And indeed it is a charming old place, older perhaps than Chetwoode, though smaller and less imposing. The ivy has clambered up over all its ancient walls and towers and battlements, until it presents to the eye a sheet of darkest, richest green, through which the old-fashioned casements peep in picturesque disorder, hardly two windows being in a line.
Inside, steps are to be met with everywhere in the most unexpected places,—curious doors leading one never knows where,—ghostly corridors along which at dead of night armed knights of by-gone days might tramp, their armor clanking,—winding stairs,—and tapestries that tell of warriors brave and maidens fair, long since buried and forgotten.
Outside, the gardens are lovely and rich in blossom. Here, too, the old world seems to have lingered, the very flowers themselves, though born yesterday, having all the grace and modesty of an age gone by.
Here
"The oxlips and the nodding violet grow:
Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine,
with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."
Here too the "nun-like lily" hangs its head, the sweet "neglected wall-flower" blows, the gaudy sunflower glitters, and the "pale jessamine, the white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet," display their charms; while among them, towering over all through the might of its majesty, shines the rose,—"Joy's own flower," as Felicia Hemans sweetly calls it.
Now—being late in the season—the blossom is more scarce, though still the air is heavy with delicate perfume, and the eyes grow drunk with gazing on the beauty of the autumn flowers. Through them goes Lilian, with Archibald gladly following.