The country-house life of Ireland had--and I would say has, if I were
not unhappily drawing on my memory--this advantage over that of England,
that it was passed in that season when the country offered all that it
had of beauty and attraction; when the grove was leafy, and the blossomy
fruit-trees vied in gorgeous color with the flowery beds beneath them;
when the blackbird's mellow song rang through the thicket, and the heavy
plash of the trout rose above the ripple of the river; when the deep
grass waved like a sea under a summer wind, and the cattle, grouped
picturesquely, tempered the noonday heat beneath the spreading elms, or
stood contemplatively in the stream, happy in their luxurious indolence.
What a wealth of enjoyment does such a season offer! How imperceptibly
does the lovely aspect of nature blend itself day by day with every
incident of our lives, stealing its peaceful influence over our troubled
hearts, blunting the pangs of our disappointments, calming down the
anxieties of our ambitions! How pleasant is the companionship of our
book, and doubly, trebly delightful the converse of our friend! How
gratefully, too, do we imbibe the health that comes with every charm
of color and sound and form and odor, repeating at every step, “How
beautiful the world is, and how enjoyable!”
I am not going to disparage--far be it from me--the fox-cover or the
grouse-mountain; but, after all, these are the accidents, not the
elements, of country life, which certainly ought to be passed when
the woods are choral with the thrush, and the air scented with the
apple-blossom; when it is sweet to lie under the weeping-willow beside
the stream, or stroll at sunset through the grove, to gain that crested
ridge where the red horizon can be seen, and watch the great sun as it
sinks in splendor.
Lyle Abbey had not many pretensions to beauty of architecture in itself,
or to scenery in its neighborhood. Nor was it easy to say why a great,
bulky, incongruous building, disfigured by painted windows to make it
Gothic, should have ever been called an Abbey. It was, however,
both roomy and convenient within. There were fine, lofty, spacious
reception-rooms, well lighted and ventilated. Wide corridors led to rows
of comfortable chambers, where numbers of guests could be accommodated,
and in every detail of fitting and furniture, ease and comfort had been
studied with a success that attained perfection.
The grounds,--a space of several hundred acres,--enclosed within a
massive wall, had not more pretensions to beauty than the mansion. There
were, it is true, grand points of view,--noble stretches of shore
and sea-coast to be had from certain eminences, and abundant
undulations,--some of these wild and picturesque enough; but the great
element of all was wanting,--there was no foliage, or next to none.
Trees will not grow in this inhospitable climate, or only grow in the
clefts and valleys; and even there their stunted growth and scathed
branches show that the northwest wind has found them out, twisting their
boughs uncouthly towards the eastward, and giving them a semblance to
some scared and hooded traveller scudding away before a storm.
Vegetation thrives no better. The grass, of sickly yellow, is only fit
for sheep, and there are no traces of those vast tracts of verdure which
represent culture in the South of Ireland. Wealth had fought out the
battle bravely, however, and artificial soils and trees and ornamental
shrubs, replaced and replaced by others as they died off, combated the
ungrateful influences, and won at last a sort of victory. That is to
say, the stranger felt, as he passed the gate, that he was entering what
seemed an oasis, so wild and dreary and desolate was the region which
stretched away for miles on every side.
Some drives and walks had been designed--what will not landscape
gardening do?--with occasional shelter and cover. The majority, however,
led over wild, bleak crests,--breezy and bracing on fine days, but
storm-lashed whenever the wind came, as it will for ten months out of
twelve, over the great rolling waters of the Atlantic.
The most striking and picturesque of these walks led along the cliffs
over the sea, and, indeed, so close as to be fenced off by a parapet
from the edge of the precipice. It was a costly labor, and never fully
carried out,--the two miles which had been accomplished figuring for a
sum that Sir Arthur declared would have bought the fee-simple of a small
estate. It was along this pathway that Captain Lyle sauntered with his
two sisters on the morning after his arrival. It was the show spot of
the whole demesne; and certainly, as regards grand effects of sea-view
and coastline, not to be surpassed in the kingdom. They had plotted
together in the morning how they would lead Mark in this direction, and,
suddenly placing him in one of the most striking spots, enjoy all his
wonderment and admiration; for Mark Lyle had seldom been at home since
his “Harrow” days, and the Abbey and its grounds were almost strange to
him.
“What are the rocks yonder, Bella?” said he, listlessly, as he puffed
his cigar and pointed seaward.
“The Skerries, Mark; see how the waves beat over that crag. They tried
to build a lighthouse there, but the foundations were soon swept away.”
“And what is that? It looks like a dismantled house.”
“That is the ruined castle of Dunluce. It belonged to the Antrim
family.”
“Good heavens! what a dreary region it all is!” cried he, interrupting.
“I declare to you, South Africa is a garden compared to this.”
“Oh, Mark, for shame!” said his elder sister. “The kingdom has nothing
grander than this coast-line from Portrush to Fairhead.”
“I 'm no judge of its grandeur, but I tell you one thing,--I 'd not live
here,--no, nor would I contract to live six months in a year here,--to
have the whole estate. This is a fine day, I take it.”
“It is a glorious day,” said Bella.
“Well, it's just as much as we can do to keep our legs here; and
certainly your flattened bonnets and dishevelled hair are no allies to
your good looks.”
“Our looks are not in question,” said the elder, tartly. “We were
talking of the scenery; and I defy you to tell me where, in all your
travels, you have seen its equal.”
“I 'll tell you one thing, Alice, it's deuced dear at the price we are
looking at it; I mean, at the cost of this precious bit of road we stand
on. Where did the governor get his engineer?”
“It was Tony planned this,--every yard of it,” said Bella, proudly.
“And who is Tony, pray?” said he, superciliously.
“You met him last night,--young Butler. He dined here, and sat next
Alice.”
“You mean that great hulking fellow, with the attempt at a straw-colored
moustache, who directed the fireworks.”
“I mean that very good-looking young man who coolly removed the
powder-flask that you had incautiously forgotten next the rocket-train,”
said Mrs. Trafford.
“And that was Tony!” said he, with a faint sneer.
“Yes, Mark, that was Tony; and if you want to disparage him, let it be
to some other than Bella and myself; for he is an old playmate that we
both esteem highly, and wish well to.”
“I am not surprised at it,” said he, languidly. “I never saw a snob yet
that could n't find a woman to defend him; and this fellow, it would
seem, has got two.”
“Tony a snob!”
“Tony Butler a snob! Just the very thing he is not. Poor boy, there
never was one to whom the charge was less applicable.”
“Don't be angry, Alice, because I don't admire your rustic friend. In my
ignorance I fancied he was a pretentious sort of bumpkin, who talked of
things a little out of his reach,--such as yachting,--steeple-chasing,
and the like. Is n't he the son of some poor dependant of the
governor's?”
“Nothing of the kind; his mother is a widow, with very narrow means, I
believe; but his father was a colonel, and a distinguished one. As to
dependence, there is no such relation between us.”
“I am glad of that, for I rather set him down last night”
“Set him down! What do you mean?”
“He was talking somewhat big of 'cross-country riding, and I asked him
about his stable, and if his cattle ran more on bone than blood.”
“Oh, Mark, you did not do that?” cried Bella, anxiously.
“Yes; and when I saw his confusion, I said, 'You must let me walk over
some morning, and have a look at your nags; for I know from the way you
speak of horseflesh I shall see something spicy.'”
“And what answer did he make?” asked Bella, with an eager look.
“He got very red, crimson, indeed, and stammered out, 'You may spare
yourself the walk, sir; for the only quadruped I have is a spaniel, and
she is blind from age, and stupid.'”
“Who was the snob there, Mark?” said Mrs. Trafford, angrily.
“Alice!” said he, raising his eyebrows, and looking at her with a cold
astonishment.
“I beg pardon in all humility, Mark,” said she, hastily. “I am very
sorry to have offended you; but I forgot myself. I fancied you had been
unjust to one we all value very highly, and my tongue outran me.”
“These sort of fellows,” continued he, as if unheeding her excuses,
“only get a footing in houses where there are no men, or at least none
of their own age; and thus they are deemed Admirable Crichtons because
they can row, or swim, or kill a salmon. Now, when a gentleman does
these things, and fifty more of the same sort, nobody knows it. You'll
see in a day or two here a friend of mine, a certain Norman Maitland,
that will beat your young savage at everything,--ride, row, walk, shoot
or single-stick him for whatever he pleases; and yet I 'll wager you 'll
never know from Maitland's manner or conversation that he ever took the
lock of a canal in a leap, or shot a jaguar single-handed.”
“Is your phoenix really coming here?” asked Mrs. Trafford, only too glad
to get another channel for the conversation.
“Yes; here is what he writes;” and he took a note from his pocket.
“'I forget, my dear Lyle, whether your château be beside the lakes of
Killarney, the groves of Blarney, or what other picturesque celebrity
your island claims; but I have vowed you a visit of two days,--three, if
you insist,--but not another if you die for it.' Is n't he droll?”
“He is insufferably impudent. There is 'a snob' if there ever was one,”
cried Alice, exultingly.
“Norman Maitland, Norman Maitland a snob! Why, my dear sister, what will
you say next? Ask the world its opinion of Norman Maitland, for he is
just as well known in St. Petersburg as Piccadilly, and the ring of his
rifle is as familiar on the Himalayas as on a Scotch mountain. There is
not a gathering for pleasure, nor a country-house party in the kingdom,
would not deem themselves thrice fortunate to secure a passing visit
from him, and he is going to give us three days.”
“Has he been long in your regiment, Mark?” asked Mrs. Trafford.
“Maitland has never served with us; he joined us in Simla as a member of
our mess, and we call him 'of ours' because he never would dine with the
9th or the 50th. Maitland would n't take the command of a division to
have the bore and worry of soldiering,--and why should he?”
It was not without astonishment Mark's sisters saw their brother,
usually cold and apathetic in his tone, so warmly enthusiastic about his
friend Maitland, of whom he continued to talk with rapture, recalling
innumerable traits of character and temper, but which unhappily only
testified to the success with which he had practised towards the world
an amount of impertinence and presumption that seemed scarcely credible.
“If he only be like your portrait, I call him downright detestable,”
said Mrs. Trafford.
“Yes, but you are dying to see him all the same, and so is Bella.”
“Let me answer for myself, Mark,” said Isabella, “and assure you that,
so far from curiosity, I feel an actual repugnance to the thought of
meeting him. I don't really know whether the condescending politeness of
such a man, or his cool impertinence, is the greater insult.”
“Poor Maitland, how will you encounter what is prepared for you?” said
be, mockingly; “but courage, girls, I think he 'll survive it,--only
I beg no unnecessary cruelty,--no harshness beyond what his own
transgressions may call down upon him; and don't condemn him merely, and
for no other reason, than because he is the friend of your brother.” And
with this speech he turned short round and ascended a steep path at his
side, and was lost to their view in a minute.
“Isn't he changed, Alice? Did you ever see any one so altered?”
“Not a bit changed, Bella; he is exactly what he was at the
grammar-school, at Harrow, and at Sandhurst,--very intolerant to the
whole world, as a compensation for the tyranny some one, boy or man as
it may be, exercises over him. All his good qualities lie under this
veil, and so it was ever with him.”
“I wish his friend was not coming.”
“And I wish that he had not sent away _ours_, for I 'm sure Tony would
have been up here before this if something unusual had not occurred.”
“Here's a strange piece of news for you, girls,” said Sir Arthur,
coming towards them. “Tony Butler left for Liverpool in the packet this
morning. Barnes, who was seeing his brother off, saw him mount the side
of the steamer with his portmanteau in his hand. Is it not singular he
should have said nothing about this last night?”
The sisters looked with a certain secret intelligence at each other, but
did not speak. “Except, perhaps, he may have told you girls.” added he
quickly, and catching the glance that passed between them.
“No, papa,” said Alice, “he said nothing of his intention to us; indeed,
he was to have ridden over with me this morning to Mount-Leslie, and ask
about those private theatricals that have been concerted there for the
last two years, but of which all the performers either marry or die off
during the rehearsals.”
“Perhaps this all-accomplished friend of Mark's who comes here by the
end of the week, will give the project his assistance. If the half of
what Mark says of him be true, we shall have for our guest one of the
wonders of Europe.”
“I wish the Leslies would take me on a visit till he goes,” said Alice.
“And I,” said Bella, “have serious thoughts of a sore throat that
will confine me to my room. Brummelism--and I hate it--it is just
Brummelism--is somewhat out of vogue at this time of day. It wants
the prestige of originality, and it wants the high patronage that once
covered it; but there is no sacrifice of self-respect in being amused
by it, so let us at least enjoy a hearty laugh, which is more than the
adorers of the great Beau himself ever acquired at his expense.”
“At all events, girls, don't desert the field and leave me alone with
the enemy; for this man is just coming when we shall have no one here,
as ill-luck would have it.”
“Don't say ill-luck, papa,” interposed Bella; “for if he be like what we
suspect, he would outrage and affront every one of our acquaintance.”
“Three days are not an eternity,” said he, half gayly, “and we must make
the best of it.”