CHAPTER III.

*4 Rod. How sweet these solitary places are—— * * * * * e@ Ped. What strange musick Was that we heard afar off? Curio. We've told you what he is—what time we’ve sought him— His nature and his name.’ BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: Zhe Pilgrim.
__ ONE day, as the ladies were seated in Mrs. Merton’s morning- _ room, Evelyn, who had been stationed by the window hearing _ the little Cecilia go through the French verbs, and had just — finished that agreeable task, exclaimed, e “Do tell me to whom that old house Hclonee with the © picturesque gable-end and Gothic turrets—there, just peeping _ through the trees—I have always forgot to ask you.”
“Oh, my dear Miss Cameron,” said Mrs. Merton, “that is a Burleigh—have you not been there? How stupid in Caroline © - _ not to show it to you. It is one of the lions of the place. It — belongs to a man you have often heard of—Mr. Maltravers.”
+ “Indeed!” cried Evelyn; and she gazed with new interest on _ the grey melancholy pile, as the sunshine brought it into strong contrast with the dark pines around it. “And Mr. _ Maltiavers
himself - a
“Ts still abroad, I believe; though I did hear the other de that he was shortly Berecied at Burleigh. It is a curious old place, though much neglected. I believe, indeed, it has not been furnished since the time of Charles the First—(Cissy, my love, don’t stoop so.)—Very gloomy, in my opinion; and. not any fine room in the house, except the library, which was’ once a chapel. However, people come miles to see it.”
“Will you go there to-day ?” said Caroline, languidly ; “it is avery pleasant walk through the glebe-land and the wood—not E above half a mile by the foot-path.” ; :
“T should like it so much.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Merton, “and you had better go before he —_— _ seturns—he is so strange. He does not allow it to be seen when j
fs mee
he is down. But, indeed, he has only been once at the old p since he was of age—(Sophy, you will tear Miss Cameron’s ~ scarf to pieces ; do be quiet, child.}\—That was before he was a great man—he was then very odd—saw no society—only dined once with us—though Mr. Merton paid him every attention. They show the room in which he wrote his books.” “TI remember him very well, though I was then but a child,” said Caroline ; “a handsome, thoughtful face.” , “Did you think so, my dear? fine eyes and teeth, certainly, and a commanding figure—but nothing more.” “Well,” said Caroline, “if you like to go, Evelyn, I am at your service.” “And—I—Evy, dear—I—may go,” said Cecilia, clinging to Evelyn. “And me, too,” lisped Sophia—the youngest hope,—* there’s such a pretty peacock.” _ “Oh, yes—they may go, Mrs. Merton, we'll take such care of them.” “Very well, my dear—Miss Cameron quite spoils you.” Evelyn tripped away to put on her bonnet—and the children ran after her, clapping their hands,—they could not bear to lose sight of her for a moment. “Caroline,” said Mrs. Merton, affectionately, “are you not well?—you have seemed pale lately, and not in your usual spirits.” Oh, yes, I’m well enough,” answered Caroline, rather peevishly; _ “but this place is so dull now—very provoking that Lady Elizabeth does not go to London this year.” “My dear, it will be gayer, I hope, in July, when the races at Knaresdean begin ; and Lord Vargrave has promised to come ” “Has Lord Vargrave written to you lately?” “No, my dear.” “Very odd.” “Does Evelyn ever talk of him?” “Not much,” said Caroline, rising and quitting the room. It was a most cheerful exhilarating day; the close of sweet May; the hedges were white with blossoms, a light breeze
aiien iaeea thew
to run), followed them soberly towards Burleigh. _ They passed the glebe-fields ; and‘a little bridge, thrown over a brawling rivulet, conducted them into a wood. This stream,” said Caroline, “forms the boundary between __ my uncle’s estates and those of Mr. Maltravers. It must be very - unpleasant to so proud a man as Mr. Maltravers is said to be, to
. q have the land of another proprietor so near his house. He could
who walked much too slow for her companion (Evelyn jones
_ hear my uncle’s gun from his very drawing-room. However, Sir _ John takes care not to molest him. On the other side, the —
Burleigh estates extend for some miles; indeed Mr. Maltravers - is the next great proprietor to my uncle in this part of the - county. Very strange that he,does not marry! There, now _ you can see the house.”
The mansion lay somewhat low, with hanging woods in ‘the _ rear: and the old-fashioned fish-ponds gleaming in the sunshine
and overshadowed by gigantic trees, increased the venerable — _ stillness of its aspect. Ivy and innumerable creepers covered one ©
_ side of the house ; and long weeds cumbered the deserted road. “Tt is sadly neglected,” said Caroline ; “and was so, even in
the last owner’s life. Mr. Maltravers inherits the place from his —
mother’s uncle. We may as well enter the house by the private way. The front entrance is kept locked up.”
Winding by a path that conducted into a flower-garden,
divided from the park by a ha-ha, over which a plank and a
small gate, rusting off its hinges, were placed, Caroline led the way towards the building. At this point of view it presented a —
large bay window that by a flight of four steps led into the ‘garden. On one side rose a square, narrow turret, surmounted bya gilt dome and quaint weathercock, below the architrave of which was a sun-dial, set in the stonework ; and another dial stood in the garden, with the common and Seti motto—
S¢ Non numero horas, nisi serenas{” }
On the other side of the bay window a huge buttress cast its
1 I number not the hours, unless sunny,
“mass of shadow. There was something in the appearance of the _ whole place that invited to contemplation and repose—something — almost monastic. The gaiety of the teeming spring-time could ©
2 .
not divest the spot of a certain sadness, not displeasing, however, ~
whether to the young, to whom there is a luxury in the vague sentiment of melancholy, or to those who, having known real — griefs, seek for an anodyne in meditationand memory. The low lead-coloured door, set deep in the turret, was locked, and the
bell beside it broken, Caroline turned impatiently away. “We _
must go round to the other side,” said she, “and try to make the deaf old man hear us.”
“Oh, Carry!” cried Cecilia, “the great window is open;” and —
she ran up the steps. ‘
“That is lucky,” said Caroline ; and the rest followed Cecilia.
Evelyn now stood within the library of which Mrs. Merton had spoken. It was a large room, about fifty feet in length, and proportionably wide; somewhat dark, for the light came only from the one large window through which they entered; and ‘though the window rose to the cornice of the ceiling, and took up one side of the apartment, the daylight was subdued by the heaviness of the stonework in which the narrow panes were set, and by the glass stained with armorial bearings in the upper part of the casement, The bookcases, too, were of the dark oak which so much absorbs the light; and the gilding, formerly meant to relieve them, was discoloured by time.
The room was almost disproportionably lofty; the ceiling, elaborately coved, and richly carved with grotesque masks, pre- served the Gothic character of the age in which it had been devoted to a religious purpose. Two fireplaces, with high chimneypieces of oak, in which were inserted two portraits, broke the symmetry of the tall bookcases. In one of these fire- _ places were half-burnt logs; and a huge armchair, with a small reading-desk beside it, seemed to bespeak the recent occupation of the room. On the fourth side, opposite the window, the wall was covered with faded tapestry, representing the meeting of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba; the arras was nailed over doors on either hand ; the chinks between the door and the wall serving, in one instance, to cut off in the middle his wise Majesty,
———— aking a low bow ; w
rom under the wanton queen, just as she was aor te ‘from her chariot. Near the window stood a grand piano, the only modern article
_in the room, save one of the portraits, presently to be described, On all this Evelyn gazed silently and devoutly: she had - naturally that reverence for genius which is common to the |
_ enthusiastic and young ; and there is, even to’ the dullest, a cer-
_ tain interest in the homes of those who have implanted within —
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usa new thought. But here there was, she imagined, a rare and 3 ee harmony between the place and the mental character-
istics of the owner. She fancied she now better understood the shadowy and metaphysical repose of thought that had distinguished the earlier writings of Maltravers—the writings composed or planned in this still retreat. :
But what particularly caught her attention was one of the two portraits that adorned the mantelpieces. The further one was attired in the rich and fanciful armour of the time of Elizabeth; the head bare, the helmet on a table on which the hand rested. — It was a handsome and striking countenance ; and an inscription announced it to be a Digby, an ancestor of Maltravers.
But the other was a beautiful girl of about eighteen, in the now almost antiquated dress of forty years ago. The features were delicate, but the colours somewhat faded, and there was something mournful in the expression. A silk curtain, drawn on
one side, seemed to denote how carefully it was prized by the
possessor, . Evelyn turned for explanation to her cicerone. “ This is the second time I have seen that picture,” said Caro- line; “for it is only by great entreaty and as a mysterious
favour, that the old housekeeper draws aside the veil. Some
touch of sentiment in Maltravers makes him regard it as sacred.
It is the picture of his mother before she married; she died in giving him birth.”
Evelyn sighed ; how well she understood the sentiment which seemed to Caroline so eccentric! The countenance fascinated her ; the eye seemed to follow her as she turned. .
_ - “As a proper pendant to this picture,” said Caroline, “he
Dee
i SEEMS sina DSi ident ee SEE a U5 ought to have dismissed the effigies of yon warlike gentleman, G and replaced it by one of poor Lady Florence Lascelles, for — _ whose loss he is said to have quitted his country: but, perhaps, it was the loss of her fortune.”
“ How can you say so ?—fie!” cried Evelyn, with a burst of generous indignation.
“Ah, my dear, you heiresses have a fellow-feeling with each other! Nevertheless, clever men are less sentimental than we deem them—heigho !—this quiet room gives me the spleen, I ' fancy.”
“ Dearest Evy,” whispered Cecilia, “I think you have a look of that pretty picture, only you are much prettier. Do take off your bonnet ; your hair just falls down like hers.”
Evelyn shook her head gravely; but the spoiled child hastily untied the ribands, and snatched away the hat, and Evelyn’s sunny ringlets fell down in beautiful disorder. There was no resemblance between Evelyn and the portrait, except in the colour of the hair, and the careless fashion it now by chance assumed. Yet Evelyn was pleased to think that a likeness did exist, though Caroline declared it was a most unflattering compliment.
“TI don’t wonder,” said the latter, changing the theme, “I don’t wonder Mr. Maltravers lives so little in this ‘ Castle Dull ;’ yet it might be much improved. French windows and plate-glass,
__ for instance ; and if those lumbering bookshelves and horrid old
chimney-pieces were removed and the ceiling painted white and gold like that in my uncle’s saloon, and a rich, lively paper, instead of the tapestry, it would really make a very fine ballroom.”
“Let us have a dance here now,” cried Cecilia. « Come, stand up, Sophy ;” and the children began to practise a waltz step, tumbling over each other, and laughing in full glee, .
“Hush, hush!” said Evelyn softly. She had never before checked the children’s mirth, and she could not tell why she did so now.
“I suppose the old butler has been entertaining the bailiff here,” said Caroline, pointing to the remains of the fire.
“And is this the room he chiefly inhabited—the room that you say they show as his?”
ea No: that eee door to the right oni into a little study — where ic wrote.” So saying, Caroline tried to open the door,
but it was locked from within. She then opened the other door,
_ which showed a long wainscoted passage, hung with rusty pikes, _ and a few breastplates of the time of the Parliamentary Wars. = “This leads to the main body of the house,” said. Caroline, — 3 “from which the room we are now in and the little study are
_ popish times. I have heard that Sir Kenelm Digby, an ancestral - connection of the present owner, first converted them into their "present use, and, in return, built the village church on the other side of the park.” 4 Sir Kenelm Digby, the old cavalier philosopher !—a new name of interest to consecrate the place! Evelyn could have lingered
sojourn, hastened to the piano—it was open—she ran her fairy ©
_ fingers over the keys, and the sound from the untuned and
neglected instrument thrilled wild and spiritlike through the
melancholy chamber.
“Oh! do sing us something, Evy,” cried Cecilia, running up
__ to, and drawing a chair to, the instrument.
“Do, Evelyn,” said Caroline, languidly ; “ it will serve to bring one of the servants to us, and save us a journey to the offices.” __
It was just what Evelyn wished. Some verses, which her mother especially loved; verses written by Maltravers upon returning, after absence, to his own home, had rushed into her mind as she had touched the keys. They were appropriate to the place, and had been beautifully set to music. So the children - hushed themselves, and nestled at her feet ; and, after a little prelude, keeping the accompaniment under, that the spoiled instrument might not mar the sweet words, and sweeter voice, she began the song.
Meanwhile in the adjoining room, the little study which Caroline had spoken of, sate the owner of the house! He had returned suddenly and unexpectedly the previous night. The old steward was in attendance at the moment, full of apologies, congratulations, and gossip; and Maltravers, grown a stern and kaughty man, was already impatiently turning away, when he
- completely detached, having as you know, been the chapel in a
all day in the room; and, perhaps, as an excuse for a longer _
bhieard the sudden sound of the children’s laughter and loud voices in the room beyond. Maltravers frowned.
“What impertinence is this?” said he in a tone that, though
~>very calm, made the steward quake in his shoes. “T don’t know, really, your honour; there be so many grand folks come to see the house in the fine weather, that ce
“And you permit your master’s house to be a raree-show }— you do well, sir.”
“If your honour were more amongst us, there might be more |
discipline like,” said the steward stoutly ; “but no one in my time has cared so little for the old place as those it belongs to.”
“Fewer words with me, sir,” said Maltravers, haughtily ; “and now go and inform those people that Iam returned and wish for no guests but those I invite myself.”
eSirl”
“Do you not hear me? Say, that if it so please them, these old ruins are my property, and are not to be jobbed out to the insolence of public curiosity. Go, sir.”
“ But—I beg pardon, your honour—if they be great folks ?. %
e
— “Great folks!—great! Ay, there it is. Why, if they be great folks, they have great houses of their own, Mr. Justis.”
The steward stared. “Perhaps, your honour,” he put in, deprecatingly, “they be Mr. Merton’s family: they come very often when the London gentlemen are with them.”
“Merton !—oh, the cringing parson. Harkye! one word more with me, sir, and you quit my service to-morrow.”
Mr. Justis lifted his eyes and hands to. heaven; but there
was something in his master’s voice and look which checked —
reply, and he turned slowly to the door—when a voice of such heavenly sweetness was heard without, that it arrested his own step and made the stern Maltravers start in his seat. He held up his hand to the steward to delay his errand, and listened, charmed and spell-bound. His own words came on his ear—
words long unfamiliar to him, and at first but imperfectly
remiembered—words connected with the early and virgin years
of poetry and aspiration—words that were as the ghosts of
thoughts now far too gentle for his altered soul, He bowed
down his head, and the dark shade left his brow.
~The song ceased. ‘Maltravers moved with a sigh, and his yes rested on the form of the steward with his hand on the
“Shall I give your honour’s message?” said Mr. Justis, Pacly: : * No—take care for the future: leave me now.” Mr. Justis made one leg, and then, well pleased, took to both. : “Well,” thought he, as he departed, “how foreign parts do a spoil a gentleman !—so mild as he was once! I must botch ups the accounts, I see—the squire has grown sharp.” = As Evelyn concluded her song, she-—whose charm in singing s 2 was that she sang from the hearse so touched by the — melancholy music of the air and words, that her voice faltered, a and the last line died inaudibly on her lips. The children sprang up and kissed her.
“Oh,” cried Cecilia, “there is the beautiful peacock!” And -~there, indeed, on the steps without—perhaps attracted by the music, stood the picturesque bird. The children ran out to greet their old favourite, -who was extremely tame; and _ presently Cecilia returned. a % “Oh, Carry! do see what beautiful horses are coming up the
es park1” ;
Caroline, who was a good rider, and fond of horses, and whose curiosity was always aroused by things connected with show and station—suffered the little girl to draw her into the garden. Two grooms, each mounted on a horse of the pure Arabian breed, and each leading another, swathed and bandaged, were riding slowly up the road; and Caroline was so attracted by the novel appearance of ie animals in a place so deserted, that
she followed the children towards them, to learn who could possibly be their enviable owner. Becwa forgotten for the moment, remained alone. She was pleased at being so, and once more turned to the picture which had so attracted her before. The mild eyes fixed on her, with an expression that recalled to her mind her own mother.
“ And,” thought she, as she gazed, “this fair creature did not live to know the fame of her son—to rejoice in his success—or to soothe his grief. And he, that son—a disappointed and
ai Ret Nias) fa Nao tye + ‘
AE AA aR aa
ad
«8 ALICE ; OR, THE MYSTERIES,
s
solitary exile in distant lands, while strangers stand within his deserted hall!”
The images she had conjured up moved and absorbed hers and she continued to stand before the picture, gazing upward with moistened eyes. It was a beautiful vision as she thus stood, with her delicate bloom, her luxuriant hair (for the hat was not yet replaced)—her elastic form, so full of youth, and health, and hope—the living form beside the faded canvas of the dead—once youthful, tender, lovely as herself! Evelyn turned away with a sigh—the sigh was re-echoed yet more deeply. She started: the door that led to the study was opened, and in the aperture was the figure of a man in-the prime of life. His hair, still luxuriant as in his earliest youth, though darkened by the suns of the East, curled over a forehead of majestic expanse. The high and proud features, that well became a stature above the ordinary standard—the pale but bronzed complexion—the large eyes of deepest blue, shaded by dark brows and lashes—and, more than all, that expression at once of passion and repose which characterises the old Italian portraits, and seems to denote the inscrutable power that ex- perience imparts to intellect—constituted an exsembdle which, if not faultlessly handsome, was eminently striking, and formed at once to interest and command. It was a face, once séen, never to be forgotten ; it was a face that had long, half uncon- sciously, haunted Evelyn’s young dreams ; it was a face she had seen before, though then younger, and milder, and fairer, it wore a different aspect.
Evelyn stood rooted to the spot, feeling herself blush to her very temples—an enchanting picture of bashful confusion, and innocent alarm.
“Do not let me regret my return,” said the stranger, ap- proaching after a short pause, and with much gentleness in his voice and smile, “and think that the owner is doomed to scare away the fair spirits that haunted the spot in his absence.”
“The owner!” repeated Evelyn, almost inaudibly, and in increased embarrassment ; “are you then the—the- ef
“Yes,” courteously interrupted the stranger, seeing her con. | fusion ; “my name is Maltravers ; and I am to blame for not
_ing on your presence. ; to the instrument. “You have the magic that draws even the - serpent from his hole. But you are not alone?”
But you see my excuse ;” and he pointed
“Oh, no! no, indeed! Miss Merton is with me. I know not. :
where she is gone. I will seek her.”
“Miss Merton! You are not then one of that family ?” 5 “No, only a guest. I will find her—she must apologise —
as for us. We were not aware that you were here—indeed we
were not.” “That is a cruel excuse,” said Maltravers, smiling at her — eagerness: and the smile and the look reminded her yet more -
_ forcibly of the time when he had carried her in his arms, and _ soothed her suffering, and praised her courage, and pressed the
kiss almost of a lover on her hand. At that thought she | blushed yet more deeply, and yet more eagerly es to | escape.
Maltravers did not seek to detain her, but silently followed her steps. She had scarcely gained the window, before little Cecilia scampered in, crying—
“Only think! Mr. Maltravers has come back, and brought such beautiful horses !”
Cecilia stopped abruptly, as she caught sight of the stranger;
_ and the next moment Caroline herself appeared. Her worldly
experience and quick sense saw immediately what had chanced:
g and she hastened to apologise to Maltravers, and congratulate him on his return, with an ease that astonished poor Evelyn,
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and by no means seemed appreciated by Maltravers himself. He replied with brief and haughty courtesy.
“My father,” continued Caroline, “will be so glad to hear you are come back. He will hasten to pay you his respects, and apologise for his truants. But I have not formally intro- duced you to my fellow-oftunder.. My dear, let me present to you one whom Fame has already made known to you—Mr. Maltravers, Miss Cameron, step-daughter,” she added in a lower voice, “to the late Lord Vargrave.”
At the first part of this introduction Maltravers frowned—at
— the last he forgot all displeasure.
“Ts it possible? I thought I had seen you before, but ina dream. Ah! then we are not quite strangers !” i
Evelyn’s eye met his, and though she coloured and strove to — look grave, a half smile brought out the dimples that played round her arch lips,
“But you do not remember me?” added Maltravers.
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Evelyn, with a sudden impulse; and then checked herself.
Caroline came to her friend’s relief.
“What is this?—you surprise me—where did you ever see Mr. Maltravers before ?”
“TI can answer that question, Miss Merton. When Miss — Cameron was but a child, as high as my little friend here, an accident on the road procured me her acquaintance; and the sweetness and fortitude she then displayed left an im- pression on me not worn out even to this day. And thus we meet again,” added Maltravers, in a muttered voice, as to himself. “ How strange a thing life is !”
“Well,” said Miss Merton, “we must intrude on you no more—you have so much to do. I am so sorry Sir John is not down to welcome you; but I hope we shall be good neighbours. Au revoir !”
And, fancying herself most charming, Caroline bowed, smiled, and walked off with her train. Maltravers paused irresolute.
If Evelyn had looked back, he would have accompanied them
home: but Evelyn did not look back,—and he stayed, ; Miss Merton rallied her young friend unmercifully, as they walked homeward, and she extracted a very brief and imperfect
history of the adventure that had formed the first acquaintance,
and of the interview by which it had been renewed. But Evelyn did not heed her; and the moment they arrived at the rectory, she hastened to shut herself in her room, and write the account of her adventure to her mother. How often, in her girlish reveries, had she thought of that incident —that stranger ! And now, by such a chance, and after so many years, to meet the Unknown by his own hearth! and that Unknown to be Maltravers! It was as if a dream had come true. While she was yet musing—and the letter not yet begun—she heard the