"I have no doubt of it at all," said he. "The country—especially London—is full of disaffection. Their demonstration last year did a deal to stir it up. The Duke of York is back now, against my advice; but I have no doubt he will have to go on his travels again. Were His majesty to die now—(quod Deus avertat!)—I do not know how we should stand."
* * * * *
Mr. Hamerton took occasion to ask me that night, when we were alone for a minute or two, what I was doing in the country.
"I remember you perfectly now," said he. "Father Whitbread spoke to me of you, besides."
I told him that I had nothing to do in town; and with His Majesty's consent was lying hid for a little, in order that what little was known of me might be forgotten again.
"Well; I suppose you are wise," he said, "and that you will be able to do more hereafter. But the time will come presently when we shall all be needed."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he could read cipher, and to shew him my paper—reminded of it, by his talk of disaffection; but my Cousin Tom came back at that moment; and I put it off; and I presently forgot it again.
* * * * *
The memory of the mass that we heard next morning will never leave me; for it was the first time that I had heard it in the house.
We used the long attic, for fear of disturbance, and had a man posted beneath—for it was still death for a priest to say mass in England. All the servants that were Catholics were there; and all, I think, went to the sacraments. Mr. Hamerton heard confessions before the mass began.