We must return here to an earlier hour in the day of which we have
just been speaking. The breakfast at Ale Manor was laid in the
dining-saloon, and presented a curious combination of the ancient and
modern habits of the English people. Fish, meat, and various
sweetmeats were spread upon the board; a large tankard of silver,
which might have served up ale at the breakfast-table of Queen
Elizabeth, was on the sideboard; and good Bordeaux wine was there in
another flagon, for those who adhered to the tastes of their remote
ancestors. But, for delicate tastes, the more modern breakfast of
coffee and chocolate was prepared. Sir John Newark was in a most
gracious mood; his son, Richard, was all life and gaiety; and last
came in Emmeline, bright and blooming from her sweet sleep, like a
blush rose refreshed by morning dew. Smeaton could willingly have
gazed at her long; but he would not allow himself to do so; and the
breakfast was proceeding gaily and cheerfully, when one of the
servants entered, to inform Sir John Newark that a messenger had
brought a letter for him from Exeter. When the letter was delivered
and opened, Sir John Newark read it, with a look of grave and anxious
thought. Then, nodding to the messenger, who had waited as if for a
reply, he said:
"Get yourself some refreshment, and let his worship know that I will
not fail to be there by two of the clock."
The man bowed, and quitted the room; and Sir John, turning to Smeaton,
with the letter still in his hand, observed, with a somewhat affected
laugh:
"Here is a strange affair!"
Then, turning his eye to the page, he read aloud:
"Worshipful Sir--Whereas information has been received, that various
evil designing persons are travelling about the country for seditious
purposes, some of whom are reported to be proclaimed traitors, and
others, persons lying under sentence of various offences and fugitive
from justice; and, as it is matter of common notoriety that in various
parts of the land, and especially at several places in this county of
Devon, serious disturbances have been stirred up contrary to the peace
of our Lord the King, and perilous to the state and constitution of
this country as by law established; this is to give you notice, that a
special meeting of the justices of the peace for this division of the
county of Devon is summoned to assemble in this city of Exeter
to-morrow, the ---- day of July, in the year of our Lord 1715; and you
are hereby invited and required, putting aside all other business, to
attend the same, in order to consult as to the best means of
preserving the peace of the said county, and frustrating the designs
of seditious and disaffected persons.
"(Signed) etc."
He paused for a moment after reading the letter, and then added, with
a smile:
"They must have got a fright from some circumstance or other. I hope
no friends of ours have given them any cause of suspicion."
"If you allude to me," answered Smeaton, with a frank smile, "I have
not, I can assure you, Sir John, and am under so little apprehension
on the subject, that I have no objection, if you like, to ride with
you to Exeter, if you feel yourself bound to go upon such a curious
summons."
"Oh, I _must_ go, assuredly," replied the knight; "but you had better
remain here. I shall feel more satisfied in leaving my fair ward here
under your good care and protection; for I must take several of the
servants with me."
He did not speak without some consideration; but he was forced to
decide quickly, for the ride before him was very long; and he was
anxious to avoid all appearance of disaffection to the existing
government, whatever he might feel. About three quarters of an hour
were spent in busy preparation; but Sir John found an opportunity, in
the midst of all his bustle, to caution his son more than once to
watch carefully over Emmeline, and, if possible, not to quit her side
for a moment. Richard promised, with every intention of performing;
and the whole party stood on the terrace together to see Sir John
depart. They watched him round the sweep till he disappeared into the
woods; and then Richard, with a boyish leap over a bush, exclaimed, in
a gay tone:
"Now, what shall we do?"
Smeaton smiled to see that, even with the simple boy, the petted and
somewhat spoiled child, the presence of Sir John Newark was felt to be
a restraint. He replied, however, turning towards Emmeline, and
addressing her more than Richard,
"You promised to show me some day a fine old church in the
neighbourhood, with some beautiful monuments. Can we not make it the
object of a morning's ride to-day?"
Emmeline consented willingly, and said she would get ready directly
for the expedition; but Richard did not seem well pleased; and, as
soon as she had gone to fulfil her intention, he thrust his hands into
his pockets, and said:
"I shan't go. I hate old churches, and old monuments too. What the
deuce is the use of going to see a pack of stones put on end? I'll go
out fishing. You are quite old enough to take care of Emmeline, I
should think; but you had better take some people with you; for my dad
is always in a terrible fright for fear somebody should get his bird
out of the cage. Poor Emmeline! I wonder she abides it so quietly. I
could not, I know, if I were kept tight by a string round my leg like
that."
Smeaton gave the boy no encouragement to come with them, merely
answering:
"I will take care of the young lady, and warrant she shall come safely
back. I will take my own servant with us; and one or two of your
people would make our party quite sufficient, even if the country were
more disturbed than I believe it really is."
"Then I'll run down and get a boat at once," exclaimed Richard Newark;
and, before Smeaton could add another word, he was bounding down the
hill, like a great dog.
His companion betook himself to the stable-yard of the mansion, to
give directions regarding the horses, and all the little preparations
for the proposed expedition; and then, putting on the great
riding-boots of the day, he returned to the terrace to wait for
Emmeline. It was not long ere she joined him, gay, smiling, and happy
at the thought of a pleasant excursion. She looked round for Richard,
however, and asked where he was; and, when Smeaton told her that he
had declined being of the party, a grave look of anxiety and
hesitation came over her face.
"Sir John Newark," she said, after a moment's pause, "does not like me
to go far or into any town without the old housekeeper accompanying
me."
Her companion smiled, answering gaily:
"But we are going to a church, not to a town; and, on this occasion,
you must let me act the old woman."
A joke often prevails where an argument will not. The horses were
brought round; Smeaton placed his fair companion in the saddle; and
away they went, at a quiet and easy pace, with the three men following
them. He was an excellent and graceful horseman, and not unwilling to
enjoy, from time to time, the exhilarating sensations of a wild gallop
over the green turf; but, for some reason or other, he did not seem,
on this occasion, disposed to put the horses out of a quiet canter.
Down the stony road he proceeded at a walk, and only quickened his
pace a very little when, turning to the left at the end of the wood,
they got upon the downs. But Smeaton was a good tactician, and he had
his reasons for what he did. Emmeline did not know that such was the
case, however; and she grew a little impatient.
"Shall we not have a gallop?" she asked, at length, after some broken
conversation on indifferent subjects.
"Presently," answered Smeaton, in a quiet tone. "One cannot gallop and
think calmly too."
"Think!" echoed Emmeline, gaily. "Why should you think, Colonel
Smeaton? Thinking is the most pernicious thing on earth; and what
gentleman has any right to think with a lady by his side?"
"It is impossible to help thinking, and deeply too, with you by my
side," answered Smeaton, in a low voice.
Emmeline almost started--it sounded so like a compliment; but Smeaton
was not a complimentary person, as she had remarked with pleasure; and
she replied, after turning an inquiring glance towards him, in the
same light tone, "Why so? do you judge me such an enigma?"
"Not yourself," answered Smeaton gravely, "but your fate and history
are an enigma." He paused for a moment, and then added: "For yourself,
dear lady, your character is as clear and pure as a diamond, which, if
we do not see through it at once, it is because of its too much light;
but your history, your circumstances, your fate, do constitute an
enigma, which might well make any man of heart and feeling
thoughtful."
He spoke very low; but every word fell clear and distinct upon
Emmeline's ear, and instantly banished her gaiety.
"It is an enigma I cannot solve," she answered. "I have tried to do so
a thousand times, but in vain. Whichever way my eyes turn, it is all
darkness; and, weary with straining my sight upon the blank obscure, I
have given it up, reduced to remain satisfied with knowing nothing
but--which is perhaps as much as most persons know of themselves--that
I am. But what is it puzzles _you_ about me? What have you seen or
remarked to make you believe that there is any mystery?"
"Much," he replied; "the very circumstances in which I first saw
you--an attempt to carry you off forcibly from the midst of your
family and friends--the constant feverish sort of anxiety displayed by
Sir John Newark in regard to you--his unwillingness to suffer you to
hold communication of any kind with persons out of his own house."
"Is he unwilling?" exclaimed Emmeline, eagerly. "I do not
think it--yet, perhaps you are right," she added gravely. "I
remember--perhaps you are right. I do not recollect ever having been
suffered to converse alone with any one except the people of the
house, and good Doctor Boothe, who is dead. It is strange! I do not
attempt to conceal from you that there is a mystery, even to myself."
"And you have tried to solve it, unassisted?" inquired Smeaton.
"Often and often," she answered. "Oh, what would I give to know who
were my parents--what I am--what are the causes of all this anxiety
about me! I have tried, but tried in vain."
"Perhaps I can assist you," said Smeaton, in a lower tone than ever.
"Nay, do not start, and look round at me. Those men behind must not
see that there is anything more than ordinary in our talk. Now, let us
have a gallop, if you will. I have ventured to open a subject with
you, somewhat abruptly, which I have in vain sought an opportunity of
touching upon from the first moment of my arrival. We must take
opportunity when we find it. Now, shake your rein, dear lady. Give
your jennet her head, and let us cast these ideas from us, for a
moment or two. They will return before the end of our ride."
"They will not be shaken from me, let me gallop as I will," replied
Emmeline. "However, let us forward." And, touching her horse lightly
with her riding-whip, she bounded away some paces before her
companion.
Smeaton was at her side again in a moment, however; and, when she
turned her eyes towards him, as he came up sitting his horse with calm
and quiet ease, motionless in the saddle, as if he were a part of the
noble animal itself, she could not help thinking him the handsomest
man she had ever beheld in her life; and so indeed he was.
To Smeaton, she was an object of great interest--ay, and I must add,
of great admiration also. The exquisite beauty of her fate and form
was at that moment heightened, not only by a dress which displayed it
to the best advantage, but by the attitudes into which the exercise
threw her, calling forth innumerable graces, and by the movements of
the mind springing from the conversation just past, and filling her
eyes with light and eagerness. Their looks met; and, with that sort of
sudden sympathy which enables those of like character to read in an
instant what is passing in the minds of others, each seemed to divine
the feelings of the other. Emmeline's cheek glowed, as if she had been
detected in a fault; and Smeaton withdrew his eyes, with a thoughtful
look, and made some common-place observation on the scene.
For a few minutes they rode on at the same rapid pace, leaving the
servants still farther behind them than they had previously been; and
then Emmeline drew in her rein, saying--
"I have had enough of this. You will say I am a capricious girl,
Colonel Smeaton. I wanted a gallop when you did not desire one; and I
am tired of it as soon as I have got it. But, in truth," she added, "I
am anxious that you should go on with what you were saying. I cannot
ride fast, in a state of wonder and mystery. You say you can assist me
in explaining all the many enigmas of my fate. You say that you have
longed to talk with me on this subject, ever since you have been at
Ale. You must have very keen eyes, or Sir John Newark must have told
you something about me when he saw you in London."
"Neither, dear lady," answered Smeaton, looking behind to see how far
off the servants were. "I should have remarked nothing calling for
much attention, had I not had previous knowledge; and yet, Sir John
Newark would not have suffered me to enter his gates, had he been
aware that I possessed any information whatever regarding you."
"Then you _do_ possess information?" exclaimed Emmeline, eagerly.
"You have been an object of interest to me, dear lady," answered her
companion, "for some years. This seems strange to you; but it will
seem stranger still when I tell you that, most likely, I should not
have visited this part of England at all, had you not been here. But,
tell me, can you be very discreet? For much depends upon your prudence
and your secresy. If I tell you things which have been studiously
concealed from you, you must put a guard upon your lips and upon your
looks. You must seem as ignorant as ever of all that appertains to
your own fate. That bright frankness--that free pouring forth of the
heart--must all be checked. You must learn the hard lesson which the
world, sooner or later, teaches to all, to conceal the feelings and
the thoughts--to hide the treasures of the heart and mind, in short,
from the eyes of those who would wrong us. Can you do this?"
"I will try," answered Emmeline, gravely; "though I know not how I
shall succeed, for I have never yet been proved. I have no experience
in the art of concealment--and yet," she continued, "I fear I have not
been altogether so frank as you imagine. I cannot tell why, but
there is something in my good guardian--kind and careful of me
as he is--which prevents me from telling him all I think--from
speaking my wishes or my thoughts upon important things. Any ordinary
favour--any common gratification--I could ask, without fear of
refusal; but yet the questions I most long to ask I dare not put; the
thoughts that are most strong an most busy in my brain I do not
venture to pour forth."
"It is an instinct," said Smeaton. "You must, however, try to attain
the discretion to which I have alluded; and, perhaps, it may be better
for me to say no more till you are more certain of yourself."
"Oh, no, no," said Emmeline. "Do not keep me in long suspense. I will
be very prudent, indeed."
"Well, then, first let me ask you a few questions," said her
companion; "but pray speak in a low voice; for the men are coming
near, and no caution can be too great. Can you recollect anything of
your very early years?"
Emmeline shook her head.
"Very little," she replied, "and that little, indistinct and vague.
Things appear, indeed, to memory; but they look like the ships I have
seen sailing over the sea in a thick mist. I catch a cloudy outline--a
strange ill-defined form--for one brief instant, flitting by; and then
it passes into the fog again, and I see it no more."
"Let us try if we cannot render these images more distinct," said
Smeaton. "Do you recollect ever having lived in other places,
different from the scenes around you?"
"No," answered Emmeline, at once. "The old house, and the wood, and
the hamlet, and the stream, and Ale Head, and the bright bay, are
amongst the earliest things that I remember. I do not think I ever
lived anywhere else; for I can recollect little things of no
consequence happening at the Manor when I must have been quite a
child. I remember well crying over a broken puppet in a room that was
then called the nursery. I must have been very young then; and memory
goes no farther back."
Smeaton mused.
"I think it is very likely you are right," he said. "I do not know
that you ever lived elsewhere; but you must have been surrounded in
Ale Manor by other people than those who now dwell in it."
"Oh, yes," cried Emmeline. "Of that I am quite sure; for memories come
across me, and trouble me like figures in a dream."
"Do you recollect a lady," asked her companion, "tall and graceful,
with a smile peculiarly sweet, and a silvery voice?"
Emmeline gazed down thoughtfully.
"Yes," she said, at length, "I think I do; and she was very fond of
me, if I remember rightly. Stay! yes, I remember her quite well. You
call her back to my mind. She led me out by the hand upon the terrace
to see the soldiers go away. Oh, yes--I recollect it all quite well
now."
"And who was at the head of the soldiers?" asked Smeaton.
"I do not recollect," replied the lady, gazing forward into the air.
"Was it a tall, dark, noble-looking man, with a broad hat, and a plume
in it?" asked Smeaton.
"No, no," cried Emmeline. "He was standing by my side; and he took me
up in his arms, and kissed me, before he mounted his horse. How
strange it is that I should have forgotten all this until now!"
"No, perhaps not strange," replied Smeaton. "A single word will often
wake up a long train of memories which have lain asleep for years. The
association of ideas has wonderful power; like the wind, touching one
string of an Eolian harp, it sets all the harmonies of the heart
vibrating. But do you recollect anything more of those times?"
"Not clearly," answered Emmeline; "but still you have awakened enough
to lead memory on, I doubt not, through many another path of the past.
I see, indeed, you must know much of me and mine. I beseech you,
Colonel Smeaton, tell me more."
"I would rather, in the first instance;" he said, "let your own memory
do all that it can do--placing it in the right road, and letting it
follow out the track, instead of prompting you by information which,
after having rested in your mind for a certain time, will seem like
memory. But there, if I mistake not, is the church before us. I did
not seize so eagerly your offer to show it to me without a motive,
dear lady. I wanted to point out to you certain monuments which it
contains, and beg you to remark them particularly, for they may afford
you much information."
"Oh, I have gazed at them for hours," answered Emmeline, "and could
extract nothing from them."
"Perhaps you may be more successful now," replied Smeaton. "At all
events, whenever I lay my hand upon a monument, remark it
particularly. If we should be alone, I may, perhaps, read a comment on
it at the time; but, if there is any one with us--and we must not seem
particularly anxious to carry on our observations in private--I will
merely lay my hand upon the tomb I wish you to notice, and read the
inscription upon it."
"But, then, do you know them already?" asked Emmeline. "Have you ever
been here before?"
"Never," answered Smeaton, with a smile; "the words upon the tombs
will be sufficient to guide me. But we are coming near. I had better
call up the men to hold the horses."
Raising his hand, he beckoned to the servants behind, who rode up just
as they reached the little gate of the churchyard.
Both Emmeline and he were very thoughtful when they dismounted; and
they walked on towards the great door in silence. Just as they reached
it, however, Smeaton turned, and called to the men who were holding
the horses in a group, saying--
"Walk them about till we come back. The air is keen upon these hills,
even at midsummer."
The rest of the conversation between himself, and Emmeline, and the
old sexton, on their first entrance into the church, has been already
detailed, as it was overheard by Van Noost; and Smeaton and the lady
proceeded along the nave, listening with wonderful patience to the
prolix details of the old man. He pointed out to them the tomb of Sir
Reginald de Newark, who had gone to the Holy Land with Richard the
First, and told them what gallant deeds he had done in battle, and how
he had returned to his native country to die at home of wounds
received in war against the Saracens. Many a blunder did he make,
confounding kings and countries and events in a very disastrous
manner. But Smeaton did not correct him, and laid not his hand upon
that tomb. Then they came to a large slab of grey marble, with a
figure in long robes sculptured on it, having a mitre on the head, and
crozier by the side, but with every feature of the face obliterated.
This, the old man told them, was the effigy of William de Newark,
Bishop of Exeter, who had chosen to be buried in that church, because
it stood upon the lands of the family. Still Smeaton passed on,
without question or comment. Another and another succeeded; and the
old sexton was beginning to think the visitor exceedingly dull, when,
approaching nearer to the communion-table, they stood opposite the
monument of the gallant soldier who had fallen at Naseby.
This seemed to interest the visitor more, and, stretching out his
hand, he laid it on the marble, saying--
"What a pity it is they have so brutally defaced this fine statue!"
The old sexton entered into his usual story about it, told how the
church had been occupied by Cromwell's soldiers, and how they had made
a stable of the nave. Many were the abominations with which he charged
them; and Smeaton asked several questions which helped him on
wonderfully with his tale. The Colonel then approached the wall of the
church, and, pointing to the tablet which recorded the death of
another member of the family, in a foreign land, he asked the old man,
after reading the inscription, whether the line had become there
extinct.
"Oh, bless you, no, sir," replied the sexton. "After the happy
Restoration, this good soldier's son returned with the king. He had
been taken abroad by his uncle, who died at Breda. His monument stands
there." And leading them across to a darker part of the church, he
showed them a tomb with a kneeling figure, having a sword in its hand.
The inscription on the marble tablet below was very brief. It simply
said--
"To the memory of Algernon, Baron Newark, of Newark Castle and Ale
Manor, Knight, who died on the second day of July, 1690, this monument
is erected, as a testimony of love and veneration, by his widow and
his son."
"That was the day after the battle of the Boyne," observed Smeaton.
The old sexton nodded his head significantly.
"Ay, sir, so it was. I recollect it well; and when they brought the
body home from Ireland, these old hands dug the grave for as noble a
lord and as good a man as ever lived. But it was all done very
quietly, for people were in great fear of what might happen next; and
the monument was not erected till two years after."
Smeaton laid his hand upon it, saying--
"It is fine in its simplicity. What became of the son who is mentioned
here?"
"I don't know, sir," answered the man, shortly, and then walked on
towards another part of the church, mumbling his jaws together, as if
he were muttering something to himself.
Emmeline looked up in Smeaton's face with an inquiring glance; but his
only comment was by taking her hand and leading her away. He might
press it gently as he did so; but he said nothing till they rejoined
the old man, when he inquired, in a careless tone--
"Are there not vaults, or a crypt, to this church? From the height of
the pavement, I should think so."
"Oh, yes," replied Emmeline, answering for the sexton. "There is a
beautiful crypt."
"Ay, but I have not got the key, my lady," said the old man.
"Why, it is in the door, Mattocks," rejoined Emmeline. "I saw it as we
passed." The old sexton laughed aloud.
"That's true, my lady," he said; "but I've got a bird in there, and
that's the truth. So that I would rather not open the door if I can
help it. Not that I think you would tell, or this gentleman either;
for it could do you no good, and might do the poor fellow some harm."
"Oh, be assured we will not tell anything," replied Smeaton. "But we
must see the crypt, my good man. To me it is one of the most
interesting parts of a church."
"Well, sir, must is must," answered the sexton, "and I cannot stop
you, if you like to go. Only mind, you've promised not to tell about
seeing any one there."
"We'll be as secret as a father confessor," answered Smeaton, gaily;
"but first, I should like to look at your register-books. Cannot we
see the inside of the vestry?"
The old man gazed earnestly in his face for an instant, and then
replied, coldly and repulsively--
"You can see the inside of the vestry, sir, if you like; but the books
are not there. They are always kept by the parson, under lock and
key."
"Are they at his house?" asked Smeaton.
"I think not," replied the old man; "but all I know is, that they are
not at the church. If you want any certificates out, you must ask the
parson."
"Well, let us down to the crypt, then," replied Smeaton. "Can we see
down there, think you?"
"Your eyes are younger than mine, and _I_ can," answered the sexton,
gruffly; and he proceeded to open the door.
"I suppose you are clerk as well as sexton?" said Smeaton, as he
passed him.
"I am not regularly appointed clerk," replied the man. "I hold both
offices at the will and pleasure of Sir John Newark."
There was something very significant in his tone and manner, as he
said these words; but Smeaton merely smiled, and passed on, holding
out his hand to guide Emmeline in descending the steps. A few seconds
brought them to the bottom; and both looked round, with not unnatural
curiosity, to see whom the old sexton had shut up in the crypt. The
next minute, however, Smeaton laughed gaily.
"Why, my good friend, Van Noost," he exclaimed, "is that you? What, in
fortune's name, has brought you into this part of the country?"
"Ah, noble sir," cried Van Noost, in a lamentable tone, "what a fright
you gave me a few minutes ago! It was not fortune, but misfortune,
brought me. Have you not heard that the Earl of Oxford is committed to
the Tower, and that they are seeking for all his friends and adherents
to clap them up in Newgate?"
"No, indeed," replied Smeaton. "Not caring much about it, I have heard
little about it; but I fancy you are frightened without much cause, my
good friend; for, depend upon it, the falcons which are now on the
wing are checking at higher-flying game than yourself. But what made
you think of coming to this part of the world?"
"Why, I know it of old to be a lonely desolate part of the country,"
said Van Noost. "Besides, I knew you were down here; I thought you
might give me a little help in case of need."
"How can I do that?" asked Smeaton. "I have no influence with these
people. But, come hither for a moment, and speak to me apart. If can
help you, I will."
As he spoke, he led the way to the other side of the crypt, where he
conversed with the statuary, for a few moments, in a low voice,
saying, in the end--
"Well, do as you like. If you find yourself safe here, stay. But, in
case of any danger, you can go to Keanton, where you will be quite
safe. Tell the people the word I said, and they will take care of
you."
"What a beautiful creature she is!" exclaimed Van Noost, whose eyes
had been fixed on Emmeline for the last minute or two. "Dear me, what
a delicious dairymaid she would make, cast in lead!"
"More fitted for a Grace, I think," replied Smeaton, with a smile.
"But, remember, go to Keanton, if you like."
Thus saying, he rejoined Emmeline and the old sexton.
The last words were spoken aloud, and reached the ears both of the
sexton and Emmeline. The old man muttered to himself the word,
"Keanton," and scratched his head. The young lady turned her eyes
quickly towards Smeaton, but made no comment at the time. The party
then, followed by Van Noost, commented on the various things they saw;
and the worthy artist in lead enlightened them, from time to time,
with opinions on the various monuments. No part of the conversation,
however, would be very entertaining to the reader; and with regard to
the monuments themselves, only one seemed, even to Smeaton, worthy of
remark; this was a small tablet fixed in the lower part of a wall,
bearing inscribed upon it the following words:
"To the memory of Edward and Henry Newark, sons of Henry Algernon,
third baron Newark. They died in infancy."
There was no date; but the monument was comparatively new. Dust,
indeed, lay on the marble, somewhat obscuring the letters, with a
softening effect, like that of Time on the memory of sorrow; but the
pure white stone had not yet acquired the yellow tint of age and
decay.
"I suppose that tablet has not been long put up," said Smeaton,
touching it with his hand.
"Sixteen years ago, sir, come the day after Michaelmas," replied the
old sexton; and there he stopped, evidently not disposed to enter into
any particulars regarding the later branches of the Newark family.
Smeaton, however, asked no more questions; but, shaking hands with Van
Noost, and giving the old man a piece of money, which seemed more than
he expected, left the church, and re-mounted with Emmeline.
The lady and her companion rode on for a few moments in silence; but,
at length; Smeaton said, bending his head and speaking low,
"Do you comprehend what you have seen?"
She shook her head gravely, and then replied--
"It is like seeing the picture of a city we never visited. There are
houses, and streets, and public places; but, unless we have a guide or
a map, we know not what they are. The monuments I have already seen;
the names upon them I have heard before; but know not to whom or by
whom they were erected."
Smeaton paused, and gazed at her earnestly, as if he hesitated to
proceed.
"Dear lady," he said, at length. "I needs must trust you, or rather
must trust to your own discretion; for it is yourself and your future
fate which is to be influenced by your prudence or imprudence. Let me
warn you, however, that your own happiness and the possibility of your
obtaining farther information depend upon your concealing from every
one that you have received any information at all; but I believe you
have a spirit of sufficient power, Emmeline, to govern your words, and
even looks, when you know that so much is at stake."
He called her Emmeline for the first time--perhaps before the length
of their acquaintance justified it; but it sounded very pleasant to
her ear; and, indeed, that day's ride, and the matters of deep
interest which had been discussed between them, had drawn them closer
to each other than if they had been acquainted many months.
"I will be prudent and careful, indeed," she replied. "I should ill
repay your kindness, if I neglected your warning for a moment."
"Well, then," replied Smeaton, "you have seen just now the monument of
your ancestor who fell at Naseby; that of his son, your grandfather,
who died the day after the battle of the Boyne; and a tablet to the
memory of your grandfather's brother, the father of Sir John Newark--"
"And my father?" interrupted Emmeline--"my father?"
"Of that, hereafter," replied Smeaton. "This is enough for one day
surely; but I may add that the little tablet in the crypt which we
last saw commemorates the death of your two brothers in infancy. They
were older than yourself, but perished early. And now, dear lady, I
have told you thus much in order to win your confidence; for I may yet
have to ask you to trust me in many things; and, in the very first
place, I must crave a great boon from you, which is this, to give me
every opportunity--nay, to make opportunities--of conversing with you
in private; for much yet remains to be said--nay, perhaps much to be
done; and I can clearly see that Sir John Newark will not often let
our conferences be unwatched, if he can help it. Can you trust me,
Emmeline?"
"Oh, yes, I think I can; nay, I am _sure_ I can," she answered. "Yet I
do not know how I shall manage; for I am unaccustomed to such things.
I thank you much for what you have told me; but I must--indeed I
_must_--know more. I am not such an enigma to myself as I was; but
still there is a cloud over one part of my history which must be
cleared away, although I suppose I shall find to the end that there
are enigmas in everything in this world. Do you know that even you are
beginning to be an enigma to me?"
"How so?" exclaimed Smeaton, looking at her frankly as she gazed, with
a smile, in his face.
"I will tell you," she said. "You bade that man in the crypt go to
Keanton, if he liked, as if you were its master. Now, I always heard
that Keanton was the properly of the Countess of Eskdale, that
Countess who went to share her husband's exile."
"That enigma is soon explained," replied Smeaton. "I am her son.
Heaven send that I be not soon the Master of Keanton indeed! But I
much fear it; for my mother has been very ill. As I ask you for much
confidence, I must not withhold any part of mine from you, and
therefore I tell you the fact at once. But this is a piece of
knowledge, dear lady, that you must conceal from Sir John Newark,
although he knows the fact, for, if he finds that I have revealed it
to you, it may raise suspicion as to what more I have revealed, which
it were well to avoid."
Emmeline mused for a moment or two with her eyes cast down; and then,
looking up again, she said--
"Then your name is not Smeaton really?"
"No, indeed," he replied. "My name is Eskdale. But let me explain to
you. It is not at all an uncommon custom now, amongst the many who
have been driven forth by the rebellions and revolutions in this land,
to assume a name different from their own when entering the service of
foreign states. Thus, while I have been in the Austrian army, warring
in Spain and Italy, I took the name of Henry Smeaton, rose in the
service under that name, and never dropped it until my father's death,
somewhat more than a year ago. I have with me my commission, granted
under that name, and many papers and letters, all addressed to me, or
speaking of me, as Colonel Henry Smeaton; so that the title was not
merely assumed for the present occasion. But here comes your young
cousin, I think, to meet us. His fishing expedition, it would seem, is
soon over."
"Poor boy!" replied Emmeline. "He is so volatile, he can pursue
nothing long. I do not think he is so much without ability as he
seems, for occasionally his thoughts are very bright and fanciful. But
it is the power of fixing his attention that he wants. Of that he is
utterly devoid, and it is the secret of his great deficiency."
A moment or two after, they were joined by Richard Newark, who
exclaimed, in a joyful voice--"I am glad I have found you before my
father comes back; for, after we had fished for an hour, I got in a
fright, remembering what he had said about not leaving you, Emmy. So I
got a horse, and galloped all the way here, thinking every minute I
should see him riding back with you. So you must hold your tongue,
Emmy, and not let him know that I have been away at all."
All conversation now ended for the time between Emmeline and Smeaton,
for the boy's presence was of course a restraint, and the minds of
both rested thoughtfully on the subjects of deeper interest of which
they had been lately talking. This continued till they reached the
mansion; but there they found Sir John Newark had not yet returned,
and some time was destined to pass before he again appeared on the
scene.