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.