CHAPTER XV.
I am not sure that the phlegmatic temperament, as it is called, is not the happiest for the possessor thereof. People are apt to exclaim--
"Give us great pleasures, even if they be accompanied by great pains."
Hopeful mankind! ye seldom estimate prospective pains at their real worth; and ye always over-estimate the pleasures--till they are gone. Two great races of philosophers, if not more, the Stoic and the Chinese Mandarins, judging more sanely--I am not quite sure that the Epicureans might not be included also, ay, and many more sects--have always sought for the less intense. Whether a respectable fat Bonze, having his toes tickled by his fourteenth or fifteenth wife, without the slightest expectation of anything like high sentimental pleasure, but without the slightest fear of anything like strong mental pain, is or is not in a more desirable condition than Galileo in his dungeon, I will not take upon myself to say; yet one thing is certain--that this world being full of miseries, and when we open the door for one high enjoyment thousands of pains rushing in, there is some policy in having but few entrances to the house, and opening them as seldom as possible.
A phlegmatic temperament has assuredly the advantage of leaving few assailable points at the mercy of an enemy, and the Dutch are generally supposed to be as phlegmatic as any other nation; but such certainly was not the case with Van Noost. Whether, by transplanting, he had acquired more the character of a sensitive plant than of a cabbage, or whether the Norman or Saxon blood, derived from his mother, overbalanced the Frieslandish part of his composition given by his father, I cannot tell; but certain it is, that he was of a very moveable and excitable disposition, notwithstanding the national breadth of his nether man, and the firkin-like rotundity of his whole frame. His soul was a busy fiery little soul as ever was put into a heavy body, and most intensely did he fret and fidget during Smeaton's long absence, although he had a candle to light him, and the coveted key to work upon. Three times he walked along the passage; thrice he measured the size of the key-hole; four times he took an impression of the key; and when, at length, he heard a step coming down from the rooms above, he was all in, what is expressively called, a twitter, lest the person approaching should be any but the person he desired.
Whether he had calculated upon a comfortable sojourn at Ale Manor-House during the night, or whether his imagination suggested dangers which did not exist on the road before him, or whether his long evening ride, added to his morning ride, had somewhat bruised and fatigued the part that pressed upon the saddle, sure it is that he received the intimation that he must ride twelve miles farther, to Keanton, with a somewhat rueful air, and sprang across the little well with less than his promised activity.
Smeaton went first to show him the way, and to help him out if he fell in; and his so doing gave some confidence to the poor statuary; but he still besought his noble companion, even after they had both safely reached the little path, to remain with him till his young guide came. When this was acceded to, he became much more composed, and hardly listened to the directions, repeated more than once, which Smeaton gave him regarding what he was to do at Keanton, so much was he occupied with the contemplation of the little well and the scene around. The moon had now risen higher, so high, indeed, as only just to catch the edge of the waters with a line of silver light; but she displayed beautifully in her pale beams the small Gothic arch of stone-work, let, as it were, into the face of the rock. The deep tank or well at the foot of this acclivity received the bright and healing fountain, from some spot ten or twelve feet below the surface. The light through the half-opened door showed the interior of this little cell with its watery flooring and part of the passage beyond; and the eye could perceive upon the stone door itself how skilfully the workmen had marked out the freestone into divisions, so as to render it like a piece of solid masonry. The effect had been rendered perfect by the exhalations from the fountain, which had tinted it with many hues of green, and red, and yellow.
"I don't see how one could open it from without," said Van Noost, after gazing for a moment. "The well is so deucedly in the way, though I see the place were the key-hole must be well enough."
"I would advise you not to try, Van Noost," said Smeaton, with a smile. "Your legs are not long enough to stretch across. I think mine would do very well."
"Ay, noble lord, I did not cast myself," replied the statuary. "Gad's life! if we could do that, we might see strange changes, according to men's taste. Some of your stumpy balustrade fellows would turn out Apollos; and many a long-legged Antincus would become a clumsy Vulcan. I am as lengthy in mind as you in limb, my Lord, and could leap over mountains, if--if--"
"If the body were not heavier than the soul," said the young Earl, kindly; for he saw that the good man spoke somewhat warmly. "It is not your fault if Nature made you spread forth broad instead of running up tall. Some stones are made into a cupola, others into a column; but they have no choice in the matter, and each had better be satisfied with his condition. You have one advantage of me, however. You can make the figures of other men in a better mould than fortune gave to yourself, and I cannot."
"It would be difficult in your case, my lord," replied Van Noost, well pleased. "I only long for quiet times to take a statue of your lordship as a dancing faun."
"Spare me that! Spare me that!" cried Smeaton, laughing. "The faun had not a good reputation in times of old, nor the dancers in the present day; and, good sooth! I would rather not appear in public in either character. But methinks this boy, who is to be your guide, is long in coming, and I am somewhat anxious to get back into the house again."
"Ay, I can fancy that," replied Van Noost, "if that pretty lady who was with you this morning be within. Do you know, my noble Lord, you must set a guard upon your eyes, if you would not have all the villagers commenting upon your soft sentiments? Why here was the old sexton, Mattocks, saying what a handsome couple you would make, and only thinking of burying you both all the time, though he talked of nothing worse than marriage."
"It would be a pity to stop them," answered Smeaton. "I should imagine they have little to think of, and a marriage or a funeral must be a God-send to the gossips of the place. But now, my good Van Noost, remember, when you are at Keanton you must be very discreet, or you may get into trouble. Keep the eyes of the people off you as much as possible, and mind not to exercise too much in dangerous places."
"But bless your lordship, what am I to do?" exclaimed Van Noost. "You know mine is an active bustling spirit; and, if I am not to exercise my genius upon lead, I shall probably exercise it upon something else. Good faith, I must dabble a little in my old trade, even if it be but in casting little-leaden figures of soldiers and dairymaids, hand-in-hand, for the benefit of the children of the tenantry."
"I did not speak of that exercise of your genius," replied Smeaton. "Cast as many leaden figures as you will, my friend. They can find you a cauldron as big as a witch's, I dare say; and you can set up a shop in the old courtyard. But eschew politics, Van Noost, and keep your hand from the treason-pot. You have put your fat in peril already, it would appear, my good friend. So keep quiet till the danger has passed away. Here comes the boy, I think."
It was as he supposed; and, though the boy, with very limited instructions, had expected only to see one person to guide, so that he was somewhat puzzled on finding two, Van Noost was soon placed under his guidance; and, while Smeaton returned to the house to enjoy for a short space longer sweet converse with Emmeline, the worthy statuary moved away to seek for the pony he had left tied under a tree. It was easily found; for, having been left at some distance, it had escaped all notice from the soldiery; but the beast was tired with its exertions during the day, and was very willing to go at such a pace as suited the convenience of the young guide.
The way seemed to Van Noost interminably long, as all new ways do in the dark; but the distance was in reality by no means very great, and at length the boy, who had chatted very freely with the statuary as they went, pointed to the entrance of a road between two deep hedgerows, telling Van Noost to follow it straight on, and it would lead him to Keanton House.
"There are seven gates to open," said the boy, "and about half a mile over the turf. You cannot miss the road, for it is all straight."
Van Noost, however, did contrive to miss the road; for when he came upon the turf, the moon had gone down; the tracks of the road had disappeared; and, instead of going on as his face was pointed, he turned a little to the left, which led him away from the object he had in view. The summer sun, however, soon befriended him; first by showing him, in the grey twilight of the early morning that he had gone wrong, and then, by greater light, enabling him to get right. He had to turn back nearly a mile, however, the road lying all the way over smooth green turf, covering the gentle undulations of the country, with no indications of a path, but here and there the track of cartwheels in the soft sward, or the prints of a horse's feet. Van Noost was led on, indeed, and in the right direction, by the sight of some fine old trees rising up over the edge of a hollow at the distance of about a mile, and some chimneys, and sharp-pointed gables and roofs, breaking the rounded lines of the foliage.
The sun was just up when the statuary, passing through the elms and oaks, came in sight of the whole building, a fine old irregular mass of brickwork, somewhat like an antique French château, with tall masses of no-styled architecture, small windows very irregularly disposed, and a somewhat superfluous number of doors. Grey and yellow lichens and green moss covered the walls and the eaves; the ivy ran up many of the square tower-like masses, and the house-leek might be seen dropping over the edges of the lower roofs. Ten or twelve tall elms, loaded with rooks' nests, at one corner of the building, marked where the esplanade began which ran before the principal façade; but, on the side next to Van Noost, appeared a large farm-yard, surrounded by a low wall and thickly littered with straw, on which reposed a number of cows, promising a plentiful supply of milk, butter, and cheese. The early-rising and consequential cock was strutting about in his gaudy livery; the white, black, and grey ladies of his seraglio were wandering in quest of food. Numerous were ducks in a pond at one corner, and a troop of geese, waddling and curtseying and bending their heads, came forward to taste the morning air, and crop the green grass upon the downs. But no human being was to be seen; man was absent from the picture, and Van Noost raised his eye from window to window, to discover any signs of life within, but in vain.
"This must be Keanton," he said to himself. "It is just the sort of place; but they seem rather late risers here for country people. If they had been at the Ridotto last night, or at the Water theatre, or at the Italians, they might well be lagging in bed; but here, where they have nothing to do but lie down and go to sleep when the sun sets, they might very well get up when he rises, methinks. Hark!"
The sounds which had called his attention increased, and round the corner, by the rookery, came a young peasant-lad in his broad hat and his yellow frock, whistling gaily. All Van Noost's weariness and wandering were forgotten in the joyful sight; and, whipping on his pony, he rode up to the lad, asking him if there was nobody up in the house.
"I cannot tell," replied the youth, with a strong Devonshire accent. "Master Thompson at the farm is up."
As he spoke, he looked very earnestly at Van Noost, and there was a sly, quiet, inquiring glance of the eye, which did not at all harmonize with his gay thoughtless aspect the moment before, as he came whistling along. It was not alone shrewd, but suspicious, and Van Noost said to himself--
"Ay, ay, these tenants are all well drilled not to endanger their master's interests by any indiscretion. Now, I will answer for it, there would be no slight difficulty in getting any straightforward answer from this good youth. I'll try."
"So, the farmer's name is Master Thompson," he said, aloud. "A very good name, too. Pray, what is your name, my lad?"
"What is yours?" said the young man, looking him point blank in the face.
"That is not the question," answered Van Noost. "I asked what yours is!"
"Then that is not the question either," replied the lad; "but if you be the gentleman come from Exeter, you ought to know my name."
"I have not been in Exeter," replied Van Noost; "and, even if I had, I don't see how I should know your name, when I never saw your face before. If you carried it written upon your forehead like a certain old lady of Babylon, one might know something about it."
"To be sure," replied the lad; "and so should I know something about yours. I am not fond of answering questions, master; so, if you have come to speak to me from Exeter, you had better speak out. Ballimoree!"
"Ballimoree!" exclaimed Van Noost, with surprise. "What in the name of fortune does Ballimoree mean?"
"It means good morning to you, master," said the young man, with a knowing nod of the head; and he walked away, without waiting for any further question.
"Ballimoree! Ballimoree!" mentally ejaculated Van Noost. "What the deuce does he mean by Ballimoree?"
And when he had looked after the young man for a minute or two, he turned his pony's head to see if he could discover the farm-house which had been mentioned. It was by no means difficult to do so, for as soon as he had passed the rookery it became visible, with a number of small houses and cottages, in a little wild dell to the right.
At the door of the farm-house he found a stout elderly man of a very frank and open countenance, and having his hands in his pockets, according to the usually prescribed form of English farmers. Riding up straight towards him, Van Noost considered, as he went, how he should address him, and make his wishes known.
"The noble lord," he thought, "said I was to ask either for Master Jennings or Master Thompson; but then I was not told to say Ballimoree. I was to inform them that I came from the River Head, and to bid them give me shelter, food, and protection. It was to Jennings I was to say that; but perhaps the pass-word at Master Thompson's may be, Ballimoree. I'll essay it." And, riding up to the fence before the farm-house, he hallooed out--
"Your name is Thompson, sir, I believe. Ballimoree."
"My name is Thompson, sir," answered the farmer; "but not Ballimoree. What is Ballimoree?"
"Upon my life, I don't know," answered Van Noost, frankly; "but a young lad I met up near the house said 'Ballimoree' to me, and told me that it meant good morning."
"He was funning you, sir," replied the man. "He is a bit of an Exeter lad, is Dick Peerly, and they are all full of their jokes. Pray what is your business with me?"
"I was to tell you, Mr. Thompson, that I come from the River Head," replied Van Noost, laying particular emphasis on the last words; "and as I am anxious for some quiet and repose, you or Mr. Jennings are to give me shelter, protection, and food for a time."
The man's whole manner changed in a moment.
"You shall be right welcome, sir," he said. "It will be better that you should speak with Master Jennings; but, in the meantime, pray come in and have some refreshment. The cows will be milked in a minute; but if you like ale and bacon better, we have as good as any in the land. Ballimoree! what could he mean by Ballimoree? Pray come in, sir--pray come in. Give me your horse's bridle. I'll have him put up. A pretty pony, 'pon my life; but he seems to have had enough of it for once."
"Ay, poor beast, he is as tired as, his master," returned Van Noost, walking towards the house. "He never calculated upon such a ride, nor I either."
The farmer pointed to a room on the left side of the entrance of his house, led the pony round to the back, and returned to his guest after a moment or two, with a bouncing, rosy, country maid-servant, bringing in the materials for a hearty breakfast; but that word, "Ballimoree," seemed to puzzle him as much as or more than it had done Van Noost, and he continued murmuring it to himself, even while the woman was in the room. As soon as she was gone, however, and he had pressed his guest to take some food, he returned to the subject openly, asking--
"Pray, sir, what sort of a lad was this, that said 'Ballimoree' to you? I saw nobody go up that way but Dick Peerly."
"Oh, he was a lad of nineteen or twenty, with flaxen curly hair, and eyes rather close together," Van Noost replied. "He came up at first whistling like a merry innocent sort of noodle; but, when he began to speak, he looked 'cute enough."
"Ay, he is a dead hand at whistling," said the farmer. "It must be Dick Pearly, and 'cute enough he certainly is. I don't half like him; and, if it had not been to oblige my cousin Sam, I would not have had him on the farm at all. I'll ask him what he means by Ballimoree."
"Oh, I dare say, it was only sauciness," observed Van Noost, and so the affair dropped for the time.
Shortly after, Master Jennings was sent for from the great house, where, it would appear, he acted as a sort of steward. He was a grave old man in a brown suit, and was very courteous and polite to Van Noost, as soon as he was told the words which the other had been instructed to address to him. But he and farmer Thompson made many inquiries after their young lord, and expressed great pleasure to hear that he was in their neighbourhood.
"I think he might very well return and take possession openly, sir," said Master Jennings, "though things are looking rather bad just now. Yet, from those who know, I have heard that he is in no danger. However, that is not our affair; and, of course, we shall not say we know anything of his being in the country. You had better come up with me to the great house, and we will soon get a bed ready for you, in case you would like to lie down after your long ride. Anything we can do to make you comfortable, I am sure shall be done."
"I want nothing," replied the statuary, "but some clay, a great cauldron, and as much lead as I can get, and I will show you one or two funny things."
"Anything you want, sir, shall be got directly," said Master Jennings; "but the lead may be somewhat difficult--for I don't think there is much of it down about here. I will show you the way, if you please, sir."
"Have with you, good Mr. Jennings," exclaimed Van Noost, with a theatrical air, as far as the stiffness of his hind quarters would permit of his assuming one; and, after thanking his host of the farm-house for his courteous hospitality, he walked out towards the mansion above.
"Ballimoree!" said farmer Thompson. "I wonder what the deuce he could mean by that. I'll find it out."
CHAPTER XVI.
The account given by Richard Newark to Emmeline and Smeaton, after the latter had returned, comprised nothing that the reader does not know; but he told his tale with great humour, and even some degree of wit, which called a laugh from Smeaton, and made Emmeline smile, although the former found matter in it for much consideration, and the latter for much alarm.
It was now apparent that, the moment he resumed his real name and station, Smeaton would be subject to annoyance and inconvenience, if not worse, from the zeal of the Devonshire magistrates; and, after some thought, he resolved to write to Lord Stair, explaining his position, and begging him to assist in removing the difficulties with which he was surrounded.
"I am determined," he said to himself, "to take no part in the foolish struggles which seem likely to take place in this land, and which I feel convinced can end in nothing but the destruction of those who promote them. Undoubtedly, I look upon the Stuart race of Kings as lawful sovereigns of the country, and did wish that the late Queen had lived long enough to restore her brother quietly to the throne of his ancestors. But nations have rights as well as monarchs, and it is somewhat more than doubtful to me whether the great mass of the reasoning people of this country are not strongly opposed to the return of their ancient Kings. I will take no share in this business."
Richard Newark himself had some questions to ask, as well as the tale to tell, and he put them, as usual, somewhat abruptly.
"Well, Colonel," he said, after some conversation, "now tell us all about the priest's chamber."
"I am afraid I must not, my young friend," replied Smeaton. "That is another man's secret, communicated to me for my own good, and I must not betray it."
"Ah, you won't trust me," said Richard, in a sad tone. "I wonder why it is people will not trust me. I can be as faithful and true as any one."
"Indeed, I would trust you willingly," replied Smeaton, "with anything that is merely my own; but this secret I ought not to divulge either to you or to this dear lady."
"Well, then, I'll try you," said Richard. "Are you, or are you not, the Earl of Eskdale?"
"I am," replied Smeaton, at once. "I tell you, without the slightest hesitation, Richard; but I beg you not to divulge the fact till I have taken measures to effect my safety."
"I was sure of it," cried Richard. "I was quite sure of it. Poor colonels of horse don't have such beautiful swords to give away; and, besides, I suppose, there is something in a lord makes him different from other men. None of you have two heads, I think, nor four arms, nor eight legs; but yet, lack-a-day, there must be some difference; for I said to myself, soon after you came here, 'That man is different from the rest of them.'"
Emmeline looked up in Smeaton's face with a smile, while her cousin spoke, as if she would fain have said--
"I thought so too."
She spoke not, however, and Richard ran out of the room in his wild way to see what all the servants were "making of it," as he termed it. During his absence, which did not last many minutes, words of mutual tenderness were of course uttered by the lovers; but other matters were also to be spoken of besides their young affection, and Smeaton communicated to Emmeline all that had transpired between himself and old Mrs. Culpepper, expressing, at the same time, his belief that she might be fully trusted.
The evening then passed quietly for more than an hour; at the end of which time the trampling of horses and the voice of Sir John Newark were heard. He did not come into the small saloon for several minutes after he had entered the house; and, somewhat to Smeaton's surprise, neither Emmeline nor Richard Newark went out to greet him. But they knew him and his ways better than Smeaton did. The interval was occupied in speaking a few words to Mrs. Culpepper, which seemed to be rather those of inquiry than anything else; but the replies he received were apparently satisfactory, and he entered the saloon with a pleasant and half-laughing air. The whole circumstances of the evening were discussed, he gave his own version of what had occurred, both at Exeter and at Aleton, he inquired minutely into the events which had taken place at the Manor House during his absence, and he ended by saying--
"Well, Colonel, this is a fortunate escape from that which might have proved to be a somewhat unpleasant affair, and the mistake these men have fallen into regarding the flight of the Earl of Eskdale, who has never fled from them at all, will put you quite at your ease, for some time, and save you, I trust, from farther annoyance."
He glanced his eye towards Emmeline and Richard, as he spoke, as if to indicate that it might be better to enter into no more particulars in their presence, and Smeaton very readily took the hint; for, to say truth, he had more confidence in Richard's kindness that in his discretion.
When the two younger members of the family had retired for the night, Smeaton remained, for a few minutes, to give Sir John an opportunity of explaining himself further, but Sir John Newark did not think it necessary to say much more upon the events of that day, merely observing, in a careless and somewhat light tone--
"I hear your lady wife has quite recovered, and I suppose she may soon be expected to join you."
"You are labouring under a mistake, my dear sir," replied Smeaton, at once. "I am quite wifeless."
"Why, I thought," exclaimed Sir John Newark, "that your wife was mentioned between us only the other day." And he assumed, very tolerably, an air of incredulous surprise.
"I beg your pardon, Sir John," returned Smeaton. "You asked after Lady Eskdale, and I replied that she was better; but the name of wife was never mentioned between us. I spoke, indeed, fully with regard to my mother's illness; but, she being the only Countess of Eskdale living, I might naturally assume that your words referred to her. I am a single man, I beg to assure you."
"Well, my lord, a happy condition," remarked Sir John. "Heaven forbid that I should attribute bigamy to you, or saddle you even with a single wife, when you have not got one. I would advise you, however, as you have no wife, to get rid of Keanton; for troublous times are coming, I can see very clearly; and, although you have contrived to keep possession of the estate so long, I fear very much you would not be able to hold it longer, if there should be anything like a disturbance in the country."
"I trust that will not be the case," said Smeaton, "although I should not, of course, object to the sale of the place if it could be effected at a fair price. Yet there are memories which cling about our old ancestral homes, from the influence of which we cannot well divest our hearts. I know nothing of this Keanton, though I was born there. I recollect not one stick or stone about it--have very rarely heard it spoken of, except for the purpose of giving me information which might be useful to me in any unexpected change of circumstances. Nevertheless, Sir John, so strongly is man's weak heart bound by the fine chain of association, that to put my hand to the deed which conveyed it to others would cost me a pang, severer, perhaps, than any other, except that of seeing it wrested from myself and my mother without that compensation which might secure comfort and happiness to her old age."
"I fear that the latter may be the case ere long," replied Sir John, shaking his head gravely. "From all I have heard this day, and all I have seen, I judge that many months will not pass before we witness convulsions which will be beneficial to the winning party, but utterly ruinous to the great body of the English gentry. For my part, I intend immediately to settle my whole estates absolutely on my son, in such a manner that he could not be deprived of them unless he were to take a part which his youth renders impossible. They shall, in short, be no longer mine, but his; so doubtful am I of the future. As to Keanton," he continued, with an easy and unconcerned air, "I have no doubt that many of the neighbouring gentry would be found ready to pay a reasonable price for it. I myself should be most willing to come forward and offer you such a sum, but for the views I have expressed. I have always a certain amount of money in reserve; but that might be needful to me in case of any reverses; and it is not sufficient to pay a just price for such an estate as Keanton. Nevertheless, if at any time you or your lady-mother should wish by way of mortgage to raise a sum for any present purposes, command me, and you will find me delighted to testify my friendship for you by something better than mere words."
Smeaton made some courteous reply of no great value; and Sir John continued--"speak of course merely in case you do not sell; but, as I have before observed, there are many wealthy country gentlemen around us here, who would be right glad to purchase, I am sure; amongst the rest, Sir James Mount, an excellent old man, and generally considered a person of great ability. Of his genius I have my doubts; but of his high honour and good intentions none. He was talking to me, this very morning, both of yourself and Keanton. As soon as it came out that the suspicions of the magistrates were directed towards you, and that they supposed you were dwelling in my house, he asked me privately if such were really the case. Of course I did not betray your secret even to him. He then went on to speak of Keanton, and it seemed to me that it was a possession he had always coveted."
"He knew my father and my mother in early years," replied Smeaton. "I have often heard him mentioned. Indeed, I have seen him, I think, but am not very sure."
"He is most anxious to see you," returned Sir John; "and indeed, if you think fit to sell the place, I believe he would be found a ready purchaser. I was sorry to disappoint the good old man, for he expressed so eager a desire to greet his old friend's son, that I could have found it in my heart to bring him to my house to-night, had it not been that I look upon another man's secrets entrusted to me just as I should upon his purse if left in my care, a thing which I am bound to return to him untouched."
Now Sir John Newark was well aware that good Sir James Mount had not in reality a stiver at command, and that his passion for alteration and building had already compelled him to mortgage his estate. As Smeaton knew nothing of these circumstances, however, the suggestion would have excited no suspicion had it not been accompanied by profession of pure motives and honourable dealing, which he knew did not form the distinguishing characteristics of Sir John Newark's life.
"I will think of this, Sir John," he said; "and, as to Sir James Mount's knowledge that I am your guest, I really do not see, so much as you seem to do, the great necessity for secresy. I have explained to you that I have, substantially, nothing to fear, except, perhaps, a little inconvenience from zealous stupidity; but I think, in a few days, I shall have removed all danger even of that, for it is my intention to-morrow to write to Lord Stair, begging him to exert his influence in the proper course for enabling me to reside as long as I think fit in this country, upon the clear understanding that my residence here shall in no degree prove detrimental to the dynasty which he serves. At all events, Sir John, pray do not let my sojourn with you induce you for one moment to exclude any guests whom you might otherwise wish to receive; for I cannot at all consent that your hospitality towards me should so embarrass you, and only regret it has already produced so much disorder in your household. And now, with many thanks, good night."
Sir John shook him warmly by the hand; and they parted--Smeaton retiring to his chamber, to think, if the truth must be told, more of Emmeline than of aught else; and Sir John to consider his plans farther, under the aspect which they had now assumed.
Smeaton's carelessness as to discovery was not altogether pleasant to the knight, who would willingly have seen his young guest more embarrassed, and he liked not at all the prospect of difficulties being removed from the course of the latter.
"I must deal with this epistle to Lord Stair," he said to himself. "It will never do to let Eskdale clear his feet of the birdlime altogether. But then again, in the meantime, I can work something, perhaps, out of the indiscretion of that foolish old man, Sir James Mount. It will be easy, as my guest does not absolutely object to see him, to get them into such relations that some of the follies of Sir James may recoil upon the young Earl. If the old knight snaps at the bait of Keanton, I can advance the money on mortgage of the two estates. If he do not, he may help to bring about embarrassments which may make my young bird eager to get rid of what can but be a clog upon him. And yet this bachelorism of his is an unfortunate affair. If Emmeline were out of the way, it would all go well. That, however, cannot be; but I must make myself sure at home."
And, going to the hall-door, he called one of the servants, and bade the man send the housekeeper to him.
CHAPTER XVII.
The events which immediately succeeded to those recorded in the last chapter I must pass over somewhat rapidly; for there was nothing that would much interest the reader in detail. Smeaton's letter to the Earl of Stair was written and despatched, and it may be sufficient to say that it never reached its destination.
Sir John Newark, on the pretence of great courtesy and attention, hardly lost sight of his young guest for a moment, except during the times when he was giving Richard instruction in the use of the sword. Smeaton thus had no opportunity whatever of speaking in private with Emmeline, and the feelings of which the two were conscious kept them more reserved when in the presence of others than they had been before those feelings became known to them. The restraint was very painful to both, and day by day it became more irksome, till, with the impatience natural to youth--impatience that can never bide its time--Smeaton felt inclined to do anything rash to put an end to so oppressive a state of things. Richard, indeed, on the third day, afforded him some means of relief; for, when they were practising in one of the old halls with the doors shut, the lad took advantage of a momentary pause for repose, to say--
"Ay, Colonel, you don't talk to me about it; but I know very well what is going on in your thumper."
"What do you call my thumper, Richard?" demanded Smeaton, with a smile.
"Oh, folks call it 'heart,'" answered Richard, "though there is no meaning in that word, and a great deal in 'thumper'; but what I mean is, that I know very well you are dreaming all this time about our dear little Emmeline. My father takes care that you shall not whisper sugar to her. So, if you have anything to say, you had better tell me, and I will say it for you, because I am sent out with her every day to walk, like Shock, the lap-dog. I may as well talk to her about you as anything else; for she is thinking about you all the time, and falling into such brown studies that, if you ask her what o'clock it is, she looks up in your face, and says, 'Tuesday, I believe.'"
"I wish to Heaven I could speak to her alone for about half-an-hour," observed Smeaton.
"Ay, you cannot do that," returned Richard Newark; "and I must not help you; for, if my father were once to find out that I did, there would be a south-westerly gale and an end of all; but; if you will only tell me anything you want to say, I'll say it for you, word for word, upon my honour."
Smeaton had a great objection to confidants, though, in the countries which he had most inhabited, as well as in the plays and romances of the day, they were almost indispensable accessories to every love affair; but there was something in his love for Emmeline too pure, too delicate, to suffer the idea of entrusting his thoughts towards her to any one. There was no resource, however, and many a message to her did he send by her cousin, cautiously worded indeed, but expressive in some degree of the feelings in his heart.
On the same day that the above conversation occurred, a little after the hour of noon, a gay cavalcade appeared before the house. Sir John Newark affected surprise and some alarm at first; but then, suddenly perceiving that it was Sir James Mount, he left his young guest to say whether he would be present during that worthy gentleman's visit, or not.
Smeaton consented to receive him, without the slightest hesitation, and, the moment Sir James entered the room, recognized a person whom he had seen at the small court of the exiled Stuarts in Lorraine, though but for a few minutes. The worthy magistrate, however, advanced at once toward him, and, taking him respectfully by the hand, congratulated him on his return to England, not indeed addressing him by his real title, for Sir James piqued himself on his policy, but yet with marks of reverence which the old Tory courtier showed to nothing under the estate of a lord. His language also was so circumambulatory and reiterative, that it might have puzzled a very keen spy, unacquainted with his peculiar style, to make out what on earth he meant, and indeed he rather flattered himself that he spoke, on all occasions of difficulty, in such a way as to be utterly unintelligible to ears not initiated.
"I am truly delighted--delighted--delighted," he said, "to see you, sir, in what may be considered your native country--country--country; and although, habit being second nature, which is sometimes better--better--better than first--for why, if second thoughts are best, should not nature--nature--nature be in the same predicament?--you may consider other lands--other lands--other lands to be more your indigenous--indigenous--indigenous soil, nevertheless, we may felicitate ourselves upon having restored to our country a distinguished personage--personage--personage, who, like a borrowed gem--borrowed gem, illuminated a foreign crown--crown--crown."
Smeaton, though somewhat surprised, replied courteously, that he was exceedingly glad to see a gentleman whom he understood to be an old friend of his family; and the conversation went on for about half an hour, as easily as it could do with the sort of hurdle-race talking of the worthy magistrate. In the course of that conversation, Sir John Newark took a small but not unimportant part, throwing in a few words here and there, to guide Sir James Mount in the direction which he wished him to take. By his management, though that management was not very apparent, not only was the subject of Keanton introduced, but Sir James was led to expatiate upon the advantages of that estate, its close proximity to his own, its charming sites for building, and the great improvements which might be effected if it had the advantage of a resident proprietor. Smeaton thought, with a smile--
"The worthy knight seems really anxious to purchase it; and one knows not, in the state of affairs here, whether it might not be better to humour him."
Next came a cordial invitation to Mount Place, seconded by some such words as--
"I trust you will not be under the least apprehension, sir, in doing me the honour--the honour--the honour of returning my visit; for I am very discreet--very discreet--very discreet. The place shall be kept quite solitary--solitary--solitary for the next three weeks--three weeks, to wait your convenience. Your excellent lady-mother--mother--mother would assure you of my discretion; and in case you should be desirous--desirous--desirous of taking a little--a little peep at Keanton, you can do so--do so--do so in half an hour, with great privacy. The road is quite lonely, through quiet lanes--quiet lanes. No Peeping Toms there; all still and comfortable; not a village or a hamlet on the way; and you can see what is going on--what is going on--what is going on, without any risk."
Smeaton declared that his kind friends entertained more apprehensions for his safety than he did himself, feeling that he had in fact nothing to fear beyond a short temporary inconvenience.
"All danger even of that," he added, "will be over in a few days; and I shall therefore have the greatest pleasure in waiting upon Sir James Mount before my departure from Devonshire."
"Care and caution, noble sir--care and caution--care and caution," said the worshipful gentleman, "are always highly expedient under all circumstances--circumstances. We can never tell what may turn up to-morrow--turn up to-morrow--turn up to-morrow; and therefore it is better to take care what we are about to-day."
"Very true, indeed," replied Smeaton, with a smile. And, with this aphorism fresh upon his lips, Sir James Mount took his leave, never doubting that he had made a very favourable impression.
Emmeline had been in the room during the above conversation, but had not received the slightest notice from Sir James Mount, who was too much taken up with the important secret entrusted to him to think of anything else for the time. Sir John Newark, however, went out with his visitor to see him to his horse's back, according to the courtesies of those times; and Smeaton immediately advanced towards his fair companion with some laughing comment upon the peculiarities of the old man's manners. Emmeline, however, held up her finger, as if to call his attention to what she had to say, and then whispered--
"I wish I could speak with you!--Oh! I wish I could speak with you! Good Mrs. Culpepper came to me for an hour this morning before I rose. She is a friend to me, not a spy upon me, as Richard thinks, and I have much to tell you. Hush! he is coming back!"
Smeaton drew a little farther from her; but yet Emmeline could not altogether banish the eagerness from her look; and the eye of Sir John Newark rested on her fair face the instant he entered the room. He took no notice, however, if he observed anything, but only said in a gay tone,
"Come, Emmeline, let us ride out this breezy day. Colonel Smeaton, will you accompany us?"
"With all my heart!" replied the young nobleman; "but I must put on other apparel."
"So must I," said Emmeline.
"Well, then, to your toilet," cried Sir John. "I will order the horses in the meanwhile. It needs a good gallop to shake off the load of worthy Sir James Mount's words, he piles them upon us so rapidly. Quick, Colonel Smeaton! The horses will not be long."
The moment they were gone, Sir John Newark hurried towards that part of the house inhabited by the servants; and, ordering the horses as he passed, entered the room of the housekeeper. Mrs. Culpepper was busily engaged with an account-book; but she rose when her master entered, and laid down the pen.
For an instant, Sir John Newark gazed at her in silence, with a look not altogether placable; but the old lady bore it with perfect calmness, knowing very well the man she had to deal with.
"I have observed something I do not like," said Sir John, after he had seen that the door was completely closed; but there he paused, and turned his eyes to the ground, as if meditating what he should say next.
"Pray what may it be, sir?" asked the old lady, after waiting a moment. "Nothing in my conduct, I hope."
"No," said her master; "no. I think you would take care; and yet there was a look of consciousness on Emmeline's face just now, when I returned to her and this young man, which has awakened a doubt."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Culpepper. "What could cause that? Had they been talking long?"
"Only for a moment," replied Sir John Newark; "and I heard him laughing just as I quitted the room."
"Then, depend upon it, there was nothing to be afraid of," rejoined Mrs. Culpepper. "People don't laugh when they are talking secrets. Do you think he was laughing at anything you had said or done? For then very likely the lady might look conscious, thinking you might judge she had taken part in what was offensive to you."
It was happily turned; and, after a moment's thought, her master answered--
"It may be so. Not, indeed, that it was me he laughed at, but, probably, the old man, Sir James Mount."
"The old fool!" muttered Mrs. Culpepper, between her teeth. "I would have him as little as possible in my house, if I had one. He is sure to make mischief, if he meddles with any one's affairs."
A dark smile came upon Sir John Newark's face; and he thought, though he did not say it,
"That is what I desire."
There is no tool in a knave's hands so useful sometimes as the innocent mischief-maker who is dangerous to honest people; and, although Sir James Mount's inquisitiveness and indiscretion were usually annoying and sometimes embarrassing to his more astute neighbour, yet he had often been rendered very serviceable to Sir John Newark's plans and purposes. Sir John was very confident in his own abilities, in his knowledge of the world and of the man; and he did not in the least fear to employ him as a tool in any work where it was necessary to lead others into difficulty. He seemed, however, to ponder on his good housekeeper's word's; but his mind soon reverted to the former subject of his thoughts; and he said, with a sterner air:
"I hope you have relaxed none of the care which I enjoined upon you, Culpepper. People occasionally get negligent of such charges in the course of time; and, if I find that such is the case, I must have fresher service for the same purpose. So beware."
"I don't think you have cause to blame me, Sir John," replied Mrs. Culpepper, in her usual quiet tone. "I have performed exactly everything that I promised to perform. I never undertook to watch when you were in the house; but, when you were absent, or when I am with her at any distance from your own sight, I will undertake to say that there is not a step she takes, and hardly a word she utters, that is unknown to me. If there is anything between her and this gentleman who is here, the fault is your own, not mine; first, in bringing him hither, and, secondly, in not watching sufficiently what was passing under your own eyes."
"You are mistaken, woman," retorted Sir John, sharply. "I do watch with care that you little know. When did I ever neglect to watch?"
"During the four or five first days that he was here," answered Mrs. Culpepper, putting a pickling-pot on one of the shelves behind her, and not losing her composure in the slightest degree. "The second or third day he was alone with her for an hour in the saloon while you were talking with Martin, the horse-couper, about some horses you wanted to buy--"
"And other much more important things," added Sir John, significantly.
"I know nothing about that," replied the housekeeper. "All I know is, that they were there together; but I do not believe that any harm is done as yet; for, from words and actions which I have heard and remarked, I judge they have said little to each other. The conversation I speak of I contrived to break in upon three times, though I had no business to meddle with it, you being in the house. I wonder he is not smitten, indeed; for she is as pretty a creature as ever eye saw; but then I suppose it is that he has seen a great number of finer-dressed beauties in foreign lands where you say he has been; and, if he is poor himself, I suppose he will want money, which he is not likely to get here. Indeed, he cannot tell that there ever was a chance of it. These foreign soldier-captains are not the people to fall in love with ladies without fortunes. No, no, that is not likely."
She shook her head gravely, as she spoke these words in a moralising tone; and Sir John smiled again as he felt his suspicions give way before the old woman's arguments.
"There is much truth in what you say, my good lady," he observed; "but be pleased to remember that no caution can be too great. I had my own reasons for bringing this gentleman here; but I have been deceived in one particular, ay, and helped to deceive myself. They told me he was married--at least, gave me to understand so. Now, however, I find that he is not; and, although I do not think he is of a mind, nor in a condition, to do so foolish a thing as to wed a penniless girl, when he might do better, yet I will not have the slightest care neglected to ensure that he has no opportunity whatever offered him of filling her ear with lover's prattle. I have told you Emmeline must marry Richard. It is necessary to me and to both of them."
"Very well, Sir John," answered the housekeeper, drily. "I have no interest in the matter."
"I will give you an interest," said Sir John, laying his finger on Mrs. Culpepper's arm. "Now mark me; I promise you, upon my honour, that, the very day which sees Richard's marriage to Emmeline, I will give you one hundred guineas."--
"Ay, now you do give me an interest," answered the housekeeper, with a brighter face; "but you will have a hard matter to bring it about, Sir John; Master Richard is so very young--two years younger than the lady Emmeline herself--and then you know again that he is really younger than his years. It is true the young lady likes him well enough to marry him, I dare say; and, if he were but to fall in love with her, as I dare say he will by-and-by--for if you keep them always caged up together what can they do?--she will like him better still. As to this gentleman here, I don't think there is anything in it. I must have seen it, I must have known it. They cannot hoodwink me, though they might blind you."
"How happens it your eyes are so much sharper than mine?" asked Sir John, with a sneer. "I should like to know your secret, if it is so."
"How happens it?" echoed the housekeeper. "First, because I am a woman, and next, because you have a great stake in the matter. Men never see these things; and, when suspicions come across them, always fix upon the wrong person; and then, when they have much at stake, they are sure to be blind altogether, or to see crooked. I have not lived sixty years in the world for nothing, Sir John; and I know men and women both well."
She shook her head oracularly as she spoke; and, although in self-confidence there is something rather annoying to others, yet there is something very impressive too. If a person possessed of it have any talents, it is sure to double them in the estimation of others, while it may treble them in his own. Thus, at all events, something is gained. Even a fool does not suffer by that possession; for, if it does nothing else, it serves to cover his folly from the eyes of more modest fools than himself. Sir John Newark knew Mrs. Culpepper to be nearly as acute as she represented herself, and he took the rest for granted upon her own showing.
With renewed injunctions, then, to watch everything that passed, not only during his absence, but when he was in the house, he left her, and the old lady took up her account-book again, murmuring to herself, "The knave! He thinks that a hundred guineas will do everything."