"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.
"What is in them?"
"Oh, nothing in particular."
"Then we might see them."
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.
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