Thus thinking, Harry withdrew from the secret chamber, and regained Celia's room. Pulling to the door, he found that the panel and the hidden box closed each with a spring. He left the bedroom, and went down-stairs meditating upon his discovery.[1]
A fortnight later, when his ankle had regained strength, he took the opportunity, when both the sisters were out, to make a second visit to the secret chamber. He found its arrangements slightly altered—a proof that its mysterious occupant had been there within a few days. The books were gone, and one of the chairs was now standing by the table. Harry dragged some ponderous logs of wood to the outer door which led into the well, and by means of these barricaded the door effectually against any return of the refugee.
During the interval he had taken the opportunity of asking a few questions of different persons, which might give him some idea whether they were aware of the existence of this concealed chamber.
"Mother," he asked, one evening, when Madam Passmore had been lamenting the sad fact that things wore out much sooner than when she was a girl, "had you ever any of that fine carved furniture like Madam Harvey's?"
"No, my dear, not a bit," said his mother.
"Bell," he asked, on another occasion, "do you ever hear rats or mice in your wainscot?"
"Oh, they tease me infinitely!" answered Isabella. "They make noises behind the wainscot till I cannot sleep, and for the last week I have put cotton wool in my ears to keep out the sound."
"Cicely," he inquired, lastly, "did you ever see a ghost?"
"No, Master Harry, I never have," replied Cicely, mysteriously, thus hinting that there might be some people who had done so. "I never see one, nor never want. But they do haunt old houses, that's a truth."
"How do you know that if you never saw one?" laughed Harry.
"Well, my dear!" exclaimed Cicely, "if you'd a been down with me in the scullery one night last week—I couldn't sleep, and I went down for to get a bit of victuals, and washed my hands in the scullery—I say, if you'd a-heard the din they made over my head, you might have thought somewhat."
"Who made it, Cicely?"
"Them!" said Cicely, in a mysterious whisper. "Nay, I never saw none, but my grandmother's aunt's mother-in-law, she did."
"Ah! she is a good way off us," said Harry, satirically. "But you know, this house is rather too new for ghosts. A fine old castle, now, with all manner of winding stairs and secret passages—that would be the place to see a ghost."
"Eh! my dear, don't you give me the horrors!" cried Cicely. "Why, I could never sleep in my bed if I lived in a place where them secret places and such was—no, never lie quiet, I couldn't! Nay, Master Harry, nobody never seed no ghosteses in this house. I've lived here eight-and-twenty year come Martlemas, and I ought to know."
"And pray, Cicely, who was your great-grandmother's first cousin's niece, or whatever she were? and what did she see?"
"My grandmother's aunt's mother-in-law, Master," corrected Cicely. "She see a little child in a white coat."
"How very extraordinary!" commented Harry gravely.
"Master Harry, I'm certain sure you don't believe a word of it, for all you look so grave," said old Cicely, shaking her head sorrowfully.
"I can't say that I do at present. But you see I have not heard the particulars yet."
"Then you shall, Master," said old Cicely, rather excitedly. "'Twas at Dagworth in Suffolk, in the house of one Master Osborne, where she served as chambermaid. He had been a while in the house, had the ghost, and nobody couldn't get to see him—no, not the parson, though he used to reason with him on doctrine and godliness. They oft heard him a-calling for meat and drink, with the voice of a child of one year, which meat being put in a certain place was no more seen. He said his name was Malke. And after a while, one day she spoke to him and begged him for a sight of him, promising not to touch him. Whereupon he appeared to her as a young child in a white coat, and told her that he was a mortal child, stole by the good-folk,[2] and that he was born at Lanaham, and wore a hat that made him invisible, and so, quoth he, doth many another. He spoke English after the manner of the country, and had many roguish and laughter-stirring sayings, that at last they grew not to fear him."[3]
"How long did he stay there?"
"Now you are asking me more than I know, Master. But don't you never go to say again that there's no such things as ghosteses, when my grandmother's aunt's mother-in-law seen him with her own two eyes!"
"And Mr. Osborne kept no dogs, or cats, I suppose?"
"Master Harry, you don't believe it! Well, to be sure, I never did! You'll be saying next thing that there's no such things as the good-folk, when I've seen their dancing-rings on the grass many a hundred times! I'm sore afeared, Master Harry, that it haven't done you no good a-going for a soldier—I am."
And Harry found that all his arguments produced no further effect than the conviction of old Cicely that he had been in bad company. From the information thus gained, however, he formed these conclusions:—First, His mother knew nothing about the secret chamber. Secondly, Cicely was equally ignorant. Thirdly, It was situated, as he had surmised—above the scullery or behind it—probably both—and below his sister Isabella's bedroom. Fourthly, It had been inhabited as recently as the preceding week. All the more reason, he thought, for stopping up the means of ingress; and all the more for not revealing to old Cicely that her ghost was in all probability a Popish priest.
On the evening of the spring day upon which Harry thus barred the refugee out of his hiding-place, Celia was strolling through the park alone. She fed the fawns and the swans on the ornamental water, and wandered on with no definite object, until she reached the boundary of her father's grounds. She sat down on the grass near a large laurel, and became lost in thought. There happened at this place to be a small gap in the hedge near her, through which her position was plainly observable from the road. She started as she heard a sudden appeal made to her:
"Young Madam, pray you a penny, for the love of God!"
Celia turned and looked at the speaker. He was a dark, good-looking man, dressed in clothes which had once been handsome, but were now ragged and thread-bare. His eyes, dark, sunken, and very bright, were fixed earnestly upon her. She held out to him the penny for which he asked, when he said, abruptly:
"Your pardon, Madam! but are you Squire Passmore's daughter?"
"Yes, I am Celia Passmore," she replied, thinking nothing of the query.
"Be not too certain of it," answered the stranger, softly. "God and our Lady bless you!"
And gently taking the offered coin from Celia's hand, he withdrew before she could recover from her horror at the discovery that she had been conversing with a Papist. When she recovered herself, his words came back to her with strange meaning. The blessing she took to be merely his way of thanking her for the alms which she had bestowed. But had he not told her not to be too sure of something? Of what? Had she said anything to him beyond telling her name? Celia concluded that the poor fellow must have been wrong in his head, and began to feel very compassionate towards him. She sauntered back to the house, and into old Cicely's room, where she found its occupant mending stockings, with her old brown Bible lying open on the table before her.
"Cicely, I have had such an odd adventure."
"Have you so, Mrs. Celia? What was it, my dear?"
"Why, a poor man begged of me over the hedge, and said such strange things!—asked me my name, and told me not to be too sure of it! Was it not droll?"
Instead of a laugh rising to her lips, as Celia expected, a strange light sprang to old Cicely's eyes as she lifted her head and gazed at her. Not a glad light—far from it; a wild, startled, sad expression, which Celia could not understand.
"Ay, sweetheart!" said the old woman, in a voice not like her usual tones. "Did he so? And what manner of man?"
"Oh, not bad-looking," answered Celia. "A comely man, with black hair and eyes. His clothes had been good, but they were very bad now, and he was a Papist, for he said, 'Our Lady bless you.'"
"A Papist!" cried old Cicely, in a voice of horror.
"Yes," said Celia, smiling at her tone. "Why, Cicely, are you afraid of being murdered because there is a Papist in the county?"
"Eh no, my dear," answered old Cicely, slowly; "that's not it. Poor soul! God comfort you when you come to know!"
"Come to know what, Cicely?"
"What you've never been told yet, my dear—and yet he told you, if you did but know."
"I don't understand you, Cicely."
"I am glad you don't, my dear."
"But tell me what you mean."
"No, Mrs. Celia. Ask Madam, if you must. Tell her what you have told me. But if you'll take my counsel, you'll never ask her as long as you live."
"Cicely, what riddles are you talking?" replied Celia. "I will ask Mother."
The opportunity for doing so came the next day, about an hour after dinner. Madam Passmore sat knitting peacefully in her especial chair in the parlor. Henrietta was absent, superintending household affairs; and Isabella, with the velvet ornaments tied round her neck and arms, was occupied as usual with her endless embroidery-frame.
"We shall have an assembly on Monday," observed Madam Passmore, speaking to nobody in particular.
"That is right!" said Isabella, rather less languidly than usual. "I am so glad! Who are coming, Mother?"
"Dr. Braithwaite and his wife, Squire and Madam Harvey, and Squire and Madam Rowe."
"Nobody else?" asked Isabella, in a disappointed tone.
"Well, that I don't know, child," answered her mother. "Maybe some of the young folks may come from over the hill."
"Are they coming to dinner?"
"No, for the afternoon. Put on your blue satin petticoats, girls, and your best gowns; and Bell, bid Harry to have ready the basset-table in the corner. We will draw it out when 'tis wanted."
"But you will have dancing, Mother?" said Isabella, in a tone which indicated that her enjoyment would be spoilt without it.
"Please yourself, child," said Madam Passmore. "I don't know who you'll dance with, unless Johnny and Frank Rowe should come. The old folks will want no dancing, I should think; they would rather have a quiet game."
"How tiresome!" said Isabella.
"Well, I don't think so," replied Madam Passmore. "When you come to my time of life, you won't want to be sent spinning about the room like so many teetotums. Yet I was reckoned a good dancer once, to be sure."
"And you liked it, Mother?" asked Celia.
"Yes, I suppose I did. I was young and foolish," said Madam Passmore, with a little sigh. "But really, when you come to think it over, 'tis only fit for children, I think. I would rather have a good game of hunt-the-slipper—there is more sense in it, and quite as much moving about, and a great deal more fun."
"So very vulgar!" sighed Isabella, contemptuously.
"Very vulgar, Madam!" bowed Harry, who had entered while his mother was speaking; "almost as vulgar as eating and sleeping."
"I wish you would go away, Harry. I don't like arguing with you."
"By all means, Madam," said Harry, bowing himself out of the parlor.
Madam Passmore laughed. "Well, girls," she said, "I think I shall have to give the ladies some tea, though it is a new-fangled drink; and as you are used to pour it for your sisters, Bell, you had better take the charge of it."
"Very well, Mother."
"And, Celia, can you get some flowers and bits of green from the evergreens? They will look better than nothing in the jars. That great laurel at the other end of the park can spare some, and as you take long walks, I leave that to you."
"O Mother!" suddenly cried Celia, in a voice which showed that her thoughts were on anything but evergreens, "I want to tell you something. Yesterday I was sitting by that great laurel, when a man begged of me through the hedge. I gave him a trifle, and he asked me if I were Squire Passmore's daughter. I told him yes, my name was Celia Passmore; and he told me in answer not to be too certain of it. Was it not droll? But the thing yet more strange was, that when I told Cicely of it, she said I had better tell you—no, she said I had better not tell you—but that you could tell me what it meant if I asked you. So very strange! What did it mean, Mother?"
Madam Passmore was silent for a few moments. When she spoke, it was to say, in quite another tone, softer and tenderer than her previous one, "Thou art nineteen, Celia, my dear."
"Yes, Mother," answered Celia, rather surprised at the information. "I was nineteen on the third of June."
"Ay, born the same year as Bell," said Madam Passmore, gravely, and Celia thought a little sadly. "Well, I will tell thee, my dear, for thou oughtest to know, and thou art now a woman grown. Ay, I will tell thee, but wait until Tuesday. After the assembly will be better."
Squire Passmore was riding leisurely home, after having himself carried the invitation to his old friends Mr. and Mrs. Harvey of Ellersley. He had nearly reached his own gates, when he suddenly pulled up to avoid running over a pedestrian. The latter met him as he turned a corner, and was apparently too deeply engaged in his occupation—that of searching into a portfolio in his hand—to see any one coming. He was a young man of some six-and-twenty years, and the brightness of his dark, penetrating eyes struck the Squire as he looked up and hastily drew to one side with an apology.
"Your servant, Sir! I beg your pardon for my carelessness."
"Another time," said the Squire, in his hearty voice, "I should advise you to delay looking into your portfolio till you are round the corner."
"Thank you for your advice, which I shall certainly take," returned the young man. "Might I ask—can I be mistaken in thinking that I am addressing Squire Passmore, of Ashcliffe Hall?"
"My name is John Passmore," said the Squire, "and I live at Ashcliffe. Do you want anything with me?"
"I thought I could not be mistaken," answered the young man, with a very deferential bow. "My object in addressing you, Sir, is to request the very great favor of your permission to take a few sketches of your fine old Hall. I am sketching in this neighborhood in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller, the great London painter—you have surely heard of him—and if"—
"A good sensible Whig," interrupted the Squire. "If you want to sketch the Hall for him, you shall have leave to draw all the four sides; if you like. You are a painter, are you? I thought you must be some sort of a moonstruck fellow—painter, author, or what not—that you did not see me coming."
"Permit me to express my very great obligations," said the artist. "Might I venture so far as to ask your leave to take one sketch inside? I have been told there is a fine carved oak staircase"—
"Come and dine with me," replied the Squire, heartily, "and sketch the staircase by all means. We dine at twelve o'clock—old-fashioned folks, Mr.——I have not the pleasure"—
"Stevens, Sir—Cuthbert Stevens, at your service—and very much"—
"Ah! odd name, Cuthbert, but an old name—yes, a good old name. To-morrow at twelve, Mr. Stevens—very glad to see you."
And away rode the hospitable and unsuspicious man, leaving on the face of Cuthbert Stevens a look of amused contempt.
"'Moonstruck!'" he whispered to himself. "We shall see which is the cleverer, John Passmore, Esquire—we shall see."
"Lucy, my dear," said the Squire to his wife when he came in, "I have asked a gentleman to dinner to-morrow;—a painter—making sketches for Sir Godfrey Kneller—monstrous clever fellow!—take your portrait in no time—wants to draw the Hall."
When the Squire conveyed his information in this abrupt and detached style, Madam Passmore knew from experience that he was not altogether satisfied with his own act, and desired to justify himself in his own eyes. He was, in truth, beginning to feel rather uneasy. Though he called the artist a "monstrous clever fellow," he had not seen a single sketch; he had taken the man on his own word, and at his own valuation; he had yielded to the charm of his voice and manner; and now that this was withdrawn, he began to doubt whether he had done well in introducing a complete stranger into the bosom of his family. So Madam Passmore, seeing this, and also acting on her favorite maxim of "what must be, must," quietly said, "Very well, John," and left her husband to his own devices.
Noon came, and with it Mr. Cuthbert Stevens. The Squire inspected him as he entered, and could find nothing with which to be dissatisfied. His taste in dress was excellent, his manners were faultless; and the Squire began to think his first thoughts had been the best. Dinner passed without a singlecontretemps. The stranger talked with the Squire about hunting and poaching, and was quite alive to the enormities of the latter; to Charley upon snaring rabbits and making rabbit-hutches; to Henrietta and Isabella upon the fashions and London life (with which he seemed perfectly familiar); and told Madam Passmore of a new method of distilling cordial waters of which she had not previously heard. Of Celia he took little apparent notice. The family began to think that they had lighted on a very agreeable and accomplished man; and when dinner was over, and the sketch of the staircase made—(which latter the Squire, though no artist, could see was a faithful copy, and pronounced "as like as two peas")—the stranger was pressed to remain longer, but this offer, with many thanks, Mr. Stevens declined. His time, he said, was growing short, and he must make all possible use of it. He had still several sketches to complete before quitting the neighborhood; but he could assure Mr. Passmore that he would never forget the kindness shown him at Ashcliffe, and would inform Sir Godfrey of it on his return to London.
"Well, Sir, if you will remain no longer," said Madam Passmore, her kind heart compassionating his probably precarious circumstances, "you will put one of these raised pies in your pocket for your journey? I think you liked them at dinner."
The artist gratefully accepted the offer. With a very respectful bow he took leave, Charley volunteering to accompany him to the gate. There was a good deal of conversation on the way through the park, chiefly on Charley's side, the stranger contenting himself with an occasional simple and careless query. At the gate they parted—Charley to run home at the top of his speed, and Mr. Stevens to walk rather quickly for half a mile in the direction of Exeter. Having so done, he turned aside into a coppice bordering on the road, and, slackening his pace, commenced whistling a lively air. The verse was still unfinished, when an answering whistle of the same tune was heard, and the man who had accosted Celia over the hedge came in view, advancing to meet him.
"Well, Gilbert!" was the artist's greeting, "any good news?"
"The same that I left you with, Father," said the elder man in reply; "and if you call it good news, you have the heart of a stone. I am all but famished, and sick-tired of being cooped up in that miserable hole."
"And the inquiries, Gilbert? You told me all that before, you know."
"And much you cared about it!" answered Gilbert, ill-humoredly, kicking some dead sticks out of his way. "Inquiries! no, of course nothing has come of them, except what we knew before: that she passes as the third daughter, and she is short and dark."
Stevens sat down on a green knoll. "What a surpassing clever man you are, Gilbert Irvine!" he observed.
"Well, Father Cuthbert, you are uncommon complimentary," remonstrated Gilbert, leaning back against a tree. "Seven mortal weeks have I been cooped up in that dog-hole, with as much to eat as a sparrow, and wearing myself out, dodging about to get a glimpse of this girl—all to please my Lady and you; never slept in a bed except just these four nights we have been at Exeter—and the only reward of my labors which I have seen anything of yet, is to be told I am an ass for my pains: because, of course, that is what you mean."
"My excellent Gilbert, your temper is a little below perfection. You shall see what a mistake you have made. Look at me. I have just been dining with Squire Passmore."
Gilbert's mouth opened for an exclamation, but shut again without one, as if his astonishment passed the power of words to express.
"Now why could not you have done the same? Seven weeks you have been here, as you say, and caught one glimpse of the girl; and I, who have not been here as many days, have already seen and spoken to her, and found out more about her than you have. And I have dined like a prince in addition, while you are pretty near starving, Gilbert."
"Nice consolation that is to give to a famished wretch!" snarled Gilbert. "Father Cuthbert, you have a heart of stone."
"Not quite so hard as that, my friend," answered Stevens, feeling in his pocket, and bringing out of it the pie. "I only wished to show you what a very ingenious fellow you were. Eat that."
"Where did you get it?" was all the thanks Gilbert vouchsafed.
"It was offered me, and I accepted it," said Stevens. "I never say 'No, thank you!' to anything good. Always take all you can get, Gilbert."
Gilbert was too busy with the pie to answer.
"Now listen, Gilbert. I was wise enough to take no notice of the girl that any could see: but I studied her quietly, and I sounded the youngest brother well. I am satisfied that none of them know who she is, and I imagine only the parents know any thing at all. She seems very comfortable, and well taken care of, and will probably be in no haste to leave; at least so I judge from what I can see of her disposition, which is quiet and timid. Then"—
"Father Cuthbert, I wish you would wait a minute. ''Tis ill talking between a full man and a fasting.' Do let me finish this pie in peace."
"Finish it, Gilbert, and much good may it do you."
"But how did you get in?" was the question that followed the last mouthful of the pie.
"I represented myself as an artist, in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller "—
"Did you ever see him?"
"I once had him shown to me in London. And I asked leave to draw the Hall, and the staircase inside. I knew, after that, Mr. Passmore would ask me to dinner."
"Can you draw?"
"If I could not, my friend, I should have been unwise to take that character. I can do a good many things."
"You are a more ingenious man than I am, Father."
"You are not far wrong there, Gilbert," complacently assented the disguised priest.
"But I cannot believe, Father," pursued Gilbert, "that you came over from France only to see Sir Edward's daughter."
"I protest, Gilbert, you are even more surpassing than I took you for! It must be your conversation with that Jezebel of yours which has dulled your wits. You were a sharper fellow once."
"You are welcome to revile my wife as much as you please, Father," said Gilbert, calmly. "I can't think how in the world I ever came to marry the daughter of an old, ranting, canting Covenanter. The devil must have set me up to it."
"Probably he did, my friend," was the reply of Cuthbert. "But to relieve your mind: I came here on secret service—you will not ask me what it was. Suffice it you to know that it was at once for Church and King."
"Well!" sighed Gilbert, "the Church is infallible—is she not?—and immortal: she will get along all right. But for the King"—
An expressive pantomime of Gilbert's hands and shoulders completed the sentence.
"Faint-hearted, Gilbert?" asked Stevens, with a smile.
"Faint-hoping, Father," said he. "The King will never 'have his ain again.' Ay! that song you were whistling by way of signal is to me the saddest of all our songs. 'Tis easy to chant 'It was a' for our richtfu' King,'—or I can even stand 'Lilliburlero;' but 'The King shall have his ain again'—it but saddens me, Father Cuthbert. He will never have it."
"Why, Gilbert, has your solitude made you hopeless? You used to have more faith in right, and in the final triumph of the good cause."
"The cause is lost, Father Cuthbert," said Gilbert, stooping to pick up one of the dry twigs which lay before him. "'Tis as dead and dry as this branch; and as easily to be broken by the Princess and her Ministers, or by the Elector of Hanover and his, as I can break this—so!"
And the broken twig fell at Stevens' feet.
"Come, Gilbert, come!" said Stevens, encouragingly. "Remember how many friends the King has throughout England, and Scotland, and Ireland."
"Friends! what are they worth?" asked the other. "Good to sing 'Awa' Whigs, awa'!' or to pass their glasses over the water-jug when they say, 'The King, God bless him!'[4] But how many of them are ready to put their hands in their pockets to maintain your good cause? How many are ready to melt down their plate, as their fathers and ours did for King Charles? How many would die for the King now, as for his grandfather then?"
"Thatcause triumphed, Gilbert," said Stevens, suggestively.
"Did it?" answered Gilbert, more suggestively still. "How much worse had we been off now, Father Cuthbert—how far different, if the one at St. James's had been called Richard Cromwell instead of Anne Stuart? Trust me, England will henceforth be constant but to one thing—her inconstancy. She will go on, as she hath gone, from bad to worse, with short reactions every now and then. First King Charles—then my Lord Protector—then a little fit of reaction, and King Charles again. Then comes King James, and wounds her pride by being really a King and not a puppet, and off she goes to Dutch William—my Lord Protector over again. And now, the Princess Anne"—
"And after her, Gilbert?"
"After her? The saints know!—at least I hope they do; for I am sure I don't. But if these fellows had the King in to-morrow, they would kick him out again the day after."
"Probably," rejoined Stevens, calmly. "However, it does not much matter to me. I have a safe refuge in France in either case—my Lady Ingram's income to draw upon if we succeed—and, if we fail—well, I have friends on the other side. And at the worst, the Jesuit College at Rome would provide me with a shelter for my old age."
"Yes, there is no fear for you, Father," said Gilbert. "But we poor wretches, who have not the good fortune to be of your Order—we are proscribed exiles. Should we have been anything worse under Oliver?"
"Why, you might very likely have been in the pillory," said Stevens, "and had an ear or two less than now. And you might have been at Tyburn."
Gilbert took no notice of this flattering allusion. He answered as if he were pursuing his previous train of thought:
"No, the King will never 'have his ain again.' There are two things that England has come to value above even her throne and her peace: these are her Protestantism and her liberties. For these, and these alone, she will fight to the death. Of course the two monsters cannot live long together; the one must devour the other in the end. And whether heresy will swallow liberty, or liberty eat up heresy,—our great-grandsons may see, but we scarcely shall."
"On what does it depend, Gilbert?" asked Stevens, who seemed at once curious to draw out his companion's ideas, and reluctant to present his own.
"On the man who holds the helm when the two engage in battle," said Gilbert, thoughtfully.
"That is a battle that may last long," hinted Stevens.
"And probably will," replied the other. "But when the present notions shall have come to their full growth, as they must do—when the King shall have permanently become the servant of the Minister, and the Minister the mere agent of the mob—when, instead of 'Ego et Hex mens,' it shall have become 'Nos' without any 'Rex' at all—when all men shake hands over the sepulchre of their religious prejudices and political passions—Father Cuthbert, then will be the triumph of the Catholic Church. If only she knew how to use the interval!—to be patient, never to be in a hurry—to instil gently and unperceivedly into men's minds the idea that all are equal, have equal rights, and are equally right—to work very slowly and very surely; she needs but one thing more, and that is the man at the helm. Let her choose the man. He must be plausible—able to talk well—to talk in a circle, and come to no conclusion—to throw dust in Protestant eyes: the bigger cloud he can raise the better. Let him hold out openly one hand to Protestantism, and give the other behind his back to Rome. When the foundation is so laid, and the man stands at the helm—our work is finished, Father Cuthbert. But I doubt if any Stuart will be reigning then—nay, I doubt if any will reign at all."
"So much for England, then!" responded Stevens, with a rather dubious smile. "And Scotland?—and Ireland?"
"Scotland!" said Gilbert, slowly. "I am a Scot, Father Cuthbert, though 'tis years since I saw Scotland. And I tell you, as a nation, we are hard-headed and long-sighted; and we do not as a rule take up with anything before testing it. But just as the sweetest-tempered man can be the most terrible when he is angry, so, when you can throw dust in a Scotchman's eyes, you make him blind indeed."
"And Ireland?" repeated Stevens.
"The cause was lost there, Father, on a certain 1st of July, more than twenty years ago. And as yet Ireland has been rather too busy setting her own house in order to have much leisure left to meddle with ours."
"You forget one thing, Gilbert," said Stevens, gravely. "Think how many Catholic emissaries we have in Ireland and Scotland, and how Catholic the Gaelic heart once was, and the Erse heart has ever been."
"Father Cuthbert, how many members of the Society of Jesus were in Oliver Cromwell's army?"
"A good many," admitted Stevens.
"Hundreds," resumed Gilbert.[5] "And do you think they did the cause any good?"
"Well, it scarce looked so at the time," said Stephens. "But in the end it seemed more like it."
"'Liberty' is our watchword now," said Gilbert. "Liberty to do anything and everything: which, of course, in six cases out of every ten, means to do wrong. So long as the Church is uppermost—despotism: she can allow no liberty. But let the Church be undermost, and she must set herself to obtain it by all means. Liberty for the sects, we ought never to forget, means liberty for the Church. And to the Church it is not of much consequence whether she herself, or her friend Liberty, devour the dying monster, Protestantism. When the Church sits once again on the throne of Great Britain, the first dish served up to her at her coronation banquet will be the dead body of her jackal, Liberty."
"Gilbert!" said Stevens, rising from his grassy seat, "you are not so stupid as I thought you. Unfortunately, your talents do not lie in the particular path which circumstances have marked out for you. But you have parts, Gilbert. Let us return to Ashcliffe."
"And go back to that dog-hole?" inquired Gilbert, suddenly subsiding into his former discontented self.
"I fear, my son Gilbert," said Stevens, placidly, "that the dog-hole will have to be your habitation for a few days longer. But be comforted, Gilbert. As soon as I can, I will take your place there."
"Hope you may enjoy it!" muttered Gilbert, as they emerged on the Exeter road.
[1] Evidence of twenty-one such concealed chambers will be found inNotes and Queriesalone. They exist all over England, in old houses built between the time of Henry VIII. and that of James II.—possibly later still. I append the descriptions of the two which appear to have been most cleverly concealed and best preserved.
The first chamber is at Ingatestone Hall, Essex, which was anciently a grange belonging to the Abbot of Barking, and was in possession of the Petre family from the reign of Henry VIII. to about 1775. "The secret chamber at Ingatestone Hall was entered from a small room on the middle-floor, over one of the projections of the south front. It is a small room, attached to what was probably the host's bedroom.... In the south-east corner of this small room, on taking up a carpet the floor-boards were found to be decayed. The carpenter, on removing them, found a second layer of boards about a foot lower down. When these were removed, a hole or trap about two feet square, and a twelve-step ladder to descend into a room beneath, were disclosed.... The use of the chamber goes back to the reign of James I.... The hiding-place measures 14 feet in length, 2 feet 1 inch in width, and 10 feet in height. Its floor-level is the natural ground-line. The floor is composed of 9 inches of remarkably dry sand, so as to exclude damp or moisture."—Notes and Queries, 1st S., xi. 437.
The other example is at Irnham Hall, Lincolnshire. "The situation of this ingeniously-contrived place had been forgotten, though it was well known to exist somewhere in the mansion, till it was discovered a few years ago. In going round the chimney-stacks, it was observed that one of the chimneys of a cluster was without any smoke or any blackness, and as clean as when the masonry was new. This led to the conjecture that it was not in reality a chimney, but an open shaft to give light and air to the priest's hiding-place; yet so forming one of a group of chimneys as to obviate all suspicion of its real purpose. It was carefully examined, and the conjecture fully borne out by the discovery of the long-lost hiding-place. The opening into it was found by removing a beam behind a single step between two servants' bed-rooms. You then come to a panel which has a very small iron tube let into it, through which any message could be conveyed to the occupant of the hiding-place. This panel being removed, a ladder of four steps leads down into the secret chamber.... The hiding-place is 8 feet long by 5 feet broad, and just high enough to allow of standing upright."—Notes and Queries, 1st S., xii.
Other instances occur at Oxburgh Hall, Norfolk; Sawston Hall, Cambridgeshire; Coldham Hall, Suffolk; Maple Durham, Watcomb, and Ufton Court, Berkshire; Stonyhurst and Berwick Hall, Lancashire; Bourton, Gloucestershire; Henlip, Worcestershire; Chelvey Court, Somerset; Nether Witton, Northumberland; Paxhill, Sussex (built by Sir Andrew Borde, jester of Henry VIII., and the original of "Merry Andrew"); Treago, Hereford; Weybridge, Surrey; Woodcote, Hampshire; and elsewhere. In several of these instances the secret chamber was formed in the roof of the house, and in two cases at least it was accompanied by a small chapel.
[2] Fairies.
[3] The reader can appraise this ghost-story at what he thinks it worth. It is not the produce of the author's imagination, but may be found reported in the translation of theChronicon Roberti Montensis, by John Stowe, Harl. MS., 545, fol. 190,b.
[4] In this way the more timid of the Jacobites drank the toast of "The King over the water."
[5] Dean Goode's "Rome's Tactics," pp. 50-53.
"Speechless Sorrow sat with me;I was sighing wearily:Lamp and fire were out; the rainWildly beat the window-pane.In the dark we heard a knock,And a hand was on the lock;One in waiting spake to me,Saying sweetly,'I am come to sup with thee.'
"All my room was dark and damp,—'Sorrow,' said I, 'trim the lamp;Light the fire and cheer thy face;Set the guest-chair in its place.'And again I heard the knock;In the dark I found the lock,—'Enter, I have turned the key—Enter, stranger,Who art come to sup with me.'
"Opening wide the door, He came,—But I could not speak His name;In the guest-chair took His place,—Though I could not see His face:When my cheerful fire was beaming,When my little lamp was gleaming,And the feast was spread for three,—Lo! my MasterWas the Guest that supped with me.HARRIET M'EWEN KIMBALL.
Grand beyond expression was Madam Passmore that Monday afternoon whereon her party was held. Her hair stood at the very least six inches above her head. Her petticoat was of crimson quilted satin, and she wore a yellow satin gown, edged with rich old point-lace. Large silver buckles decorated her shoes, and a lacecornettewas perched upon the summit of her hair. A splendid fan, and a handkerchief nearly all lace, shared her left hand; and in her pocket, alas! dwelt a silver snuff-box. Her four daughters were dressed alike, in their blue satin petticoats and brocaded trains, with coral necklaces, and cherry-colored top-knots of ribbon instead ofcornettesstood on the summit of their hair. They also displayed fans, Isabella making all manner of use of hers, and held handkerchiefs not quite so elaborate as their mother's. Their trains were not gathered up this evening, so that when they walked a grand display of brocade was made on the floor. About four o'clock, Dr. Braithwaite and his wife made their appearance. Mrs. Braithwaite was a modest, retiring little woman, holding in high reverence her big learned husband, but the fact of being constantly kept under the sound of quotations which she did not understand, gave her a scared, bewildered look which did not improve her countenance. She was quietly dressed in black, with lace tucker and ruffles, and a white top-knot on her hair, which, in comparison with that of Madam Passmore, was dressed quite low.
"Good-even, Madam, and the young ladies!" said Mrs. Braithwaite, courtesying nervously. "I hope I see you well in health?"
"Madam," said the Doctor, bowing low over the hand which Madam Passmore extended to him, "that most marvellous and mellifluent writer of poesy, of whom among the Grecian dramatists the fame hath transcended"—
"Squire and Madam Harvey!" said Robert, in a tone which drowned the Doctor's elaborate Greek compliment.
This lady and gentleman lived in the "great house" of the next parish. They were quiet people, who, having no children, had grown somewhat prim and precise; but they had honest and kindly hearts, and greeted their old friends, if somewhat stiffly, yet cordially. Squire and Madam Rowe, Mr. John Rowe, and Mrs. Anne Rowe, were next announced; and after a general salutation, the party sat round the fire in high-backed chairs, very stiff and uncomfortable. The table in the window held the tea-tray, and Cicely, who entered with the tea-pot, was welcomed by all parties, to whom she courtesied with "Hope I see you all well, Sirs and Madams!" Isabella, her train trailing after her, now approached the little table and poured out the tea. Cicely stood holding a waiter, on which, as each cup was filled, she carried it in turn to the person for whom it was intended. Nothing was eaten with the tea. Tea was tea in 1710, and nothing else.
Mr. John Rowe,aliasJohnny, was a slim youth of eighteen, who had come to the party with the view of making himself agreeable to Isabella. He would scarcely have felt flattered if he had known how she regarded him. She despised him supremely, both on account of his slight juniority, and of his taste in dress. At this moment he wore yellow silk stockings, green breeches, a white waistcoat embroidered in blue, a gray silk coat heavily laced with silver, and a very large full-bottomed wig, of flaxen color, though his natural hair was almost black. As he had also dark eyes and black eyebrows, his wig certainly was not in the best taste. Isabella all but shuddered at his combination of colors as he advanced to salute her, and did not receive him by any means warmly—a calamity which he, poor innocent fellow, humbly set down to his want of personal merit, not knowing that it was caused by the deficiencies of his costume. Squire Passmore was nearly as smart as his young guest, but he was dressed with much better taste, in a dark green coat and breeches with silver lace, white waistcoat, and white silk stockings. The party sat still and sedately on their row of chairs round the fire—Mrs. Braithwaite eclipsed and silent, for Madam Passmore was on one side of her, in the yellow satin, and Madam Rowe on the other, attired in emerald green: these two ladies were talking across her. Further on was Madam Harvey in dark crimson, conversing with Mrs. Anne Rowe, who was dressed in simple white, and Henrietta, next to Squire Rowe. The younger daughters of Squire Passmore were out of the group, and so were John Rowe and Charley. As Celia crossed the room just behind the assembled elders, Madam Rowe's hand detained her.
"Come and talk with me, my dear. 'Tis an age since I saw you. You don't grow any taller, child!"
"I have done growing," said Celia, with a smile.
"Well, so I suppose. How different you are from all your sisters, to be sure! I am sure Mrs. Bell must be a head taller than you are."
"Not quite so much as that," said Celia, still smiling.
"Short and sweet, Madam Rowe!" observed Squire Harvey, who overheard her.
"Ay, I won't contradict you there," she said. "And how old are you now, my dear? Seventeen?"
"Nineteen, Madam."
"Dear me! well, how time does go! To be sure, you and your sister are just a year older than Johnny, I remember. You should hold yourself up more, my dear: always make the best of yourself. You don't bridle so well as you might, either.[1] Really, you use not all your advantages."
"Madam Rowe, that is what I am always telling her," said Isabella, with a faint assumption of energy, "and she takes no more notice"—
"Well, my dear," answered Madam Rowe, administering a dose of flattery, "you know we cannot all be as handsome as you."
Isabella bridled, colored, and remained, though silent, evidently not displeased.
Supper followed about six o'clock, and afterwards the basset-table was wheeled out by Harry, and the three Squires sat down with Dr. Braithwaite to enjoy their favorite game. After basset came prayers. As Dr. Braithwaite was present, of course he officiated; and, casting aside his cards, gravely took the Bible in his hand instead of them. A prayer followed—long, prolix, involved, and stony: more like a sermon than a prayer, nor a very simple sermon neither. The party now took their leave. Dr. and Mrs. Braithwaite walked to the vicarage, which was very near. As it was only a short distance from Ellersley to Ashcliffe, Squire Harvey and his wife came and returned in their coach; the distance to Marcombe was longer, and the Rowes were on horseback. Harry went out and assisted the ladies to mount, Mrs. Rowe riding behind her son, and Anne behind her father.
"Now, Miss Lucy, my dear, come you away to bed," said Cicely, taking sudden possession of that personage. "What could I have been thinking of not to come for you before, I should like to know? To think of you being up at this time! A quarter to nine, I do declare!"
"I don't know what you were thinking of, but I wish you would think about it every night!" answered Lucy, resigning herself to fate in the person of Cicely.
"Well, I shall go to bed also," said Isabella, yawning, and rising from the embroidery-frame. "I protest I am as tired as if it were Sunday evening! That John Rowe is the most tedious young man."
"You had better all go, my dears," responded Madam Passmore. "Good-night to you all. Good-night, Celia."
Celia fancied that her mother repeated the greeting to her with a tenderness in her voice which was scarcely usual with her. Was she thinking of the coming revelation?
She found Cicely helping Lucy to undress.
"Cicely," she asked, sitting down, "how do you pray?"
"Oh, that horrid Dr. Braithwaite!" cried Lucy. "I nearly fell asleep before he had half done."
"Make haste, Miss Lucy, my dear. You'd ought to have been a-bed long ago. How I pray, Mrs. Celia? Why, just like anybody else."
"Like Dr. Braithwaite? Oh, me!" said Lucy, parenthetically.
"No; not like Parson Braithwaite, my dear. Why, I couldn't even follow Parson, he said such hard words."
"I never tried," said Lucy, calmly. "I'm too sleepy to talk any more. Good-night." And she composed herself on the pillow and closed her eyes.
"You don't pray like Dr. Braithwaite, I am sure, Cicely," said Celia. "But how do you pray?"
"Well, my dear, the prayers my mother taught me, there was three on 'em—the 'Our Father,' and the 'I Believe,' and 'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.' I says the 'Our Father' yet, and 'I Believe' now and then; but I've left off to say Matthew and them, for when I comes to think, it sounds like the Papishes; and I don't see no prayers like it in the Book neither. I mostly prays out of the Book now, just the words that David did, and Moses, and the like of they; unless I wants somewhat very particular, and then I asks for it quite simple like, just as I'd ask you for a drink of water if I couldn't get it for myself."
Celia lay silent and thoughtful, but "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," roused Lucy in a minute.
"What's that about Matthew, Cicely?"
"Well, my dear, I'm not sure that 'tis more than foolishness. But my mother taught it me, and I used to say it a many years:
'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,Bless the bed I lie upon;Four parts around my bed,Four angels guard my head.I lay me down upon my side,I pray that God my soul may guide;And if I die before I wake,I pray that God my soul may take.'"[2]
"O Cicely!" exclaimed Lucy, laughing.
"It does sound rather like praying to the apostles, Cicely," suggested Celia; "but the end of it is better."
"That's where it is, Mrs. Celia; and that's why I dropped it. Now don't you begin talking to-night—go to sleep, there's dears. There'll be as many hours in to-morrow as to-day. Eh! but, my dear, did you ask Madam, as I said?"
"Yes, Cicely," said Celia, half-rising. "She will tell me to-morrow."
The troubled look in old Cicely's face deepened. But she only said, as she took up the light, "Go to sleep, dear hearts!"
"I ask your pardon, Madam!" said Cicely, courtesying low, as Madam Passmore opened her bedroom-door in answer to her tap. "But could I have a minute's speech with you, if you please?"
"Come in, Cicely, and sit down. Is anything the matter?"
"Well, Madam," said Cicely, glancing round the room, as if to make quite sure there were no listeners, "I'm afeared there's somewhat up about Mrs. Celia. This afternoon, as I was a-going down the lane to Mally Rihll's, with the cordial water and jelly you was pleased to send for sick Robin, there was a fellow met me, that I didn't half like the looks of. I should know him again, for he stopped me, and began to talk;—asked the way to Moreton (and I doubt if he really wanted to go, for he took the t'other turning when he come to it), and asked whose the Park was, and if Master was at home; and was going on to what family he had, and such like impudent questions. 'If you want to know all that,' says I, 'you'd better go up and ring the bell, and ask Squire his own self,' I says. Well, he didn't ask me no more questions after that, but went shuffling on his way, and took the wrong turning. But when I got to Mally's, and while we sat a bit, she tells me that my gentleman had been there asking for a drink of water, and a lot more impertinence. And asked her right out if there warn't a young lady at the Park of the name of Celia, and how old she were, and when her birthday were, and all on like that. And Mally—(you know, Madam, she's but a simple soul)—I could hear from her story, she up and told him everything he asked, and maybe more than he asked, for aught I know. And what does he do but (seeing, no doubt, what a simple soul she was) outs with a table-book, and actually sets down in black and white what she was a-telling of him. 'The impudent rascal!' say I to Mally, when I hears that: 'and why couldn't you have given it him hot and strong, as I did?' I says. And she says he looked so like a gentleman, for all his shabby coat, with nigh a quarter of a yard of lace pulled off the bottom, and all a-flapping about in the wind, as is both full and cold to-day, as she hadn't the heart to say nothing impertinent, says she. But 'Impertinent!' says I; 'I think, after all the impertinence he'd given you, you might have give him a dose without hurting of him much,' says I. So I thought I'd come and tell you, Madam, at once."
"You have done right to tell me, Cicely," said her mistress. "I think—I am afraid—there will be some inquiry for the dear child, before long."
"Well, Madam, and that's what I'm afeared on, too," said Cicely. "And to see Mrs. Celia sitting there so innocent like!"
"She must know, Cicely—she must know soon."
"If I was you, Madam, I'd tell her now," said Cicely,—"asking your pardon for being so bold as to say it to you."
"Yes, Cicely, so I shall," replied Madam Passmore, in a very despondent tone.
"Madam," said Cicely, suddenly, "would you be offended with me if I said a word to you?"
"My good Cicely, why should I? Speak your mind."
"Seems to me, Madam," said Cicely, confidentially, "as you haven't asked the Lord about this trouble. And though He knows all things, yet He likes to be asked and told about 'em: He says so somewheres. Now, if I was you (asking your pardon, Madam), and didn't like for to tell Mrs. Celia (and I'm sure I shouldn't), I'd just go and tell Him. It'd come a sight easier, would telling her, after that. You see, Madam, the Lord don't put troubles on us that He don't know nothing about. He's tried 'em all Himself, and He knows just where they pinches. And when He must needs be bring one on us, or we shall be running off down the wrong road like so many chickens, He whispers like with it, 'Don't be down-hearted, child; I've tried it, and I know.'"
"Cicely, how did you come to know all this?" inquired her mistress in astonishment.
"Bless your heart, Madam, I don't know nothing!" humbly disclaimed Cicely,—"never did, nor never shall. 'Tis with the Lord's lessons like as with other lessons;—takes the like of me a month or more to spell out a word, where there be folks'd read it off plain. I knows nothing, only I knows the Lord."
Madam Passmore made no answer, but in her secret heart she wondered, for the first time, whether the one thing which Cicely owned to knowing were not worth a hundredfold all the things which she knew.
"Sit down, Celia, my dear. I will now tell you all I know."
Madam Passmore spoke rather sadly, and Celia sat down with a beating heart.
"Celia," said her mother again, "would you like me to tell you right at once, or by degrees?"
"At once, if you please, Mother. Let me know the worst."
"I am not sure that I know that, my dear," sighed the lady. "However, I will say the worst I know. Celia! you are not my daughter."
"Mother!" was Celia's inconsistent but very natural exclamation.
"I have told the truth," said Madam Passmore, gently.
"But who—who are my father and mother?" asked Celia, in a bewildered tone.
"I know not, my dear Celia. Only you are not our child, nor akin to us. I will tell thee all about it. It was on the 10th of June, my dear, when Bell was seven days old, nineteen years ago"—
"Is Bell not my sister, then?"
"No. I know nought of any of thy kindred. But hark!"
"I beg your pardon, Mother. Please go on."
"My husband came up into my chamber, where was only Cicely beside with the babe on her lap; and he said, 'Lucy, my dear, there is a strange thing happened at the Park gates. A little babe lies there all alone,—it would move thy motherly heart to see it. Shall we send and take the poor little soul in?' I said, 'Send Cicely to see and fetch it.' So Cicely brought it in—a poor, weak babe that had scarce strength to breathe. It was lapped in fine white linen, laced with real point, and there was a gold pin fastening a paper on its little coat, with but one word—'Celia.' Well, to be sure, Cicely had some work to bring it round! For hours we feared it would die. But at last it seemed a little easier, and we thought it breathed stronger. And when my husband next came up he said, 'Well, Lucy, shall we send the babe away?' But I said, 'Nay, John, it seems fairly to ask pity from us: let us keep it, and bring it up as our own, and call it Bell's twin-sister. It will never harm us—perchance bring a blessing with it, for truly it looks as if God Almighty had sent it to us.' So we did that. I do not know, my dear, whether it was quite right of us to call you Bell's twin-sister: I am afraid not, for certainly it is not true. But as to your having brought a blessing with you, that's true enough. But that is how it was."
Celia sat still and silent, feeling crushed and cut off from all she loved by this disclosure.
"You have no thought," she said slowly, at last, "who I was, nor whence I came?"
"Well, my dear, my husband thought you might be the child of some Jacobite forced to fly, who must needs leave you behind. 'Twas plain you were not forsaken because your father was too poor to keep you, for he must have been well to do, to judge from the lace on your clothes and the gold pin. Mayhap some nobleman, for aught I know."
"Mother," said Celia, with a great effort, "think you that my parents, whosoever they were, could be—Papists?" The last word was scarcely more than whispered. It conveyed to the Passmore mind the essence of all that was wrong, cruel, and fearful.
"I trust not, indeed, my dear," replied Madam Passmore, kindly, but evidently struck and distressed by Celia's question, "for I know nought. Now, Celia, child, don't take this to heart. Remember thou art as much our daughter, bound to us by every bond of love and custom, as before I spoke a word regarding this. There is ever a home for thee at Ashcliffe, child; and truly I scarce love my own better than I do thee. Let it not trouble thy mind. Go and chat with Harriet and Bell, to keep off the vapors.[3] Farewell, my dear!"
Madam Passmore kissed Celia, and let her go. She did not follow her advice to go and chat with her sisters, but walked very slowly along the passage which led to her own room. She felt as if all around her were changed, and she herself were isolated and lost. Heretofore the old house and its furniture had seemed a part of herself: now they felt as if suddenly placed at an immense distance from her. Even the portrait in the passage of the Squire Passmore who had fought at Edgehill, brandishing his sword fiercely—even the china dragons which faced the hall-window—old familiar objects, seemed to scowl at her as she went by them. She would be Celia Passmore no longer. At another time she would have smiled at the superstitious fancy—only natural now—that these disowned her as a daughter of the house. She turned aside sadly, mechanically, into the little room where old Cicely sat sewing and singing. Her joint occupations ceased when she saw Celia's face.
"Eh, my dear! I see Madam's told you. Come hither and sit down a bit. Is it very sore, dear heart?"
"Cicely, do you know any more?" Celia asked, without answering her question.
"I know nought more than Madam," said Cicely. "I went and fetched you, sweet heart, and a nice little babe you was, though you did keep crying, crying on for everlasting. Such beauties of clothes as they'd wrapped you in! I never see a bit of finer lace than was on them, nor never want; and the cambric was just beautiful! I have them laid by, if you'd like to see."
"Oh! let me see them, Cicely! I meant to have asked Mother."
What a mockery the last word seemed now!
Cicely unlocked one of her cupboards, and produced the clothes, very handsome ones, as she had said, yellow with time, and edged with rich point. The gold pin was still there, with the paper, on which a manly, yet delicate, Italian hand had written the one word which alone remained to Celia of her unknown origin. She wondered whether it were her father's writing.
"Cicely," she said, suddenly, "was I ever baptized?"
"Whether afore we had you or not, Mrs. Celia, I can't say," replied old Cicely, quietly. "Madam thought this here"—pointing to the paper—"meant as you wasn't, and they'd like you to be christened 'Celia;' and Master thought it meant as you was christened already. So old Parson Herring—him as was here afore Parson Braithwaite—he christened you in church, as it stands in the prayer-book, 'if thou hast not been baptized,' or what it is. Squire thought that'd do either way."
"And you saw nothing when you went to fetch me, Cicely?"
"Nothing at all, my dear. There might have been somebody a-watching, you know—the place is so thick with trees—but I see nought of any sort."
The long pause which followed was broken by Cicely, who perceived that Celia's handkerchief was coming surreptitiously into requisition.
"If I was you, Mrs. Celia, I wouldn't trouble, my dear. Very like nobody'll ever come after you; and if they did, why, a grown lady like you might sure say where you'd be—without your own father and mother asked you; I'd never counsel you to go again them; though it would be a sore job parting from you, to be sure. You see, my dear, you've lived here nineteen years, and never a word said."
"But that man, Cicely!" said Celia, under her breath.
"Well, that man, my dear," repeated Cicely doubtfully, "he's very like of no kin to you, only somebody as knowed who you be."
"He was a Papist," said Celia, in the same tone. "But even so, Cicely, should I make no search for my father and mother? I am theirs, whoever they were; even if they were Papists." And the handkerchief came out openly.
"Cry it out, my dear; you'll be all the better for it after. And if you'll list me, Mrs. Celia, you'll never trouble no more about this by yourself, but just go and tell the Lord all about it. He knows who they be, child, and He made you their child, knowing it. And, my dear, I do find 'tis no good to carry a burden to the Lord, so long as I just get up and lift it on again. I'm very much given to lifting on again, Mrs. Celia, and perchance you be. But when I find that, why, I just go and go again, till I can lay it down and come away without it. Takes a deal of going sometimes, that do! But what would you think of me, if I says, 'Mrs. Celia, you carry this linen up-stairs, if you please;' and then goes and walks off with it myself?"
Old Cicely's homely illustration was just what Celia wanted.
"Thank you, Cicely," she said; "I will try to leave the burden behind."
Father Cuthbert Stevens sat in his lodging at Moreton, complacently turning over the contents of his portfolio. To his landlady he had told the same tale as to Squire Passmore, representing himself as an artist in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller; and had, to her thinking, verified his story beyond all doubt, by producing in part-payment of his debt a new shop-sign, representing a very fat and amiable-looking lion, standing on one leg, the other three paws flourishing in the air, while the eyes of the quadruped were fixed on the spectator. Mrs. Smith considered it a marvellous work of art, and cut off a large slice of Mr. Stevens' bill accordingly. Mr. Stevens passed his sketches slowly in review, tearing up the greater part, and committing them to the safe custody of the fire. But when he came to the staircase at Ashcliffe, he quietly placed that in security in a special pocket of the portfolio. He was too wise to speak his thoughts aloud; but had he done so he would have said:
"I have not done with this yet. To-morrow I propose to pay a visit to Marcombe, and this will secure me an unsuspected entrance into Mr. Rowe's family, where I may obtain some further information, on which a little paper and lead will be well spent."
Gilbert Irvine had rather remonstrated on Stevens' telling the same tale to Mrs. Smith as to the Squire at Ashcliffe, reminding him that it was well to have two strings to one's bow. Stevens answered, with that calm confidence in his own wisdom which never forsook him, "It is sometimes desirable, my good Gilbert, not to have too many strings to one's bow. This is my official residence. Mr. Passmore, or some other country gentleman, may find that I am lodging here. What do I gain, in that case, by representing myself to this excellent woman as a retired sea-captain or an officer on leave of absence? No; I am an artist at Ashcliffe, and I am an artist at Moreton. My private residence is——elsewhere. I am a citizen of the world. I am not troubled by any inconvenient attachment to country or home. I can sleep on a feather-bed, a green bank, or a deal board; I can eat black bread as well aspâté aux truffes."
"Ah! but can you do without either?" growled Gilbert, in reply.
To return from this episode. Mr. Stevens was now alone, having, as we saw, parted with Gilbert that afternoon, the latter returning to the hiding-place at Ashcliffe, very much against his inclination. The former worthy gentleman had supped on a hashed partridge, obtained in an unsportsmanlike manner which would have disgusted Squire Passmore; for while Stevens could talk glibly against poaching or anything else, when he required a savory dish, he was not above setting a snare on his own account. He had just placed safely in the pocket of the portfolio such sketches as he deemed it politic to retain, when a slight noise at the door attracted his attention, and looking up, he saw Gilbert Irvine, with white face and dilated eyes, standing in the doorway.
"We are betrayed!" hissed the latter.
Mr. Stevens, rising, quietly closed the door behind Gilbert, and set a chair for his excited visitor.
"Don't be rash, Gilbert," observed he, calmly tying the strings of the portfolio.
"Bash!" muttered Gilbert, between his closed teeth. "I tell you, they have discovered the hiding-place!"
"Have they? Then it was fortunate that I thought of dining to-day with Mr. Passmore."
"Father Cuthbert, do you care for nothing on earth?" said Gilbert, raising his voice.
"Gilbert," remarked Mr. Stevens, in his most placid manner, "I have already desired you not to be too rash. Allow me to remind you, that calling me 'Father Cuthbert' in a Protestant house, and especially in that tone of voice, is scarce likely to advance our interests. As to my caring for nothing on earth, I shall care to hear your information, when you can deliver yourself of it in a reasonable manner."
Gilbert, with some difficulty repressing his indignation, came to the conclusion that the being before him was inaccessible to feeling.
"When I arrived at the well," said he, "I was very near falling into it. I"—
"Ah! rash, as usual," commented Stevens, affectionately patting the portfolio.
"I lighted safely on the ledge of the door," pursued Gilbert, "but when I gave the necessary push, I found that it refused to stir. It had been made up from the inside."
"Something underneath the door, which stuck, of course," said Stevens.
"I took out my knife," replied Gilbert, "and with great difficulty steadied myself so that I could pass the blade under the door. There was nothing underneath, but the door refused to stir."
"What did you do then?"
"Came back to you directly, to ask you whether we ought to leave the country."
"You did not try at the other end?"
"In broad daylight? Mr. Stevens, what can you be thinking of?"
"The interests of the cause, my friend."
"Ah, well! I have the greatest respect for the interests of the cause, but I have also a slight disposition to attend to the interests of Gilbert Irvine."
"That is precisely your bane, my excellent Gilbert. And there are other defects in you beside."
"And pray, what excuse could you have devised to gain entrance?"
"Gilbert, I wonder at your marvellous incapacity for lying. Now it comes quite natural to me."
"Seems so," said Gilbert, grimly.
"Well, as your disposition to attend to the interests of Gilbert Irvine is so strong, I will not require more of you than to attempt the entrance by night. I noticed when I left the house that one of the drawing-room windows was unfastened. You can get in that way, and pass through Mrs. Celia's chamber."
"I'm blessed if I'll try that style of putting my neck in a noose for you more than this once!" Gilbert burst forth.
"I don't ask it of you more than this once," replied Stevens.
"And suppose they have fastened the window since you were there, as is probably the case?"
"If you cannot get in, come back to me. We must find out whether they have discovered the hiding-place. But I will take the next chance myself; and, Gilbert, it shall be in broad daylight."
Gilbert stared at him, and shook his head with an incredulous laugh.
"You are a poor conspirator, Gilbert," lamented Stevens. "Can you plaster a wall?"
"No," said Gilbert.
"I can. Can you mend a harpsichord?"
"Not I, indeed."
"I can. And can you make a tansy pudding?"