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 single _contretemps_. 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?"
"_That_ cause 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 in
_Notes and Queries_ alone. 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 the _Chronicon 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.
III.
ALONE IN THE WORLD.
"Speechless Sorrow sat with me;
I was sighing wearily:
Lamp and fire were out; the rain
Wildly 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 Master
Was the Guest that supped with me.
HARRIET M'EWEN KIMBALL.