CHAPTER VII.
An old Norman church, built in the earliest style of that fine but somewhat heavy architecture, stands about five miles from Ale Head and Bay, upon the slope of a gentle hill, with many other hills around it. It is a large structure for the present population of the adjacent country, if one may judge from the appearance of the land immediately round. The hill is part of a long range of downs, undivided by enclosure, and covered by short dry sward, very much like that which spreads over Ale Head itself. No trees are to be seen as far as the eye can reach, except, indeed, two old yew trees standing close to the church, and, probably, planted there by Saxon hands long before the first stone of the present edifice was laid. So close are they, indeed, that the long branches of one of them wave against the mouldings of one of the deep round arched windows, and would, in stormy weather, break the lozenges of the casement were they not kept under by the pruning-knife or shears. A piece of ground is taken in from the hill to form the burial-ground, and is surrounded by a low wall, with only one entrance, covered over with a penthouse raised upon high posts. By this gate, pass in and out all who come to the consecrated ground; the child, to its baptism, the gay wedding party, to the altar; the congregation, to the worship of God; the corpse, to the grave.
About three or four hundred yards below the church, in the bottom of the little valley, through which runs a stream of the clearest and brightest water, are four or five small houses, or cottages, I should call them, built of the grey stone of the country, and most of them thatched. One, however, is of two stories, and has a tiled roof. They have all their little gardens attached, and are kept in tolerably neat order; yet, then one looks at this little hamlet from the downs above, and sees it lying grey upon the green and undivided turf, it has a desolate and neglected look, as if it had been left behind in the world's march to rest in the desert expanse around it. Except those two old yews, there is not a tree near bigger than a currant-bush.
Neither is there any other house to be seen, look which way you will; for the wide downs only serve for sheep-pasture, and have such a look of depopulation that, in some of the slopes of the ground, one might fancy one was standing alone upon the earth, just after the universal deluge had subsided. I know not whether it looks more lonely when all the heavens are covered with grey clouds, or when the bright sun shines upon it from the broad undimmed sky.
Nevertheless, when the musical bell rings on the Sabbath morn from the old pale tower, the desert seems to waken into life, and people come streaming over the hills--now a solitary man or woman, now a group of two or three, now a family, young and old, age and boyhood, now a group of children, sporting as they run. The scene is all changed, and it is very pleasant to behold.
Within that church, too, are records of other days which would seem to show that the neighbourhood was not always so scantily peopled as at present. The gravestones in the churchyard, indeed, are not thick or many, and you can walk at ease, without stumbling, over the little mounds where rest the mortal remains of the peasantry. But within, against the walls, and even let into the pillars, are many tablets of marble, black or white, recording virtues and good qualities, and affection and mourning, which have now left no other memorial behind them. In the aisles, too, and in the chancel (for the church is built somewhat in the form of a cathedral), are various very beautiful monuments of different ages; the mail-clad warrior, spurred and sworded, the pilgrim from the Holy Land, even a mitred abbot, judges, and statesmen, and soldiers of a later day--ay, and the tomb of an infant princess--are there; while, on the pavement on which you tread, the old stained glass window at the east end, the only one remaining, sheds its gem-like colours upon slabs of marble, bearing inscriptions and effigies in brass.
Various are the names which appear in different parts of the church; but, wherever the eye looks, more frequently than any other, will be found that of Newark. Statues under which that name is written, in old Gothic characters, are amongst the Crusaders, and on one black marble figure, near the font, is a good representation of the heavy plate-armour of the days of Henry VIII., while above hangs a silken banner, of which neither the original colour, nor the emblems, can be discovered through the dust and mould encumbering it. Nearer to the communion-table is the monument of another Newark, fresher than the rest, while an inscription below, in modern characters and in bad Latin, attests that the form above represents a gallant soldier of the name of Newark, who fell, bravely fighting for his king, on Naseby field. He is represented, certainly, not in the most classical costume, with a buff coat, large boots, and the end of a lace cravat finely sculptured on his chest. The features are not distinguishable; for, after the monument was raised--and it was a bold thing in those days to raise it--Cromwell's soldiers got possession of the church, and with hammers, or perhaps the pommels of their swords, sadly mutilated that statue and many others. It would seem that the family of Newark had been steady loyalists; for, on a tablet hard by, is an inscription to the memory of that warrior's brother, erected during the reign of Charles II., and stating that he died while in exile with his king.
On the morning of the fourth day after Smeaton's arrival at Ale Manor, a ladder was placed against the side of the church, and an old man, with something like a reaping-hook in his hand, was mounted upon one of the high rounds chopping away at the branches of the yew-tree, which approached too close, as I have said, to the window. He was far advanced in life, and his coat, thrown off, lay at the foot of the ladder. He had on, however, a waistcoat with woollen sleeves. His thin and shrunken nether man was warmly clothed, and, to judge from his dress, he was well to do in life. He had a fine bald head, with scanty white hair upon the temples; but his brow was knit as well as furrowed, and a sort of sarcastic expression played about his mouth, which was not altogether agreeable. Otherwise his features were good, and on looking at his face, one did not well know whether to think it pleasing or not.
While he was still hewing away, the solitude of the scene was somewhat disturbed by the trotting of a horse up to the door of one of the houses below, over which hung a large straggling bush, with an inscription underneath, to the following effect:
"THE NEWARKE ARMES. GUDE BEDS AND FUDE
FOR HOSS AND MAN."
The animal which now trotted up to the door of this very rural inn was certainly what the worthy landlord might denominate a "hoss;" but it looked much more like a barrel on four legs, and those not very long ones. It was, in fact, a little short pursy galloway, as fat as it could be, and this fat must have been of a very perdurable kind, for though the dust with which it was covered, and some splashes of mud upon its legs, seemed to indicate that it had come a long way, yet it had certainly lost none of its bulk by the process of perspiration. It was sleek and well to do, in short, and when its master stopped at the little public-house, it stretched out its nose, as if prepared to ask the first person who appeared, if it could have the dinner and bed which the inscription promised. The rider was a short fattish man, somewhat resembling his beast, but rather more gaudily attired; for the pony contented himself with a coat of grey, while he who bestrid him was dressed, like Joseph, in a garment of many colours.
The old man upon the ladder heard the horse's feet on the road, and turned round to gaze, resting from his work the while. The sight of a stranger in the place seemed to give him no pleasure. He was callous to all such things, and he only set his jaws tight together, and mumbled something to himself. A boy, and then an old woman, came out from the house. The stranger dismounted, took his saddle-bags from the pony's back, and entered the little dwelling. The boy led the pony round to the rear of the house, and the old man assailed the yew-tree again.
If, however, he thought he was to go on uninterruptedly that morning, he was mistaken; for, in about five minutes more, the stranger walked up to the gate of the churchyard, advanced to the foot of the ladder, and looked up. The other took no notice of him whatever, except by stretching forth his arm, and, with greater strength than one might have believed him to possess, striking off a somewhat thicker branch of yew than usual, which fell upon the visitor's head and knocked his hat off.
"Ay! ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" muttered the old man, with a slight smile curling the corner of his mouth.
The other picked up his hat, brushed off the dust with his coat-sleeve, and then, without any observation on the accident, raised his voice, saying,
"I wish you would come down, sexton, and let me into the church."
"What makes you think I am sexton?" asked the old man, gruffly. "I never buried you or any of your kin."
"No, but you look like old father Time," answered the other, laughing; "and he buries all men."
"Then you should take me by the forelock," answered the sexton, whom the joke seemed to mollify a little; "and I have no forelock to take. So you are out, master. I am the sexton, however. But what do you want in the church?"
"I hear you have some fine statues there," replied the other; "and I want to see them."
But the old man was not yet satisfied.
"Why, what do you know about statues?" he asked, running his eye over the round, fat, unstatue-like figure of the other, with a somewhat contemptuous look.
"More than you do, old boy," replied the visitor, "though perhaps you have lived amongst them all your life; for I have made them all my life; and, depend upon it, there is no such way of knowing a thing as making it."
"That depends upon the workman," answered the sexton, beginning to descend the ladder. "I have made graves all my days, and yet don't know them as well as many who are lying underneath there. But I'll let you in," he added, in a more placable tone; "for they are fine monuments, finer than any for a hundred miles round; and, if you do know anything about such things, you'll say so."
When he reached the ground, he picked up his coat, fumbled in his pocket till he got hold of a large bunch of keys, and then, walking round to the door, opened it. The stranger entered, and his guide followed, with his back bowed and his gait somewhat halting. He had the same sort of cynical expression on his countenance as before; but the visitor's first exclamation seemed to please him; for all the pride of his nature--and every man has some pride--centred in his church and its contents.
"Ay, this is something like!" exclaimed our good friend, Van Noost; "I have not seen anything like this in a ride of a hundred and fifty miles."
"Dare say not," observed the sexton. "Did you come all that way to see it?"
"No," replied Van Noost, who was somewhat skilful at evasions; "but I am very glad I have seen it." And, walking on, he began to scan the various monuments with critical eyes.
"Why, the barbarians have been knocking the noses off!" he exclaimed, after a momentary glance at one of the tombs. "Why did you let them do that?"
"Because I could not help it," answered the sexton, with a growling laugh; "seeing I was a baby and they strong men when that was done, and yet I am three score and ten, come Martinmas."
"Ay, Cromwell, that devil, Cromwell, and his sacrilegious fools!" cried Van Noost. "They had no more taste or judgment than pigs in Smithfield."
"That's true--that's true," cried the old sexton, chuckling. "I remember them well enough; for I was a school-boy when old Noll died, and heard him preach once. Those might understand him who could. To me, he seemed to be talking nothing but nonsense; so I grinned, and one of his soldiers gave me a thump in the side with his fire-lock which nearly broke my ribs."
"Then you have cause to remember him," answered Van Noost, "and not to like him either. These are better times, master sexton."
"I don't know that," replied the man, gruffly. "We have got a foreigner for our king, and that's as bad as a Protector--at least, I think so. But I don't know much of such matters," he added, with a look of shrewd caution, coming upon his face. "King George may be a very good man, and Hanover rats as good as any other vermin, for aught I know."
Van Noost laughed aloud, and replied with a significant nod of the head--
"They may have a rat-catcher amongst them some day soon, master sexton; but that is not my business either. Gracious goodness, how dirty these monuments are! And half the brasses are gone out of the marble!"
"Ay, they took the brass to make farthings of," said the sexton; "and, as to the dirt, how can an old man like me keep such things clean? Besides, I don't know how to clean them properly, and I am afraid of spoiling them."
"I'll tell you what, old boy," replied Van Noost; "I am going to stay here for a day or two, and help you. I know all about it; and, if I have time and can get a little clay, I'll cast you a leaden head and put it on that cherub at the corner. A cherub is nothing without a head you know, master sexton, because it has got no body."
"Going to stay here for two or three days!" ejaculated the sexton. "Well, that's funny! I never knew any one stay here a minute after he could help it. Perhaps you have come down to these parts to make inquiries?"
"No," answered Van Noost, "no; I don't like inquiries, and always get out of their way."
The sexton put his finger to his bald forehead, and rubbed it slowly for a moment, repeating the word. "Ha!" more than once, and then Van Noost added in his usual poco-curante tone--
"That is the very reason I came down here, master sexton. People were making important inquiries, which offended me, and I left London in a fit of indignation."
Ha! said the sexton again. "I understand. You'll be safe enough here, master. You'll see plenty of curlews, and a sea-mew from time to time. I've known a roe deer too, in my day, down about the woody places; but men and women are the rarest birds of all in this country:" and, laying his old hand familiarly on Van Noost's shoulder, he added, with a laugh, "No bailiff has been seen in these parts for forty years. That I can certify."
"I fear not bailiffs!" exclaimed Van Noost, in a mock tragical tone. "Sexton, I am well to do in the world. I pay scot and lot, and owe no man any thing--though many owe me, by the way, who will never pay me. No, no, sexton, 'tis not for debt of vile and sordid gold that men, perhaps, may seek me, but for those thin ethereal essences called opinions, which suit not with the tyranny of the times."
The sexton chuckled, for he had a strong sense of the ludicrous, and Van Noost's bombast amused him.
"Ay, ay," he said, laughing and coughing; "how many a man there is who is obliged to make his heels save his head for the indiscretion of his tongue! Now, I'll warrant you've been swaggering about London in praise of King James, till you got frightened to death for fear King George should get hold of you. But you're safe enough here, man, you're safe enough here. Sergeants and pursuivants are as rare here as bailiffs, and it is not likely they'll be able to track you across the hills, even if a price should be set upon your head."
"There is no price upon my head," cried Van Noost, with a strong feeling of nervous apprehension at the very idea. "They could not hurt me even if they took me; but I love my liberty, master sexton, and should pine to death if I were cribbed up in a prison-cell."
"It would take a long time to pine you down even to a moderate size," replied the sexton, in a thoughtful sort of tone. "I've dug many a grave in my day, and there's only one I recollect that would have held you. You are so fat here behind."
"I have committed no crime," continued Van Noost, anxious to disabuse his companion's mind of the idea that he might be harbouring a traitor. "I have committed no crime, I say; and the blessed English law admits that men may talk treason, though they may not do it."
"Ay, the tongue, the tongue!" exclaimed the sexton. "That's what has brought you into danger, I can see well enough. It is an unruly member, as the Bible says; but here you will be quite safe. If I have to bury you, I ought to have a crown more for the width of the grave. I had when the fat parson died, this time thirty years ago, though his heirs said they did not like to pay for his fat. But hark more people on horseback all in one day! Master, I've a notion they've tracked you close."
Poor Van Noost lost his rosy, colour in a moment; for no man liked less the idea of martyrdom than he did.
"For Heaven's sake, my good friend," he cried, as the old sexton peeped through a chink of the church door, which had been left ajar, "for Heaven's sake, cannot you put me somewhere where they will not find me? Let me go into the vestry!"
The sexton eyed him, with his quiet old cynical smile. "How fond fat men are of life!" he said. "The vestry! They'd find you there in a minute. Here, you fool, go in there down into the vaults. They'll not look there, I'll warrant."
As he spoke, he unlocked a small door which lay in a shady nook between two pilasters; and, under the impulse of fear, Van Noost hurried in, without a word, taking his chance of the old man recollecting to let him out again. He saw the head of a flight of steps before him, and was rushing down, when the sound of the key turning in the lock raised up new fears in his mind, and he paused for a moment to listen. The only sound he could hear at first was produced by the slow irregular step of the old sexton upon the pavement of the church, as he again walked towards the great door, and then a loud manly voice from without was heard, as if saying to some one at a distance--"Walk them about till we come back. The air is keen upon these hills, even at midsummer."
The next instant, another voice answered, "I like that free fresh air. It feels like liberty."
"Liberty!" said the other voice. "Have you ever felt the want of liberty?"
"They are marvellous sweet-tongued officers," thought Van Noost, listening. But no reply was made to the question, or, if any, it was drowned by the cough of the old sexton; and, when that had a little subsided, the second voice which had spoken was heard, saying--
"We want to go all over the church, good Master Mattocks."
Van Noost trembled for the security of his hiding-place; but he was relieved in an instant; for the same voice went on saying--
"So you must show us all the monuments and tell us all about them; for this gentleman will not be satisfied with half information, I can assure you."
"That I will, my lady," answered the old man, "that is to say, all I know; for I never like to say things I only guess."
"My lady!" said Van Noost, to himself. "Ho, ho! It is a party come to visit the church; and I am shut up here like a rat in a rat-trap, when I could have given them much more information than that old mummy, who has dealt so long with corpses that he has caught the look of them. I have a great mind to knock to get out. They'll be in sad want of a better cicerone."
Caution, however, got the better of vanity; and, after a little consideration, he began to feel his way down the steps, resolved to see what the vaults contained. At first, the place seemed dark enough; but, as he descended, he found that he had been admitted, not to funeral vaults in the usual acceptation of the word, but to a crypt or underground church, of a much earlier style of architecture than the structure above. Low arched windows, earthed up for at least two-thirds of their height, admitted sufficient light to render every object round dimly visible. Monuments and carvings were seen in various different directions; and, with true antiquarian enthusiasm, Van Noost soon forgot what was passing above in the examination of all that surrounded him.
CHAPTER VIII.
We must return here to an earlier hour in the day of which we have just been speaking. The breakfast at Ale Manor was laid in the dining-saloon, and presented a curious combination of the ancient and modern habits of the English people. Fish, meat, and various sweetmeats were spread upon the board; a large tankard of silver, which might have served up ale at the breakfast-table of Queen Elizabeth, was on the sideboard; and good Bordeaux wine was there in another flagon, for those who adhered to the tastes of their remote ancestors. But, for delicate tastes, the more modern breakfast of coffee and chocolate was prepared. Sir John Newark was in a most gracious mood; his son, Richard, was all life and gaiety; and last came in Emmeline, bright and blooming from her sweet sleep, like a blush rose refreshed by morning dew. Smeaton could willingly have gazed at her long; but he would not allow himself to do so; and the breakfast was proceeding gaily and cheerfully, when one of the servants entered, to inform Sir John Newark that a messenger had brought a letter for him from Exeter. When the letter was delivered and opened, Sir John Newark read it, with a look of grave and anxious thought. Then, nodding to the messenger, who had waited as if for a reply, he said:
"Get yourself some refreshment, and let his worship know that I will not fail to be there by two of the clock."
The man bowed, and quitted the room; and Sir John, turning to Smeaton, with the letter still in his hand, observed, with a somewhat affected laugh:
"Here is a strange affair!"
Then, turning his eye to the page, he read aloud:
"Worshipful Sir--Whereas information has been received, that various evil designing persons are travelling about the country for seditious purposes, some of whom are reported to be proclaimed traitors, and others, persons lying under sentence of various offences and fugitive from justice; and, as it is matter of common notoriety that in various parts of the land, and especially at several places in this county of Devon, serious disturbances have been stirred up contrary to the peace of our Lord the King, and perilous to the state and constitution of this country as by law established; this is to give you notice, that a special meeting of the justices of the peace for this division of the county of Devon is summoned to assemble in this city of Exeter to-morrow, the ---- day of July, in the year of our Lord 1715; and you are hereby invited and required, putting aside all other business, to attend the same, in order to consult as to the best means of preserving the peace of the said county, and frustrating the designs of seditious and disaffected persons.
"(Signed) etc."
He paused for a moment after reading the letter, and then added, with a smile:
"They must have got a fright from some circumstance or other. I hope no friends of ours have given them any cause of suspicion."
"If you allude to me," answered Smeaton, with a frank smile, "I have not, I can assure you, Sir John, and am under so little apprehension on the subject, that I have no objection, if you like, to ride with you to Exeter, if you feel yourself bound to go upon such a curious summons."
"Oh, I must go, assuredly," replied the knight; "but you had better remain here. I shall feel more satisfied in leaving my fair ward here under your good care and protection; for I must take several of the servants with me."
He did not speak without some consideration; but he was forced to decide quickly, for the ride before him was very long; and he was anxious to avoid all appearance of disaffection to the existing government, whatever he might feel. About three quarters of an hour were spent in busy preparation; but Sir John found an opportunity, in the midst of all his bustle, to caution his son more than once to watch carefully over Emmeline, and, if possible, not to quit her side for a moment. Richard promised, with every intention of performing; and the whole party stood on the terrace together to see Sir John depart. They watched him round the sweep till he disappeared into the woods; and then Richard, with a boyish leap over a bush, exclaimed, in a gay tone:
"Now, what shall we do?"
Smeaton smiled to see that, even with the simple boy, the petted and somewhat spoiled child, the presence of Sir John Newark was felt to be a restraint. He replied, however, turning towards Emmeline, and addressing her more than Richard,
"You promised to show me some day a fine old church in the neighbourhood, with some beautiful monuments. Can we not make it the object of a morning's ride to-day?"
Emmeline consented willingly, and said she would get ready directly for the expedition; but Richard did not seem well pleased; and, as soon as she had gone to fulfil her intention, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and said:
"I shan't go. I hate old churches, and old monuments too. What the deuce is the use of going to see a pack of stones put on end? I'll go out fishing. You are quite old enough to take care of Emmeline, I should think; but you had better take some people with you; for my dad is always in a terrible fright for fear somebody should get his bird out of the cage. Poor Emmeline! I wonder she abides it so quietly. I could not, I know, if I were kept tight by a string round my leg like that."
Smeaton gave the boy no encouragement to come with them, merely answering:
"I will take care of the young lady, and warrant she shall come safely back. I will take my own servant with us; and one or two of your people would make our party quite sufficient, even if the country were more disturbed than I believe it really is."
"Then I'll run down and get a boat at once," exclaimed Richard Newark; and, before Smeaton could add another word, he was bounding down the hill, like a great dog.
His companion betook himself to the stable-yard of the mansion, to give directions regarding the horses, and all the little preparations for the proposed expedition; and then, putting on the great riding-boots of the day, he returned to the terrace to wait for Emmeline. It was not long ere she joined him, gay, smiling, and happy at the thought of a pleasant excursion. She looked round for Richard, however, and asked where he was; and, when Smeaton told her that he had declined being of the party, a grave look of anxiety and hesitation came over her face.
"Sir John Newark," she said, after a moment's pause, "does not like me to go far or into any town without the old housekeeper accompanying me."
Her companion smiled, answering gaily:
"But we are going to a church, not to a town; and, on this occasion, you must let me act the old woman."
A joke often prevails where an argument will not. The horses were brought round; Smeaton placed his fair companion in the saddle; and away they went, at a quiet and easy pace, with the three men following them. He was an excellent and graceful horseman, and not unwilling to enjoy, from time to time, the exhilarating sensations of a wild gallop over the green turf; but, for some reason or other, he did not seem, on this occasion, disposed to put the horses out of a quiet canter. Down the stony road he proceeded at a walk, and only quickened his pace a very little when, turning to the left at the end of the wood, they got upon the downs. But Smeaton was a good tactician, and he had his reasons for what he did. Emmeline did not know that such was the case, however; and she grew a little impatient.
"Shall we not have a gallop?" she asked, at length, after some broken conversation on indifferent subjects.
"Presently," answered Smeaton, in a quiet tone. "One cannot gallop and think calmly too."
"Think!" echoed Emmeline, gaily. "Why should you think, Colonel Smeaton? Thinking is the most pernicious thing on earth; and what gentleman has any right to think with a lady by his side?"
"It is impossible to help thinking, and deeply too, with you by my side," answered Smeaton, in a low voice.
Emmeline almost started--it sounded so like a compliment; but Smeaton was not a complimentary person, as she had remarked with pleasure; and she replied, after turning an inquiring glance towards him, in the same light tone, "Why so? do you judge me such an enigma?"
"Not yourself," answered Smeaton gravely, "but your fate and history are an enigma." He paused for a moment, and then added: "For yourself, dear lady, your character is as clear and pure as a diamond, which, if we do not see through it at once, it is because of its too much light; but your history, your circumstances, your fate, do constitute an enigma, which might well make any man of heart and feeling thoughtful."
He spoke very low; but every word fell clear and distinct upon Emmeline's ear, and instantly banished her gaiety.
"It is an enigma I cannot solve," she answered. "I have tried to do so a thousand times, but in vain. Whichever way my eyes turn, it is all darkness; and, weary with straining my sight upon the blank obscure, I have given it up, reduced to remain satisfied with knowing nothing but--which is perhaps as much as most persons know of themselves--that I am. But what is it puzzles you about me? What have you seen or remarked to make you believe that there is any mystery?"
"Much," he replied; "the very circumstances in which I first saw you--an attempt to carry you off forcibly from the midst of your family and friends--the constant feverish sort of anxiety displayed by Sir John Newark in regard to you--his unwillingness to suffer you to hold communication of any kind with persons out of his own house."
"Is he unwilling?" exclaimed Emmeline, eagerly. "I do not think it--yet, perhaps you are right," she added gravely. "I remember--perhaps you are right. I do not recollect ever having been suffered to converse alone with any one except the people of the house, and good Doctor Boothe, who is dead. It is strange! I do not attempt to conceal from you that there is a mystery, even to myself."
"And you have tried to solve it, unassisted?" inquired Smeaton.
"Often and often," she answered. "Oh, what would I give to know who were my parents--what I am--what are the causes of all this anxiety about me! I have tried, but tried in vain."
"Perhaps I can assist you," said Smeaton, in a lower tone than ever. "Nay, do not start, and look round at me. Those men behind must not see that there is anything more than ordinary in our talk. Now, let us have a gallop, if you will. I have ventured to open a subject with you, somewhat abruptly, which I have in vain sought an opportunity of touching upon from the first moment of my arrival. We must take opportunity when we find it. Now, shake your rein, dear lady. Give your jennet her head, and let us cast these ideas from us, for a moment or two. They will return before the end of our ride."
"They will not be shaken from me, let me gallop as I will," replied Emmeline. "However, let us forward." And, touching her horse lightly with her riding-whip, she bounded away some paces before her companion.
Smeaton was at her side again in a moment, however; and, when she turned her eyes towards him, as he came up sitting his horse with calm and quiet ease, motionless in the saddle, as if he were a part of the noble animal itself, she could not help thinking him the handsomest man she had ever beheld in her life; and so indeed he was.
To Smeaton, she was an object of great interest--ay, and I must add, of great admiration also. The exquisite beauty of her fate and form was at that moment heightened, not only by a dress which displayed it to the best advantage, but by the attitudes into which the exercise threw her, calling forth innumerable graces, and by the movements of the mind springing from the conversation just past, and filling her eyes with light and eagerness. Their looks met; and, with that sort of sudden sympathy which enables those of like character to read in an instant what is passing in the minds of others, each seemed to divine the feelings of the other. Emmeline's cheek glowed, as if she had been detected in a fault; and Smeaton withdrew his eyes, with a thoughtful look, and made some common-place observation on the scene.
For a few minutes they rode on at the same rapid pace, leaving the servants still farther behind them than they had previously been; and then Emmeline drew in her rein, saying--
"I have had enough of this. You will say I am a capricious girl, Colonel Smeaton. I wanted a gallop when you did not desire one; and I am tired of it as soon as I have got it. But, in truth," she added, "I am anxious that you should go on with what you were saying. I cannot ride fast, in a state of wonder and mystery. You say you can assist me in explaining all the many enigmas of my fate. You say that you have longed to talk with me on this subject, ever since you have been at Ale. You must have very keen eyes, or Sir John Newark must have told you something about me when he saw you in London."
"Neither, dear lady," answered Smeaton, looking behind to see how far off the servants were. "I should have remarked nothing calling for much attention, had I not had previous knowledge; and yet, Sir John Newark would not have suffered me to enter his gates, had he been aware that I possessed any information whatever regarding you."
"Then you do possess information?" exclaimed Emmeline, eagerly.
"You have been an object of interest to me, dear lady," answered her companion, "for some years. This seems strange to you; but it will seem stranger still when I tell you that, most likely, I should not have visited this part of England at all, had you not been here. But, tell me, can you be very discreet? For much depends upon your prudence and your secresy. If I tell you things which have been studiously concealed from you, you must put a guard upon your lips and upon your looks. You must seem as ignorant as ever of all that appertains to your own fate. That bright frankness--that free pouring forth of the heart--must all be checked. You must learn the hard lesson which the world, sooner or later, teaches to all, to conceal the feelings and the thoughts--to hide the treasures of the heart and mind, in short, from the eyes of those who would wrong us. Can you do this?"
"I will try," answered Emmeline, gravely; "though I know not how I shall succeed, for I have never yet been proved. I have no experience in the art of concealment--and yet," she continued, "I fear I have not been altogether so frank as you imagine. I cannot tell why, but there is something in my good guardian--kind and careful of me as he is--which prevents me from telling him all I think--from speaking my wishes or my thoughts upon important things. Any ordinary favour--any common gratification--I could ask, without fear of refusal; but yet the questions I most long to ask I dare not put; the thoughts that are most strong an most busy in my brain I do not venture to pour forth."
"It is an instinct," said Smeaton. "You must, however, try to attain the discretion to which I have alluded; and, perhaps, it may be better for me to say no more till you are more certain of yourself."
"Oh, no, no," said Emmeline. "Do not keep me in long suspense. I will be very prudent, indeed."
"Well, then, first let me ask you a few questions," said her companion; "but pray speak in a low voice; for the men are coming near, and no caution can be too great. Can you recollect anything of your very early years?"
Emmeline shook her head.
"Very little," she replied, "and that little, indistinct and vague. Things appear, indeed, to memory; but they look like the ships I have seen sailing over the sea in a thick mist. I catch a cloudy outline--a strange ill-defined form--for one brief instant, flitting by; and then it passes into the fog again, and I see it no more."
"Let us try if we cannot render these images more distinct," said Smeaton. "Do you recollect ever having lived in other places, different from the scenes around you?"
"No," answered Emmeline, at once. "The old house, and the wood, and the hamlet, and the stream, and Ale Head, and the bright bay, are amongst the earliest things that I remember. I do not think I ever lived anywhere else; for I can recollect little things of no consequence happening at the Manor when I must have been quite a child. I remember well crying over a broken puppet in a room that was then called the nursery. I must have been very young then; and memory goes no farther back."
Smeaton mused.
"I think it is very likely you are right," he said. "I do not know that you ever lived elsewhere; but you must have been surrounded in Ale Manor by other people than those who now dwell in it."
"Oh, yes," cried Emmeline. "Of that I am quite sure; for memories come across me, and trouble me like figures in a dream."
"Do you recollect a lady," asked her companion, "tall and graceful, with a smile peculiarly sweet, and a silvery voice?"
Emmeline gazed down thoughtfully.
"Yes," she said, at length, "I think I do; and she was very fond of me, if I remember rightly. Stay! yes, I remember her quite well. You call her back to my mind. She led me out by the hand upon the terrace to see the soldiers go away. Oh, yes--I recollect it all quite well now."
"And who was at the head of the soldiers?" asked Smeaton.
"I do not recollect," replied the lady, gazing forward into the air.
"Was it a tall, dark, noble-looking man, with a broad hat, and a plume in it?" asked Smeaton.
"No, no," cried Emmeline. "He was standing by my side; and he took me up in his arms, and kissed me, before he mounted his horse. How strange it is that I should have forgotten all this until now!"
"No, perhaps not strange," replied Smeaton. "A single word will often wake up a long train of memories which have lain asleep for years. The association of ideas has wonderful power; like the wind, touching one string of an Eolian harp, it sets all the harmonies of the heart vibrating. But do you recollect anything more of those times?"
"Not clearly," answered Emmeline; "but still you have awakened enough to lead memory on, I doubt not, through many another path of the past. I see, indeed, you must know much of me and mine. I beseech you, Colonel Smeaton, tell me more."
"I would rather, in the first instance;" he said, "let your own memory do all that it can do--placing it in the right road, and letting it follow out the track, instead of prompting you by information which, after having rested in your mind for a certain time, will seem like memory. But there, if I mistake not, is the church before us. I did not seize so eagerly your offer to show it to me without a motive, dear lady. I wanted to point out to you certain monuments which it contains, and beg you to remark them particularly, for they may afford you much information."
"Oh, I have gazed at them for hours," answered Emmeline, "and could extract nothing from them."
"Perhaps you may be more successful now," replied Smeaton. "At all events, whenever I lay my hand upon a monument, remark it particularly. If we should be alone, I may, perhaps, read a comment on it at the time; but, if there is any one with us--and we must not seem particularly anxious to carry on our observations in private--I will merely lay my hand upon the tomb I wish you to notice, and read the inscription upon it."
"But, then, do you know them already?" asked Emmeline. "Have you ever been here before?"
"Never," answered Smeaton, with a smile; "the words upon the tombs will be sufficient to guide me. But we are coming near. I had better call up the men to hold the horses."
Raising his hand, he beckoned to the servants behind, who rode up just as they reached the little gate of the churchyard.
Both Emmeline and he were very thoughtful when they dismounted; and they walked on towards the great door in silence. Just as they reached it, however, Smeaton turned, and called to the men who were holding the horses in a group, saying--
"Walk them about till we come back. The air is keen upon these hills, even at midsummer."
The rest of the conversation between himself, and Emmeline, and the old sexton, on their first entrance into the church, has been already detailed, as it was overheard by Van Noost; and Smeaton and the lady proceeded along the nave, listening with wonderful patience to the prolix details of the old man. He pointed out to them the tomb of Sir Reginald de Newark, who had gone to the Holy Land with Richard the First, and told them what gallant deeds he had done in battle, and how he had returned to his native country to die at home of wounds received in war against the Saracens. Many a blunder did he make, confounding kings and countries and events in a very disastrous manner. But Smeaton did not correct him, and laid not his hand upon that tomb. Then they came to a large slab of grey marble, with a figure in long robes sculptured on it, having a mitre on the head, and crozier by the side, but with every feature of the face obliterated. This, the old man told them, was the effigy of William de Newark, Bishop of Exeter, who had chosen to be buried in that church, because it stood upon the lands of the family. Still Smeaton passed on, without question or comment. Another and another succeeded; and the old sexton was beginning to think the visitor exceedingly dull, when, approaching nearer to the communion-table, they stood opposite the monument of the gallant soldier who had fallen at Naseby.
This seemed to interest the visitor more, and, stretching out his hand, he laid it on the marble, saying--
"What a pity it is they have so brutally defaced this fine statue!"
The old sexton entered into his usual story about it, told how the church had been occupied by Cromwell's soldiers, and how they had made a stable of the nave. Many were the abominations with which he charged them; and Smeaton asked several questions which helped him on wonderfully with his tale. The Colonel then approached the wall of the church, and, pointing to the tablet which recorded the death of another member of the family, in a foreign land, he asked the old man, after reading the inscription, whether the line had become there extinct.
"Oh, bless you, no, sir," replied the sexton. "After the happy Restoration, this good soldier's son returned with the king. He had been taken abroad by his uncle, who died at Breda. His monument stands there." And leading them across to a darker part of the church, he showed them a tomb with a kneeling figure, having a sword in its hand. The inscription on the marble tablet below was very brief. It simply said--
"To the memory of Algernon, Baron Newark, of Newark Castle and Ale Manor, Knight, who died on the second day of July, 1690, this monument is erected, as a testimony of love and veneration, by his widow and his son."
"That was the day after the battle of the Boyne," observed Smeaton.
The old sexton nodded his head significantly.
"Ay, sir, so it was. I recollect it well; and when they brought the body home from Ireland, these old hands dug the grave for as noble a lord and as good a man as ever lived. But it was all done very quietly, for people were in great fear of what might happen next; and the monument was not erected till two years after."
Smeaton laid his hand upon it, saying--
"It is fine in its simplicity. What became of the son who is mentioned here?"
"I don't know, sir," answered the man, shortly, and then walked on towards another part of the church, mumbling his jaws together, as if he were muttering something to himself.
Emmeline looked up in Smeaton's face with an inquiring glance; but his only comment was by taking her hand and leading her away. He might press it gently as he did so; but he said nothing till they rejoined the old man, when he inquired, in a careless tone--
"Are there not vaults, or a crypt, to this church? From the height of the pavement, I should think so."
"Oh, yes," replied Emmeline, answering for the sexton. "There is a beautiful crypt."
"Ay, but I have not got the key, my lady," said the old man.
"Why, it is in the door, Mattocks," rejoined Emmeline. "I saw it as we passed." The old sexton laughed aloud.
"That's true, my lady," he said; "but I've got a bird in there, and that's the truth. So that I would rather not open the door if I can help it. Not that I think you would tell, or this gentleman either; for it could do you no good, and might do the poor fellow some harm."
"Oh, be assured we will not tell anything," replied Smeaton. "But we must see the crypt, my good man. To me it is one of the most interesting parts of a church."
"Well, sir, must is must," answered the sexton, "and I cannot stop you, if you like to go. Only mind, you've promised not to tell about seeing any one there."
"We'll be as secret as a father confessor," answered Smeaton, gaily; "but first, I should like to look at your register-books. Cannot we see the inside of the vestry?"
The old man gazed earnestly in his face for an instant, and then replied, coldly and repulsively--
"You can see the inside of the vestry, sir, if you like; but the books are not there. They are always kept by the parson, under lock and key."
"Are they at his house?" asked Smeaton.
"I think not," replied the old man; "but all I know is, that they are not at the church. If you want any certificates out, you must ask the parson."
"Well, let us down to the crypt, then," replied Smeaton. "Can we see down there, think you?"
"Your eyes are younger than mine, and I can," answered the sexton, gruffly; and he proceeded to open the door.
"I suppose you are clerk as well as sexton?" said Smeaton, as he passed him.
"I am not regularly appointed clerk," replied the man. "I hold both offices at the will and pleasure of Sir John Newark."
There was something very significant in his tone and manner, as he said these words; but Smeaton merely smiled, and passed on, holding out his hand to guide Emmeline in descending the steps. A few seconds brought them to the bottom; and both looked round, with not unnatural curiosity, to see whom the old sexton had shut up in the crypt. The next minute, however, Smeaton laughed gaily.
"Why, my good friend, Van Noost," he exclaimed, "is that you? What, in fortune's name, has brought you into this part of the country?"
"Ah, noble sir," cried Van Noost, in a lamentable tone, "what a fright you gave me a few minutes ago! It was not fortune, but misfortune, brought me. Have you not heard that the Earl of Oxford is committed to the Tower, and that they are seeking for all his friends and adherents to clap them up in Newgate?"
"No, indeed," replied Smeaton. "Not caring much about it, I have heard little about it; but I fancy you are frightened without much cause, my good friend; for, depend upon it, the falcons which are now on the wing are checking at higher-flying game than yourself. But what made you think of coming to this part of the world?"
"Why, I know it of old to be a lonely desolate part of the country," said Van Noost. "Besides, I knew you were down here; I thought you might give me a little help in case of need."
"How can I do that?" asked Smeaton. "I have no influence with these people. But, come hither for a moment, and speak to me apart. If can help you, I will."
As he spoke, he led the way to the other side of the crypt, where he conversed with the statuary, for a few moments, in a low voice, saying, in the end--
"Well, do as you like. If you find yourself safe here, stay. But, in case of any danger, you can go to Keanton, where you will be quite safe. Tell the people the word I said, and they will take care of you."
"What a beautiful creature she is!" exclaimed Van Noost, whose eyes had been fixed on Emmeline for the last minute or two. "Dear me, what a delicious dairymaid she would make, cast in lead!"
"More fitted for a Grace, I think," replied Smeaton, with a smile. "But, remember, go to Keanton, if you like."
Thus saying, he rejoined Emmeline and the old sexton.
The last words were spoken aloud, and reached the ears both of the sexton and Emmeline. The old man muttered to himself the word, "Keanton," and scratched his head. The young lady turned her eyes quickly towards Smeaton, but made no comment at the time. The party then, followed by Van Noost, commented on the various things they saw; and the worthy artist in lead enlightened them, from time to time, with opinions on the various monuments. No part of the conversation, however, would be very entertaining to the reader; and with regard to the monuments themselves, only one seemed, even to Smeaton, worthy of remark; this was a small tablet fixed in the lower part of a wall, bearing inscribed upon it the following words:
"To the memory of Edward and Henry Newark, sons of Henry Algernon, third baron Newark. They died in infancy."
There was no date; but the monument was comparatively new. Dust, indeed, lay on the marble, somewhat obscuring the letters, with a softening effect, like that of Time on the memory of sorrow; but the pure white stone had not yet acquired the yellow tint of age and decay.
"I suppose that tablet has not been long put up," said Smeaton, touching it with his hand.
"Sixteen years ago, sir, come the day after Michaelmas," replied the old sexton; and there he stopped, evidently not disposed to enter into any particulars regarding the later branches of the Newark family.
Smeaton, however, asked no more questions; but, shaking hands with Van Noost, and giving the old man a piece of money, which seemed more than he expected, left the church, and re-mounted with Emmeline.
The lady and her companion rode on for a few moments in silence; but, at length; Smeaton said, bending his head and speaking low,
"Do you comprehend what you have seen?"
She shook her head gravely, and then replied--
"It is like seeing the picture of a city we never visited. There are houses, and streets, and public places; but, unless we have a guide or a map, we know not what they are. The monuments I have already seen; the names upon them I have heard before; but know not to whom or by whom they were erected."
Smeaton paused, and gazed at her earnestly, as if he hesitated to proceed.
"Dear lady," he said, at length. "I needs must trust you, or rather must trust to your own discretion; for it is yourself and your future fate which is to be influenced by your prudence or imprudence. Let me warn you, however, that your own happiness and the possibility of your obtaining farther information depend upon your concealing from every one that you have received any information at all; but I believe you have a spirit of sufficient power, Emmeline, to govern your words, and even looks, when you know that so much is at stake."
He called her Emmeline for the first time--perhaps before the length of their acquaintance justified it; but it sounded very pleasant to her ear; and, indeed, that day's ride, and the matters of deep interest which had been discussed between them, had drawn them closer to each other than if they had been acquainted many months.
"I will be prudent and careful, indeed," she replied. "I should ill repay your kindness, if I neglected your warning for a moment."
"Well, then," replied Smeaton, "you have seen just now the monument of your ancestor who fell at Naseby; that of his son, your grandfather, who died the day after the battle of the Boyne; and a tablet to the memory of your grandfather's brother, the father of Sir John Newark--"
"And my father?" interrupted Emmeline--"my father?"
"Of that, hereafter," replied Smeaton. "This is enough for one day surely; but I may add that the little tablet in the crypt which we last saw commemorates the death of your two brothers in infancy. They were older than yourself, but perished early. And now, dear lady, I have told you thus much in order to win your confidence; for I may yet have to ask you to trust me in many things; and, in the very first place, I must crave a great boon from you, which is this, to give me every opportunity--nay, to make opportunities--of conversing with you in private; for much yet remains to be said--nay, perhaps much to be done; and I can clearly see that Sir John Newark will not often let our conferences be unwatched, if he can help it. Can you trust me, Emmeline?"
"Oh, yes, I think I can; nay, I am sure I can," she answered. "Yet I do not know how I shall manage; for I am unaccustomed to such things. I thank you much for what you have told me; but I must--indeed I must--know more. I am not such an enigma to myself as I was; but still there is a cloud over one part of my history which must be cleared away, although I suppose I shall find to the end that there are enigmas in everything in this world. Do you know that even you are beginning to be an enigma to me?"
"How so?" exclaimed Smeaton, looking at her frankly as she gazed, with a smile, in his face.
"I will tell you," she said. "You bade that man in the crypt go to Keanton, if he liked, as if you were its master. Now, I always heard that Keanton was the properly of the Countess of Eskdale, that Countess who went to share her husband's exile."
"That enigma is soon explained," replied Smeaton. "I am her son. Heaven send that I be not soon the Master of Keanton indeed! But I much fear it; for my mother has been very ill. As I ask you for much confidence, I must not withhold any part of mine from you, and therefore I tell you the fact at once. But this is a piece of knowledge, dear lady, that you must conceal from Sir John Newark, although he knows the fact, for, if he finds that I have revealed it to you, it may raise suspicion as to what more I have revealed, which it were well to avoid."
Emmeline mused for a moment or two with her eyes cast down; and then, looking up again, she said--
"Then your name is not Smeaton really?"
"No, indeed," he replied. "My name is Eskdale. But let me explain to you. It is not at all an uncommon custom now, amongst the many who have been driven forth by the rebellions and revolutions in this land, to assume a name different from their own when entering the service of foreign states. Thus, while I have been in the Austrian army, warring in Spain and Italy, I took the name of Henry Smeaton, rose in the service under that name, and never dropped it until my father's death, somewhat more than a year ago. I have with me my commission, granted under that name, and many papers and letters, all addressed to me, or speaking of me, as Colonel Henry Smeaton; so that the title was not merely assumed for the present occasion. But here comes your young cousin, I think, to meet us. His fishing expedition, it would seem, is soon over."
"Poor boy!" replied Emmeline. "He is so volatile, he can pursue nothing long. I do not think he is so much without ability as he seems, for occasionally his thoughts are very bright and fanciful. But it is the power of fixing his attention that he wants. Of that he is utterly devoid, and it is the secret of his great deficiency."
A moment or two after, they were joined by Richard Newark, who exclaimed, in a joyful voice--"I am glad I have found you before my father comes back; for, after we had fished for an hour, I got in a fright, remembering what he had said about not leaving you, Emmy. So I got a horse, and galloped all the way here, thinking every minute I should see him riding back with you. So you must hold your tongue, Emmy, and not let him know that I have been away at all."
All conversation now ended for the time between Emmeline and Smeaton, for the boy's presence was of course a restraint, and the minds of both rested thoughtfully on the subjects of deeper interest of which they had been lately talking. This continued till they reached the mansion; but there they found Sir John Newark had not yet returned, and some time was destined to pass before he again appeared on the scene.