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Her love now showed itself in devotedness to her husband; "she would have made any sacrifice to have gratified his slightest wish; or rather she would not have made any, since nothing could have appeared a sacrifice for him."
"In works of love, and these alone,
How restless, how minute,"
and how constant were all her tender cares and womanly kindnesses! But in the midst of her happiness that entire love which can only be answered by love, finds that it is not fully requited. Kind and attentive as her husband was, the impress of his earlier attachment is visible on his spirit to the searching eye and subtle instinct of love. His kindness "too often appeared to Constance as if it had something to make up to its object." With most touching pathos is depicted her sweet openness to Lady Marchmont, whom, for the moment, she fancied had been her rival. Her own self-depreciation softly blends with the devoted wife's appeal to the generosity of one more gifted and beautiful than herself: "Will you not leave to me the little that my unwearied affection may gain of his heart! Tell me, (and she knelt at Henrietta's feet) that you will not seek to win him again from me!"
Although mistaken as to the object of her husband’s attachment, the impression remains in her heart, and there enkindles that generous feeling which desires only the happiness of its loved one. Never was such feeling more sweetly embodied, or beautifully delineated. When thinking and speaking of her own, to herself, evidently approaching death, Constance rejoices even in the thought that her husband will be spared the bitterness of love's separation. "How could I bear," she says,
