Constance blushed deeply; but Godolphin, as if feeling he had committed himself too far, continued in a hurried tone:—“Let us turn our eyes,” said he, “yonder among the olive groves. There
‘Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,’
were the summer retreats of Rome’s brightest and most enduring spirits. There was the retirement of Horace and Mecaenas: there Brutus forgot his harsher genius; and there the inscrutable and profound Augustus indulged in those graceful relaxations—those sacrifices to wit, and poetry, and wisdom—which have made us do so unwilling and reserved a justice to the crimes of his earlier and the hypocrisy of his later years. Here, again, is a reproach to your ambition,” added Godolphin, smiling; “his ambition made Augustus odious; his occasional forgetfulness of ambition alone redeems him.”
“And what, then,” said Constance, “would you consider inactivity the happiest life for one sensible of talents higher than the common standard?”
“Nay, let those talents be devoted to the discovery of pleasures, not the search after labours; the higher our talents, the keener our perceptions; the keener our perceptions the more intense our capacities for pleasure:(1)—let pleasure then, be our object. Let us find out what is best fitted to give our peculiar tastes gratification, and, having found out, steadily pursue it.”
“Out on you! it is a selfish, an ignoble system,” said Constance. “You smile—well, I may be unphilosophical, I do not deny it. But, give me one hour of glory, rather than a life of luxurious indolence. Oh, would,” added Constance, kindling as she spoke, “that you—you, Mr. Godolphin,—with an intellect so formed for high accomplishment—with all the weapons and energies of life at your command,—would that you could awaken to a more worthy estimate—pardon me—of the uses of exertion! Surely, surely, you must be sensible of the calls that your country, that mankind, have at this epoch of the world, upon all—all, especially, possessing your advantages and powers. Can we pierce one inch beyond the surface of society, and not see that great events are hastening to their birth? Will you let those inferior to yourself hurry on before you, and sit inactive while they win the reward? Will you have no share in the bright drama that is already prepared behind the dark curtain of fate, and which will have a world for its spectators? Ah, how rejoiced, how elated with myself I should feel, if I could will over one like you to the great cause of honourable exertion!”
For one instant Godolphin’s eye sparkled, and his pale cheek burned—but the transient emotion faded away as he answered—
“Eight years ago, when she who spoke to me was Constance Vernon, her wish might have moulded me according to her will. Now,” and he struggled with emotion, and turned away his face,—“now it is too late!”
Constance was smitten to the heart. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and said, in a sweet and soothing tone, “No, Percy, not too late!”
At that instant, and before Godolphin could reply, they were joined by Saville and Lady Charlotte Deerham.