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Updated: May 27, 2025
There was something tragic in the sudden contrast between the vigour and youth and pride of life that Yeovil had seen crystallised in those dancing, high-stepping horses, scampering dogs, and alert, clean-limbed young men-servants, and the age-frail woman who came forward to meet him. Eleanor, Dowager Lady Greymarten, had for more than half a century been the ruling spirit at Torywood.
Such was Eleanor, Dowager Lady Greymarten, a shadow amid the young red- blooded life at Torywood, but a shadow that was too real to die, a shadow that was stronger than the substance that surrounded it.
"The falcon cage is empty," said Lady Greymarten, pointing to a large wired dome that towered high above the other enclosures, "I let the lanner fly free one day. The other birds may be reconciled to their comfortable quarters and abundant food and absence of dangers, but I don't think all those things could make up to a falcon for the wild range of cliff and desert.
A footman came to announce that the carriage waited to take him back to the station. His hostess walked with him through the hall, and came out on to the stone-flagged terrace, the terrace from which a former Lady Greymarten had watched the twinkling bonfires that told of Waterloo.
After tea Yeovil was taken by his hostess to the aviaries, which constituted the sole claim which Torywood possessed to being considered a show place. The third Earl of Greymarten had collected rare and interesting birds, somewhere about the time when Gilbert White was penning the last of his deathless letters, and his successors in the title had perpetuated the hobby.
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