Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete

								

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