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
admiration and delight as a mortal might well be supposed to cast on some
beautiful fairy.
Sophy, a very bold child, ran up to him. "How do, sir?" she lisped,
putting up her face to be kissed; "how's the pretty peacock?"
This opportune audacity served at once to renew the charm that had been
broken,--to unite the stranger with the children. Here was acquaintance
claimed and allowed in an instant. The next moment Maltravers was one of
the circle, on the turf with the rest, as gay, and almost as noisy,--that
hard, proud man, so disdainful of the trifles of the world!
"But the gentleman must have a prize, too," said Sophy, proud of her tall
new friend. "What's your other name; why do you have such a long, hard
name?"
"Call me Ernest," said Maltravers.
"Why don't we begin?" cried the children.
"Evy, come, be a good child, miss," said Sophy, as Evelyn, vexed and
ashamed, and half ready to cry, resisted the bandage.
Mr. Merton interposed his authority; but the children clamoured, and
Evelyn hastily yielded. It was Fortune's duty to draw the tickets from
the urn, and give them to each claimant whose name was called; when it
came to the turn of Maltravers, the bandage did not conceal the blush and
smile of the enchanting goddess, and the hand of the aspirant thrilled as
it touched hers.
The children burst into screams of laughter when Cecilia gravely awarded
to Maltravers the worst prize in the lot,--a blue ribbon,--which Sophy,
however, greedily insisted on having; but Maltravers would not yield it.
Maltravers remained all day at the rectory, and shared in the ball,--yes,
he danced with Evelyn--he, Maltravers, who had never been known to dance
since he was twenty-two! The ice was fairly broken,--Maltravers was at
home with the Mertons. And when he took his solitary walk to his
solitary house--over the little bridge, and through the shadowy
wood--astonished, perhaps, with himself, every one of the guests, from
the oldest to the youngest, pronounced him delightful. Caroline,
perhaps, might have been piqued some months ago that he did not dance
with _her_; but now, her heart--such as it was--felt preoccupied.
