice upon the occasion."

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Only!" cried Constance, looking_aghast-"Only! The observation of the world!-For Heaven's sake, my dear father, what can this mean? What have I done that the world has observed, or that you should convey to my aunt, and, through her, to another? Oh! how properly has she judged, and how like herself? And to what am I reduced, when my whole pride of character has hung upon such a chance?"-She here stopped in an agony of

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