Something mysterious or melancholy was connected with her story; she
died young, but continued for a long time to haunt the ancient mansion,
to the great dismay of the servants, and the occasional disquiet of the
visitors, and it was with much difficulty her troubled spirit was
conjured down and put to rest.
From the rear of the hall we walked out into the garden, about which
Byron used to stroll and loiter in company with Miss Chaworth. It was
laid out in the old French style. There was a long terraced walk, with
heavy stone balustrades and sculptured urns, overrun with ivy and
evergreens. A neglected shrubbery bordered one side of the terrace,
with a lofty grove inhabited by a venerable community of rooks. Great
flights of steps led down from the terrace to a flower garden laid out
in formal plots. The rear of the Hall, which overlooked the garden, had
the weather stains of centuries, and its stone-shafted casements and an
ancient sun-dial against its walls carried back the mind to days of
yore.
The retired and quiet garden, once a little sequestered world of love
and romance, was now all matted and wild, yet was beautiful, even in
its decay. Its air of neglect and desolation was in unison with the
fortune of the two beings who had once walked here in the freshness of
youth, and life, and beauty.
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