Tony Butler. Lever Charles James
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