in a valley, not far from the margin of a beautiful river, raised on a lofty and artificial terrace at the base of a range of wooded heights, was a pile of modern building in the finest style of christian architecture. it was of great extent and richly decorated. built of a white and glittering stone, it sparkled with its pinnacles in the sunshine as it rose in strong relief against its verdant background. the winding valley, which was studded, but not too closely studded, with clumps of old trees, formed for a great extent on either side of the mansion a grassy demesne, which was called the lower park; but it was a region bearing the name of the upper park, that was the peculiar and most picturesque feature of this splendid residence. the wooded heights that formed the valley were not, as they appeared, a range of hills. their crest was only the abrupt termination of a vast and enclosed tableland, abounding in all the qualities of the ancient chase: turf and trees, a wilderness of underwood, and a vast spread of gorse and fern. the deer, that abounded, lived here in a world as savage as themselves: trooping down in the evening to the river. some of them, indeed, were ever in sight of those who were in the valley, and you might often observe various groups clustered on the green heights above the mansion, the effect of which was most inspiriting and graceful. sometimes in the twilight, a solitary form, magnified by the illusive hour, might be seen standing on the brink of the steep, large and black against the clear sky.
we have endeavoured slightly to sketch st. geneviève as it appeared to our friends from beaumanoir, winding into the valley the day after mr. lyle had dined with them. the valley opened for about half-a-mile opposite the mansion, which gave to the dwellers in it a view over an extensive and richly-cultivated country. it was through this district that the party from beaumanoir had pursued their way. the first glance at the building, its striking situation, its beautiful form, its brilliant colour, its great extent, a gathering as it seemed of galleries, halls, and chapels, mullioned windows, portals of clustered columns, and groups of airy pinnacles and fretwork spires, called forth a general cry of wonder and of praise.
the ride from beaumanoir had been delightful; the breath of summer in every breeze, the light of summer on every tree. the gay laugh of lady everingham rang frequently in the air; often were her sunny eyes directed to coningsby, as she called his attention to some fair object or some pretty effect. she played the hostess of nature, and introduced him to all the beauties.
mr. lyle had recognised them. he cantered forward with greetings on a fat little fawn-coloured pony, with a long white mane and white flowing tail, and the wickedest eye in the world. he rode by the side of the duchess, and indicated their gently-descending route.
they arrived, and the peacocks, who were sunning themselves on the turrets, expanded their plumage to welcome them.
‘i can remember the old house,’ said the duchess, as she took mr. lyle’s arm; ‘and i am happy to see the new one. the duke had prepared me for much beauty, but the reality exceeds his report.’
they entered by a short corridor into a large hall. they would have stopped to admire its rich roof, its gallery and screen; but their host suggested that they should refresh themselves after their ride, and they followed him through several apartments into a spacious chamber, its oaken panels covered with a series of interesting pictures, representing the siege of st. geneviève by the parliament forces in 1643: the various assaults and sallies, and the final discomfiture of the rebels. in all these figured a brave and graceful sir eustace lyle, in cuirass and buff jerkin, with gleaming sword and flowing plume. the sight of these pictures was ever a source of great excitement to henry sydney, who always lamented his ill-luck in not living in such days; nay, would insist that all others must equally deplore their evil destiny.
‘see, coningsby, this battery on the upper park,’ said lord henry. ‘this did the business: how it rakes up the valley; sir eustace works it himself. mother, what a pity beaumanoir was not besieged!’
‘it may be,’ said coningsby.
‘i always fancy a siege must be so interesting,’ said lady everingham. ‘it must be so exciting.’
‘i hope the next siege may be at beaumanoir, instead of st. geneviève,’ said lyle, laughing; ‘as henry sydney has such a military predisposition. duchess, you said the other day that you liked malvoisie, and here is some.
‘now broach me a cask of malvoisie,
bring pasty from the doe;’
said the duchess. ‘that has been my luncheon.’
‘a poetic repast,’ said lady theresa.
‘their breeds of sheep must have been very inferior in old days,’ said lord everingham, ‘as they made such a noise about their venison. for my part i consider it a thing as much gone by as tilts and tournaments.’
‘i am sorry that they have gone by,’ said lady theresa.
‘everything has gone by that is beautiful,’ said lord henry.
‘life is much easier,’ said lord everingham.
‘life easy!’ said lord henry. ‘life appears to me to be a fierce struggle.’
‘manners are easy,’ said coningsby, ‘and life is hard.’
‘and i wish to see things exactly the reverse,’ said lord henry. ‘the means and modes of subsistence less difficult; the conduct of life more ceremonious.’
‘civilisation has no time for ceremony,’ said lord everingham.
‘how very sententious you all are!’ said his wife. ‘i want to see the hall and many other things.’ and they all rose.
there were indeed many other things to see: a long gallery, rich in ancestral portraits, specimens of art and costume from holbein to lawrence; courtiers of the tudors, and cavaliers of the stuarts, terminating in red-coated squires fresh from the field, and gentlemen buttoned up in black coats, and sitting in library chairs, with their backs to a crimson curtain. woman, however, is always charming; and the present generation may view their mothers painted by lawrence, as if they were patronesses of almack’s; or their grandmothers by reynolds, as robinettas caressing birds, with as much delight as they gaze on the dewy-eyed matrons of lely, and the proud bearing of the heroines of vandyke. but what interested them more than the gallery, or the rich saloons, or even the baronial hall, was the chapel, in which art had exhausted all its invention, and wealth offered all its resources. the walls and vaulted roofs entirely painted in encaustic by the first artists of germany, and representing the principal events of the second testament, the splendour of the mosaic pavement, the richness of the painted windows, the sumptuousness of the altar, crowned by a masterpiece of carlo dolce and surrounded by a silver rail, the tone of rich and solemn light that pervaded all, and blended all the various sources of beauty into one absorbing and harmonious whole: all combined to produce an effect which stilled them into a silence that lasted for some minutes, until the ladies breathed their feelings in an almost inarticulate murmur of reverence and admiration; while a tear stole to the eye of the enthusiastic henry sydney.
leaving the chapel, they sauntered through the gardens, until, arriving at their limit, they were met by the prettiest sight in the world; a group of little pony chairs, each drawn by a little fat fawn-coloured pony, like the one that mr. lyle had been riding. lord henry drove his mother; lord everingham, lady theresa; lady everingham was attended by coningsby. their host cantered by the duchess’s side, and along winding roads of easy ascent, leading through beautiful woods, and offering charming landscapes, they reached in due time the upper park.
‘one sees our host to great advantage in his own house,’ said lady everingham. ‘he is scarcely the same person. i have not observed him once blush. he speaks and moves with ease. it is a pity that he is not more graceful. above all things i like a graceful man.’
‘that chapel,’ said coningsby, ‘was a fine thing.’
‘very!’ said lady everingham. ‘did you observe the picture over the altar, the virgin with blue eyes? i never observed blue eyes before in such a picture. what is your favourite colour for eyes?’
coningsby felt embarrassed: he said something rather pointless about admiring everything that was beautiful.
‘but every one has a favourite style; i want to know yours. regular features, do you like regular features? or is it expression that pleases you?’
‘expression; i think i like expression. expression must be always delightful.’
‘do you dance?’
‘no; i am no great dancer. i fear i have few accomplishments. i am fond of fencing.’
‘i don’t fence,’ said lady everingham, with a smile. ‘but i think you are right not to dance. it is not in your way. you are ambitious, i believe?’ she added.
‘i was not aware of it; everybody is ambitious.’
‘you see i know something of your character. henry has spoken of you to me a great deal; long before we met,—met again, i should say, for we are old friends, remember. do you know your career much interests me? i like ambitious men.’
there is something fascinating in the first idea that your career interests a charming woman. coningsby felt that he was perhaps driving a madame de longueville. a woman who likes ambitious men must be no ordinary character; clearly a sort of heroine. at this moment they reached the upper park, and the novel landscape changed the current of their remarks.
far as the eye could reach there spread before them a savage sylvan scene. it wanted, perhaps, undulation of surface, but that deficiency was greatly compensated for by the multitude and prodigious size of the trees; they were the largest, indeed, that could well be met with in england; and there is no part of europe where the timber is so huge. the broad interminable glades, the vast avenues, the quantity of deer browsing or bounding in all directions, the thickets of yellow gorse and green fern, and the breeze that even in the stillness of summer was ever playing over this table-land, all produced an animated and renovating scene. it was like suddenly visiting another country, living among other manners, and breathing another air. they stopped for a few minutes at a pavilion built for the purposes of the chase, and then returned, all gratified by this visit to what appeared to be the higher regions of the earth.
as they approached the brow of the hill that hung over st. geneviève, they heard the great bell sound.
‘what is that?’ asked the duchess.
‘it is almsgiving day,’ replied mr. lyle, looking a little embarrassed, and for the first time blushing. ‘the people of the parishes with which i am connected come to st. geneviève twice a-week at this hour.’
‘and what is your system?’ inquired lord everingham, who had stopped, interested by the scene. ‘what check have you?’
‘the rectors of the different parishes grant certificates to those who in their belief merit bounty according to the rules which i have established. these are again visited by my almoner, who countersigns the certificate, and then they present it at the postern-gate. the certificate explains the nature of their necessities, and my steward acts on his discretion.
‘mamma, i see them!’ exclaimed lady theresa.
‘perhaps your grace may think that they might be relieved without all this ceremony,’ said mr. lyle, extremely confused. ‘but i agree with henry and mr. coningsby, that ceremony is not, as too commonly supposed, an idle form. i wish the people constantly and visibly to comprehend that property is their protector and their friend.’
‘my reason is with you, mr. lyle,’ said the duchess, ‘as well as my heart.’
they came along the valley, a procession of nature, whose groups an artist might have studied. the old man, who loved the pilgrimage too much to avail himself of the privilege of a substitute accorded to his grey hairs, came in person with his grandchild and his staff. there also came the widow with her child at the breast, and others clinging to her form; some sorrowful faces, and some pale; many a serious one, and now and then a frolic glance; many a dame in her red cloak, and many a maiden with her light basket; curly-headed urchins with demure looks, and sometimes a stalwart form baffled for a time of the labour which he desired. but not a heart there that did not bless the bell that sounded from the tower of st. geneviève!
