Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete
and we are nearer to true virtue and true happiness when we demand too
little from men than when we exact too much.
Nevertheless, partly from the strange life that had thrown him amongst
men whom safety itself made it necessary to command despotically,
partly from the habit of power and disdain of the world, his nature was
incrusted with a stern imperiousness of manner, often approaching to the
harsh and morose, though beneath it lurked generosity and benevolence.
Many of his younger feelings, more amiable and complex, had settled into
one predominant quality, which more or less had always characterized
him,--Pride! Self-esteem made inactive, and Ambition made discontented,
usually engender haughtiness. In Maltravers this quality, which,
properly controlled and duly softened, is the essence and life of
honour, was carried to a vice. He was perfectly conscious of its excess,
but he cherished it as a virtue. Pride had served to console him
in sorrow, and therefore it was a friend; it had supported him when
disgusted with fraud, or in resistance to violence, and therefore it
was a champion and a fortress. It was a pride of a peculiar sort: it
attached itself to no one point in especial,--not to talent, knowledge,
mental gifts, still less to the vulgar commonplaces of birth and
fortune; it rather resulted from a supreme and wholesale contempt of all
other men, and all their objects,--of ambition, of glory, of the hard
business of life. His favourite virtue was fortitude; it was on this
that he now mainly valued himself. He was proud of his struggles against
others, prouder still of conquests over his own passions. He looked upon
FATE as the arch enemy against whose attacks we should ever prepare.
He fancied that against fate he had thoroughly schooled himself. In the
arrogance of his heart he said, "I can defy the future." He believed in
the boast of the vain old sage,--"I am a world to myself!" In the wild
career through which his later manhood had passed, it is true that he
had not carried his philosophy into a rejection of the ordinary world.
The shock occasioned by the death of Florence yielded gradually to time
and change; and he had passed from the deserts of Africa and the East to
the brilliant cities of Europe. But neither his heart nor his reason had
ever again been enslaved by his passions. Never again had he known the
softness of affection. Had he done so, the ice had been thawed, and the
fountain had flowed once more into the great deeps. He had returned to
England,--he scarce knew wherefore, or with what intent, certainly not
with any idea of entering again upon the occupations of active life;
it was, perhaps, only the weariness of foreign scenes and unfamiliar
tongues, and the vague, unsettled desire of change, that brought him
back to the fatherland. But he did not allow so unphilosophical a cause
to himself: and, what was strange, he would not allow one much more
amiable, and which was, perhaps, the truer cause,--the increasing
age and infirmities of his old guardian, Cleveland, who prayed him
affectionately to return. Maltravers did not like to believe that his
heart was still so kind. Singular form of pride! No, he rather sought
to persuade himself that he intended to sell Burleigh, to arrange his
affairs finally, and then quit forever his native land. To prove to
himself that this was the case, he had intended at Dover to hurry at
once to Burleigh, and merely write to Cleveland that he was returned to
England. But his heart would not suffer him to enjoy this cruel luxury
of self-mortification, and his horses' heads were turned to Richmond
when within a stage of London. He had spent two days with the good old
man, and those two days had so warmed and softened his feelings that
he was quite appalled at his own dereliction from fixed principles!
However, he went before Cleveland had time to discover that he was
changed; and the old man had promised to visit him shortly.
This, then, was the state of Ernest Maltravers at the age of
thirty-six,--an age in which frame and mind are in their fullest
perfection; an age in which men begin most keenly to feel that they are
citizens. With all his energies braced and strengthened; with his mind
stored with profusest gifts; in the vigour of a constitution to which a
hardy life had imparted a second and fresher youth; so trained by stern
experience as to redeem with an easy effort all the deficiencies and
faults which had once resulted from too sensitive an imagination and too
high a standard for human actions; formed to render to his race the most
brilliant and durable service, and to secure to himself the happiness
which results from sobered fancy, a generous heart, and an approving
conscience,--here was Ernest Maltravers, backed, too, by the appliances
and gifts of birth and fortune, perversely shutting up genius, life,
and soul in their own thorny leaves, and refusing to serve the fools and
rascals who were formed from the same clay, and gifted by the same God.
Morbid and morose philosophy, begot by a proud spirit on a lonely heart!
CHAPTER V.
LET such amongst us as are willing to be children again, if it be
only for an hour, resign ourselves to the sweet enchantment that
steals upon the spirit when it indulges in the memory of early
and innocent enjoyment.
D. L. RICHARDSON.
AT dinner, Caroline's lively recital of their adventures was received
with much interest, not only by the Merton family, but by some of the
neighbouring gentry who shared the rector's hospitality. The sudden
return of any proprietor to his old hereditary seat after a prolonged
absence makes some sensation in a provincial neighbourhood. In this
case, where the proprietor was still young, unmarried, celebrated, and
handsome, the sensation was of course proportionably increased. Caroline
and Evelyn were beset by questions, to which the former alone gave
any distinct reply. Caroline's account was, on the whole, gracious and
favourable, and seemed complimentary to all but Evelyn, who thought that
Caroline was a very indifferent portrait-painter.
It seldom happens that a man is a prophet in his own neighbourhood; but
Maltravers had been so little in the county, and in his former visit his
life had been so secluded, that he was regarded as a stranger. He had
neither outshone the establishments nor interfered with the sporting of
his fellow-squires; and on the whole, they made just allowance for his
habits of distant reserve. Time, and his retirement from the busy
scene, long enough to cause him to be missed, not long enough for
new favourites to supply his place, had greatly served to mellow and
consolidate his reputation, and his country was proud to claim him. Thus
(though Maltravers would not have believed it had an angel told him) he
was not spoken ill of behind his back: a thousand little anecdotes of
his personal habits, of his generosity, independence of spirit, and
eccentricity were told. Evelyn listened in rapt delight to all; she had
never passed so pleasant an evening; and she smiled almost gratefully on
the rector, who was a man that always followed the stream, when he said
with benign affability, "We must really show our distinguished neighbour
every attention,--we must be indulgent to his little oddities. His
politics are not mine, to be sure; but a man who has a stake in the
country has a right to his own opinion, that was always my maxim,--thank
Heaven, I am a very moderate man. We must draw him amongst us; it will
be our own fault, I am sure, if he is not quite domesticated at the
rectory."
"With such attraction,--yes," said the thin curate, timidly bowing to
the ladies.
"It would be a nice match for Miss Caroline," whispered an old lady;
Caroline overheard, and pouted her pretty lip. The whist-tables were now
set out, the music began, and Maltravers was left in peace.
The next day Mr. Merton rode his pony over to Burleigh. Maltravers was
not at home. He left his card, and a note of friendly respect, begging
Mr. Maltravers to waive ceremony, and dine with them the next day.
Somewhat to the surprise of the rector, he found that the active spirit
of Maltravers was already at work. The long-deserted grounds were filled
with labourers; the carpenters were busy at the fences; the house
looked alive and stirring; the grooms were exercising the horses in the
park,--all betokened the return of the absentee. This seemed to denote
that Maltravers had come to reside; and the rector thought of Caroline,
and was pleased at the notion.
The next day was Cecilia's birthday,--and birthdays were kept at Merton
Rectory; the neighbouring children were invited. They were to dine on
the lawn, in a large marquee, and to dance in the evening. The hothouses
yielded their early strawberries, and the cows, decorated with blue
ribbons, were to give syllabubs. The polite Caroline was not greatly
fascinated by pleasure of this kind; she graciously appeared at dinner,
kissed the prettiest of the children, helped them to soup, and then,
having done her duty, retired to her room to write letters. The children
were not sorry, for they were a little afraid of the grand Caroline; and
they laughed much more loudly, and made much more noise, when she was
gone--and the cake and strawberries appeared.
Evelyn was in her element; she had, as a child, mixed so little with
children, she had so often yearned for playmates, she was still so
childlike. Besides, she was so fond of Cecilia, she had looked forward
with innocent delight to the day; and a week before had taken the
carriage to the neighbouring town to return with a carefully concealed
basket of toys,--dolls, sashes, and picture-books. But somehow or other,
she did not feel so childlike as usual that morning; her heart was away
from the pleasure before her, and her smile was at first languid. But
in children's mirth there is something so contagious to those who love
children; and now, as the party scattered themselves on the grass, and
Evelyn opened the basket, and bade them with much gravity keep quiet,
and be good children, she was the happiest of the whole group. But she
knew how to give pleasure: and the basket was presented to Cecilia, that
the little queen of the day might enjoy the luxury of being generous;
and to prevent jealousy, the notable expedient of a lottery was
suggested.
"Then Evy shall be Fortune!" cried Cecilia; "nobody will be sorry to
get anything from Evy,--and if any one is discontented Evy sha'n't kiss
her."
Mrs. Merton, whose motherly heart was completely won by Evelyn's
kindness to the children, forgot all her husband's lectures, and
willingly ticketed the prizes, and wrote the numbers of the lots on
slips of paper carefully folded. A large old Indian jar was dragged
from the drawing-room and constituted the fated urn; the tickets were
deposited therein, and Cecilia was tying the handkerchief round Evelyn's
eyes,--while Fortune struggled archly not to be as blind as she ought
to be,--and the children, seated in a circle, were in full joy and
expectation when there was a sudden pause. The laughter stopped; so did
Cissy's little hands. What could it be? Evelyn slipped the bandage, and
her eyes rested on Maltravers!
"Well, really, my dear Miss Cameron," said the rector, who was by the
side of the intruder, and who, indeed, had just brought him to the spot,
"I don't know what these little folks will do to you next."
"I ought rather to be their victim," said Maltravers, good-humouredly;
"the fairies always punish us grown-up mortals for trespassing on their
revels."
While he spoke, his eyes--those eyes, the most eloquent in the
world--dwelt on Evelyn (as, to cover her blushes, she took Cecilia in
her arms, and appeared to attend to nothing else) with a look of such