Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete
"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 rustled the young
leaves; the butterflies had ventured forth, and the children chased them
over the grass, as Evelyn and Caroline, who walked much too slow for
her companion (Evelyn longed 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 have the land of another
proprietor so near his house. He could 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.
"It 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 by a 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 beautiful motto,--
"Non numero horas, nisi serenas!"*
* "I number not the hours, unless sunny."
On the other side of the bay window a huge buttress cast its mass of
shadow. There was something in the appearance of the whole place that
invited to contemplation and repose,--something almost monastic. The
gayety of the teeming spring-time could 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 meditation and 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, preserved the Gothic
character of the age in which it had been devoted to a religious
purpose. Two fireplaces, with high chimney-pieces of oak, in which were
inserted two portraits, broke the symmetry of the tall bookcases. In one
of these fireplaces 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, who was making a low bow; while in the
other it took the ground from under the wanton queen, just as she was
descending 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 certain interest in the homes of those who have
implanted within us a new thought. But here there was, she imagined,
a rare and singular harmony between the place and the mental
characteristics 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 Caroline; "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 ought to have
dismissed the effigies of yon warlike gentleman, 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
ribbons 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.
"I 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?"
"No; that tapestry door to the right leads into a little study where he
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, "from which the room we are now in and the little
study are completely detached, having, as you know, been the chapel
in 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."
Sir Kenelm Digby, the old cavalier philosopher!---a new name of interest
to consecrate the place! Evelyn could have lingered all day in the room;
and perhaps as an excuse for a longer 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, sat 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 haughty man, was already impatiently
turning away, when he heard 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.
"I don't know, really, your honour; there be so many grand folks come to
see the house in the fine weather, that--"
"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