Here again the popular sentiment struck the right note at starting.  The lake was hidden in the centre of a fir wood.  Except in the middle, where the sunlight reached them, the waters lay black under the sombre shadow of the trees.  The one break in the plantation was at the farther end of the lake.  The one sign of movement and life to be seen was the ghostly gliding of the swans on the dead-still surface of the water.  It was solemn—­as they said; it was romantic—­as they said.  It was dismal—­as they thought.  Pages of description could express no more.  Let pages of description be absent, therefore, in this place.

Having satiated itself with the swans, having exhausted the lake, the general curiosity reverted to the break in the trees at the farther end—­remarked a startlingly artificial object, intruding itself on the scene, in the shape of a large red curtain, which hung between two of the tallest firs, and closed the prospect beyond from view—­requested an explanation of the curtain from Julius Delamayn—­and received for answer that the mystery should be revealed on the arrival of his wife with the tardy remainder of the guests who had loitered about the house.

On the appearance of Mrs. Delamayn and the stragglers, the united party coasted the shore of the lake, and stood assembled in front of the curtain.  Pointing to the silken cords hanging at either side of it, Julius Delamayn picked out two little girls (children of his wife’s sister), and sent them to the cords, with instructions to pull, and see what happened.  The nieces of Julius pulled with the eager hands of children in the presence of a mystery—­the curtains parted in the middle, and a cry of universal astonishment and delight saluted the scene revealed to view.

At the end of a broad avenue of firs a cool green glade spread its grassy carpet in the midst of the surrounding plantation.  The ground at the farther end of the glade rose; and here, on the lower slopes, a bright little spring of water bubbled out between gray old granite rocks.

Along the right-hand edge of the turf ran a row of tables, arrayed in spotless white, and covered with refreshments waiting for the guests.  On the opposite side was a band of music, which burst into harmony at the moment when the curtains were drawn.  Looking back through the avenue, the eye caught a distant glimpse of the lake, where the sunlight played on the water, and the plumage of the gliding swans flashed softly in brilliant white.  Such was the charming surprise which Julius Delamayn had arranged for his friends.  It was only at moments like these—­or when he and his wife were playing Sonatas in the modest little music-room at Swanhaven—­that Lord Holchester’s eldest son was really happy.  He secretly groaned over the duties which his position as a landed gentleman imposed upon him; and he suffered under some of the highest privileges of his rank and station as under social martyrdom in its cruelest form.