A rapid run of about an hour and a half in duration from Victoria, with
just a change of carriages at Three Bridges, but no delay, and you are
set down one bright, fresh morning at the pretty and picturesque station
of Faygate, Sussex, which presents a curiously countrified and even
primitive aspect, considering the many large properties and cottages
that lie in its close vicinity. A well turned-out little carriage and
pair of handsome, high-stepping chestnuts has been sent to convey you to
Carylls, the lovely home of Mrs. Alexander Fraser of Durris.
The whole place is bathed in sunshine, and the air, though somewhat
frosty, is wonderfully exhilarating, as you are carried swiftly along a
good winding road, with trees on either side, the branches meeting
overhead. Here and there, as the horses go more slowly up a gentle
acclivity, you turn round to reconnoitre a little, and find that there
is a charming view behind. On the left, Leith Hill, with a tower
crowning it, rises up in purple tints against the horizon. On the right
lies a lovely view of undulating country, broad green fields, trim
hedges, brown brakes and hollows, with a background of luxuriant wood.
After a short drive, the carriage turns into a gate flanked by two
high turreted walls, and a neat little lodge with diamond-paned windows,
peeping out of a mass of ivy, stands just within. Leaving it on the
left, you go up a wide gravelled drive through an avenue of poplars; the
lawns, which are undulating, and cover about three acres of ground, are
laid out with low terraced walls, over which in summer time the roses
trail in rich profusion, and edged with a row of weeping ash and elm
trees, they lie on both sides right up to the entrance of a big red
brick house, lavishly covered with ivy, wisteria, and roses, with quaint
gables and many-shaped chimneys, which is altogether most picturesque. A
large conservatory unites the right and left wings, and once within this
conservatory it is difficult to realize that it is still winter. Heated
to a pleasant temperature, full of bright and rare bloom, the gentle
breath of sweet-scented gardenias and tuberoses pervading the
atmosphere, cages of many-coloured foreign birds, a gleam of Moorish
lamps against the greenery overhead, comfortable lounges, wickerwork
tables, Turkish rugs strewn on the tesselated floor--all combine to make
it a delightful place in which to while away the time, with book or
work, in friendly converse, or perhaps in solitary day dreaming.
At the present moment it is passed in friendly converse. Mrs. Alexander
Fraser has received you with much cordiality, and whilst lingering
amongst the flowers and the ferns, the talk drifts away to India,
America, and the Continent of Europe, where she tells you the earlier
part of her life was spent, and that for many years past her home has
been at Carylls. She is fair and rather pale, her eyes are brown, and
have a slight droop of the lids, which gives them a soft expression. The
profile is just a trifle aquiline, is delicate in form, and the mouth
and chin are well cut. Her hair--a little lighter in colour than the
eyes, is worn in a loose, curly roll over her brow, and a thick coil on
the nape of her neck. She is attired in a most becoming and well-fitting
gown of black velvet and grey fur, and her manner is frank and informal.
Carylls is a very old place; a part of it, indeed, was built in 1640,
but so well have all the additions and improvements of later years been
carried out that the two form a truly artistic whole. Originally
belonging to the well-known Roman Catholic family of Caryll, it is
mentioned in Pope's poems, several of which he wrote under the old oak
trees, and it is considered quite one of the show-places of this part of
Sussex. Mrs. Fraser says that it suits her in every way. The air is
splendid, the society is good, and she is not far enough away from town
to feel out of the world. The conservatory glass door opens into a very
large and lofty drawing-room with oak ceilings and great bay windows. It
looks more like a foreign than an English room. An immense Indian carpet
is spread over the floor, the sea-green walls are hung with many mirrors
in black and gold frames, several lovely old cabinets, and plenty of
Dresden, Sevres, Chelsea, and Capo de Monti, are to be seen everywhere.
Two superb silver _repousse_-work Lucknow bowls are especially
attractive; one, containing a many-leafed palm, stands on the grand
piano, and in its fellow is a large fern, the delicate fronds drooping
over a beautiful alabaster "Magdalen" close by.
"I admire these more than anything else in the room," says Mrs. Fraser,
pointing to some photographs on an inlaid iron table. "These two are my
sons, both of them very good-looking, as you see," she continues,
smiling with very pardonable pride as she places the pictures in your
hand. And truly she has a good right to feel proud of these handsome,
noble-looking young men, one of whom is in the uniform of the Gordon
Highlanders. Here, too, is a portrait of the Prince of Wales, with his
autograph below, presented by his Royal Highness to General Fraser,
which is a much-valued gift, and the others are pictures of different
Indian viceroys and their wives, all given by themselves, Lord and Lady
Dufferin, Lord and Lady Lytton, the latter in a frame designed by
himself, which is quite a work of art, with a coronet in blue-and-white
enamel. An hour is passed very pleasantly amongst the many curiosities
which Mrs. Fraser has brought chiefly from foreign lands. The room is,
in fact, quite a small museum. Going back through the conservatory into
the other wing of the house, an open door gives a peep of the
dining-room in passing. It is a good-sized room, with oak ceiling,
crimson walls, and a quantity of carved oak furniture.
But Mrs. Fraser's own particular favourite is just beyond--she calls it
her tea-room, not her study. "Not very large," she says, "but always
bright and cheerful, and the view is so lovely from this window. That
wood was gorgeous in its autumnal tints, and on a very clear morning
Leith Hill looks as if it were close to us. My rose garden is just to
the right here. I wish it was summer, that you might see it in all its
glory." And the view is lovely now, as the sun peeps in and out amongst
the great trees, which stand in clumps, with rustic seats beneath them.
After admiring it for a while, you turn round to have a survey of the
room, and certainly endorse Mrs. Fraser's opinion. It has an oak
ceiling, like the other reception rooms, and pale-green walls, that show
off to advantage a number of oil paintings framed in dark crimson velvet
and gold. Two are especially fine, "The Golden Horn," and "Morning on
the Dutch Rivers," by an artist of some note, Fryar; and you fall in
love with two exquisite little bits of Brittany, by Gregory. A large
mirror in an elaborately carved frame surmounts the mantel-piece, which
is laden with Satsuma ware and other Japanese, Chinese, and Indian
curios. An old French marqueterie cabinet full of books stand in a
recess _vis-a-vis_ to a handsomely inlaid writing bureau with a silver
basket of hothouse flowers on it.
Mrs. Fraser here calls attention to a number of silver vases, loving
cups, hunting flasks, gongs, etc., all of which are prizes won by her
sons' ponies and fox-terriers. These lie so perilously near the window
as to suggest a remark to the effect that they might be stolen, but Mrs.
Fraser declares that the people are wonderfully honest down in these
parts of the country, and that no burglary has been heard of for thirty
years or more.
Later on, whilst being regaled with all sorts of cakes and hothouse
grapes, the conversation turns on literary matters. "I have no
particular writing-room," says your hostess, "I generally write in the
evening after dinner, with my people chattering all the time, but I am
too much accustomed to that to be disturbed by it. My first essays in
fiction were magazine stories. I suppose I have written over four-score
of these, and they always seemed to find a good deal of favour with the
leading provincial journals. I sold a story called 'Manoeuvring' for a
very nice little sum to a French editor for translation into _L'Etoile_,
and I was very much pleased when I got a requisition for a tale from the
_Lady's Magazine_ in Philadelphia, but of later years I have written
about five-and-twenty three-volume novels. The first of these was called
'Faithless.' The next two: 'Denison's Wife,' and 'Not While She Lives.'
After that 'Her Plighted Troth,' 'A Maddening Blow,' 'A Thing of
Beauty,' and 'A Fatal Passion' came out. These are names which recur to
me at the moment out of all that I have written. I like the last best,
and next to it 'A Leader of Society,' and 'The Match of the Season,'
perhaps because I took the heroes and heroines from real life. More
recently Mr. F. V. White has brought out my books, and they have all
more or less been excellently noticed, especially 'Daughters of
Belgravia,' 'The Last Drawing Room,' and 'The New Duchess,' all of which
have gone into two or three editions. Occasionally I send a piece of
poetry to the magazines, and it generally gets a little _kudos_ from the
Press, and some little time ago I wrote a sacred song called 'Calvary's
Cross,' which gained much popularity; a copy of it was very graciously
accepted by the Queen." The latest of all is "A Modern Bridegroom."
Mrs. Fraser observes that she has often been asked what is her "method"
in writing, and that on one occasion she received a letter from a
clergyman in Nottingham, begging her to "describe it exactly." "I
laughed when the letter came," she continues, "and I am ashamed to say I
never answered it, because I have no method. I simply write straight on,
and never copy my MSS., and pity the poor printers who have to decipher
my hieroglyphics. I am very fond of recitations, too, and some years ago
I studied elocution under Mrs. Stirling. Once, in her unavoidable
absence, I recited two of her pieces before a large audience in St.
George's Hall. I felt horribly nervous, but I suppose I did the "pathos"
pretty well, for I noticed a good many people crying, and was much
pleased to see them do so! I have recited several times in America also,
but now I never exert myself beyond writing a novel or a short story
just when I feel inclined for it."
After tea Mrs. Fraser proposes a stroll through the grounds. "It is very
cold, but dry," she says, "so we might venture; but first come into the
billiard-room, which is our usual postprandial resort." Passing through
the hall and another conservatory, with vines thickly intersecting
overhead, and full of splendid specimens of maidenhair ferns, with the
vivid scarlet of geraniums between them, she takes you into a large and
lofty room, panelled in oak. At the further end a flight of oaken steps
leads up to a sort of dais, from which the game can be well surveyed.
The furniture is all of carved oak and crimson velvet, with the
exception of two great easy chairs, whose backs and arms and legs are
composed of buffalo horns, beautifully polished and mounted. These were
sent to her from Russia, and are the admiration of the neighbourhood.
All round the walls hang pictures of the celebrated American trotting
horses, whose performances in Central Park, New York, were a daily
delight to Mrs. Fraser. A tall bookcase, carved quaintly, stands in a
recess, but she tells you not to expect to see any of her own novels in
it, as she invariably gives them all away, except one copy of each,
which her mother, who lives with her, always confiscates, and values as
her dearest possessions. This lady must have been one of the loveliest
of women in her youth, and she is still wonderfully handsome and
young-looking.
Mrs. Alexander Fraser comes of a good old stock. Her grandmother was a
sister of Sir Wolstan Dixie, descended from the Sir Wolstan Dixie who
settled at Bosworth, Leicestershire, in the time of Queen Elizabeth. On
her mother's side she is related to the ancient house of Dunboyne,
dating as far back as Sir Thomas Butler, or Le Botelier, in the reign of
Edward II.; and she is a connection of William Makepeace Thackeray. Of
this she declares herself to be "most proud," and adds:--"I consider his
'Becky Sharp' is one of the most able studies of character that was ever
written. How much I should delight in his power of reading character,
though perhaps he took somewhat too caustic a view of it occasionally!"
A stand close by contains the whole set of Mrs. Lovett Cameron's
novels--"I enjoy her writing so much," says your hostess. "When I was
younger I was _fanatica_ on Ouida; but though I still admire her
marvellous command of language, especially in description of scenery, I
have grown too sober and prosaic and practical in my ideas and views of
life to appreciate her works as I used to do."
Losing her father at a very early age, when only fifteen, Mrs. Fraser
went to India, after spending two years at a school in Paris, and at the
age of sixteen she married Captain, now General Alexander Fraser, C.B.,
sometime Member of Council, for many years Secretary to the Government
of India, and only surviving brother of the late Bishop of Manchester.
She describes her life in India in glowing colours. "I liked India
immensely," she remarks. "Most women do, I fancy. They are so hospitable
out there, and there is so much fun and 'go' in the society. Besides,"
she adds, laughing, "one has so much attention that one feels in a
delightfully chronic state of self-complacency!"
A door at the further end leads through the fernery to the western side
of Carylls, which is perhaps the prettiest part of the place. It is
curiously decorated with Sussex tiles, and has an ivy-clad gable and
long window in stained cathedral glass. Turning to the right, your
hostess takes you round a tastefully-laid-out rosery, at the extremity
of which is a glasshouse over a hundred feet in length, which is full of
peach, apricot, nectarine, and other big trees. Emerging at the other
door, you find yourself in a great double garden with an archway
between, and the whole is enclosed within high walls covered with
fruit-trees. Here are vineries and hot-houses, all in most exquisite
order, for this is Mrs. Fraser's particular hobby. The day is so clear
that the view all around is seen to perfection, extending to the Surrey
Hills, and dotted here and there with a few white houses shown up
against the dark green of the masses of firs which seem to abound in
these parts. Expressing a wish to see the stables, Mrs. Fraser leads the
way thither through the courtyard. Four good-looking horses stand in the
stalls, and as she opens a small square window near, the black velvety
muzzle of the sweetest little pony rubs against her shoulder, whilst he
eagerly devours the carrot she has brought for him. "I drive this little
fellow myself," she says. "I had a pair of them, 'Blink' and 'Wink,' but
poor 'Wink' has gone over to the majority, I grieve to say."
A little further on are some picturesque kennels, and the inmates greet
their mistress vociferously. These are the fox-terriers who won the
prizes in the drawing-room. They are animals of long pedigree and long
price, and are pretty well known at all the shows in England. "They are
not only ornamental but useful," says your hostess. "Some are loose at
night, and I pity the individual who approaches them."
Whilst leisurely rambling here and there, you stroll up to some broad
stone steps (overshadowed by oaks, and with pillars on either side
surmounted by large vases of flowering berberis) that lead past an
upper lawn enclosed by a shrubbery, in which syringas and _Gloire de
Dijon_ roses hold prominent places. "These two tennis courts are in
constant use in summer time," observes Mrs. Fraser, "but I really am a
bit of a recluse, eschewing society as much as possible, though I
thoroughly enjoy a quiet tea with my favourite neighbours. When I lived
in town," she adds, "I had a charming house in Clarges-street, and used
to like my Wednesday afternoons, when a number of diplomats generally
looked in, and there used to be a Babel of languages going on, but long
residence in the country makes one grow daily more of a stay-at-home,
and I have so much to do that I never find the day too long."
Close by on the lawn lies a carefully-kept grassy mound. This is the
grave of three favourite dogs, and a much deplored grey parrot. One of
these dogs was a Schipperke, the breed kept by the bargemen of Belgium
to guard their goods and chattels. "He was a real beauty," says your
hostess, sadly, "and he travelled with me all over the Continent, then
across the Atlantic, and back again. I think one really grows to care
for a dog or a horse as much as for a human creature, and this pet was
almost human in his intelligence."
Mrs. Alexander Fraser is warmly attached to her beautiful home, and
takes the keenest interest in the improvements. She brought the design
of the low double walls from the Park at Brussels, and herself
superintended their building, as also the re-arrangement of the lawns.
She rarely goes to town, and then only on a flying visit just to see her
lawyers, or her publishers, "all the while longing to get home again,"
she says. She promises herself, however, to go up to stay with some
friends in the season, in order to do the opera and theatres, confessing
that she dearly loves a good drama. "Something that makes me weep
copiously," she adds, laughing. "I dislike comic pieces."
After a stroll round the lawns to watch the glories of the setting sun,
you return towards the house, passing by a piece of water enclosed by
low walls, fringed all round with large weeping willows, and enter
through a heated conservatory on the eastern side, not yet visited. Here
is a wealth of tea roses in every shade of colour. Mrs. Fraser
ungrudgingly cuts a handful of the choicest buds, and gives them to you,
a welcome present indeed at this season. "Flowers," she says, "are a
passion with me. I like to have them everywhere, and always have a big
bunch on my table when I write." The eastern side door leads into a
little room containing many Oriental treasures, notably a carved screen
of sweet-smelling sandal-wood, a curious "neckbreaker" used by Indian
dacoits, and some rare ivory and enamels. Conspicuous among them there
stands a small inlaid table, and on it lies an evidently cherished
volume, "The Life of Bishop Fraser," together with a photograph of him,
in a costly frame. "He was my best friend," says Mrs. Alexander Fraser,
in a low tone and with much pathos; "and my _beau ideal_ of a man both
personally and mentally. I felt his loss from my heart, and I am sure
that thousands have done the same."
But the carriage is announced, and Mrs. Alexander Fraser gives a
whispered order to the butler, which results in a basket of large,
purple hothouse grapes being brought, "to cheer you on your way back,"
she says. During the drive to the station she hospitably invites you to
"come again when the strawberries are ripe and the roses are in bloom."
[Illustration: Julia B. Chetwynd]