“First love, then,” said Godolphin, endeavouring to speak composedly, “has this advantage over others--it is usually disappointed, and regret for ever keeps it alive.” The tone of his voice struck Constance to the heart. Nor did she speak again--save with visible effort--during the rest of the evening. CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONSTANCE’S UNDIMINISHED LOVE FOR GODOLPHIN.--HER REMORSE AND HER HOPE.--THE CAPITOL.--THE DIFFERENT THOUGHTS OF GODOLPHIN AND CONSTANCE AT THE VIEW.--THE TENDER EXPRESSIONS OF CONSTANCE. All that Constance heard from others of Godolphin’s life since they parted, increased her long-nursed interest in his fate. His desultory habits, his long absences from cities, which were understood to be passed in utter and obscure solitude (for the partner of the solitude and its exact spot were not known), she coupled with the quiet melancholy in his aspect, with his half-reproachful glances toward herself, and with the emotions which he had given vent to in their conversation. And of this objectless and unsatisfactory life she was led to consider herself the cause. With a bitter pang she recalled his early words, when he said, “My future is in your hands;” and she contrasted his vivid energies--his cultivated mind--his high talents--with the life which had rendered them all so idle to others and unprofitable to himself. Few, very few, know how powerfully the sentiment that another’s happiness is at her control speaks to a woman’s heart. Accustomed to dependence herself, the feeling that another depends on her is the most soothing aliment to her pride. This makes a main cause of her love to her children; they would be incomparably less dear to her if they were made independent of her cares. And years, which had brought the young countess acquainted with the nothingness of the world, had softened and deepened the sources of her affections, in proportion as they had checked those of her ambition. She could not, she did not, seek to disguise from herself that Godolphin yet loved her; she anticipated the hour when he would avow that love, and when she might be permitted to atone for all of disappointment that her former rejection might have brought to him. She felt, too, that it would be a noble as well as delightful task, to awaken an intellect so brilliant to the natural objects of its display; to call forth into active life his teeming thought, and the rich eloquence with which he could convey it. Nor in this hope were her more selfish designs, her political schemings, and her desire of sway over those whom she loved to humble, forgotten; but they made, however,--to be just,--a small part of her meditations. Her hopes were chiefly of a more generous order. “I refused thee,” she thought, “when I was poor and dependent--now that I have wealth and rank, how gladly will I yield them to thy bidding!”