“I never saw anything like it!” they exclaimed in a breath. “How in the world did you get here, ma’am?”
Mrs. Percival looked at her husband, who took his seat in the large, old-fashioned arm-chair which played an important part during the “Pine Cone stories” in the winter; at the same time motioning to the others to lie down on a bear-skin rug, before the fire. It must be borne in mind that in Northern Maine it is cool enough for fires, on stormy days, throughout the year.
“I suppose,” he began, “it’s of no use making a mystery of it any longer. The fact is, you are in a chimney at this minute. Look!”
He pointed to the ceiling, which they now noticed was of some dark wood. In the centre, or nearly so, was an opening, about eighteen inches square and cased in the same wood, through which they could see the sky. The opening was covered at the top, far above the level of the ceiling, by a dull, glazed window, which could be raised or closed from below by means of strong cords.
“But what—what has become of the fire and the bricks, and all that, sir?”
“I’ll tell you,” said uncle Will, stooping to pick up two of the kittens in one hand. “In old times, when my great-grandfather lived here, there was always danger of attack of some kind. The woods were full of Indians, though most of them hereabout were friendly, and there was a large Indian village on the shores of the pond, where the old gentleman and his family were held in equal love and respect. However, roving bands were likely to turn up at any time, with tomahawk and scalping-knife. Then there were privateering squads of outlaw French and Canadians, who made raids on the frontier; and as we were always stanch Whigs, the family was not safe even from the English, the royalist partisans having suspicions of a spy in this locality.”
“I thought ‘Whigs’ were the government party in England,” put in Randolph.
“So they are, to-day; but in the old Revolutionary times the Tories were for the king, and the Whigs for independence. Well, for all these reasons, it was thought best to have some secret hiding-place and way of escape, in case of need. Where we are now, stood a huge chimney, some eight feet square, supported on stone-and-brick arches in the cellar. Around this chimney, as a precaution against fire, was left a space of two or three feet between the bricks and the wall of the house on that side where you see my little window. A sliding door was constructed in the side of the dining-hall fireplace, by which one could enter this space, and from that a trap-door opened upon a rough staircase, into the cellar under the masonry.”
“It doesn’t seem possible that such things can really be, right here in Maine!” exclaimed Bess. “It’s like stories.”
“If they can really be—as they are—in thousands of ancient dwellings in Europe and the East, why not in America, where the dangers were quite as terrible? Besides, dear, you will find out some day that the real life of people going on everywhere around you is much more strange than any story-book you ever read.”