Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete
his wife, simple and good-tempered, could talk with anybody, take off
the bores, and leave people to be comfortable in their own way: while
he had a large family of fine children of all ages, that had long given
easy and constant excuse under the name of "little children's parties,"
for getting up an impromptu dance or a gypsy dinner,--enlivening the
neighbourhood, in short. Caroline was the eldest; then came a son,
attached to a foreign ministry, and another, who, though only nineteen,
was a private secretary to one of our Indian satraps. The acquaintance
of these young gentlemen, thus engaged, it was therefore Evelyn's
misfortune to lose the advantage of cultivating,--a loss which both Mr.
and Mrs. Merton assured her was very much to be regretted. But to make
up to her for such a privation there were two lovely little girls, one
ten, and the other seven years old, who fell in love with Evelyn at
first sight. Caroline was one of the beauties of the county, clever
and conversable, "drew young men," and set the fashion to young
ladies, especially when she returned from spending the season with Lady
Elizabeth.
It was a delightful family!
In person, Mr. Merton was of the middle height; fair, and inclined to
stoutness, with small features, beautiful teeth, and great suavity of
address. Mindful still of the time when he had been "about town," he
was very particular in his dress: his black coat, neatly relieved in the
evening by a white underwaistcoat, and a shirt-front admirably plaited,
with plain studs of dark enamel, his well-cut trousers, and elaborately
polished shoes--he was good-humouredly vain of his feet and hands--won
for him the common praise of the dandies (who occasionally honoured him
with a visit to shoot his game, and flirt with his daughter), "That old
Merton was a most gentlemanlike fellow--so d-----d neat for a parson!"
Such, mentally, morally, and physically, was the Rev. Charles Merton,
rector of Merton, brother of Sir John, and possessor of an income that,
what with his rich living, his wife's fortune, and his own, which was
not inconsiderable, amounted to between four and five thousand pounds a
year, which income, managed with judgment as well as liberality, could
not fail to secure to him all the good things of this world,--the
respect of his friends amongst the rest. Caroline was right when she
told Evelyn that her papa was very different from a mere country parson.
Now this gentleman could not fail to see all the claims that Evelyn
might fairly advance upon the esteem, nay, the veneration of himself and
family: a young beauty, with a fortune of about a quarter of a million,
was a phenomenon that might fairly be called celestial. Her pretensions
were enhanced by her engagement to Lord Vargrave,--an engagement which
might be broken; so that, as he interpreted it, the _worst_ that could
happen to the young lady was to marry an able and rising Minister of
State,--a peer of the realm; but she was perfectly free to marry a still
greater man, if she could find him; and who knows but what perhaps the
_attache_, if he could get leave of absence? Mr. Merton was too sensible
to pursue that thought further for the present.
The good man was greatly shocked at the too familiar manner in which
Mrs. Merton spoke to this high-fated heiress, at Evelyn's travelling so
far without her own maid, at her very primitive wardrobe--poor, ill-used
child! Mr. Merton was a connoisseur in ladies' dress. It was quite
painful to see that the unfortunate girl had been so neglected. Lady
Vargrave must be a very strange person. He inquired compassionately
whether she was allowed any pocket money; and finding, to his relief,
that in that respect Miss Cameron was munificently supplied, he
suggested that a proper abigail should be immediately engaged; that
proper orders to Madame Devy should be immediately transmitted to
London, with one of Evelyn's dresses, as a pattern for nothing but
length and breadth. He almost stamped with vexation when he heard
that Evelyn had been placed in one of the neat little rooms generally
appropriated to young lady visitors.
"She is quite contented, my dear Mr. Merton; she is so simple; she has
not been brought up in the style you think for."
"Mrs. Merton," said the rector, with great solemnity, "Miss Cameron may
know no better now; but what will she think of us hereafter? It is my
maxim to recollect what people will be, and show them that respect which
may leave pleasing impressions when they have it in their power to show
us civility in return."
With many apologies, which quite overwhelmed poor Evelyn, she
was transferred from the little chamber, with its French bed and
bamboo-coloured washhand-stand, to an apartment with a buhl wardrobe and
a four-post bed with green silk curtains, usually appropriated to the
regular Christmas visitant, the Dowager Countess of Chipperton. A pretty
morning room communicated with the sleeping apartment, and thence a
private staircase conducted into the gardens. The whole family were duly
impressed and re-impressed with her importance. No queen could be made
more of. Evelyn mistook it all for pure kindness, and returned the
hospitality with an affection that extended to the whole family, but
particularly to the two little girls, and a beautiful black spaniel. Her
dresses came down from London; her abigail arrived; the buhl wardrobe
was duly filled,--and Evelyn at last learned that it is a fine thing
to be rich. An account of all these proceedings was forwarded to Lady
Vargrave, in a long and most complacent letter, by the rector himself.
The answer was short, but it contented the excellent clergyman; for it
approved of all he had done, and begged that Miss Cameron might have
everything that seemed proper to her station.
By the same post came two letters to Evelyn herself,--one from Lady
Vargrave, one from the curate. They transported her from the fine room
and the buhl wardrobe to the cottage and the lawn; and the fine abigail,
when she came to dress her young lady's hair, found her weeping.
It was a matter of great regret to the rector that it was that time of
year when--precisely because the country is most beautiful--every one
worth knowing is in town. Still, however, some stray guests found
their way to the rectory for a day or two, and still there were some
aristocratic old families in the neighbourhood, who never went up to
London: so that two days in the week the rector's wine flowed, the
whist-tables were set out, and the piano called into requisition.
Evelyn--the object of universal attention and admiration--was put at her
ease by her station itself; for good manners come like an instinct to
those on whom the world smiles. Insensibly she acquired self-possession
and the smoothness of society; and if her child-like playfulness broke
out from all conventional restraint, it only made more charming and
brilliant the great heiress, whose delicate and fairy cast of beauty
so well became her graceful _abandon_ of manner, and who looked so
unequivocally ladylike to the eyes that rested on Madame Devy's blondes
and satins.
Caroline was not so gay as she had been at the cottage. Something seemed
to weigh upon her spirits: she was often moody and thoughtful. She was
the only one in the family not good-tempered; and her peevish replies
to her parents, when no visitor imposed a check on the family circle,
inconceivably pained Evelyn, and greatly contrasted the flow of spirits
which distinguished her when she found somebody worth listening to.
Still Evelyn--who, where she once liked, found it difficult to withdraw
regard--sought to overlook Caroline's blemishes, and to persuade herself
of a thousand good qualities below the surface; and her generous nature
found constant opportunity of venting itself in costly gifts, selected
from the London parcels, with which the officious Mr. Merton relieved
the monotony of the rectory. These gifts Caroline could not refuse
without paining her young friend. She took them reluctantly, for, to do
her justice, Caroline, though ambitious, was not mean.
Thus time passed in the rectory, in gay variety and constant
entertainment; and all things combined to spoil the heiress, if, indeed,
goodness ever is spoiled by kindness and prosperity. Is it to the frost
or to the sunshine that the flower opens its petals, or the fruit ripens
from the blossom?
CHAPTER III.
_Rod_. How sweet these solitary places are!
......
_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. _The 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,--
"Do tell me to whom that old house belongs, 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 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 gray
melancholy pile, as the sunshine brought it into strong contrast with
the dark pines around it. "And Mr. Maltravers himself--?"
"Is still abroad, I believe; though I did hear the other day that he
was shortly expected 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 a very
pleasant walk through the glebe-land and the wood,--not above half a
mile by the foot-path."
"I should like it so much."
"Yes," said Mrs. Merton, "and you had better go before he returns,--he
is so strange. He does not allow it to be seen when he is down. But,
indeed, he has only been once at the old place 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."
"I 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?"