# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 40

CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST DOUBT.
Youth, love, and rank, and wealth—all these combined, Can these be wretched? Mystery of the mind, Whose happiness is in itself; but still Has not that happiness at its own will. She felt, too wretched with the sudden fear— Had she such lovely rival, and so near? Ay, bitterest of the bitter this worst pain, To know love's offering has been in vain; Rejected, scorn'd, and trampled under foot, Its bloom and leaves destroyed, but not its root. "He loves me not!"—no other words nor sound An echo in the lady's bosom found: It was wretchedness too great to bear, She sank before the presence of despair!
Mr. Courtenaye was accompanied by his uncle, whom business had detained till this late hour in town. Henrietta knew and liked Lord Norbourne, but now she had only just sufficient self-control to receive his greeting with due ​politeness. Mrs. Courtenaye having no feeling but that of gratitude for Henrietta's kindness, was eager to express it.
"I am so glad you know her!" whispered she to her father: "do thank her for me."
"My little rustic," said Lord Norbourne, "is most fortunate. Will Lady Marchmont allow her the honour of a farther acquaintance? Permit me to present my daughter, Mrs. Courtenaye."
"And my husband," said Constance, timidly.
"I have already the honour of Mr. Courtenaye's acquaintance," replied Lady Marchmont, with a coldness that she did not even attempt to conceal; for the image of Ethel—pale, sad, and wasting her youth in unavailing regret—arose too distinctly before her; and if it was present to her, how forcibly did she not recall it to Norbourne Courtenaye.
Ethel, his still too much beloved Ethel, seemed actually present. What, at that moment, were her feelings? Did she hate, did she despise him? Was she—but that he ​shuddered to contemplate!—was she unhappy? How he longed to ask Lady Marchmont about her: though deeply mortified at the cold manner in which she received him, it shewed plainly enough what was her opinion of his conduct. Lord Norbourne saw that there was something wrong, though even his penetration was at a loss to divine what; and he, therefore, exerted himself to talk it away. In this he was seconded by Lady Marchmont; and between them, the conversation was sufficiently sustained.
Constance, encouraged by the presence of her father and husband, and shut out from the crowd, felt less timid than usual; still she could not but perceive that Norbourne's manner lacked its ordinary grace in speaking to her new friend; and yet she had never felt so anxious that he should please. Taking her earliest opportunity, she whispered,
"Only think, Norbourne, of your knowing Lady Marchmont! do talk to her; she is so kind, so charming."
But her words fell on unheeding ears. ​Courtenaye's thoughts were far away; and Constance, shrinking into herself at the least repulse, did not attempt to speak to him again.
There is nothing in this world so sensitive as affection. It feels its own happiness too much not to tremble for its reality; and starts, ever and anon, from its own delicious consciousness, to ask, Is it not, indeed, a dream? A word and a look are enough either to repress or to encourage. Nothing is a trifle in love, for all is seen through an exaggerated medium; and Constance's attachment to her husband was of the most imaginative order—shy, fearful, little demonstrative, but how utterly devoted! It never came into her head to blame Norbourne for any thing. She did not even venture on making excuses for him: all he did appeared best, and most natural to do. She took it for granted that he was preoccupied; and, after a moment or two of disappointment, she resumed her own peculiarly sweet and pleading smile, a smile that seemed to implore your kindness. Indeed, almost her ​whole attention was soon engrossed by her brilliant companion, whose circle was increased by some three or four friends, who had but just discovered her. Till then she had never formed an idea of one so gifted and so charming. She listened with astonishment to her companion's gay sallies, and answers, as piquant as they were ready. She was astonished that any one could talk so easily to her father, that father to whom she never spoke without awe; and gazed, with enthusiastic admiration, on the beautiful face, which gave every word and smile such a charm. Such is the power of novelty, that Lady Marchmont was more flattered at the impression she produced on the unpractised stranger, than with all the homage of the courtly train that followed her.
Constance felt too pleased and too much excited for her usual silence; and she took the opportunity of the first pause in conversation to whisper to Lady Marchmont,—"How happy Norbourne is to have the pleasure of knowing you! Has he known you long? I wonder that he never talked about you!"
​ "Happy!" replied Henrietta, with a sneer, a little more marked than she meant it to be. "I knew him before his marriage in the country." Then, turning to Lord Norbourne, added,—"It is odd how much older one grows in London than any where else. I was going to have said, years ago."
It is a strange thing, the instinct of jealousy in a woman; a sudden light seemed to burst in upon Constance. Lady Marchmont's coldness, Norbourne's embarrassment and coldness, led alike to one terrible conclusion. They had met before his marriage; and surely to meet Lady Marchmont must have been to love her. A mist gathered over her eyes: she felt cold and giddy. Scarcely conscious, she strove to reach her father, and fainted away in his arms!
Poor Constance was carried to a room in the house; and when, at length, she recovered, she was glad to accede to her husband's wish of leaving the fête. Norbourne was almost thankful for any excuse that enabled him to avoid seeing Lady Marchmont. In vain he ​sought to rally his spirits, and to conceal his depression; but the idea of Ethel mocked his efforts to forget. He remembered her solitary life, and with what delight he had once thought on her first introduction into society. Now he was joining in all its gaieties, and where was she? Still in the same seclusion, with nothing to disturb one sad remembrance: she was lonely; he dared not add, even to himself, wretched.