that burned within her (withering, for
the moment, the chastened and wholesome impulses of her nature), than
those which animated the heart of the queenly Constance. She sent that
evening for the most celebrated physician in London--that polished and
courtly man who seems born for the maladies of the drawing-room, but
who beneath so urbane a demeanour, conceals so accurate and profound a
knowledge of the disorders of his unfortunate race. I say accurate and
profound comparatively, for positive knowledge of pathology is what no
physician in modern times and civilized countries really possesses. No
man cures us--the highest art is not to kill! Constance, then, sent for
this physician, and, as delicately as possible, related the unfortunate
state of Lucilla, and the deep anxiety she felt for her mental and
bodily relief. The physician promised to call the next day; he did
so, late in the afternoon--Lucilla was gone. Strange, self-willed,
mysterious, she came like a dream, to warn, to terrify, and to depart.
They knew not whither she had fled, and her Moorish handmaid alone
attended her.

Constance was deeply chagrined at this intelligence; for she had already
begun to build castles in the air, which poor Lucilla, with a frame
restored, and a heart at ease, and nothing left of the past but a soft
and holy penitence, should inhabit. The countess, however, consoled
herself with the hope that Lucilla would at least write to her, and
mention her new place of residence; but days passed and no letter came.

Constance felt that her benevolent intentions were doomed to be
unfulfilled. She was now greatly perplexed whether or not to relate to
Godolphin the interview that had taken place between her and Lucilla.
She knew the deep, morbid, and painful interest which the memory of this
wild and visionary creature created in Godolphin; and she trembled at
the feeling she might re-awaken by even a faint picture of the condition
and mental infirmities of her whose life he had so darkly shadowed. She
resolved, therefore, at all events for the present, and until every hope
of discovering Lucilla once more had expired, to conceal the meeting
that had occurred. And in this resolve she was strengthened by
perceiving that Godolphin's mind had become gradually calmed from its
late excitement, and that he had begun to consider, or at least appeared
to consider the apparition of Lucilla at his window, as the mere
delusion of a heated imagination