"And what are the rooms opposite?" we asked, pointing to a long row of windows on the second floor, on the opposite side of the quadrangle to that of which we had now completed the inspection.
"Those rooms are never shown," was the mysterious answer.
"But you will show them to _us_" (spoken coaxingly).
She shook her head, and sealed her lips, with an expression of determination.
No encouragement, but, on the contrary, a resolute negative.
A bribe was held out,--for, by this time, the child's air of mystery and reserve had suggested a closet like that of Bluebeard, a chamber of torture, or, at least, the proofs of some family-secret.
We might as well have offered a two-shilling bribe to the Iron Duke himself. The miniature castle-keeper was so firm and so non-committal that she disarmed us of all our ingenuity, defeated all our tactics, and we gave up the point. I have since learned that this quarter of the mansion consists of a labyrinth of rooms, shut up because devoid of interest, and containing only some old lumber. To have conducted us through them would have been to disobey orders, and, worse still, establish a precedent, from which the child might well shrink. It would have doubled her arduous round of duty. It was policy, no less than loyalty, which had inspired her.
So, too, when we came to inspect the chapel. She mounted an old oak chest in the rear of the little sanctuary, just beneath the solitary window, whose quaint patterns in stained glass pointed to centuries long past. Seated comfortably on this elevation, she rehearsed the history and described the architecture of the most primitive place of worship I ever saw,--or, if she left her post to point out some minuter detail, she returned to it as jealously as a watch-dog to some spot which he is specially appointed to guard. When our curiosity was otherwise satisfied,--when we had even ascended to the rude confessional, which was a mere excavation in the soft stone of the wall,--when we had put our hands in the hollow, not unlike a swallow's nest in a mud-bank, once the receptacle for holy water,--when we had descended the stony pathway, for it was so worn as scarcely to merit the name of staircase,--when, standing once more on the chapel-pavement, with minds excited by the thought of those monkish days when priestcraft ruled the land,--our eyes naturally fell on the old oak chest. What further revelation might not this disclose! What sacred relics, what curious church-plate, what vellum manuscript, might not be hidden beneath this heavy lid! Would she rise and let us see?