It was towards the evening that their carriage slowly wound up a steep and long ascent. The sun yet wanted an hour to its setting; and at their right, its slant and mellowed beams fell over rich fields, green with the prodigal luxuriance of June, and intersected by hedges from which, proud and frequent, the oak and elm threw forth their lengthened shadows. On their left the grass less fertile, and the spaces less inclosed, were whitened with flocks of sheep; and far and soft came the bleating of the lambs upon their ear. They saw not the shepherd nor any living form; but from between the thicker groups of trees the chimneys of peaceful cottages peered forth, and gave to the pastoral serenity of the scene that still and tranquil aspect of life which alone suited it. The busy wheel in the heart of Constance was at rest, and Godolphin’s soul, steeped in the luxury of the present hour, felt that delicious happiness which would be heaven could it outlive the hour.
“My Constance,” whispered he, “why, since we return at last to these scenes, why should we ever leave them? Amidst them let us recall our youth!” Constance sighed, but with pleasure, and pressed Godolphin’s hand to her lips.
And now they had gained the hill, a sudden colour flushed over Godolphin’s cheek.
“Surely,” said he, “I remember this view. Yonder valley! This is not the road to Wendover Castle; this—my father’s home!—the same, and not the same!”
Yes! Below, basking in the western light, lay the cottage in which Godolphin’s childhood had been passed. There was the stream rippling merrily; there the broken and fern-clad turf, with “its old hereditary trees;” but the ruins!—the shattered arch, the mouldering tower, were left indeed—but new arches, new turrets had arisen, and so dexterously blended with the whole that Godolphin might have fancied the hall of his forefathers restored—not indeed in the same vast proportions and cumbrous grandeur as of old, but still alike in shape and outline, and such even in size as would have contented the proud heart of its last owner. Godolphin’s eyes turned inquiringly to Constance.
“It should have been more consistent with its ancient dimensions,” said she; “but then it would have taken half our lives to have built it.”
“But this must have been the work of years.”
“It was.”
“And your work, Constance?”
“For you.”