From the turbulent scene amongst the magistrates at Exeter, and the
somewhat annoying occurrences which Sir John Newark had met with on
the road back, let us turn to the quieter doings at Ale Manor House.
Not long was Emmeline's absence from Smeaton and her young cousin. She
came timidly, blushingly, in all the agitation of fresh and strong
feelings; but she soon became more tranquil. Dinner, according to the
directions of Sir John Newark when he left, was served at the usual
hour; and, when it was over, all three walked out to linger away the
time in the summer eventide.
After two or three turns up and down the terrace, Richard Newark
seated himself upon one of the large guard-stones which marked the
separation of the gravel from the turf, from which he commanded a view
of two faces of the house, and there he remained for more than an
hour, whistling lightly, and apparently lost in thought. Emmeline and
Smeaton continued to walk up and down side by side, and their
conversation was carried on in tones too low to be heard from the
windows of the house. Had any one been watching them, well skilled in
the outward signs and symptoms of the sweet madness, he might have
divined by the look of tenderness, by the sudden changes of
expression, by Smeaton's bended head, by Emmeline's faltering and
agitated step, and by the frequent raising of a bright and sparkling
look to her companion's face, that he talked of love, and that she
listened to him, well pleased.
So, indeed, it was. He led her on, step by step, word by word, himself
led on by the growing passion in his own heart. All was said between
them which could be said; and, before that walk was half over, they
were plighted to each other, not only in heart and affection, but by
words and vows. It might be somewhat sudden; but--as I have
endeavoured often enough before to make the reader comprehend--there
is no such thing as time. The flowing of events constitutes what we
call time. The revolution of the earth round its axis--man's day--is
the measure which we have capriciously adopted to mete the passing
stream; but how inadequate is that measure to express the value of the
thing measured! 'Tis just as if we should sell at the same price the
yard of cloth of gold and the yard of dull serge. The events of one
day are not more like the events of another than those two woofs.
Thoughts and feelings are also events--the events of the mind and
soul; and, measured by them, how long a space had Smeaton known
Emmeline! The last four-and-twenty hours to both had been a life-time.
Cleared of the great mistake regarding time, they had not loved
suddenly.
In the little scene which I have depicted--the two lovers walking
to and fro within sight of the house--sometimes under the green
trees, it is true, but more often upon the soft turf before the
terrace--Richard Newark, sitting whistling on the guard-stone--the sky
putting on its evening raiment, and the purple draperies of the sun's
couch being shaken down over the west, one thing was particularly
worth remark; namely, the marvellous patience of the boy. He, so
light, so volatile, so full of wild activity, sat quietly there the
whole time. It is difficult to explain it, and I can but say, in
explanation, that he did it without thought, in all simplicity. The
mind might not be very bright or clear; it might be slightly warped
from the right direction; but the heart went as straight as an arrow.
He felt that Emmeline would like to be alone with Smeaton, and he with
her; and, loving them both right well, by an impulse--by an instinct
with which thought had nothing to do--he not only left them by
themselves, but watched that they were not interrupted, and with love
like that of a faithful dog, he watched patiently.
At length, however, Richard Newark rose, and, with a quick step,
joined the two lovers. He had seen some one coming round the other
angle of the house; and he said, with a laugh--
"There is old Mrs. Culpepper upon the prowl again, Emmy. Take care,
pretty bird, take care. That cat's steps are very stealthy."
Emmeline, brighter, but as simple as himself, replied,
"I do not fear her, Dick--I do not fear anything now."
Oh, what a world of revelation was in that little word, _now!_ It
spoke of feelings totally changed--of hope and trust and confidence
sprung up--of the absorption, as it were, of her very being into the
being of another--of the vast assurance with which woman's heart
reposes upon love.
Richard Newark did not remark it; but Smeaton felt it, and was very
happy; for it told him how completely she was his own. They continued
their walk, and caught a glimpse of the old woman's figure moving
quietly along at some little distance; but they heeded it not, and
continued talking in a lighter strain, and of more indifferent things,
but, with the spirit that was in their hearts, giving life and energy
to their thoughts and words, and breathing tones which each understood
as meaning more than the words expressed. There was no weariness for
them. The sun sank gradually through the sky, touched the edge of the
horizon, dropped below it, disappeared. Purple, and gold, and grey,
had each their moment in the western sky, then gave place, and
darkness followed. The stars shone out, bright and clear above, not
large, but very lustrous; and then the moon began to throw her light
upward from the east, preparing to sweep the diamond dust of heaven
away from her path on high.
Still Emmeline and Smeaton walked on, and talked of everything.
Heaven! how their thoughts rambled, shooting up amongst those stars,
flying on fairy wings after the setting sun, wreathing the purple and
the gold into fantastic forms, and twining the evening clouds into
rosy coronals. Aladdin's palace-builders, all spirits as they were,
wrought not so fast or gorgeously as the spirit of love.
But hark! The sound is heard of a distant horse's feet coming at great
speed along the road, and the three companions are retiring to the
house quickly.
The lights had just been lighted, the windows closed, and they were
seated calmly in the smaller saloon, though two of them were trying to
banish from look and manner all trace of the emotions which had risen
up in their hearts, when a step was heard in the marble hall without,
the door opened, and a servant of Sir John Newark entered, followed by
the old housekeeper. The man was dusty from the road; and eager haste
was upon his face, as he advanced close to Smeaton to avoid being
obliged to speak loud.
"Sir John has sent me, sir," he said, "to tell you there is danger
abroad, and to say that he begs you to keep out of the way for a short
time. Mrs. Culpepper will show you a place where no one can find you;
and you had better seek it quickly."
Smeaton gazed at him with some surprise, but without much emotion.
"What is the matter, my good friend?" he said. "I have nothing to fear
that I know of. I really do not see what can be the use of my
concealing myself; for I have committed no offence, and know not that
any one can wish me ill. What is it has alarmed Sir John?"
"I really do not know the whole, sir," replied the man; "but I heard
they had a very stormy meeting at Exeter, and that a party of horse
was sent out in the evening towards this place. We followed them
close, and watched them all along as far as Aleton. There Sir John
stopped, I dare say, to try and keep them as long as possible, while I
came on to give you warning."
Smeaton laughed, notwithstanding the anxiety which he saw in the
countenance of Emmeline.
"My good friend, Sir John," he said, "mistakes altogether my position.
I have nothing to fear from troops of horse, nor from bodies of
magistrates. They may subject me to some little annoyance, perhaps;
but that is all they can do; and I do not think it either needful or
dignified to conceal myself. If discovered, as I probably should be,
the very fact of my concealment would justify suspicion and look like
guilt."
"Perhaps, sir," said the old housekeeper, in that quiet plausible tone
which is so very common to housekeepers, "Sir John may request you to
do this for his own sake more than yours. He may have denied at
Exeter, perhaps, that there is any such gentleman here."
Smeaton looked her full in the face, thinking that she was not paying
any high compliment to her master's sincerity and truthfulness, and
trying to discover from her countenance whether there was not some
latent motive for the course suggested which she did not choose to
explain. It was all blank, however; smooth, calm, and inexpressive;
and, unable to make anything of it, he replied--
"That alters the question greatly; for I suppose you do not speak
without some knowledge, my good lady. However, my best course will be,
in such circumstances, to mount my horse and ride away for a time. If
I meet with any of these gentry, they must take me if they please; but
I should not like to be discovered lurking like a rat in a hole."
Emmeline looked at him sadly, almost reproachfully, as if she would
fain have asked:
"Will you leave me so soon, and peril your own safety thereby?"
But the old housekeeper observed, quietly,
"There is not the slightest chance of discovery, sir. I could place
you in the priest's chamber, where they say that Henry Garnet, who was
afterwards hanged, drawn, and quartered, lay for six whole weeks
without being found out, nearly a century ago. There is a way out from
it, too, beyond the house; so that, if you heard the door above open,
you could get down through the wood to Ale, and away for France in a
fisherman's boat. Sir John, in case of need, would take good care to
have a boat ready and the way clear."
Smeaton changed his mind in a moment; for the woman's words gave rise
to considerations which she little anticipated or knew. He was still
of the same opinion, indeed, that boldly to face inquiry, and to meet
those who were sent after him, would be the best course for his own
safety; for he was well aware that he had nothing to fear from
straightforward conduct; but he reflected, at the same time, that, by
so doing, he might curtail his stay in the same house with Emmeline;
and he moreover foresaw that a time might come when the knowledge of
such a secret entrance to Ale Manor House might be serviceable in more
ways than one.
These thoughts passed through his mind in a moment; but, before he
answered, both Emmeline and Richard Newark had time to speak.
"I beseech you, be guided, Colonel Smeaton," said the young lady,
trying to conceal, as far as possible, from the eyes of the
housekeeper the feelings of her heart. "Depend upon it, my guardian
has good cause for his advice."
"Oh, show it to me, show it to me, Mrs. Culpepper," exclaimed Richard
Newark, alluding to the chamber and passage she spoke of.
"I must not, Master Richard," replied the old woman, in a familiar
tone. "It is not a secret to be trusted to such a rattle-pate as
yours. You and Miss Emmeline must both remain behind, if the gentleman
consents to go, which I think he had better do."
"Well, fair lady," said Smeaton, addressing Emmeline, "as you wish it,
I will consent, although against my own better judgment. Perhaps Sir
John Newark may, after all, have more information than we know; and,
as I believe him to be a very shrewd and prudent man and to wish me
well, I will follow his counsel. I will leave a private message for
him with you and Richard. I will follow you in an instant, Mrs.
Culpepper;" and he then added, in a lower tone: "Send the man away,
and wait for me a moment without. I will follow you directly."
She only replied by a low curtesy, and retired from the room, closing
the door behind her.
"Now, Richard," continued Smeaton, in a whisper, "endeavour to see
which way she takes me; and, if you can discover, tell our dear
Emmeline. Wherever the door of this chamber is, I will come to it from
time to time; and, if I hear a voice I know, I will give such
intimation of where it is that you can easily find it."
"I will find it out, I will find it out," answered the boy, laughing.
"I will watch the old cat every step that she takes for the next three
days, as cunningly as she ever watched any one. She must carry you
food."
"I hope so," replied Smeaton, with a smile. "But be careful; and now
farewell."
He found Mrs. Culpepper quite as near the door as was discreet; but,
if she had been listening, she was disappointed; for the conversation
within the saloon could not be heard.
"Now, sir," she said, in a low voice, "tread lightly, that they may
not hear our steps. This way, if you please, sir."
She led him through the hall, up the large flight of steps to the
floor above, past the doors of his own apartments and those of
Emmeline, and then up a small staircase of five or six steps to a
large old-fashioned room, fitted up in the style of Queen Elizabeth's
days. On one side was an immense bed with green velvet draperies and
canopy, having a plume of feathers like a hearse at each corner; and
on the opposite side the deep-cut windows with a sort of bench of
black oak between them. A number of large pictures hung round the
room, none of which, however, descended to the floor; and there was a
huge fire-place on the left-hand side, which occupied so much space
that it seemed impossible there could be any means of exit here. The
door by which they entered was in the middle of another wall; and the
panelling seemed heavy and solid.
"Now, sir," said the old lady, closing the door, "you would never find
the way in, I think, if I did not show you."
"Perhaps a little examination would discover it," replied Smeaton. "I
have been in countries, madam, where such secret places are very
common."
"I think I might defy you, sir," she said. "Perhaps it is here," said
Smeaton, approaching the black oak bench, and pressing on various
parts of the picture frame above. "These walls are thick enough to
contain a small chamber."
The old woman smiled; and he went on pressing more tightly upon the
frame, and thinking that he felt it yield a little. At length, he
heard the click of a spring, and the frame, moving upon a hinge, came
slowly forward at one side, showing a room or closet within, of about
five feet in width, by ten or twelve in length, raised a foot or two
from the floor.
"Well, that is strange!" cried Mrs. Culpepper. "I never saw that
before. It must be done for a blind."
"Then, is this not the place?" asked Smeaton.
"Oh, dear, no, sir," replied the housekeeper. "You would be stifled in
there. The priest's room is as good a one as this; but that is a good
hint to mislead searchers any way. Shut it up, sir, and I will show
you the other. Will you have the goodness to try and move back the
bed--for it is very heavy."
"I will try," said Smeaton; "but, though I am tolerably strong, I
doubt that I shall be able to do it. We do not see such massive
furniture now-a-days."
As he spoke, he grasped one of the large posts, and endeavoured to
stir the huge bedstead. It moved not in the least, however, and the
old housekeeper stood near the head, holding the light and smiling at
his ineffectual efforts. Smeaton remarked her countenance, and the
peculiar expression which it bore. He saw also that she leaned her
right hand against the post at the top of the bed. Approaching her
then, with a gay laugh, he said--
"I think I have your secret;" but on pushing back the velvet hangings
from the spot upon which her hand rested, he could only perceive one
of two immense iron screws which fastened the bed, apparently
immoveably, to the wall behind it. He made one more effort, however,
to move the bed, but in vain, and then laughingly gave it up, saying;
"I must trust to your guidance, madam."
"Dear me," replied the old woman, "I thought you must be stronger than
I am; but let me try." And, putting her hand gently to the head post,
with hardly an effort, she made the huge bed roll round upon its
castors like a heavy door, still remaining attached to the wall on one
side, but quite free on the other. When it was thus removed, the
fluted velvet back of the bed still remained fastened against the
wall; but it might now be easily seen that this was a door which
opened without difficulty.
Smeaton drew it back and looked into a large and comfortable room. But
he was not a man to shut himself up in a place from which he did not
know the means of exit; and he was running his eye rapidly both over
the wall and the back of the bed, when the old lady said--
"You see, sir, this thing, that looks like a great bed screw, is, in
fact, a catch, which runs into the post and fastens with a spring. To
get into the room, you must press the plate upon the post through
which it passes, and, at the same time, pull up the screw. Without
that, no force on earth would move it. But, the moment you do that,
the bed of itself moves forward a little, the catch is thrown off, and
you can easily roll it round."
"That is the way in," replied Smeaton; "but now, my good lady, tell me
the way out. How am I to unfasten the bed when once you have rolled it
back?"
"That is more easily done than the other," replied the old woman.
"Look here. This iron bar, made like a screw, passes quite through the
beam, with a long handle on the other side, and is fixed upon a pivot.
You have nothing to do but to push down the handle, when the catch
will be thrown off, and the bed will move an inch or two, so as to
prevent it from fastening again. There is, somewhere in there, a block
of wood--a sort of rest which you can put under the handle; and then
nobody can undo it from the outside without pulling the whole to
pieces. I come in here four times every year by myself to see that
everything is in order, and that all moves easily. But we must not
wait talking. I will show you the way, sir."
And she stepped over the skirting board which was left plain below the
opening of the door.
"You see, sir," she continued, pointing to a number of small
loop-holes, both round and square, on one side of the room, "you will
have plenty both of light and air, and there is no fear of anybody
seeing the light even if you made a bonfire here; for those holes are
hidden by the stone work round Miss Emmeline's windows on the one
side, and by the same round the windows of the room we have just left
on the other. I will bring you some supper and anything you may want
out of your room as soon as it is all safe; but you had better not
come out yourself till I come and tell you; for I do not know how you
would pull back the bed again if you were forced to retreat."
"Then show me the other way out which you mentioned," said Smeaton. "I
am not very fond of rat-traps, and stories of these secret chambers
get abroad about the country. So that people may know more of the way
in hither than you believe."
A look of hesitation came upon good Mrs. Culpepper's face, which
instantly gave way to her usual smooth expression; and she said,
"There is no fear of that, sir. Nobody knows anything of this room but
myself and Sir John. I had better go now and make all right below, and
I can show you the other way out when I bring your supper."
"No, indeed, my good lady," replied Smeaton, in a determined tone.
"You must show me now, or I certainly shall not stay. That piece of
mechanism might get embarrassed. I might hear people breaking in. A
thousand things might happen to make my discovery here inevitable, if
I did not know the other way, and I will not be caught lurking here.
If you please, you shall show me now."
"Oh, very well, sir, very well," replied the housekeeper. "It is very
easily found. Be so good as to follow me."
Passing through a door to the left of the loop-holes, she led him
through a passage, curiously constructed in the wall between the upper
and lower row of windows. As soon as it had passed beneath what
Smeaton conceived to be the windows of Emmeline's room, came a very
narrow flight of stairs, and then another passage. Again came a second
descent, steep but broader than the first, which led to what seemed to
have been originally a cellar, arched over in brickwork and of no
great extent. Beyond it was a long passage, evidently underground, and
gently sloping downward till the whole was closed with a stone door in
which was a key-hole.
"The key always lies there, sir," said Mrs. Culpepper, pointing to a
little niche; "but I must tell you that, when you open the door, there
is, just before you, the well, which you must step over to get out, or
you might drown yourself. It is an old well with an arch over it, the
water of which is thought good for sore eyes; so that the people come
here often on a morning to get it; and, when you stand on this side of
the door, you may hear all they say as they gossip round the well. The
right hand path leads away through the wood at the back of the village
to the bay; the left takes round again to the terrace in front of the
house; but that is well nigh a quarter of a mile off, and no horses
can come round here; for the hill is too steep."
Smeaton did not promise himself any great entertainment from
overhearing the gossiping of the fishermen's wives and daughters, but
quietly followed his guide back again to the room above. She there
left her light with him, passed through the aperture, closed the door,
and he could hear her roll back the bed, and the catch click upon the
spring.