Constance sighed, and suffered Godolphin to quit her in silence. But her generous heart was touched by his own generosity. This is one of the great curses of a woman who aspires to the man’s part of political controversy. If the man choose to act, the woman, with all her wiles, her intrigues, her arts, is powerless. If Godolphin were to enter Parliament a Tory, the great Whig rendezvous of Erpingham House was lost, and Constance herself a cipher--and her father’s wrongs forgotten, and the stern purpose of her masculine career baffled at the very moment of success. She now repented that she had ever desired to draw Godolphin’s attention to political matters. She wondered at her own want of foresight. How, with his love for antiquity--his predilections for the elegant and the serene--his philosophy of the “Rose-garden”--could she ever have supposed that he would side with the bold objects and turbulent will of a popular party in a stormy crisis? The subject was not renewed. But she had the pain of observing that Godolphin’s manner was altered: he took pleasure in none of his old hobbies--he was evidently dissatisfied with himself. In fact, it is true that he, for the first time in his life, felt that there is a remorse to the mind as well as to the soul, and that a man of genius cannot be 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?