"Indeed I did though!" answered the physician; "a great deal worse than I had expected, and therefore I shall go directly and tell my good lord, the reverend father cardinal, that the lady must be kept as tranquil as possible, and as quiet."
"Nay, nay!" said Lady Constance; "I am not so ill, indeed, my good physician; I feel better now. However, you may go to my lord cardinal if you will; but I really am better."
"Umph!" said Dr. Butts; "now I think you are worse. But tell me, lady, why do you quit the habits of your country, to dress yourself like a Frenchwoman?"
Lady Constance smiled. "Do you not know," said she, "that I am a French vassal? Do you not know that all the estates that belonged to my mother, of the Val de Marne and Boissy, are held from the French crown?"
"Go and see them, lady," said Dr. Butts; "the French air would suit you better than the English, I've a notion; for a year or two, at least."
"Nay, Dr. Butts," said Sir Osborne; "why deprive England of Lady Constance's presence? There are so few like her," he added, in an under-voice, "that indeed we cannot spare her."
Lady Constance raised her eyes for an instant to his face: they met his, and though it was but for a moment, that look was sufficient to determine his future fate. A thousand such looks from Lady Katrine Bulmer would have meant nothing, from Lady Constance de Grey that one meant everything, and Sir Osborne's bosom beat with renewed hope. True, the same obstacles existed as heretofore; but it mattered not Nothing, he thought, nothing now could impede his progress; and he would dare all, defy all, win her, or die.
Nor in truth was the heart of Lady Constancy de Grey less lightened, although she still felt that trembling fear which a woman, perhaps, does not wholly lose for long, long after the lips of the man she loves have made profession of his attachment; yet still she was almost sure that she was loved. There had been something in Darnley's manner, in his agitation, in his anxiety about her, in his very glance, far, far more eloquent than words; and Lady Constance's certainty that he loved her was more, perhaps, a sensation of the heart than a conviction of the mind: she felt that she was loved.
While these thoughts, or feelings, or what you will, were busy in the bosom of each, a servant entered, and with much more ceremony than the good chaplain had used to usher in the young knight, announced that Lord Darby waited in the ante-chamber to inquire after her ladyship's health.
"Bid him come in," said the young lady, and in a moment after, Sir Osborne had his rival before his eyes.