perpetually idle without, as he touches on the middle of his career,
looking to the past with some shame, and to the fixture with some
ambition. One evening, when he had sat by the open window in a thoughtful
and melancholy, almost morose, silence for a considerable time, Constance,
after a violent struggle with herself, rose suddenly, and fell on his
neck--

"Forgive me, Percy," she said, unable to suppress her tears--"forgive
me--it is past--I have no right that you, so superior to myself, should be
sacrificed to my--my prejudices you would call them--so be it. Is it for
your wife to condemn you to be inglorious? No--no--dear Godolphin--fulfil
your destiny--you are born for high objects. Be active--be
distinguished--and I will ask no more!"

John Vernon, in that hour you were forgotten! Who among the dead can ever
hope for fidelity, when love to the living invites a woman to betray?

"My sweet Constance," said Godolphin, drawing her to his heart, and
affected in proportion as he appreciated all that in that speech his wife
gave up for his sake--the all, far more than the lovely person, the
splendid wealth, the lofty rank that she had brought to his home--"my
sweet Constance, do not think I will take advantage of words so
generously, but hastily spoken. Time enough hereafter to think of
differences between us. At present let us indulge only the luxury of the
new love--the holiness of the new nuptials--that have made us as one
Being. Perhaps this restlessness, so unusual to me, will pass away--let
us wait awhile. At present 'Sparta has many a worthier son.' One other
year, one sweet summer, of the private life we have too much suffered to
glide away, enjoyed, and then we will see whether the harsh realities of
Ambition be worth either a concession or a dispute. Let us go into the