"Grim-visaged war had smooth'd his wrinkled front."
'Twas a subject for a painter, that delicate and blooming girl, her auburn hair hanging in careless grace on each side of her white forehead, while her eyes,
"That might have sooth'd a tiger's rage,
Or thaw'd the cold heart of a conqueror,"
were fixed with absorbed interest on the stern and rigid countenance which she reflected had been, as it were, a thousand times darkened with the smoke of the grisly battle-field. But I must not forget that there are others in the room; and among them, standing at a little distance, is Lord De la Zouch, one of Mr. Aubrey's neighbors in Yorkshire. Apparently he is listening to a brother peer talking to him very earnestly about the expected division; but Lord De la Zouch's eye is fixed on you, lovely Kate—and how little can you imagine what is passing through his mind! It has just occurred to him that his sudden arrangement for young Delamere—his only son and heir, come up the day before from Oxford—to call for him about half-past ten, and take his place in Mrs. Aubrey's drawing-room, while Lord De la Zouch goes down to the House—may be attended with certain consequences! He is in truth speculating on the effect of your beauty bursting suddenly on his son—who has not seen you for nearly two years! all this gives him anxiety—but not painful anxiety—for, dear Kate, he knows that your forehead would wear the ancient coronet of the De la Zouches with grace and dignity. But Delamere is as yet too young—and if he gets the image of Catherine Aubrey into his head, it will, fears his father, instantly cast into the shade and displace all the stern visages of those old geometers, poets, orators, historians, philosophers, and statesmen, who ought, in Lord De la Zouch's and his son's tutor's judgment, to occupy exclusively the head of the aforesaid Delamere for some five years to come. That youngster—happy fellow!—frank, high-spirited, and enthusiastic—and handsome to boot—was heir to an ancient title and very great estates; all that his father had considered in looking out for an alliance was—youth, health, beauty, blood—here they all were;—and fortune too—bah! what did it signify to his son—but at any rate 'twas not to be thought of for some years.
"Suppose," said he, aloud, though in a musing manner, "one were to say—twenty-four"——
"Twenty-four!" echoed his companion, with amazement; "my dear De la Zouch, what the deuce do you mean? Eighty-four at the very lowest!"
"Eh? what? oh—yes of course—I should say ninety—I mean—hem!—they will muster about twenty-four only."
"Ah—I beg your pardon!—there you're right, I dare say."—Here the announcement of dinner put an end to the colloquy of the two statesmen. Lord De la Zouch led down Miss Aubrey with an air of the most delicate and cordial courtesy; and felt almost disposed, in the heat of the moment, to tell her that he had arranged all in his own mind—that if she willed it, she had his hearty consent to become the future Lady De la Zouch. He was himself the eleventh who had come to the title in direct descent from father to son; 'twas a point he was not a little nervous and anxious about—he detested collateral succession—and he made himself infinitely agreeable to Miss Aubrey as he sat beside her at dinner! The Duke of—— sat on the right hand side of Mrs. Aubrey, seemingly in high spirits, and she appeared proud enough of her supporter. It was a delightful dinner-party, elegant without ostentation, and select without pretence of exclusiveness. All were cheerful and animated, not merely on account of the over-night's parliamentary victory, which I have already alluded to, but also in contemplation of the coming Christmas; how, and where, and with whom each was to spend that "righte merrie season," being the chief topic of conversation. As there was nothing peculiar in the dinner, and as I have no turn for describing such matters in detail—the clatter of plate, the jingling of silver, the sparkling of wines, and so forth—I shall request the reader to imagine himself led by me quietly out of the dining-room into the library—thus escaping from all the bustle and hubbub attendant upon such an entertainment as is going on in front of the house. We shall be alone in the library—here it is; we enter it, and shut the door. 'Tis a spacious room, all the sides covered with books, of which Mr. Aubrey is a great collector—and the clear red fire (which we must presently replenish, or it will go out) is shedding a subdued ruddy light on all the objects in the room, very favorable for our purpose. The ample table is covered with books and papers; and there is an antique-looking arm-chair drawn opposite to the fire, in which Mr. Aubrey has been indulging in a long revery till the moment of quitting it to go and dress for dinner. This chair I shall sit in myself; you may draw out from the recess for yourself one of two little sloping easy-chairs, which have been placed there by Mrs. and Miss Aubrey for their own sole use, considering that they are excellent judges of the period at which Mr. Aubrey has been long enough alone, and at which they should come in and gossip with him. We may as well draw the dusky green curtains across the window, through which the moon shines at present rather too brightly.—So now, after coaxing up the fire, I will proceed to tell you a little bit of pleasant family history.
The Aubreys are a Yorkshire family—the younger branch of the ancient and noble family of the Dreddlingtons. Their residence, Yatton, is in the north-eastern part of the county, not above fifteen or twenty miles from the sea. The hall is one of those old structures, the sight of which throws you back a couple of centuries in our English history. It stands in a park, crowded with trees, many of them of great age and size, and under which two or three hundred head of deer perform their capricious and graceful gambols. In approaching from London, you strike off from the great north road into a broad by-way; after going down which for about a mile, you come to a straggling little village called Yatton, at the farther extremity of which stands a little aged gray church, with a tall thin spire; an immense yew-tree, with a kind of friendly gloom, overshadowing, in the little churchyard, nearly half the graves. Rather in the rear of the church is the vicarage-house, snug and sheltered by a line of fir-trees. After walking on about eighty yards, you come to high park-gates, and see a lodge just within, on the left hand side, sheltered by an elm-tree. Having passed through these gates, you wind your way for about two-thirds of a mile along a gravel walk, among the thickening trees, till you come to a ponderous old crumbling looking red brick gateway of the time of Henry VII., with one or two deeply set stone windows in the turrets, and mouldering stone-capped battlements peeping through high-climbing ivy. There is an old escutcheon immediately over the point of the arch; and as you pass underneath, if you look up, you can plainly see the groove of the old portcullis still remaining. Having passed under this castellated remnant, you enter a kind of court formed by a high wall completely covered with ivy, running along in a line from the right hand turret of the gateway till it joins the house. Along its course are a number of yew-trees. In the centre of the open space is a quaintly disposed grass-plot, dotted about with stunted box, and in the centre of that stands a weather-beaten stone sundial.
The house itself is a large irregular pile of dull red brickwork, with great stacks of chimneys in the rear; the body of the building has evidently been erected at different times. Some part is evidently in the style of Queen Elizabeth's reign, another in that of Queen Anne; and it is plain that on the site of the present structure has formerly stood a castle. There are, indeed, traces of the old moat still visible round the rear of the house. One of the ancient towers, with small deep stone windows, still remains, giving its venerable support to the right hand extremity of the building, as you stand with your face to the door. The long frontage of the house consists of two huge masses of dusky-red brickwork, (you can hardly call them wings,) connected together by a lower building in the centre, which contains the hall. There are three or four rows of long thin deep windows, with heavy-looking wooden sashes. The high-pitched roof is of red tiles, and has deep projecting eaves, forming, in fact, a bold wooden cornice running along the whole length of the building, which is some two or three stories high. At the left extremity stands a clump of ancient cedars of Lebanon, feathering in evergreen beauty down to the ground. The hall is large and lofty; the floor is of polished oak, almost the whole of which is covered with thick matting; it is wainscoted all round with black oak; some seven or eight full-length pictures, evidently of considerable antiquity, being let into the panels. Quaint figures these are to be sure; and if they resembled the ancestors of the Aubrey family, those ancestors must have been singular and startling persons! The faces are quite white and staring—all as if in wonder; and they have such long thin legs! some of them ending in sharp-pointed shoes. On each side of the ample fireplace stands a figure in full armor; and there are also ranged along the wall old helmets, cuirasses, swords, lances, battle-axes, and cross-bows, the very idea of wearing, wielding, and handling which, makes your arms ache, while you exclaim, "they must have been giants in those days!" On one side of this hall, a door opens into the dining-room, beyond which is the library; on the other side a door leads you into a noble room, now called the drawing-room, where stands a very fine organ. Out of both the dining-room and drawing-room you pass up a staircase contained in an old square tower; two sides of each of them, opening on the quadrangle, lead into a gallery running round it, and into which all the bed-rooms open.