CHAPTER VIII.

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_.'"