groves, gave life--but it was scattered and remote life--to the scene; and
the broad stream, whose waves, softened in the distance, did not seem to
break the even surface of the tide, flowed onward, glowing in the
sunlight, till it was lost among dark and luxuriant woods.

Both once more arrested their horses by a common impulse, and both became
suddenly silent as they gazed. Godolphin was the first to speak: it
brought to his memory a scene in that delicious land, whose Southern
loveliness Claude has transfused to the canvas, and De Stael to the page.
With his own impassioned and earnest language, he spoke to Constance of
that scene and that country. Every tree before him furnished matter for
his illustration or his contrast; and, as she heard that magic voice, and
speaking, too, of a country dedicated to love, Constance listened with
glistening eyes, and a cheek which he,--consummate master of the secrets
of womanhood--perceived was eloquent with thoughts which she knew not, but
which _he_ interpreted to the letter.

"And in such a spot," said he, continuing, and fixing his deep and
animated gaze on her,--"in such a spot I could have stayed for ever but
for one recollection, one feeling--_I should have been too much alone!_
In a wild or a grand, or even a barren country, we may live in solitude,
and find fit food for thought; but not in one so soft, so subduing, as
that which I saw and see. Love comes over us then in spite of ourselves;
and I feel--I feel now--"his voice trembled as he spoke--"that any secret
we may before have nursed, though hitherto unacknowledged, makes itself at
length a voice. We are oppressed with the desire to be loved; we long for
the courage to say we love."

Never before had Godolphin, though constantly verging into sentiment,
spoken to Constance in so plain a language. Eye, voice, cheek--all spoke.