CHAPTER XIV.
CONVERSATION BETWEEN GODOLPHIN AND CONSTANCE.--THE COUNTRY LINE AND THE
TOWN LINE.
And Godolphin came on the appointed Wednesday. He was animated that day
even to brilliancy. Lady Erpingham thought him the most charming of men;
and even Constance forgot that he was no match for herself. Gifted and
cultivated as she was, it was not without delight that she listened to his
glowing descriptions of scenery, and to his playful yet somewhat
melancholy strain of irony upon men and their pursuits. The peculiar
features of her mind made her, indeed, like the latter more than she could
appreciate the former; for in her nature there was more bitterness than
sentiment. Still, his rich language and fluent periods, even in
description, touched her ear and fancy, though they sank not to her heart;
and she yielded insensibly to the spells she would almost have despised in
another.
The next day, Constance, who was no very early riser, tempted by the
beauty of the noon, strolled into the gardens. She was surprised to hear
Godolphin's voice behind her: she turned round and he joined her.
"I thought you were on your shooting expedition?"
"I have been shooting, and I am returned. I was out by daybreak, and I
came back at noon in the hope of being allowed to join you in your ride or
walk."
Constance smilingly acknowledged the compliment; and as they passed up the
straight walks of the old-fashioned and stately gardens, Godolphin turned
the conversation upon the varieties of garden scenery; upon the poets who
have described those varieties best; upon that difference between the town
life and the country, on which the brothers of the minstrel craft have, in
all ages, so glowingly insisted. In this conversation, certain points of
contrast between the characters of these two young persons might be
observed.
"I confess to you," said Godolphin, "that I have little faith in the
permanence of any attachment professed for the country by the inhabitants
of cities. If we can occupy our minds solely with the objects around
us,--if the brook and the old tree, and the golden sunset, and the summer
night, and the animal and homely life that we survey,--if these can fill
our contemplation, and take away from us the feverish schemes of the
future,--then indeed I can fully understand the reality of that tranquil
and happy state which our elder poets have described as incident to a
country life. But if we carry with us to the shade all the restless and
perturbed desires of the city; if we only employ present leisure in
schemes for an agitated future--then it is in vain that we affect the
hermit and fly to the retreat. The moment the novelty of green fields is
over, and our projects are formed, we wish to hurry to the city to execute
them. We have, in a word, made our retirement only a nursery for schemes
now springing up, and requiring to be transplanted."
"You are right," said Constance, quickly; "and who would pass life as if
it were a dream? It seems to me that we put retirement to the right use
when we make it only subservient to our aims in the world."
"A strange doctrine for a young beauty," thought Godolphin, "whose head
ought to be full of groves and love." "Then," said he aloud, "I must rank
among those who abuse the purposes of retirement; for I have hitherto been
flattered to think that I enjoy it for itself. Despite the artificial
life I have led, everything that speaks of nature has a voice that I can
rarely resist. What feelings created in a city can compare with those
that rise so gently and so unbidden within us when the trees and the
waters are our only companions--our only sources of excitement and
intoxication? Is not contemplation better than ambition?"
"Can you believe it?" said Constance, incredulously.
"I do."
Constance smiled; and there would have been contempt in that beautiful
smile, had not Godolphin interested her in spite of herself.
