THE SECRET CHAMBER.
As has been elsewhere intimated, Ned held a surprise in store for Dolly
which he had been keeping for the right time; and now when he saw her
dull, and moping for Gaston, he felt that time had arrived.
"Dolly," he said, one morning--there was a pouring rain and no going
abroad on Skatta--"Dolly, come up-stairs, will you? I've got something
to show you."
Dolly was standing by the window, watching the rain-drops chase each
other down the outside of the panes, and pitying a robin who, having
evidently made up his mind not to go South for the winter, was getting
well drenched on his perch among the almost leafless branches of a
cherry-tree.
She turned quickly at Ned's call.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Oh, more hist'ry," replied Ned, enigmatically. "Come on." And Dolly
"came on" gladly, following him up the staircase in the rear of the
big dining-room to the broad landing. This was the oldest part of
the tavern, and was very old indeed--for America--having been built
about the year 1680. The other parts of the rambling old structure had
been added at intervals, the last addition dating somewhere near the
beginning of the present century. These oldest rooms had cedar walls
and ceilings, and were panelled, with rudely carved flowers in the
centre of the panels.
Ned stopped upon the landing and pressed his finger on what looked like
a large clover-leaf, when the panel slid noiselessly back, revealing a
closet-like room, into which he stepped, followed by Dolly, and closed
the panel. This room was lighted by a narrow opening, screened from
outside observation by the projecting eaves. It was empty, save for a
small oaken chest, the brass lock and hinges of which were green with
damp.
"Oh, Ned!" exclaimed Dolly, rapturously, taking in the whole delightful
secret at a glance. "I never _really_ believed in the secret doors and
things in the 'Mysteries of Udolpho' before. They're splendid to read
about and think true; but they must _be_ true, for those old castles
are ever 'n ever so much bigger than this house, and there's plenty of
room in them for lots of secret places--O-o-oh!" and Dolly's evident
delight was good to see.
"Mother says a good many old houses in New England have just such
places. She's seen that one in Hadley where the regicides hid, you
know."
"No, I don't know a thing about 'em. Who were they?" said Dolly,
impressed with such a remarkable display of erudition.
"The people who killed Charles I., of course," replied Ned, loftily.
"They ran away to this country, 'n hid in a secret room in Hadley, an'
nobody but the folks in the house knew they were there. An' one Sunday
the Indians made an attack, an' the men rushed out of the meeting-house
with their guns--they carried guns to meeting then--an' the Indians
were getting the best of 'em, when out came one of those regicides and
shouted to the white men to come on, an' encouraged 'em so they drove
off the Indians. Then the regicide went straight back to his secret
room. He had on a dressing-gown an' slippers, an' the people didn't
know who he was, an' so they said 'twas an angel come down from heaven
to help 'em--queer angel, in dressing-gown an' slippers, I sh'd think!"
"But I say, Dolly," he continued, lowering his voice mysteriously,
"there's a story about this room too."
"Oh, Ned, you don't say so!" said Dolly, grasping his arm. "A real,
dreadful, _true_ story?"
"Yes, true 's I live and breathe. Didn't I say so--more hist'ry," he
replied, much pleased with his success in diverting her mind from her
grief. "An' there's another way to get into this room--look!" and he
touched another clover-leaf, and another panel slipped, showing an
entrance from the Little Madam's sunny room. They looked in. The
Little Madam was not there, but the cockatoo greeted them with a
shout--"Halloo, my beauties!"
"The story's about Grandfather Heath, when he was a boy, you know,
in Revolutionary times," said Ned, closing the panel into the Little
Madam's room. "His father was in the Continental army, an' there was a
wounded spy hid in this room--an American spy, you know. He'd got away,
an' the British were after him. An' they caught gran'pa one day when he
was berrying with his sister, an' asked him questions till they found
out he knew something, an' then they tried to make him tell--coaxed
him, you know, an' offered him money; but he was true blue, an'
wouldn't tell, an' then they tried to scare him. But they couldn't
scare him either, an' then they just carried him off, an' his mother 'n
sister didn't know where."
"Poor things!" said Dolly, with beaming eyes, divided between her
sympathy for the sorrowing mother and sister, and her admiration for
the pluck shown by her youthful grandfather.
"Well, they took him to headquarters, where the biggest officer was,
an' he tried to scare him too, an' he couldn't. He _would not tell_."
"Oh, wasn't he splendid!" broke in Dolly again.
"An' then they put him down cellar, an' in the night the loveliest lady
came down an' wrapped him in her shawl--for he was a little fellow,
you know, only ten--an' took him on her own white horse an' brought
him home, ever 'n ever so many miles, an' his mother was mighty glad
when he burst into the kitchen, you bet! an' the lady gave him a ring
to remember her by--a beauty, too, f' I've seen it, 'n mother'll show
it to you some time, Dolly."
"And the spy was hid in this very room!" said Dolly, thoughtfully. "But
what's in that chest?" she asked, suddenly.
"Oh, nothing but books," answered Ned. "There's where I found 'Robin's
Journal,' an' another book I'll show you some time. It's poetry, but
it's prime, if 'tis poetry."
After that day Dolly used frequently to press the big clover-leaf and
enter that secret room. Sometimes she went to the Little Madam's room
that way. The Little Madam, too, seemed singularly interested in this
little room. Dolly "wondered" if she had not seen one before. The
Little Madam was her ideal of a princess of Udolpho. Perhaps she had
lived in one of those mysterious and delightful castles--who knew? who
would _ever_ know? Oh, if the Little Madam could only remember, could
only tell, who and what she was! Well, well, Dolly! have patience, and
you will know before long.
That night they talked it all over with Aunt Anna, as usual. As
usual, I say, for the twilight talk was a fixed fact with which Mrs.
Park rarely allowed anything to interfere. That was the hour for
confession, for sympathy, for loving confidence. Ned had his own
special corner of the sofa in mother's room--the corner where headaches
and heartaches, and all sorts of wounds of body and of spirit, had
been treated by the same gentle yet firm hand ever since he could
remember. And Dolly was given the other corner, with Aunt Anna in her
low rocking-chair in front.
Dolly propounded what may be called "her theory of history," and Aunt
Anna said it was a sensible one.
"I think," said that wise woman, "that the true way to study history
is to begin with your own town, and then go on to your county, your
state, etc., etc., till you have taken in the whole world. If _I_ were
going to teach children the theory of our government, I should begin
with the town-meeting, and not, as many do, begin at the wrong end with
Congress." But then, as Uncle Harry said, that was one of "mother's
hobbies."
"I think that's a beautiful story about Grandfather Heath when he
was a boy. I think it's beautiful to have _such_ grandfathers and
grandmothers as ours," remarked Dolly, with true ancestral pride.
"There is a pretty French motto, '_Noblesse oblige_,' and it means that
those who are born noble must do nobly," said Mrs. Park.
"It was the motto of the old French nobility, and very nobly did
they live it, many of those who fled from France during the terrible
Revolution. They left all their possessions behind them, and were very
poor. But they would neither beg nor go in debt for food and shelter
and clothes. 'No,' they said, 'we are French nobles, and we can do none
of these things, but we can work and take care of ourselves.' And so
they taught French and music and dancing and sewing. They did any kind
of work they could get to do, and those delicately bred ladies did all
sorts of household drudgery. They did not care what the work was if
it was honest work. They wore old clothes because they had not money
to buy new ones. But the old clothes were always neat. They patched
and they darned, for though a French nobleman or noblewoman might wear
old clothes without shame, they must not be slovenly. And they did all
this with a brave cheerfulness, a self-respecting pride, truly noble.
They were the _true_ noblesse, you see. And that is what you must be,
my Ned, and you, my Dolly. Take the motto of the old French nobility
for yours. Feel that because noble-hearted men and women are your
ancestors, you, too, must be noble in heart and in life.
"Scorn to do a mean thing. Be brave like Dorothea Williams. Have
the courage of your grandfather Heath--moral courage. Dare to be
truthful--dare to be honest--dare to be poor, if need be--dare always
to do right."
Mrs. Park had half risen from her chair in her eagerness, and she
now sank back and there was a moment's silence. Then she went to her
dressing-table, and taking out a box, said, "Here is the ring the
lovely lady gave my father." It was a somewhat heavy gold ring, in
which was set a blood-red ruby. "And this," she continued, holding up
a long string of gold beads, "this is Dorothea Williams's necklace." A
small miniature in colors hung from the necklace, Dorothea's portrait.
It was set in a locket of old red gold.
"This necklace and locket shall be yours, Dolly," said Mrs. Park; "and
you certainly do look like her, as Aunt Debby said. Ned shall have the
ring. You two are their only descendants, and whenever you look at
these heirlooms remember the old French motto, '_Noblesse oblige_.'"