"Undoubtedly, Lord Stair's handwriting," said the old officer, aloud; and, turning to another, who stood near, he added, "We must have been misinformed."
"Pray," cried one of the magistrates, "will you tell us, Sir John Newark, if this Colonel Henry Smeaton is the only visitor in your house at the present moment?"
"This is too bad!" exclaimed Sir John Newark, with well-affected indignation. "Do you suppose, sir, that I am likely to quibble in such a matter as this? There is no one whatsoever in my house but my own family and domestic servants, with Colonel Smeaton and his lackey--a rude ordinary man, whom you might as well take for an archangel as a nobleman. It is by such injurious suspicions of loyal and tried men, that you, and such persons as you, frequently produce disaffection. Such, however, shall not be the case with me; and, having expressed my opinion upon your proceeding, and repelled the insulting doubts which it seems you had thought fit to entertain of myself, I shall leave an objectless meeting, which can produce no good results, and can only tend to irritate the people and induce foolish magistrates to overstep the limits of their duty upon the shallow pretence of zeal. If I might advise, all those who think with me will follow me; for, I believe, the very fact of this meeting may do great harm in the county."
Thus saying, he quitted the room with some thirty or five-and-thirty other gentlemen.
A buzz of conversation succeeded amongst those who remained, the whole assembly seeming to conclude that the business of the day was over, and breaking up into little knots of five or six. In one or two of these groups, the name of Sir John Newark was treated somewhat severely, and his general conduct censured with very little restraint. In most of them, however, the imprudence of those who had first commenced an attack upon him was pointedly blamed.
"Strange should not have been so violent," said one.
"Perry should not have insinuated what he did," remarked another.
"He is a very difficult personage to deal with," observed a third. "He is never to be caught, and is always ready to give back more than he receives in the way of sneers and bitterness."
"He often turns what was intended to annoy him, to his own advantage," remarked a fourth. "The man must be a blockhead or a conceited fellow who attempts to meddle with him. The best way is to let him quietly say out what he has to say, and then to proceed without taking the least notice of him; but, as he has contrived to break up the business of the day, we had better betake us to our horses' backs."
One dropped away after another till the room was nearly vacant; but a little knot continued in low-toned but eager conversation for nearly three quarters of an hour after all the rest were gone, and in it were the old officer whom we have mentioned, the high sheriff of the county, and two or three gentlemen of importance and discretion.
"It will certainly be the best plan," said the high sheriff. "He is thrown off his guard for the time, and I am willing to take my share of the responsibility."
The general shook his head.
"He is seldom off his guard," he remarked; "but I do not fear the responsibility; and, perhaps, it is the best plan. Government will carry us through, even if we do stretch its authority a little in such a case."
With this observation, the meeting broke up; and the little knot which had remained separated.
CHAPTER XI.
The events which I have narrated in the last chapter occupied nearly two hours, although, in their recapitulation, they fill so small a space. It was thus four o'clock, or somewhat more, before Sir John Newark reached the door of his inn, impatient to return as soon as possible to the Manor House. As we have seen, many of the party which he had now espoused followed him away from the place of meeting. Some mounted their horses and rode into the country; some strayed to the right or left, as soon as they were in the street; some went one way, some another, and but few accompanied Sir John Newark, even a short distance. Sir John was not loved or trusted by any one. All readily availed themselves of his help; all admired the skill and dexterity with which he took advantage of an enemy's mistakes, and sometimes of a friend's; but they did not altogether feel safe in his private society.
There was one garrulous old knight, however--a Sir James Mount--who had no fears of any kind. Wrapped up in his talkative egotism, he thought little of the character and actions of his associates, chattered away gaily to any one who came near him, sometimes very sillily, sometimes well enough, and was ever ready with a smart repartee, at which he himself laughed, to lead the chorus right; and, being full of anecdote and a great gossip-monger, was tolerated and even courted by most of the gentlemen round, though he sadly wearied them till they had contrived to make him dead drunk. This worthy baronet adhered to the side of Sir John Newark all the way to the inn, at which, it would seem, he himself also had put up.
"You posed them, Sir John--you posed them," he said, as they issued from the door. "That smart Mr. Seely got a rap--a rap--a rap, I think. Puppy! his knuckles will ache. It is very droll that I am not good at public speaking--at public speaking--at public speaking, for I am fluent enough--fluent enough--fluent enough, in conversation, I think."
Sir John Newark made no reply; nor, indeed, was any necessary. Sir James Mount paused for a moment to take breath--for he had been walking fast, with a peculiar dancing sort of step; but it was not long before he began again, saying; "Better times coming, Sir John, better times coming, I think; and the king shall have his own again. I dare say, now, you have got some news from over the water--over the water--over the water."
Sir John Newark replied this time; for a good number of people were in the street; and Sir James's conversation was getting somewhat dangerous.
"The last news I have heard of any kind, Sir James," he replied, "was that you had nearly pulled down the old house at Mount Place, and were building a very splendid mansion in its stead."
"Yes, yes, yes," answered the other, tripping along on the tips of his toes. "Diruit--diruit--diruit, ædificat, mutat quadrata rotundis--rotundis--rotundis. Not exactly the whole house; only the wings--only the wings--only the wings."
"Getting yourself new wings, Sir James," said Newark, "will make the people say 'tis to fly with."
"Only to fly higher--to fly higher--to fly higher," replied Mount.
"Higher, higher, higher!" echoed Sir John Newark, with a cynical smile; "that is like the skylark. But you were born to mount; and so that is natural."
"True, true, true," answered his companion, laughing, and very much pleased at the exceedingly lame pun. "Like the skylark--born to mount--pretty, very pretty!" And he took out his tablets and wrote it down, talking all the time with marvellous perseverance. "Born to mount," he repeated three times, "like the skylark, must have wings, you know, Sir John--must have wings--must have wings. Shall we dine together? I have something very important--important--important, to discharge my mind of."
"I fear that I cannot stay to receive your fire," replied Sir John Newark. "You know I have a guest at Ale Manor, and must be back to entertain him."
"Ay, that's just the thing--just the thing--just the thing," said the old knight. "Is he Lord Eskdale or not--or not--or not?"
They had at this moment just reached the great arched entrance of the inn; and, without answering the question, Sir John called aloud for his horses. He was doomed, however, to disappointment and the society of Sir James Mount; for one of his servants, coming forward, informed him that they had just discovered that one of the horses had lost a shoe, and that his own beast seemed very lame. Sir John Newark was angry; but he uttered none of the oaths and exclamations common in that day, and merely, in a thoughtful and moderate tone, directed the one horse to be shod and the other to be examined by a farrier. Sir James Mount instantly fixed upon the servant, commended his own farrier to him, gave him particular directions where to find him, volunteered an opinion upon the cause of the horse's lameness, without having seen him, and recommended strongly a plaster of soap and boiled turnips, repeating one part of every sentence at least thrice, and sometimes more.
Whilst this was going on, Sir John Newark was meditating what he should next do. It was very difficult, on all occasions, to get rid of Sir James Mount; and, taking into consideration the improbability of his succeeding in an attempt to do so, and the length of time he should probably be obliged to stay, he made up his mind to engage him to dine in a private room, saying to himself--"I shall, at all events, get from him every piece of news that is going about the country, and shall prevent him from doing mischief with his tongue for an hour and a half at least."
Sir James was delighted with the proposal, and, although the hour was somewhat late for the early habits of that period, the number of gentlemen who had visited the town in the course of the day had created great activity at the inn, and dinner was easily procurable.
As soon as it was upon the table in the little parlour to which they were shown, Sir John Newark, who had been kept in some uneasiness by the incessant loquacity of his companion, dismissed the man who brought in the dishes, saying, as soon as he was gone, with a meaning nod, to worthy Sir James--
"It is better to be alone when we may have important subjects to talk of."
"True, true, true," returned the other. "In such things, I am always discreet--discreet--discreet. I know how to be silent--silent--silent, Newark. No one can keep a secret better than I can, in case of need. I was just at that moment--at that moment--at that moment, thinking of Lord Eskdale; but I was as mum as a mouse--mum as a mouse--mum as a mouse, while the man was in the room."
Sir John Newark had by this time made up his mind as to the course he should pursue in case of the Earl of Eskdale's name being again mentioned, and he instantly caught at Sir James's words, saying.
"Ay, the Earl of Eskdale. Can you tell me anything about him? He must now be advancing in life."
"Poo, poo! you are thinking of the father," replied Sir James. "He died last year, quite a young man; not fifty, I should think--I should think--I should think--married very early, you know, and left one son--know them all quite well--Lady Eskdale is an old friend of mine."
"Is that the young Lady Eskdale or the old Lady Eskdale!" asked Sir John Newark; and then, seeing that he had a little betrayed himself, he added, to cover the mistake, "I suppose the young lord is married."
"Married--married--married! Oh dear, no. He is not married," said Sir James; "was not a month ago, at all events; I was over the water upon a little business--business--business. I could not see the old lady, because she was very ill in bed--in bed--in bed; but I inquired into all the particulars of the family, and found them better off than most over there, on account of the Keanton estate--estate--estate."
Sir John Newark was not a little puzzled and alarmed by his worshipful companion's words, and fell into deep thought; but, as the other paused, he said, mechanically, merely to fill up the gap-"Ay, about Keanton?"
"Why, you know," answered Sir James, in his usual rapid manner, "it was never forfeited, because it was settled upon her. People thought that she had dissuaded her husband from joining our friends. That was not true; but it saved her property, which was settled somehow--somehow--somehow, and they have taken care to keep it very quiet. The tenants pay their rents to an agent--an agent--an agent, and as little said as possible; for, although Shrewsbury spared them, out of generosity, and Marlborough because he got something by it, I dare say, others might have made a snatch at Keanton, which is better than a penny loaf--a penny loaf--a penny loaf."
"But, I suppose, if the old lady should die, the property would fall to the Crown?" said Sir John Newark, becoming again interested.
"Oh, no! oh, dear no!" replied Sir James. "The young man was a mere boy when the father was attainted; and, as they had good interest with the late Queen, they got a special act of grace in his favour. It is not generally known; but it is true--true--true, I can assure you. So he is right on both sides of the house. If King James comes and prospers, he'll get the Scotch estates and this too, and if the Elector makes his hold good, and Eskdale keeps quiet, he'll get Keanton at all events."
"It is a fine property, and might be made better," said Sir John Newark.
"Yes--yes--yes," rejoined the other knight. "I know it well. It is not ten miles from me. Know every inch of it--very good ground--too much up and down--overrun with wood; but very good tenants--all of them strong loyalists. We might call them all out in a moment of need. But so, this is not the young lord at your house, after all?"
"I only know him as Colonel Smeaton," said Sir John Newark, thoughtfully; for the intelligence he had received produced some vacillation in his mind. "You heard, too, what Lord Stair said of him. Nevertheless, he has all the air and manner of a nobleman; however, Lord Stair would not, I should think--"
"That is nothing--nothing--nothing," interrupted Mount. "Nom de guerre perhaps. I recollect he did take some name like that when serving with the Austrian troops in Spain and Italy. That is nothing. Lord Stair is a very shrewd secret man--would not tell tales of his own friends, desperate Whig as he is. He knows better than that. I should like to see this young man. Tell you in a minute who he is--who he is--who he is."
As Sir John had not fully made up his mind, he took no notice of this broad hint, and Sir James did not receive an invitation to Ale Manor. What he had heard, however, induced the former to hurry his departure at any cost, and, after a few minutes more, spent in conversation, eating, and drinking, he called for his chief groom, and inquired for the report of the farrier. That report was unfavourable; the beast would not be in a condition to travel for two or three days; and, taking leave of Sir James Mount, Sir John Newark instantly proceeded to purchase a new horse in order to set out for Ale Manor at once.
Before all this could be accomplished, the saddles put on, and every preparation made, it was nearly seven o'clock, and the knight looked forward to being obliged to end his journey in darkness. He was well accompanied, however, for those were somewhat dangerous times; and, before he was quite out of the city of Exeter, he found that he was destined to have more companions. Coming at full speed down the street, Sir James Mount, followed by two servants, overtook him about a hundred yards beyond the old gates, much to the other's annoyance.
"I will ride with you as far as Aleton Church," said Sir James. "It is only five miles out of my way--out of my way--out of my way, and we can talk as we go. There is something I want to tell you in your ear. Come close--put down your head. Do you know," he continued, in a whisper, "a party of horse, under Captain Smallpiece, has just gone out of the town with Best, the justice, and they are right upon the road before us, as if they were going either to your house or mine--or mine--or mine? We had better reconnoitre them from the tops of the hills, and see which way they take. It would not be pleasant to be at home when such a visit happens."
"Certainly not," returned Sir John Newark, though, to speak truth, he did not exactly mean what he said. He had his own views, however, and he rode on by the side of his chattering companion, buried in thought.
"They are gone to Ale to see for my young guest," he thought. "If he is apprehended, it will serve him right for deceiving me about his marriage. Ay, and it may drive him, though somewhat too fast, on the way I would have him go. If I could but find a means of giving him an intimation to keep out of the way for a time, before the military arrive at Ale, it would do very well. But the party will never let me pass them; and, if I traverse the hills with all these men, we shall be discovered. This babbling old ass, who is not contented with saying a foolish thing without repeating it thrice, would ruin any scheme he had to do with. It would be better to seem to humour him, and to follow his suggestion of reconnoitring. They must stop to water their horses somewhere; and, perhaps, we can pass them then."
Thus thinking, he rode on up the slope of a hill in front, and soon after caught sight of the party of horse winding through the valley below. Well acquainted with every step of the country, he was enabled to follow them unseen amongst the green lanes and hedgerows, keeping a wary eye upon them all the way, while Sir James Mount continued to pour a perpetual stream of idle prattle into his ear, which annoyed him without distracting his attention from the object in view. The troop went more slowly indeed than suited the wishes or purposes of Sir John Newark; but at length they began to ascend towards the steep bare downs which ran along the sea-coast, on the borders of Devonshire and Dorset. The manœuvres of the reconnoitring party now became more difficult; for, though the road was often cut between deep banks, it was often exposed upon the bare side of the hill, and worthy Sir James became very unruly. He had no diffidence of his own powers, and he would at once have taken the command of an army, although he had never seen a cannon fired in all his life; nor was he willing at all to submit to the cooler discretion of his companion, who sought to pass quietly through the hollow ways, while those whom they were following crossed the more open ground, and to gallop over the wide exposed downs, while the soldiers were hidden by any cut or dip in the road. Struggling with these difficulties as best he might, Sir John Newark, with his companions, came in sight of the little church of Aleton, with the scattered hamlet below, just as the setting sun was spreading a thin veil of purple light over the broad naked face of the hill. The soldiers had then reached the straggling houses of the village; and, to the surprise of all who watched them, they were seen, not only taking the bits out of their horses' mouths, but removing the saddles, as if they intended to remain there all night.
Sir James Mount was full of conjectures as to their purposes; but Sir John Newark's resolution was soon taken, and he exclaimed--
"Well, I cannot remain watching them all night, and I do not intend to slink into my own house by a back way. If you will take my advice, Sir James, you will ride away by the short cut over the hills. I shall go on and talk with them."
He saw a little hesitation in his elderly companion's face, and, to put an end to it, he added--
"For my own part, I have nothing to fear. But I think that journey of yours 'over the water,' as you call it, may prove unpleasant in its results. We could not well spare you just at present."
"No, that must not be--must not be--must not be. I think--I think--I think I had better go. You keep them talking, Sir John, while I gallop over the hills. They cannot chase me, now, for their saddles are off. But, upon my life, I believe they are putting them on again. Good-bye--good-bye?"
And away Sir James went, as fast as he could go, while his companion slowly rode on towards the hamlet.
At some little distance from the houses, Sir John Newark beckoned up one of the servants, on whom he thought he could most rely, and said, in a low voice--
"It is probable that I may stay here some time. You contrive to get away as soon as it is quite dark. Ride on to the house, and tell Colonel Smeaton, in my name, that I think it will be better for him to be out of the way for a few hours. Tell old Mrs. Culpepper to put him where he can lie concealed, and, if he is inquired for, let it be said that he is gone away for a few days."
The servant nodded his head quietly, and Sir John rode on.
Round the door of the little public-house was gathered a group of five or six soldiers, already taking deep draughts of ale; and, dismounting, the knight exclaimed--
"Holloa, my men, what has brought you into this part of the world? We are seldom treated with such a sight here."
"I don't know, sir," answered one of the men, civilly; "but Captain Smallpiece is indoors, taking a glass to comfort him, with the Justice."
"Are you going to halt long?" asked Sir John Newark, in a careless tone. "I shall be glad of your escort, if you are going my way."
"An hour and a half, sir, to feed and rest the horses," replied the man. Having so far satisfied himself, Sir John Newark entered the inn, and walked straight into the only guest-chamber it possessed.
The Justice and the Captain, not being able to obtain wine, were discussing the contents of a small bowl of punch, apparently much to their satisfaction, when the unexpected appearance of Sir John Newark startled them in their potations.
"Why, Sir John!" exclaimed the magistrate, "we thought you were at Ale Manor, by this time."
"You made a mistake, gentlemen," said Sir John Newark, drily. "I had business which detained me in Exeter. But may I ask what is the meaning of all this military display, which 'startles the land from its propriety?' Here, drawer, bring me some punch. My horses are so tired they can go no farther, just yet; and I may as well enjoy this worshipful society in the approved manner."
The Justice looked at the Captain, and the Captain looked at the Justice; but at length the latter replied--
"Why, the truth is, Sir John, we were going to pay you a visit at Ale Manor, and luckily having met with you here, we trust that we shall have the pleasure of your company on the road."
"That depends upon circumstances, gentlemen," observed the other quite calmly. "If you have business with me, it can probably he transacted here as well as at my house."
"Not exactly," answered Justice Best. "The fact is this; the high sheriff and several of our brother magistrates are not quite satisfied in regard to this servant of Colonel Henry Smeaton. They think you may have been deceived, Sir John. It is very easy, you know, to assume a rude and vulgar manner; and, having received very distinct information that the Earl of Eskdale, whom we all know to have been attainted in King William's reign, took his way towards your house, they imagine that this servant may be the man, and they wish him to be apprehended on suspicion."
Sir John Newark laughed aloud.
"What need of a troop of soldiers to arrest a single lackey?" he asked.
"Why, your fishermen in the village are said to be somewhat mutinous," replied the Justice; "and, in case of resistance, you know--"
"You do not suppose, sir, that I would resist or countenance resistance to lawful authority?" interrupted Sir John Newark. "But, if this mare's nest is so very important a one, I think you might have ridden on to find it, without stopping at this house to drink punch."
"We had another little business here, besides," rejoined the Justice, who stood in some awe of Newark; "but our doing so has procured us the advantage, I hope, of your company on the way:"
"Nothing of the kind, sir," retorted Sir John, sharply. "I certainly shall not go with you to see a gentleman, my guest, and the intimate friend of my Lord Stair, insulted in my house, by the pretence that his servant is the Earl of Eskdale, forsooth! You may go on when you please. I shall stay here till this unpleasant business is over. But let me warn you that it be conducted legally; for it shall be strictly looked to, depend upon it."
As he spoke, a man entered with a leathern apron, a dirty face, a bowl of punch in one hand, and a tallow candle in the other; for, by this time, night was falling fast. Sir John Newark's eyes rested on him, for an instant, and a confused doubtful sort of sensation took possession of him, which we all of us feel when we see a face that we know but to which we cannot affix a name. Suddenly, however, the scene of the statuary's house in London came back upon his mind, and the round, odd-shaped, never-to-be-forgotten form of Van Noost, was there before him, in a disguise partaking somewhat of the tapster and somewhat of the blacksmith. A single glance of intelligence passed from one face to the other; but not a word of recognition was uttered. Van Noost set down the candle and the bowl, went back to the tap for a fresh ladle and glass, and then, rolling out of the room, closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER XII.
From the turbulent scene amongst the magistrates at Exeter, and the somewhat annoying occurrences which Sir John Newark had met with on the road back, let us turn to the quieter doings at Ale Manor House.
Not long was Emmeline's absence from Smeaton and her young cousin. She came timidly, blushingly, in all the agitation of fresh and strong feelings; but she soon became more tranquil. Dinner, according to the directions of Sir John Newark when he left, was served at the usual hour; and, when it was over, all three walked out to linger away the time in the summer eventide.
After two or three turns up and down the terrace, Richard Newark seated himself upon one of the large guard-stones which marked the separation of the gravel from the turf, from which he commanded a view of two faces of the house, and there he remained for more than an hour, whistling lightly, and apparently lost in thought. Emmeline and Smeaton continued to walk up and down side by side, and their conversation was carried on in tones too low to be heard from the windows of the house. Had any one been watching them, well skilled in the outward signs and symptoms of the sweet madness, he might have divined by the look of tenderness, by the sudden changes of expression, by Smeaton's bended head, by Emmeline's faltering and agitated step, and by the frequent raising of a bright and sparkling look to her companion's face, that he talked of love, and that she listened to him, well pleased.
So, indeed, it was. He led her on, step by step, word by word, himself led on by the growing passion in his own heart. All was said between them which could be said; and, before that walk was half over, they were plighted to each other, not only in heart and affection, but by words and vows. It might be somewhat sudden; but--as I have endeavoured often enough before to make the reader comprehend--there is no such thing as time. The flowing of events constitutes what we call time. The revolution of the earth round its axis--man's day--is the measure which we have capriciously adopted to mete the passing stream; but how inadequate is that measure to express the value of the thing measured! 'Tis just as if we should sell at the same price the yard of cloth of gold and the yard of dull serge. The events of one day are not more like the events of another than those two woofs. Thoughts and feelings are also events--the events of the mind and soul; and, measured by them, how long a space had Smeaton known Emmeline! The last four-and-twenty hours to both had been a life-time. Cleared of the great mistake regarding time, they had not loved suddenly.
In the little scene which I have depicted--the two lovers walking to and fro within sight of the house--sometimes under the green trees, it is true, but more often upon the soft turf before the terrace--Richard Newark, sitting whistling on the guard-stone--the sky putting on its evening raiment, and the purple draperies of the sun's couch being shaken down over the west, one thing was particularly worth remark; namely, the marvellous patience of the boy. He, so light, so volatile, so full of wild activity, sat quietly there the whole time. It is difficult to explain it, and I can but say, in explanation, that he did it without thought, in all simplicity. The mind might not be very bright or clear; it might be slightly warped from the right direction; but the heart went as straight as an arrow. He felt that Emmeline would like to be alone with Smeaton, and he with her; and, loving them both right well, by an impulse--by an instinct with which thought had nothing to do--he not only left them by themselves, but watched that they were not interrupted, and with love like that of a faithful dog, he watched patiently.
At length, however, Richard Newark rose, and, with a quick step, joined the two lovers. He had seen some one coming round the other angle of the house; and he said, with a laugh--
"There is old Mrs. Culpepper upon the prowl again, Emmy. Take care, pretty bird, take care. That cat's steps are very stealthy."
Emmeline, brighter, but as simple as himself, replied,
"I do not fear her, Dick--I do not fear anything now."
Oh, what a world of revelation was in that little word, now! It spoke of feelings totally changed--of hope and trust and confidence sprung up--of the absorption, as it were, of her very being into the being of another--of the vast assurance with which woman's heart reposes upon love.
Richard Newark did not remark it; but Smeaton felt it, and was very happy; for it told him how completely she was his own. They continued their walk, and caught a glimpse of the old woman's figure moving quietly along at some little distance; but they heeded it not, and continued talking in a lighter strain, and of more indifferent things, but, with the spirit that was in their hearts, giving life and energy to their thoughts and words, and breathing tones which each understood as meaning more than the words expressed. There was no weariness for them. The sun sank gradually through the sky, touched the edge of the horizon, dropped below it, disappeared. Purple, and gold, and grey, had each their moment in the western sky, then gave place, and darkness followed. The stars shone out, bright and clear above, not large, but very lustrous; and then the moon began to throw her light upward from the east, preparing to sweep the diamond dust of heaven away from her path on high.
Still Emmeline and Smeaton walked on, and talked of everything. Heaven! how their thoughts rambled, shooting up amongst those stars, flying on fairy wings after the setting sun, wreathing the purple and the gold into fantastic forms, and twining the evening clouds into rosy coronals. Aladdin's palace-builders, all spirits as they were, wrought not so fast or gorgeously as the spirit of love.
But hark! The sound is heard of a distant horse's feet coming at great speed along the road, and the three companions are retiring to the house quickly.
The lights had just been lighted, the windows closed, and they were seated calmly in the smaller saloon, though two of them were trying to banish from look and manner all trace of the emotions which had risen up in their hearts, when a step was heard in the marble hall without, the door opened, and a servant of Sir John Newark entered, followed by the old housekeeper. The man was dusty from the road; and eager haste was upon his face, as he advanced close to Smeaton to avoid being obliged to speak loud.
"Sir John has sent me, sir," he said, "to tell you there is danger abroad, and to say that he begs you to keep out of the way for a short time. Mrs. Culpepper will show you a place where no one can find you; and you had better seek it quickly."
Smeaton gazed at him with some surprise, but without much emotion.
"What is the matter, my good friend?" he said. "I have nothing to fear that I know of. I really do not see what can be the use of my concealing myself; for I have committed no offence, and know not that any one can wish me ill. What is it has alarmed Sir John?"
"I really do not know the whole, sir," replied the man; "but I heard they had a very stormy meeting at Exeter, and that a party of horse was sent out in the evening towards this place. We followed them close, and watched them all along as far as Aleton. There Sir John stopped, I dare say, to try and keep them as long as possible, while I came on to give you warning."
Smeaton laughed, notwithstanding the anxiety which he saw in the countenance of Emmeline.
"My good friend, Sir John," he said, "mistakes altogether my position. I have nothing to fear from troops of horse, nor from bodies of magistrates. They may subject me to some little annoyance, perhaps; but that is all they can do; and I do not think it either needful or dignified to conceal myself. If discovered, as I probably should be, the very fact of my concealment would justify suspicion and look like guilt."
"Perhaps, sir," said the old housekeeper, in that quiet plausible tone which is so very common to housekeepers, "Sir John may request you to do this for his own sake more than yours. He may have denied at Exeter, perhaps, that there is any such gentleman here."
Smeaton looked her full in the face, thinking that she was not paying any high compliment to her master's sincerity and truthfulness, and trying to discover from her countenance whether there was not some latent motive for the course suggested which she did not choose to explain. It was all blank, however; smooth, calm, and inexpressive; and, unable to make anything of it, he replied--
"That alters the question greatly; for I suppose you do not speak without some knowledge, my good lady. However, my best course will be, in such circumstances, to mount my horse and ride away for a time. If I meet with any of these gentry, they must take me if they please; but I should not like to be discovered lurking like a rat in a hole."
Emmeline looked at him sadly, almost reproachfully, as if she would fain have asked:
"Will you leave me so soon, and peril your own safety thereby?"
But the old housekeeper observed, quietly,
"There is not the slightest chance of discovery, sir. I could place you in the priest's chamber, where they say that Henry Garnet, who was afterwards hanged, drawn, and quartered, lay for six whole weeks without being found out, nearly a century ago. There is a way out from it, too, beyond the house; so that, if you heard the door above open, you could get down through the wood to Ale, and away for France in a fisherman's boat. Sir John, in case of need, would take good care to have a boat ready and the way clear."
Smeaton changed his mind in a moment; for the woman's words gave rise to considerations which she little anticipated or knew. He was still of the same opinion, indeed, that boldly to face inquiry, and to meet those who were sent after him, would be the best course for his own safety; for he was well aware that he had nothing to fear from straightforward conduct; but he reflected, at the same time, that, by so doing, he might curtail his stay in the same house with Emmeline; and he moreover foresaw that a time might come when the knowledge of such a secret entrance to Ale Manor House might be serviceable in more ways than one.
These thoughts passed through his mind in a moment; but, before he answered, both Emmeline and Richard Newark had time to speak.
"I beseech you, be guided, Colonel Smeaton," said the young lady, trying to conceal, as far as possible, from the eyes of the housekeeper the feelings of her heart. "Depend upon it, my guardian has good cause for his advice."
"Oh, show it to me, show it to me, Mrs. Culpepper," exclaimed Richard Newark, alluding to the chamber and passage she spoke of.
"I must not, Master Richard," replied the old woman, in a familiar tone. "It is not a secret to be trusted to such a rattle-pate as yours. You and Miss Emmeline must both remain behind, if the gentleman consents to go, which I think he had better do."
"Well, fair lady," said Smeaton, addressing Emmeline, "as you wish it, I will consent, although against my own better judgment. Perhaps Sir John Newark may, after all, have more information than we know; and, as I believe him to be a very shrewd and prudent man and to wish me well, I will follow his counsel. I will leave a private message for him with you and Richard. I will follow you in an instant, Mrs. Culpepper;" and he then added, in a lower tone: "Send the man away, and wait for me a moment without. I will follow you directly."
She only replied by a low curtesy, and retired from the room, closing the door behind her.
"Now, Richard," continued Smeaton, in a whisper, "endeavour to see which way she takes me; and, if you can discover, tell our dear Emmeline. Wherever the door of this chamber is, I will come to it from time to time; and, if I hear a voice I know, I will give such intimation of where it is that you can easily find it."
"I will find it out, I will find it out," answered the boy, laughing. "I will watch the old cat every step that she takes for the next three days, as cunningly as she ever watched any one. She must carry you food."
"I hope so," replied Smeaton, with a smile. "But be careful; and now farewell."
He found Mrs. Culpepper quite as near the door as was discreet; but, if she had been listening, she was disappointed; for the conversation within the saloon could not be heard.
"Now, sir," she said, in a low voice, "tread lightly, that they may not hear our steps. This way, if you please, sir."
She led him through the hall, up the large flight of steps to the floor above, past the doors of his own apartments and those of Emmeline, and then up a small staircase of five or six steps to a large old-fashioned room, fitted up in the style of Queen Elizabeth's days. On one side was an immense bed with green velvet draperies and canopy, having a plume of feathers like a hearse at each corner; and on the opposite side the deep-cut windows with a sort of bench of black oak between them. A number of large pictures hung round the room, none of which, however, descended to the floor; and there was a huge fire-place on the left-hand side, which occupied so much space that it seemed impossible there could be any means of exit here. The door by which they entered was in the middle of another wall; and the panelling seemed heavy and solid.
"Now, sir," said the old lady, closing the door, "you would never find the way in, I think, if I did not show you."
"Perhaps a little examination would discover it," replied Smeaton. "I have been in countries, madam, where such secret places are very common."
"I think I might defy you, sir," she said. "Perhaps it is here," said Smeaton, approaching the black oak bench, and pressing on various parts of the picture frame above. "These walls are thick enough to contain a small chamber."
The old woman smiled; and he went on pressing more tightly upon the frame, and thinking that he felt it yield a little. At length, he heard the click of a spring, and the frame, moving upon a hinge, came slowly forward at one side, showing a room or closet within, of about five feet in width, by ten or twelve in length, raised a foot or two from the floor.
"Well, that is strange!" cried Mrs. Culpepper. "I never saw that before. It must be done for a blind."
"Then, is this not the place?" asked Smeaton.
"Oh, dear, no, sir," replied the housekeeper. "You would be stifled in there. The priest's room is as good a one as this; but that is a good hint to mislead searchers any way. Shut it up, sir, and I will show you the other. Will you have the goodness to try and move back the bed--for it is very heavy."
"I will try," said Smeaton; "but, though I am tolerably strong, I doubt that I shall be able to do it. We do not see such massive furniture now-a-days."
As he spoke, he grasped one of the large posts, and endeavoured to stir the huge bedstead. It moved not in the least, however, and the old housekeeper stood near the head, holding the light and smiling at his ineffectual efforts. Smeaton remarked her countenance, and the peculiar expression which it bore. He saw also that she leaned her right hand against the post at the top of the bed. Approaching her then, with a gay laugh, he said--
"I think I have your secret;" but on pushing back the velvet hangings from the spot upon which her hand rested, he could only perceive one of two immense iron screws which fastened the bed, apparently immoveably, to the wall behind it. He made one more effort, however, to move the bed, but in vain, and then laughingly gave it up, saying; "I must trust to your guidance, madam."
"Dear me," replied the old woman, "I thought you must be stronger than I am; but let me try." And, putting her hand gently to the head post, with hardly an effort, she made the huge bed roll round upon its castors like a heavy door, still remaining attached to the wall on one side, but quite free on the other. When it was thus removed, the fluted velvet back of the bed still remained fastened against the wall; but it might now be easily seen that this was a door which opened without difficulty.
Smeaton drew it back and looked into a large and comfortable room. But he was not a man to shut himself up in a place from which he did not know the means of exit; and he was running his eye rapidly both over the wall and the back of the bed, when the old lady said--
"You see, sir, this thing, that looks like a great bed screw, is, in fact, a catch, which runs into the post and fastens with a spring. To get into the room, you must press the plate upon the post through which it passes, and, at the same time, pull up the screw. Without that, no force on earth would move it. But, the moment you do that, the bed of itself moves forward a little, the catch is thrown off, and you can easily roll it round."
"That is the way in," replied Smeaton; "but now, my good lady, tell me the way out. How am I to unfasten the bed when once you have rolled it back?"
"That is more easily done than the other," replied the old woman. "Look here. This iron bar, made like a screw, passes quite through the beam, with a long handle on the other side, and is fixed upon a pivot. You have nothing to do but to push down the handle, when the catch will be thrown off, and the bed will move an inch or two, so as to prevent it from fastening again. There is, somewhere in there, a block of wood--a sort of rest which you can put under the handle; and then nobody can undo it from the outside without pulling the whole to pieces. I come in here four times every year by myself to see that everything is in order, and that all moves easily. But we must not wait talking. I will show you the way, sir."
And she stepped over the skirting board which was left plain below the opening of the door.
"You see, sir," she continued, pointing to a number of small loop-holes, both round and square, on one side of the room, "you will have plenty both of light and air, and there is no fear of anybody seeing the light even if you made a bonfire here; for those holes are hidden by the stone work round Miss Emmeline's windows on the one side, and by the same round the windows of the room we have just left on the other. I will bring you some supper and anything you may want out of your room as soon as it is all safe; but you had better not come out yourself till I come and tell you; for I do not know how you would pull back the bed again if you were forced to retreat."
"Then show me the other way out which you mentioned," said Smeaton. "I am not very fond of rat-traps, and stories of these secret chambers get abroad about the country. So that people may know more of the way in hither than you believe."
A look of hesitation came upon good Mrs. Culpepper's face, which instantly gave way to her usual smooth expression; and she said, "There is no fear of that, sir. Nobody knows anything of this room but myself and Sir John. I had better go now and make all right below, and I can show you the other way out when I bring your supper."
"No, indeed, my good lady," replied Smeaton, in a determined tone. "You must show me now, or I certainly shall not stay. That piece of mechanism might get embarrassed. I might hear people breaking in. A thousand things might happen to make my discovery here inevitable, if I did not know the other way, and I will not be caught lurking here. If you please, you shall show me now."
"Oh, very well, sir, very well," replied the housekeeper. "It is very easily found. Be so good as to follow me."
Passing through a door to the left of the loop-holes, she led him through a passage, curiously constructed in the wall between the upper and lower row of windows. As soon as it had passed beneath what Smeaton conceived to be the windows of Emmeline's room, came a very narrow flight of stairs, and then another passage. Again came a second descent, steep but broader than the first, which led to what seemed to have been originally a cellar, arched over in brickwork and of no great extent. Beyond it was a long passage, evidently underground, and gently sloping downward till the whole was closed with a stone door in which was a key-hole.
"The key always lies there, sir," said Mrs. Culpepper, pointing to a little niche; "but I must tell you that, when you open the door, there is, just before you, the well, which you must step over to get out, or you might drown yourself. It is an old well with an arch over it, the water of which is thought good for sore eyes; so that the people come here often on a morning to get it; and, when you stand on this side of the door, you may hear all they say as they gossip round the well. The right hand path leads away through the wood at the back of the village to the bay; the left takes round again to the terrace in front of the house; but that is well nigh a quarter of a mile off, and no horses can come round here; for the hill is too steep."
Smeaton did not promise himself any great entertainment from overhearing the gossiping of the fishermen's wives and daughters, but quietly followed his guide back again to the room above. She there left her light with him, passed through the aperture, closed the door, and he could hear her roll back the bed, and the catch click upon the spring.