_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?"
"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
inform those people that I am returned, and wish for no guests but those
I invite myself."
"Sir!"
"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?"
"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 remembered; 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 eyes rested on
the form of the steward with his hand on the door.
"Shall I give your honour's message?" said Mr. Justis, gravely.
"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 spoil a
gentleman! so mild as he was once! I must botch up the accounts, I
see,--the squire has grown sharp."
As Evelyn concluded her song, she--whose charm in singing was that she
sang from the heart--was so touched by the melancholy music of the air
and words, that her voice faltered, 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.
"Oh, Carry! do see what beautiful horses are coming up the park!"
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 the animals in a place so deserted that she
followed the children towards them, to learn who could possibly be their
enviable owner. Evelyn, 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 solitary exile in distant
lands, while strangers stand within his deserted hall!"
The images she had conjured up moved and absorbed her; 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 characterizes the old Italian portraits, and seems to denote the
inscrutable power that experience imparts to intellect, constituted an
_ensemble_ which, if not faultlessly handsome, was eminently striking,
and formed at once to interest and command. It was a face, once seen,
never to be forgotten; it was a face that had long, half unconsciously,
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, approaching 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--"
"Yes," courteously interrupted the stranger, seeing her confusion, "my
name is Maltravers; and I am to blame for not having informed you of my
sudden return, or for now trespassing on your presence. But you see my
excuse;" and he pointed to the instrument. "You have the magic that
draws even the serpent from his hole. But you are not alone?"
"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?"
"No, only a guest. I will find her; she must apologize 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 turned 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; and she hastened to apologize to
Maltravers, and congratulate him on his return, with an ease that
astonished poor Evelyn, 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 apologize for his
truants. But I have not formally introduced you to my fellow-offender.
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.
"Is it possible? I _thought_ I had seen you before, but in a dream. Ah,
then we are not quite strangers!"
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?"
"I 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 impression 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 sound of joy-bells in the distance. At once she
divined the cause; it was the welcome of the wanderer to his solitary
home!