"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."